Chapter 499 - 354: Baalbek’s Madness (2)

"Why not?" Eric said with a teasing smile. "If they’re willing, why not let them have their fun?"

"Shansi is the King!" the old man in the black robe protested. "The Mahdi named him!"

The madness of Baalbek had begun just like this.

The town had been a home for foxes and birds until its religious leader, the Sheikh (master) of all Sufi Practitioners, the head of the Haram Sufi Monastery, Master Musa Shadi, crossed the hills and came here.

The Master had been driven from the Haram Sufi Monastery, located in the deepest part of the Beqaa Valley, after an attack by Turkic Warlords from the north.

He came to Baalbek and established the new Mosque that Eric was now about to enter.

The Master saw the Mahdi in a dream, and the Mahdi told him that Shansi was the future King of Syria and Palestine.

Today, everyone in the Beqaa Valley was a Shiite Believer, and they all knew of the Mahdi.

The son of the eleventh Shiite Imam, Hassan al-Askari, and a Byzantine princess; the final Imam, the divine savior, the guide of all Muslims.

Persecuted by the Abbasid Caliphate, the Mahdi had entered a state of ’occultation’ by the will of Allah, but all Shiite Believers were certain he would one day return to the world before the Day of Judgment.

The Arab Tribes of Southern Syria were the most fervent among them, fanatically believing the Mahdi would lead them back to their homeland, re-establish the Hamyar Kingdom, and ultimately conquer Constantinople.

As Muhammad said, if only one day remained in the world, Allah would prolong that day until a man from my descendants appeared, whose name is my name, and whose family name is my family name. He will fill the earth—which will then be rife with violence and oppression—with harmony and justice.

And it was this final Imam, hidden for centuries, who had entered the dreams of the Sufi Master Musa Shadi half a year ago, revealing Shansi to him and telling him that Shansi would establish an eternal Shiite Kingdom in Syria.

On this day, the day Shansi arrived in Baalbek, this story seemed to be just one more piece of the world’s madness.

The people were shouting "King" at Eric. The old man in the black robe turned and yelled at Shansi, "Make them stop!"

"The people need a King," Shansi said. "And Eric looks like a King. Let them think so for now."

A group of young Sufi Practitioners, holding wooden staves, pushed the excited crowd back, blocking the door to the Mosque.

Eric understood what was happening almost immediately.

The people had been waiting for days, expecting their King to arrive. And here came Eric, riding from the east on his horse, clad in shining armor—the very image of a Warrior.

Most men and women were not Warriors; they longed for peace.

They only wanted to watch their children grow up, to sow seeds and wait for the harvest, to worship their god, love their families, and live quiet lives.

Yet, the fate of the Levant people was to be born in an age ruled by violence.

The Abbasid people came, the Bedouin came, the Fatimids came, the Turkic People came. The land was ravaged. Warhorses brought men with Bows and Arrows and Curved Sabers to plunder, enslave, steal, and kill.

And if it wasn’t them, the powerful men of this land would just kill one another.

When enemies destroyed their dreams, destroyed their homes, ruined their harvests, raped their daughters, and enslaved their sons, it created a kind of madness.

Baalbek just had a small dose of that madness. It was the madness of hope, the belief that a King born in a Sufi Practitioner’s dream would end the people’s suffering.

The Master stood amidst a group of Sufi Practitioners and Clergy, his hands raised to the sky.

As ’Rabbit’ drew near, he raised a hand.

Master Musa was a tall man with graying hair. He was gaunt and severe, with eyes as sharp as a falcon’s. What was surprising about him was the Sword hanging at his waist.

At first, he could not see Eric’s face clearly, as Eric had deliberately lowered his visor again to hide it. To be honest, Eric was rather enjoying the feeling of being surrounded and called ’King’. But it didn’t matter; even if Eric had taken off his Helmet, the Master would still have seen him as the King.

The Master stared at Eric, raising his thin hands as if in thanks for his arrival, then bowed his head to him in a salute.

"My King," the Master said in a resonant voice.

The Sufi Practitioners fell to their knees, looking up at Eric. "My King," the Master declared again in a loud voice, "welcome!"

"My King," the practitioners responded in unison, "welcome!"

It was an interesting moment.

Remember, Master Musa had chosen Shansi as King, for the dream had revealed Shansi to be the son of Aziz.

However, now he thought Eric was the King, which meant either the Mahdi had revealed the wrong face, or Master Musa was a lying bastard.

Or perhaps the Mahdi was the lying bastard.

But Master Musa’s dream had always been hailed as a miracle, which made this whole situation undoubtedly suspicious.

Shansi’s entire life was destined to be dominated by the event of the Mahdi’s revelation to Master Musa.

In fact, Master Musa had not recognized him, but by now no one would believe him anymore.

Those few old men in black robes, of course, were hopping about like men with two wasps in their trousers, trying to correct Master Musa’s mistake. So Eric gave one of them a kick to shut him up, and then signaled for Shansi to remove his hood.

"This," Eric said to Master Musa, "is your King."

For a moment, Master Musa didn’t believe Eric. Then, he finally did, and a look of fury instantly consumed his face.

It was a sudden, extreme rage, because he understood that—even if others did not—he should have recognized Shansi from the dream.

The anger flared, and then he swiftly suppressed it. He bowed to Shansi and repeated his greeting, and Shansi returned the courtesy with his usual pleasantness.

Two Sufi Practitioners hurried forward to take his horse. Shansi dismounted and was led toward the Mosque.

The rest followed.

It was dark inside the Mosque.

Grass-wick lamps burned on the altar, and more lamps lit the floor of the aisle where a large group of Sufi Practitioners were bent low, chanting Hymns. But the faint, smoky light barely dispelled the heavy gloom. This was not a very fine Mosque.

It was large, though certainly no match for the Mosques of Hama and Antioch. This Mosque had been built in a hurry. The walls were unfinished timber, and as Eric’s eyes adjusted to the dark, he saw that the roof was also dilapidated. The dome was crude, bearing no geometric patterns, Arabic calligraphy, or floral and abstract art forms.

There were about fifty or sixty Sufi Practitioners in the Mosque, and among them were some Nobility, if the men of Baalbek could truly aspire to be called such.

They were the wealthier men of the region, and standing behind them were their attendants.

There were Turkic People and Arabs in the Mosque, mingled together, and they were not enemies.

On the contrary, they had gathered here to support Master Musa, who had promised them a divinely chosen King.

Then, Eric saw Zahra, the "horse-faced sister" Shansi had mentioned.

She was a tall girl with dark hair and a long, serious face.

She wore a gray Cloak and a long tunic. At first, Eric thought she was also a practitioner, but then he noticed she wore silver bracelets, and a heavy brooch fastened her Cloak.

She had large eyes that shone with a brilliant light, but that was because she was crying.

Her tears were tears of joy. When Shansi saw her, he immediately ran to her, and they embraced.

He held her, then pulled back and brought her over to Eric. She was crying and laughing at the same time as he said to Eric, "This is my sister," he introduced, "Zahra."

"I’m free now," Shansi said, "because of Lord Eric."

"Thank you," she said to Eric.

Eric waved a hand dismissively, not saying much, his gaze still scanning the surroundings.

"You’re not married yet, are you?" Shansi asked her anxiously.

She touched her hair, which hung down loosely like a girl’s.

When she married, that hair would be put up.

"Of course not," she said, looking at me, then turned to her brother. "Are you married?"

"No," he said.

"Unexpected. She’s a pretty girl," Guy remarked.

"I prefer a beautiful woman," Belem said, stroking his chin and raising an eyebrow.

"I’m an equal-opportunity man. I like all beautiful ladies equally." Stephen let out a loud whistle, then waved at the surrounding Arab girls in their headscarves, which drew a round of giggles.