Fic: The Quality of Mercy
Title: The Quality of Mercy
Fandom: Kingdom of Heaven
Rating: PGish
Warnings: Canon character death, lack of historical accuracy. >_>
Summary: Saladin only met Baldwin IV a few times, but they were enough to make an impression that lasted forever.
Notes: Liek omg it is amazing how much this is based on the very, very fictionalized movie characters. Liek wow. I aim for no historical accuracy here whatsoever. I know relatively nothing of the Battle of Montgisard except what I’ve read on wikipedia, and I have consciously taken some movie innaccuracies into the story even though I know the facts. Like the fact that the first thing to go of Baldwin’s was his right arm, forcing him to fight left-handed; yet in the movie it’s his left hand that’s all fused together. So. But I did go by the general fact that Baldwin didn’t cover his face at all at the time of Montgisard.
I also know next to nothing about Saladin. My research has been Baldwin-centric, so my fic-Saladin is purely Ghassan Massoud’s face (and voice, guh!), William Monahan’s characterization, and a little of my own invention. Please to be forgiving me. Thank you.
---------
In the open desert, the scouring wind carries away the scent of death on the battlefield. The carrion birds do their work quickly and well. The sand, starved for moisture, drinks the spilled blood in an instant. The desert is fastidious in its ways.
Not so here, before the battered walls of the city, where the bodies piled atop each other retained the stink of decay and denied fertility to the stony ground. No birds had dared descend through the swarms of arrows, and though the battle had halted for a while they still circled high above, waiting. Saladin knew they would not have this feast; the dead inside the walls would be burned before the night was out. This baron who led the defense, this Balian of Ibelin, was no fool.
A messenger appeared at his side, bowing his head low before speaking. “The King of Jerusalem demands your presence, my lord,” he said in that distant voice that messengers use when they are ashamed of the message itself. But Saladin did not harm the bearers of bad news. Or in this case, irritating news.
He did not respond for a long moment, gazing at the high walls of the city and knowing with no joy that it would soon be his. Smoke had begun to rise from within, paler gray columns against the fallen dark.
“My lord?” the messenger pressed, his tone almost apologetic.
“Jerusalem has no king,” Saladin said finally, his voice far colder than the dry night was proving to be.
The messenger swallowed.
Saladin considered for a moment, then said, “Return and inform the guards that they are to prepare our guest for his performance in the morning. I will not see him before then.”
The messenger murmured assent once again and fled silently back into the depths of the camp.
The columns of smoke were thicker now, with the unmistakable dark, almost oily texture that came of burning flesh. Saladin turned away. His last and only words to the pretender to the throne of Jerusalem echoed in his mind.
Would that he had learned from Baldwin’s example, Saladin thought ruefully. Would that the world could learn. But the world was a fickle place, and people en masse became like a great child, refusing all but what was worst for it.
Must men suffer in order to be great? he wondered. And why?
But God’s will was not his to know. He had long accepted this. Returning to his tent, he knelt to pray for the souls of the fallen.
-------------
Saladin had known little of the son of the king who had ruled Jerusalem when Saladin was young. As he grew older he heard tales of the beauty of King Almaric’s daughter, Princess Sibylla, but nothing of the boy except that he was to be named heir to the throne. Until he began to draw plans for the battle at Montgisard, Saladin had barely considered the young king as a true opponent. After all, he did not rule; he was too young. There was a regent to be dealt with, the real power behind Jerusalem, and it was with this lord named Tiberias that Saladin concerned himself.
But the young king led Jerusalem’s army at Montgisard and drove Saladin in a rout before him, leaving Saladin with a mingled sense of shame and awe. He was prepared to hate this child, barely sixteen, and yet he was also prepared to pay him the utmost respect.
All he had seen of the boy on the field had been the glint of the sun off his dark blonde hair and the mingled silver and gold of his mail; Saladin had also noted with interest the skill with which the young king weilded his sword right-handed, while he could barely manage to control his horse with his left. His face had borne what looked like a snarl of fighting rage, but Saladin knew too well how men changed in battle and went into the negotiation of terms with little preconception of the boy’s character.
He knew, in a distant sense, that the king was ill -- or had been ill -- or something to that effect. There had been rumors that the throne would go to Sibylla. Saladin knew only that if the boy were king, he would deal with Tiberias, and if the sister were queen, he would deal with her husband.
The day came when they were to meet on the field to draw up the terms of Saladin’s surrender. Saladin had been apprehensive, more about how much he was going to lose to this upstart than about meeting the king himself.
“King Baldwin the Fourth of Jerusalem,” announced the servant who stood by the entrace to the partially-enclosed tent in which Saladin waited, seated behind a low wooden table on which were arranged the paraphernalia of politics. The servant bowed low and moved away. Saladin rose as the king entered, bowing his head low in acknowledgement. Baldwin returned the gesture.
Raising his eyes to the boy’s face, the first thing that struck Saladin was his expression -- a sneer, so similar to his expression on the battlefield. And yet... that was not right. Saladin let nothing show on his face, but inward startlement confused his thoughts for a moment. The boy’s expression was in fact one of calm and seriousness, but a strange twist in his upper lip gave him the appearance of snarling. The deformity reached the side of his nose as well, giving the impression that someone had pinched and twisted the side of his face. Saladin thought dryly to himself, It is no wonder I have heard nothing of the beauty of Princess Sibylla’s brother.
And yet there was a strange sort of beauty to the young man. His presence filled the room with a sense of serenity and majesty that Saladin had encountered in few royal families. It was easy to overlook the deformity in his face; his eyes drew one’s attention away from it. Saladin had seen few eyes so intelligent and quick, and never in one both so young and so powerful.
For Saladin realized this now: that Baldwin was powerful. It was time to reassess how he would deal with Jerusalem in the future. Tiberias, regent or no, was not the power there.
“Lord Saladin,” said Baldwin into the studious silence, almost gently. Another suprise, the quality of his voice: soft but firm, of a middling tone, with calculated inflection. He pronounced the Arabic name with minute accuracy for one who spoke another language first.
“Your Majesty,” Saladin replied, deciding in the briefest of moments that to hate this boy for defeating him would be a great mistake. “Please. Sit.” He gestured at the cushioned chair in front of Baldwin, which faced his own seat across the table.
As he took the seat, the young man said, “Call me Baldwin. It will be simpler.”
Saladin blinked, but Baldwin did not notice. “Of course,” he replied.
They discussed terms. With each hour that passed -- and they were fewer than Saladin had anticipated, because Baldwin was shrewd and understanding and more lenient in his demands than Saladin’s experience with the leaders of armies had led him to expect -- Saladin’s respect for the boy grew. And by the glint of laughter and content that began to enter Baldwin’s eyes as time progressed, Saladin suspected the feeling was mutual. Here was a man -- not a boy, though young -- with whom peace could be both made and kept.
Saladin signed the final agreement in flowing script and slid the document to Baldwin. Saladin noted once again the clumsiness with which he handled things in his left hand -- he wore gloves at all times, but the white silk, dust-stained from riding, revealed nothing to explain the curious curvature of Baldwin’s left wrist and fingers.
“Well then, it seems we have reached a profitable conclusion to this madness,” Baldwin said, sitting back.
Saladin inclined his head in acknowledgement. In true gratefulness, in fact, for the benefit went both ways. Baldwin was a clever negotiator. “The sun is high,” he remarked, glancing to one open wall of the tent. “It would be unwise to travel.”
“I am not expected back for some time,” Baldwin replied. On closer inspection he did look paler than he had before, and he sat fully unmoving in his seat, as if he could do no more than continue breathing. His right hand trembled very slightly.
“Refreshments, I think.” Saladin did not mention Baldwin’s apparent weakness. He rose and beckoned the servant who had been near the entrance this whole time, sweating in the heat with utmost patience. Saladin spoke a few quick words of Arabic, and servant went away.
Saladin resumed his seat, taking an unobtrusive pose that allowed him a clear view of Baldwin’s face for further study. At the moment Baldwin seemed to be lost in some reverie -- his bright blue eyes were focused on something behind Saladin.
Before Saladin could bring his attention back to the present, Baldwin asked, “Do you play? Chess, I mean?”
Saladin glanced over his shoulder -- the board with its intricately wrought set of silver pieces was still laid out from earlier. He smiled, showing extremely white teeth. “Since I was very young, yes,” he replied. “I was taught by my sister.”
“Sibylla will not play unless I swear not to let her win, but becomes impatient when she loses,” Baldwin said absently.
Saladin’s grin grew wider. A quick hand gesture brought another servant, who carried the chess set to the table. He deftly rearranged the black pieces on his side of the board for a new game, glancing up at Baldwin in time to see the obvious struggle it took for the young man to lever himself forward in his seat to reach the board.
Baldwin placed his pieces carefully, then wordlessly moved a pawn forward two spaces. Saladin could only shake his head inwardly at the intensity with which the king gazed at the board; had the young man no sense of self-preservation? Saladin had seen his physical weakness and could have killed him in a heartbeat, especially now that he had let down his guard. And over nothing more important than a game...
But had Baldwin so misjudged the situation? Either there was a naive side to the young man, which Saladin found difficult to believe, or he already thought he knew his enemy well enough to know that Saladin would not commit so low a crime. And this was true. The question was, did Baldwin know it?
Saladin considered Baldwin’s pawn briefly, then moved one of his own.
A few moves later, the first servant returned with cold wine and colder water. Baldwin drank of the water gratefully, his attention still clearly focused on the game.
It was only after he had removed the second of Saladin’s knights from the board and Saladin was beginning to understand how he had lost the battle to this upstart boy (despite his own far superior army) that Baldwin spoke again. His voice startled Saladin out of the merciless world of strategy in which he had been drifting for some time.
“You have impressed me, Saladin,” Baldwin said quietly. “Few men ask outright about my face, but none have hidden their curiosity as well as you.”
Saladin was taken aback for a moment. He had expected the king to say nothing of the matter. “You are intelligent,” Saladin said carefully, measuring his words. “You are a king, and my enemy, and a great leader of armies.” He emphasized this with his next move on the board, which, though it was the best he could do, he knew to be hopeless. Baldwin would win this game. Perhaps the same could be said for the conversation. “These things concern me. Your appearance does not.”
“It concerns you that I am dying,” Baldwin said, soft yet firm.
Saladin’s eyes narrowed and he looked sharply at Baldwin.
“This peace will not last, I fear,” said the young king, at long last raising his eyes from the board to meet Saladin’s. “If internal matters continue as they have in Jerusalem, my peace will live only as long as I do. And that may only be a few years.”
“How is this?”
“Two years ago, none of this” -- Baldwin gestured at the twisted side of his face with a gloved hand -- “was here. I am a leper, Saladin.”
Saladin found himself at a loss. “Lepers are not kings,” he said finally. “Lepers cannot be kings.”
“Kings do not sit in the camp of their enemy and play chess,” Baldwin replied wryly.
“God punishes you thus?” Saladin pressed, more sharply than he had intended.
Some of the warmth left Baldwin’s gaze, unless Saladin imagined it. Baldwin moved his remaining bishop without looking up. After a moment he removed his hand from the piece and asked, “Does He?”
Leprosy was the punishment of God, Saladin knew this. But for what sin? Saladin’s mind reeled with the question. For the decadence of the Christian kingdom? But the outlying households of Jerusalem were impoverished, some without such basic necessities as wells and water. The land was poor for growing. And if there was a trace of vanity in this young man, Saladin could not see it -- save for the richness of his tunic, and his white silk gloves. Yet, suddenly, Saladin understood those as well, and wondered what his hands must look like, and how long his subjects had refused to touch things that had touched his bare skin. For that was the way of the unclean -- not to touch things touched by other men, and not to breathe their air or share their homes --
“For whatever reason,” Baldwin interrupted his thoughts in a gentle tone, “I cannot change my fate. Saladin. What I am is no secret, and the impact of it will spread as I worsen. You would have heard of it sooner or later. In this place I have done what may be the only memorable deed of my life. I ask only that you keep this peace.”
“You are young still,” Saladin said obstinately. “You will defeat many enemies to your kingdom. You will keep your own peace.”
Baldwin smiled, and for a moment Saladin saw the glow of proud youth behind the mask of serenity. He did not respond, allowing Saladin one small victory, at least -- the final word. The young king returned his gaze to the chess game.
They played a short while longer in silence, before Saladin sat back, took one last look at the wretched pile of black figurines beside the board, and decided not to take the abuse any longer. “I believe I shall have to concede this game,” he said brusquely. Baldwin laughed aloud.
“It was better-played than any of my court have managed in some years,” Baldwin said kindly. “My father could beat me at chess. Sibylla, sometimes, when we were young. The Baron of Ibelin, once or twice. No others.”
Still no trace of pride or vanity in his voice. Saladin marvelled.
“Once more?” Saladin asked, already planning new strategies.
Baldwin’s disfigured smile returned. “If you wish,” he said.
-------------
Jerusalem has come.
The cry rang down the line, accompanied by shouts and cheers and calls for battle. Real battle. No pitiful defense led by a fresh-faced nobleman, no thrashing of a simple madman’s home, but war.
What had at first been nothing more than a sliver of blinding light on the horizon had materialized into an army. Not one to match Saladin’s for size -- but its strength was in its leader, and Saladin had not forgotten Montgisard.
At the head of the Christian army rode Jerusalem himself. He was too far away still to see properly, but Saladin knew, inexplicably, that it was him. Something within Saladin rekindled at the sight of him -- a fierceness that had been stifled by endless diplomacy these past years, a blaze of emotion that both confused and galvanized him.
He bellowed a command and spurred his horse forward. Silence fell as small parties rode forth from each army, across that part of Kerak that remained, at least for now, unstained.
Saladin had not seen Baldwin in person since Montgisard. The sight of him tore at Saladin; in all the years since their first meeting, he had striven to keep the peace, though playing politics with men like Reynald de Chatillon had quickly begun to chafe. But the Christians had wanted a war, and his men had wanted Jerusalem. Saladin had never forgotten his loyalty to his own people, though they had often questioned it. Caught in the center of such a maelstrom of conflict, some days he hadn’t been able to decide what he was waiting for. Peace was a hopeless cause.
Then news would reach him of the king’s failing health, and he would remember the intensity in those young eyes, and he would carry on.
War. The Muslims behind him whispered it, though he could not hear them, as did the Christians before him, though he could not see their faces. War. He had no choice.
Baldwin rode more unsteadily than he had seven years ago, though his posture was pristine -- back straight, head held high. If his shoulders slumped more than they used to, or if his left hand seemed to rest uselessly on the reins, Saladin chose not to notice.
But the mask. The mask he could not ignore. He knew that face; the face of the king from his own wrought-silver chess set, albeit crownless and engraved with an ornate pattern.
He left his small party behind and met Baldwin alone at the center of the plain. Baldwin said nothing, but Saladin could see the melancholy in his eyes, still visible behind the mask. It was as if the king were asking him forgiveness for the what they both knew needed to be said.
“I pray you’ll pull back your cavalry and leave this matter to me,” Saladin said finally, breaking the silence. Pull out now; leave Chatillon and prepare your city for seige. It is your only hope.
“I pray you’ll retire unharmed to Damascus,” Baldwin replied, almost apologetically. “Reynald de Chatillon will be punished. I swear it. Withdraw or we will all die here.”
The grave acceptance in his blue eyes -- the unspoken double meaning of his last words -- they burned Saladin to the core. His men would complain if he withdrew now, but what of it? They had waited a hundred years. They could stand to wait for one man’s death.
“Do we have terms?” Baldwin asked quietly. Saladin could hear his labored breathing even over the distance between them.
“We have terms,” Saladin affirmed. After a moment’s hesitation, he added, “I will... send you my physicians.”
Was there a hint of a smile in Baldwin’s eyes at that?
Saladin cursed the silver mask.
-------------
Nasir objected vehemently to Saladin’s decision to accompany his physicians into the Christian encampment. By the time Saladin had talked him into submission, the day had grown long and the sky was tinted with the first darker shades of sunset. Saladin assembled a small party of his three best healers and half a dozen level-headed men to serve as guards -- men who would not respond to any but the most extreme provocation, hopefully eliminating any chance of an unwanted conflict. Saladin dressed in simple clothes, similar in appearance to the physicians’, to attract less attention.
They were escorted inside by Tiberias and a band of guards clearly chosen for the same inherent lucidity Saladin had looked for in his own men. Tiberias gave Saladin a hard look as they reached the king’s tent, but didn’t question his presence. Perhaps to love the king was to know all others who loved him on sight.
The three healers, each carrying the equipment of his trade, slipped into the tent. Saladin remained at the entrance a moment. He turned to Tiberias. “How long?” he asked simply.
“Whatever strength he had, he used on Reynald,” Tiberias said in a low voice. “I doubt he’ll recover.”
So. He’d meant it about punishment. Saladin wished he had been there.
“There will be war when he dies,” Saladin said bluntly.
“I know,” replied Tiberias, unfazed.
There was a fiery honesty in Tiberias’ eyes that reminded Saladin of Nasir. He nodded at the Christian lord respectfully and turned as if to go into the tent.
Tiberias’ firm hand on his arm held him back. “He prefers to remain unseen during examinations.”
“I would attend his death rites,” Saladin said, voice soft and cool, “if you could devise a way for this to be possible.”
Tiberias hesitated, then let his hand fall away from Saladin’s arm.
“Thank you,” Saladin murmured. Tiberias nodded.
Saladin opened the flap of the tent, and entered.
Candlelight and cloying medicines assaulted his senses. He blinked away the stinging sensation in his eyes and found Baldwin on the far side of the tent, sitting upright on a low, cushioned bench, surrounded by the rustle of silent efficiency. Hands touched him here and there, always moving, unwrapping bandages with nimble fingers, dabbing oils onto exposed areas of skin, bathing sores with soft cloths. Baldwin could resist nothing; his eyes were closed, his breathing shallow. Saladin’s physicians manipulated his limbs like dead things.
The silver mask lay on a table near the entrance. Saladin glanced at it, reached out to touch it gently. It looked heavy.
Baldwin had apparently heard him enter. “Saladin,” came his soft voice, drawing Saladin’s attention away from the artistry of the mask. Baldwin’s eyes were open and the hint of a smile touched his mouth; the rest of his face was completely covered with intricately tied bandages, though Saladin could tell that where there should be a nose, the coverings looked too flat.
The physicians looked up as well, and hesitated in their work. Saladin nodded at them to continue. One, kneeling, began to unwrap Baldwin’s left foot, revealing open sores and unsightly swellings and discoloration.
“I see you cannot hide your curiosity always,” Baldwin said drily. Saladin realized that he had been mesmerized by the process.
Instead of apologizing, he asked, “Surely you are in great pain?”
Baldwin gave a minute shake of his head. “I feel nothing. I smell nothing. I see little. Even the sun dims.”
Saladin took a step forward. “I think that I will not see you again,” he said quietly.
“No,” Baldwin agreed.
One of the healers had risen to stand behind Baldwin. He placed both hands on the sides of Baldwin’s head to show the king he was there. “Majesty, your face,” he murmured.
“Go ahead,” Baldwin whispered. “He may see.”
The physician found the loose end of the silk and began to unravel it. Saladin’s breath caught as more of the ruin that had been Baldwin’s face was revealed.
“My sister cannot bear to look at me, even with the mask,” he said, almost dreamily. “I cannot bear to look at myself.”
“You... are...” Saladin began hesitantly, trying to give voice to some thought, any coherent thought. There were none.
“Hideous? Beautiful? Sibylla says the latter. I am glad I can no longer see her face as she says it.”
“No,” Saladin said finally. “No, you are not beautiful.”
Baldwin sighed, as if he had been waiting a long time for someone to validate that thought.
“You are a king,” Saladin went on with more conviction, an edge of fierceness in his tone. “You are a good man, and my enemy, and a great leader of armies. These things... these things concern me.”
Baldwin’s breath caught -- once... twice. Saladin realized it was as close to tears as he could come.
“Saladin,” the king said hoarsely. Saladin took another step closer to hear him better. “If you take Jerusalem. When you... you will. I know you will. Spare my nephew. My sister. They are all that survive me.”
“I swear it.” Echoes of Baldwin’s oath on the battlefield.
“You have been my greatest enemy, Saladin,” Baldwin sighed. “And one of my only friends. Peace be upon you.”
“Alaikum salaam,” Saladin murmured. “You have kept your own peace. Farewell.”
Behind the ruinous mask of his face, Baldwin’s blue eyes shone with one last smile.
---------------
There was something familiar in the boy who came out to meet him before the broken walls. Something of kings, and quietude, and reason.
Saladin knew that he had fought only for terms, not for control of the city. Balian’s attempt at a threat could not conceal that, though Saladin suspected that the strong words were, like Baldwin’s, mostly for the appearance of things. Here, perhaps, is a man with enough sense not to meddle in politics, Saladin thought ruefully.
“What is Jerusalem worth?” Balian asked, unexpectly, just as Saladin had turned to walk away.
Saladin paused. Thought. Turned.
“Nothing,” he said. A pile of stones here and there, each maybe touched by something holy, while in between the people become Godly charicatures of men. A place to kill for. To die for.
Then the image of Baldwin at Kerak, riding into the void where nothing could catch him if he fell, came to Saladin -- Jerusalem is come! they had cried, Jerusalem! -- along with the fire, the conviction, the furious understanding that had so confused him before. It made sense now. Jerusalem was a place worth dying for. And that meant something.
He turned again, a slow smile breaking over his face, and raised his fists.
“Everything,” he said.
------------
Afterword: In regards to the last scene with Baldwin and Saladin -- I’ve read a lot of Baldwin fic in the last week, and both in those stories and in the movie it seems like everyone who gets the slightest bit of a chance calls Baldwin “beautiful” to his face. Like that’s supposed to make him feel better. I know, I know hard it is to lose someone, and sometimes all you can bring yourself to say is the nicest lie you can think of. I think Sibylla’s last scene with her brother is absolutely brilliant and true to human nature. But all this kindly lying sort of reminded me of (of all things) Kyo at the end of the Fruits Basket anime (& equivalent volume of manga). “It’s okay to be afraid of me, it’s okay to hate to look at me, it’s okay to do just about anything but lie to me.” Or words to that effect. So I thought, Baldwin’s had enough of lies, it’d be nice for someone to point out that yes, he’s deformed and dying, but that doesn’t make him any less of a decent human being. Just a thought.
Hope you liked.
-rave
Fandom: Kingdom of Heaven
Rating: PGish
Warnings: Canon character death, lack of historical accuracy. >_>
Summary: Saladin only met Baldwin IV a few times, but they were enough to make an impression that lasted forever.
Notes: Liek omg it is amazing how much this is based on the very, very fictionalized movie characters. Liek wow. I aim for no historical accuracy here whatsoever. I know relatively nothing of the Battle of Montgisard except what I’ve read on wikipedia, and I have consciously taken some movie innaccuracies into the story even though I know the facts. Like the fact that the first thing to go of Baldwin’s was his right arm, forcing him to fight left-handed; yet in the movie it’s his left hand that’s all fused together. So. But I did go by the general fact that Baldwin didn’t cover his face at all at the time of Montgisard.
I also know next to nothing about Saladin. My research has been Baldwin-centric, so my fic-Saladin is purely Ghassan Massoud’s face (and voice, guh!), William Monahan’s characterization, and a little of my own invention. Please to be forgiving me. Thank you.
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In the open desert, the scouring wind carries away the scent of death on the battlefield. The carrion birds do their work quickly and well. The sand, starved for moisture, drinks the spilled blood in an instant. The desert is fastidious in its ways.
Not so here, before the battered walls of the city, where the bodies piled atop each other retained the stink of decay and denied fertility to the stony ground. No birds had dared descend through the swarms of arrows, and though the battle had halted for a while they still circled high above, waiting. Saladin knew they would not have this feast; the dead inside the walls would be burned before the night was out. This baron who led the defense, this Balian of Ibelin, was no fool.
A messenger appeared at his side, bowing his head low before speaking. “The King of Jerusalem demands your presence, my lord,” he said in that distant voice that messengers use when they are ashamed of the message itself. But Saladin did not harm the bearers of bad news. Or in this case, irritating news.
He did not respond for a long moment, gazing at the high walls of the city and knowing with no joy that it would soon be his. Smoke had begun to rise from within, paler gray columns against the fallen dark.
“My lord?” the messenger pressed, his tone almost apologetic.
“Jerusalem has no king,” Saladin said finally, his voice far colder than the dry night was proving to be.
The messenger swallowed.
Saladin considered for a moment, then said, “Return and inform the guards that they are to prepare our guest for his performance in the morning. I will not see him before then.”
The messenger murmured assent once again and fled silently back into the depths of the camp.
The columns of smoke were thicker now, with the unmistakable dark, almost oily texture that came of burning flesh. Saladin turned away. His last and only words to the pretender to the throne of Jerusalem echoed in his mind.
Would that he had learned from Baldwin’s example, Saladin thought ruefully. Would that the world could learn. But the world was a fickle place, and people en masse became like a great child, refusing all but what was worst for it.
Must men suffer in order to be great? he wondered. And why?
But God’s will was not his to know. He had long accepted this. Returning to his tent, he knelt to pray for the souls of the fallen.
-------------
Saladin had known little of the son of the king who had ruled Jerusalem when Saladin was young. As he grew older he heard tales of the beauty of King Almaric’s daughter, Princess Sibylla, but nothing of the boy except that he was to be named heir to the throne. Until he began to draw plans for the battle at Montgisard, Saladin had barely considered the young king as a true opponent. After all, he did not rule; he was too young. There was a regent to be dealt with, the real power behind Jerusalem, and it was with this lord named Tiberias that Saladin concerned himself.
But the young king led Jerusalem’s army at Montgisard and drove Saladin in a rout before him, leaving Saladin with a mingled sense of shame and awe. He was prepared to hate this child, barely sixteen, and yet he was also prepared to pay him the utmost respect.
All he had seen of the boy on the field had been the glint of the sun off his dark blonde hair and the mingled silver and gold of his mail; Saladin had also noted with interest the skill with which the young king weilded his sword right-handed, while he could barely manage to control his horse with his left. His face had borne what looked like a snarl of fighting rage, but Saladin knew too well how men changed in battle and went into the negotiation of terms with little preconception of the boy’s character.
He knew, in a distant sense, that the king was ill -- or had been ill -- or something to that effect. There had been rumors that the throne would go to Sibylla. Saladin knew only that if the boy were king, he would deal with Tiberias, and if the sister were queen, he would deal with her husband.
The day came when they were to meet on the field to draw up the terms of Saladin’s surrender. Saladin had been apprehensive, more about how much he was going to lose to this upstart than about meeting the king himself.
“King Baldwin the Fourth of Jerusalem,” announced the servant who stood by the entrace to the partially-enclosed tent in which Saladin waited, seated behind a low wooden table on which were arranged the paraphernalia of politics. The servant bowed low and moved away. Saladin rose as the king entered, bowing his head low in acknowledgement. Baldwin returned the gesture.
Raising his eyes to the boy’s face, the first thing that struck Saladin was his expression -- a sneer, so similar to his expression on the battlefield. And yet... that was not right. Saladin let nothing show on his face, but inward startlement confused his thoughts for a moment. The boy’s expression was in fact one of calm and seriousness, but a strange twist in his upper lip gave him the appearance of snarling. The deformity reached the side of his nose as well, giving the impression that someone had pinched and twisted the side of his face. Saladin thought dryly to himself, It is no wonder I have heard nothing of the beauty of Princess Sibylla’s brother.
And yet there was a strange sort of beauty to the young man. His presence filled the room with a sense of serenity and majesty that Saladin had encountered in few royal families. It was easy to overlook the deformity in his face; his eyes drew one’s attention away from it. Saladin had seen few eyes so intelligent and quick, and never in one both so young and so powerful.
For Saladin realized this now: that Baldwin was powerful. It was time to reassess how he would deal with Jerusalem in the future. Tiberias, regent or no, was not the power there.
“Lord Saladin,” said Baldwin into the studious silence, almost gently. Another suprise, the quality of his voice: soft but firm, of a middling tone, with calculated inflection. He pronounced the Arabic name with minute accuracy for one who spoke another language first.
“Your Majesty,” Saladin replied, deciding in the briefest of moments that to hate this boy for defeating him would be a great mistake. “Please. Sit.” He gestured at the cushioned chair in front of Baldwin, which faced his own seat across the table.
As he took the seat, the young man said, “Call me Baldwin. It will be simpler.”
Saladin blinked, but Baldwin did not notice. “Of course,” he replied.
They discussed terms. With each hour that passed -- and they were fewer than Saladin had anticipated, because Baldwin was shrewd and understanding and more lenient in his demands than Saladin’s experience with the leaders of armies had led him to expect -- Saladin’s respect for the boy grew. And by the glint of laughter and content that began to enter Baldwin’s eyes as time progressed, Saladin suspected the feeling was mutual. Here was a man -- not a boy, though young -- with whom peace could be both made and kept.
Saladin signed the final agreement in flowing script and slid the document to Baldwin. Saladin noted once again the clumsiness with which he handled things in his left hand -- he wore gloves at all times, but the white silk, dust-stained from riding, revealed nothing to explain the curious curvature of Baldwin’s left wrist and fingers.
“Well then, it seems we have reached a profitable conclusion to this madness,” Baldwin said, sitting back.
Saladin inclined his head in acknowledgement. In true gratefulness, in fact, for the benefit went both ways. Baldwin was a clever negotiator. “The sun is high,” he remarked, glancing to one open wall of the tent. “It would be unwise to travel.”
“I am not expected back for some time,” Baldwin replied. On closer inspection he did look paler than he had before, and he sat fully unmoving in his seat, as if he could do no more than continue breathing. His right hand trembled very slightly.
“Refreshments, I think.” Saladin did not mention Baldwin’s apparent weakness. He rose and beckoned the servant who had been near the entrance this whole time, sweating in the heat with utmost patience. Saladin spoke a few quick words of Arabic, and servant went away.
Saladin resumed his seat, taking an unobtrusive pose that allowed him a clear view of Baldwin’s face for further study. At the moment Baldwin seemed to be lost in some reverie -- his bright blue eyes were focused on something behind Saladin.
Before Saladin could bring his attention back to the present, Baldwin asked, “Do you play? Chess, I mean?”
Saladin glanced over his shoulder -- the board with its intricately wrought set of silver pieces was still laid out from earlier. He smiled, showing extremely white teeth. “Since I was very young, yes,” he replied. “I was taught by my sister.”
“Sibylla will not play unless I swear not to let her win, but becomes impatient when she loses,” Baldwin said absently.
Saladin’s grin grew wider. A quick hand gesture brought another servant, who carried the chess set to the table. He deftly rearranged the black pieces on his side of the board for a new game, glancing up at Baldwin in time to see the obvious struggle it took for the young man to lever himself forward in his seat to reach the board.
Baldwin placed his pieces carefully, then wordlessly moved a pawn forward two spaces. Saladin could only shake his head inwardly at the intensity with which the king gazed at the board; had the young man no sense of self-preservation? Saladin had seen his physical weakness and could have killed him in a heartbeat, especially now that he had let down his guard. And over nothing more important than a game...
But had Baldwin so misjudged the situation? Either there was a naive side to the young man, which Saladin found difficult to believe, or he already thought he knew his enemy well enough to know that Saladin would not commit so low a crime. And this was true. The question was, did Baldwin know it?
Saladin considered Baldwin’s pawn briefly, then moved one of his own.
A few moves later, the first servant returned with cold wine and colder water. Baldwin drank of the water gratefully, his attention still clearly focused on the game.
It was only after he had removed the second of Saladin’s knights from the board and Saladin was beginning to understand how he had lost the battle to this upstart boy (despite his own far superior army) that Baldwin spoke again. His voice startled Saladin out of the merciless world of strategy in which he had been drifting for some time.
“You have impressed me, Saladin,” Baldwin said quietly. “Few men ask outright about my face, but none have hidden their curiosity as well as you.”
Saladin was taken aback for a moment. He had expected the king to say nothing of the matter. “You are intelligent,” Saladin said carefully, measuring his words. “You are a king, and my enemy, and a great leader of armies.” He emphasized this with his next move on the board, which, though it was the best he could do, he knew to be hopeless. Baldwin would win this game. Perhaps the same could be said for the conversation. “These things concern me. Your appearance does not.”
“It concerns you that I am dying,” Baldwin said, soft yet firm.
Saladin’s eyes narrowed and he looked sharply at Baldwin.
“This peace will not last, I fear,” said the young king, at long last raising his eyes from the board to meet Saladin’s. “If internal matters continue as they have in Jerusalem, my peace will live only as long as I do. And that may only be a few years.”
“How is this?”
“Two years ago, none of this” -- Baldwin gestured at the twisted side of his face with a gloved hand -- “was here. I am a leper, Saladin.”
Saladin found himself at a loss. “Lepers are not kings,” he said finally. “Lepers cannot be kings.”
“Kings do not sit in the camp of their enemy and play chess,” Baldwin replied wryly.
“God punishes you thus?” Saladin pressed, more sharply than he had intended.
Some of the warmth left Baldwin’s gaze, unless Saladin imagined it. Baldwin moved his remaining bishop without looking up. After a moment he removed his hand from the piece and asked, “Does He?”
Leprosy was the punishment of God, Saladin knew this. But for what sin? Saladin’s mind reeled with the question. For the decadence of the Christian kingdom? But the outlying households of Jerusalem were impoverished, some without such basic necessities as wells and water. The land was poor for growing. And if there was a trace of vanity in this young man, Saladin could not see it -- save for the richness of his tunic, and his white silk gloves. Yet, suddenly, Saladin understood those as well, and wondered what his hands must look like, and how long his subjects had refused to touch things that had touched his bare skin. For that was the way of the unclean -- not to touch things touched by other men, and not to breathe their air or share their homes --
“For whatever reason,” Baldwin interrupted his thoughts in a gentle tone, “I cannot change my fate. Saladin. What I am is no secret, and the impact of it will spread as I worsen. You would have heard of it sooner or later. In this place I have done what may be the only memorable deed of my life. I ask only that you keep this peace.”
“You are young still,” Saladin said obstinately. “You will defeat many enemies to your kingdom. You will keep your own peace.”
Baldwin smiled, and for a moment Saladin saw the glow of proud youth behind the mask of serenity. He did not respond, allowing Saladin one small victory, at least -- the final word. The young king returned his gaze to the chess game.
They played a short while longer in silence, before Saladin sat back, took one last look at the wretched pile of black figurines beside the board, and decided not to take the abuse any longer. “I believe I shall have to concede this game,” he said brusquely. Baldwin laughed aloud.
“It was better-played than any of my court have managed in some years,” Baldwin said kindly. “My father could beat me at chess. Sibylla, sometimes, when we were young. The Baron of Ibelin, once or twice. No others.”
Still no trace of pride or vanity in his voice. Saladin marvelled.
“Once more?” Saladin asked, already planning new strategies.
Baldwin’s disfigured smile returned. “If you wish,” he said.
-------------
Jerusalem has come.
The cry rang down the line, accompanied by shouts and cheers and calls for battle. Real battle. No pitiful defense led by a fresh-faced nobleman, no thrashing of a simple madman’s home, but war.
What had at first been nothing more than a sliver of blinding light on the horizon had materialized into an army. Not one to match Saladin’s for size -- but its strength was in its leader, and Saladin had not forgotten Montgisard.
At the head of the Christian army rode Jerusalem himself. He was too far away still to see properly, but Saladin knew, inexplicably, that it was him. Something within Saladin rekindled at the sight of him -- a fierceness that had been stifled by endless diplomacy these past years, a blaze of emotion that both confused and galvanized him.
He bellowed a command and spurred his horse forward. Silence fell as small parties rode forth from each army, across that part of Kerak that remained, at least for now, unstained.
Saladin had not seen Baldwin in person since Montgisard. The sight of him tore at Saladin; in all the years since their first meeting, he had striven to keep the peace, though playing politics with men like Reynald de Chatillon had quickly begun to chafe. But the Christians had wanted a war, and his men had wanted Jerusalem. Saladin had never forgotten his loyalty to his own people, though they had often questioned it. Caught in the center of such a maelstrom of conflict, some days he hadn’t been able to decide what he was waiting for. Peace was a hopeless cause.
Then news would reach him of the king’s failing health, and he would remember the intensity in those young eyes, and he would carry on.
War. The Muslims behind him whispered it, though he could not hear them, as did the Christians before him, though he could not see their faces. War. He had no choice.
Baldwin rode more unsteadily than he had seven years ago, though his posture was pristine -- back straight, head held high. If his shoulders slumped more than they used to, or if his left hand seemed to rest uselessly on the reins, Saladin chose not to notice.
But the mask. The mask he could not ignore. He knew that face; the face of the king from his own wrought-silver chess set, albeit crownless and engraved with an ornate pattern.
He left his small party behind and met Baldwin alone at the center of the plain. Baldwin said nothing, but Saladin could see the melancholy in his eyes, still visible behind the mask. It was as if the king were asking him forgiveness for the what they both knew needed to be said.
“I pray you’ll pull back your cavalry and leave this matter to me,” Saladin said finally, breaking the silence. Pull out now; leave Chatillon and prepare your city for seige. It is your only hope.
“I pray you’ll retire unharmed to Damascus,” Baldwin replied, almost apologetically. “Reynald de Chatillon will be punished. I swear it. Withdraw or we will all die here.”
The grave acceptance in his blue eyes -- the unspoken double meaning of his last words -- they burned Saladin to the core. His men would complain if he withdrew now, but what of it? They had waited a hundred years. They could stand to wait for one man’s death.
“Do we have terms?” Baldwin asked quietly. Saladin could hear his labored breathing even over the distance between them.
“We have terms,” Saladin affirmed. After a moment’s hesitation, he added, “I will... send you my physicians.”
Was there a hint of a smile in Baldwin’s eyes at that?
Saladin cursed the silver mask.
-------------
Nasir objected vehemently to Saladin’s decision to accompany his physicians into the Christian encampment. By the time Saladin had talked him into submission, the day had grown long and the sky was tinted with the first darker shades of sunset. Saladin assembled a small party of his three best healers and half a dozen level-headed men to serve as guards -- men who would not respond to any but the most extreme provocation, hopefully eliminating any chance of an unwanted conflict. Saladin dressed in simple clothes, similar in appearance to the physicians’, to attract less attention.
They were escorted inside by Tiberias and a band of guards clearly chosen for the same inherent lucidity Saladin had looked for in his own men. Tiberias gave Saladin a hard look as they reached the king’s tent, but didn’t question his presence. Perhaps to love the king was to know all others who loved him on sight.
The three healers, each carrying the equipment of his trade, slipped into the tent. Saladin remained at the entrance a moment. He turned to Tiberias. “How long?” he asked simply.
“Whatever strength he had, he used on Reynald,” Tiberias said in a low voice. “I doubt he’ll recover.”
So. He’d meant it about punishment. Saladin wished he had been there.
“There will be war when he dies,” Saladin said bluntly.
“I know,” replied Tiberias, unfazed.
There was a fiery honesty in Tiberias’ eyes that reminded Saladin of Nasir. He nodded at the Christian lord respectfully and turned as if to go into the tent.
Tiberias’ firm hand on his arm held him back. “He prefers to remain unseen during examinations.”
“I would attend his death rites,” Saladin said, voice soft and cool, “if you could devise a way for this to be possible.”
Tiberias hesitated, then let his hand fall away from Saladin’s arm.
“Thank you,” Saladin murmured. Tiberias nodded.
Saladin opened the flap of the tent, and entered.
Candlelight and cloying medicines assaulted his senses. He blinked away the stinging sensation in his eyes and found Baldwin on the far side of the tent, sitting upright on a low, cushioned bench, surrounded by the rustle of silent efficiency. Hands touched him here and there, always moving, unwrapping bandages with nimble fingers, dabbing oils onto exposed areas of skin, bathing sores with soft cloths. Baldwin could resist nothing; his eyes were closed, his breathing shallow. Saladin’s physicians manipulated his limbs like dead things.
The silver mask lay on a table near the entrance. Saladin glanced at it, reached out to touch it gently. It looked heavy.
Baldwin had apparently heard him enter. “Saladin,” came his soft voice, drawing Saladin’s attention away from the artistry of the mask. Baldwin’s eyes were open and the hint of a smile touched his mouth; the rest of his face was completely covered with intricately tied bandages, though Saladin could tell that where there should be a nose, the coverings looked too flat.
The physicians looked up as well, and hesitated in their work. Saladin nodded at them to continue. One, kneeling, began to unwrap Baldwin’s left foot, revealing open sores and unsightly swellings and discoloration.
“I see you cannot hide your curiosity always,” Baldwin said drily. Saladin realized that he had been mesmerized by the process.
Instead of apologizing, he asked, “Surely you are in great pain?”
Baldwin gave a minute shake of his head. “I feel nothing. I smell nothing. I see little. Even the sun dims.”
Saladin took a step forward. “I think that I will not see you again,” he said quietly.
“No,” Baldwin agreed.
One of the healers had risen to stand behind Baldwin. He placed both hands on the sides of Baldwin’s head to show the king he was there. “Majesty, your face,” he murmured.
“Go ahead,” Baldwin whispered. “He may see.”
The physician found the loose end of the silk and began to unravel it. Saladin’s breath caught as more of the ruin that had been Baldwin’s face was revealed.
“My sister cannot bear to look at me, even with the mask,” he said, almost dreamily. “I cannot bear to look at myself.”
“You... are...” Saladin began hesitantly, trying to give voice to some thought, any coherent thought. There were none.
“Hideous? Beautiful? Sibylla says the latter. I am glad I can no longer see her face as she says it.”
“No,” Saladin said finally. “No, you are not beautiful.”
Baldwin sighed, as if he had been waiting a long time for someone to validate that thought.
“You are a king,” Saladin went on with more conviction, an edge of fierceness in his tone. “You are a good man, and my enemy, and a great leader of armies. These things... these things concern me.”
Baldwin’s breath caught -- once... twice. Saladin realized it was as close to tears as he could come.
“Saladin,” the king said hoarsely. Saladin took another step closer to hear him better. “If you take Jerusalem. When you... you will. I know you will. Spare my nephew. My sister. They are all that survive me.”
“I swear it.” Echoes of Baldwin’s oath on the battlefield.
“You have been my greatest enemy, Saladin,” Baldwin sighed. “And one of my only friends. Peace be upon you.”
“Alaikum salaam,” Saladin murmured. “You have kept your own peace. Farewell.”
Behind the ruinous mask of his face, Baldwin’s blue eyes shone with one last smile.
---------------
There was something familiar in the boy who came out to meet him before the broken walls. Something of kings, and quietude, and reason.
Saladin knew that he had fought only for terms, not for control of the city. Balian’s attempt at a threat could not conceal that, though Saladin suspected that the strong words were, like Baldwin’s, mostly for the appearance of things. Here, perhaps, is a man with enough sense not to meddle in politics, Saladin thought ruefully.
“What is Jerusalem worth?” Balian asked, unexpectly, just as Saladin had turned to walk away.
Saladin paused. Thought. Turned.
“Nothing,” he said. A pile of stones here and there, each maybe touched by something holy, while in between the people become Godly charicatures of men. A place to kill for. To die for.
Then the image of Baldwin at Kerak, riding into the void where nothing could catch him if he fell, came to Saladin -- Jerusalem is come! they had cried, Jerusalem! -- along with the fire, the conviction, the furious understanding that had so confused him before. It made sense now. Jerusalem was a place worth dying for. And that meant something.
He turned again, a slow smile breaking over his face, and raised his fists.
“Everything,” he said.
------------
Afterword: In regards to the last scene with Baldwin and Saladin -- I’ve read a lot of Baldwin fic in the last week, and both in those stories and in the movie it seems like everyone who gets the slightest bit of a chance calls Baldwin “beautiful” to his face. Like that’s supposed to make him feel better. I know, I know hard it is to lose someone, and sometimes all you can bring yourself to say is the nicest lie you can think of. I think Sibylla’s last scene with her brother is absolutely brilliant and true to human nature. But all this kindly lying sort of reminded me of (of all things) Kyo at the end of the Fruits Basket anime (& equivalent volume of manga). “It’s okay to be afraid of me, it’s okay to hate to look at me, it’s okay to do just about anything but lie to me.” Or words to that effect. So I thought, Baldwin’s had enough of lies, it’d be nice for someone to point out that yes, he’s deformed and dying, but that doesn’t make him any less of a decent human being. Just a thought.
Hope you liked.
-rave