Notes to the chapter
Salah ad-Din was a Kurd by nationality.
Yusuf ibn Ayyub - Yusuf, son of Ayyub.
In a feudal system, a suzerain is a leader, and a vassal is his subordinate.
A surah is one of the chapters of the Quran. It is advisable to read it aloud (from a book or by heart) without interruption.


Returning to the palace vaults next to Salah ad-Din, Anzhelika expected the palace dinner to be a stern, formal, and cold affair—pompous speeches, cool, polite remarks, and so on. To her delighted surprise, the atmosphere was simple and cordial—like the palace master himself. He likely set the tone.

At dinner, Anzhelika met the doctor Abdul Latif, whom she already knew, a couple of emirs from other cities (as Anzhelika understood, subordinate to Salah ad-Din), a mullah, a military judge - a qadi - named Bahaddin, and the two eldest sons of the Sultan, young men in their early twenties. Anzhelika, making friendly introductions to everyone, fleetingly thought it was quite funny when your boyfriend's sons are closer in age to you than he is. However, the age difference with Salah ad-Din, who, as she recalled, was over fifty, didn't bother her at all, since in her eyes he surpassed everyone in beauty and energy.

"Try the roast partridge, Angelica," Salah ad-Din says, and immediately a maid hurries to her with a wide silver platter. Anzhelika listens to the Sultan's soft, husky voice, looks into his black eyes, and sees only a restrained, gentle light there—like a reflection of that bold flame that blazed in his gaze just recently. Perhaps he won't wink at her at dinner. Anzhelika suppressed a sigh and took up the partridge—the meat is just right, neither dry nor fatty.

"I recommend black pepper with the partridge," suggested Bahaddin. His round, bearded face was filled with good nature and affection. "Do you eat pepper in Rus'?"
"We do sometimes," smiled Anzhelika, "but usually not very much."
"I heard a new caravan has arrived," one of the emirs remarked, "with spices, silk..."
"Yes, we just happened to be shopping with them," Salah ad-Din said. "This caravan arrived from Baghdad."

Salah ad-Din draws Anzhelika's attention time and again—his gentle manner, the grace of his long, slender fingers as he handles his food, the low, friendly voice he uses with everyone. Everything at the table seems to revolve around him, even when he's silent.

"They say the caravanserais are overflowing," the same emir said approvingly.
The mullah remarked:
"Pilgrims are arriving from all over the world," he glanced sideways at Anzhelika, "both Christians and our fellow believers. In recent days, there have been many Muslims who have come to pay homage to the holy sites."
The second emir asked in a worried voice:
"And how are things around the city? Everything is calm, I hope?"
"There have been no clashes so far," Salah ad-Din answered softly. Anzhelika heard the ringing of metal beneath the cordial velvet of his voice for the first time. "Muslim pilgrims are rushing to visit the holy place while it is in the hands of a co-religionist," Anzhelika thought gloomily, and apparently everyone present along with her.

Bahaddin asked hastily:
"Salah ad-Din, will Al-Adil still arrive tomorrow?"
"Yes," the Sultan nodded. "A messenger sent word today that he's already close. Inshallah, he should be here tomorrow afternoon."
"Who is that?" Anzhelika asked curiously.
"My brother," Salah ad-Din explained.
"Will there be a reception for this occasion, O Sultan?" asked Abdul Latif. Salah ad-Din shook his head.
"Alas, there's no time. We'll talk this afternoon, and the day after tomorrow, Al-Adil is already leaving for Egypt."

"I won't see Salah ad-Din tomorrow," Anzhelika thinks a little sadly. In less than two days, seeing the sparkles in his black eyes has become a pleasant habit for her. Salah ad-Din catches her gaze and smiles slightly, looking into her eyes.
"The halva is delicious. Try it, Angelica," he suggests, and she smiles back.


***

Performing the evening prayer, Salah ad-Din sat on the prayer rug next to his friend, Bahaddin. The candles lit in Salah ad-Din's bedroom fluttered in the gentle breeze that blew through the open balcony door, and occasionally gusts brought to the Sultan fresh air, sweetened by the scent of flowers beneath the balcony. Bahaddin recited a surah from the Quran, and the surah he chose—the thirtieth—was dedicated to the rewards of righteous people.

"One of His signs is that He created you from dust, then—behold!—you are human beings spreading over ˹the earth'." Bahaddin closed his eyes, and his voice was quiet and measured. "And one of His signs is that He created for you spouses from among yourselves so that you may find comfort in them. And He has placed between you compassion and mercy..."

Having finished reading the surah, Bahaddin said worriedly:
"Your thoughts seem to be far away from here, Yusuf. Has something happened?"
"No, my friend," Salah ad-Din replied, emerging from his thoughts, "Alhamdullah, everything is fine."
He pushed away the memories of laughing green eyes, of fair peachy skin, of slender... and forced himself to concentrate on prayer.

Finally, Bahaddin uttered the traditional goodnight wish, "May good news awaken you, Yusuf," and went to his room. Salah ad-Din stood, leaning his shoulder against the balcony frame and inhaling the fresh, free night air, with only the Almighty and the clear-eyed, capricious figure hovering invisibly nearby.

He forced himself to go to bed—he had much to do the next morning. But sleep refused to come. Salah ad-Din lay in bed with his eyes closed, recalling his distant youth. As a young man, he had dreamed of passionate, fiery love—the kind he imagined when he whispered lines from ancient Arabic poetry. He knew the ten-volume collection of this poetry, "Hamasa," by heart.

However, he married his father's choice—a fragile, dark-eyed girl his own age. They were very young then. The couple lived happily, but there was no magic of ardent passion in their relationship... Salah ad-Din cherished his wife and provided her with everything she needed. She always supported him in everything. Salah ad-Din, or rather, then simply Yusuf ibn Ayyub, always knew his wife would approve of his actions when he defended his opinion to his then-suzerain, Nureddin, about how to fairly rule the lands entrusted to him, a young man.

None of their five children lived to be ten. After the last son died, death took her too.

Salah ad-Din mourned her for a long time; he was deeply attached to her. Several years later, he decided to marry again. He wanted to continue his lineage—Salah ad-Din had grown up in a large, close-knit family, and he wanted to create one just like it. Moreover, his dreams and hopes for a passionate love never left him... He married a girl from a good, loyal family. She was beautiful, sweet, and always respectful, but all she cared about were expensive clothes and luxury. Salah ad-Din married twice more, entering into marriages to strengthen his power, and all he could give these girls was care and comfort.

His sons and daughter were born one after another when he inherited Nureddin's empire and married his widow. She had once been forced to marry Nureddin to secure a peace agreement with her hometown; their marriage remained a sham, and Ismat ad-Din never saw Nureddin. However, due to the forced nature of their union, she still harbored no warm feelings for him. But she felt a deep gratitude toward Salah ad-Din, whose conflict with Nureddin was brewing and would have erupted into open confrontation if not for the latter's death. Ismat ad-Din was an intelligent, lively woman, two years his senior, possessing strong will and character, and had once assumed responsibility for the negotiations during the siege of her city. Their warm spiritual intimacy was born from long evening conversations about everything under the sun. Allah did not grant them children. When the Sultan could not be with Ismat ad-Din, he wrote her letters every day. When illness took her life, his confidants did not tell him for three months, as he himself was recovering from a serious illness, and they feared he would not survive the news. Who knows, perhaps they were right...

After several years, the bitterness of loss had somewhat subsided in his heart, and life went on as usual. Besides, wars and the worries associated with them occupied a huge portion of his time, and he rarely remembered that the rare passion, capable of outshining the stars with its radiance, had never befallen him.

And then Allah sent him Angelica.

She's like a gust, a whirlwind, a spring wind that burst into his life and scattered all notions of what life could be. She has the willfulness of a child, the vivacity of youth, but sometimes the wisdom of a mature woman.

Salah ad-Din sat up in bed and ran his palms over his face. He sat there for a moment, staring into the darkness, and then stretched out again, closing his eyes. She was nearby, in his palace, under his protection... She'd probably been asleep for a long time. It was time for him to sleep, too. He had a lot to do tomorrow. As always.


***

Anzhelika dismissed the sleepy maids, who were eager to help her undress, so she could dream a little alone. However, she herself was already irresistibly sleepy—this entire delightful day had been incredibly eventful. As she stripped off her clothes and stretched blissfully, it suddenly occurred to her that not every first date involves introducing you to the family.

A thought flashed through her mind: "Is he married or not? And how many times..." From a biography of Salah ad-Din she'd read years ago, the fact that he was widowed came to mind... However, thank God, Islam permitted divorce in any case. Anzhelika decided to worry about her problems as they arose.

Settled down on the luxurious silk bed, the girl smiled, recalling the sweet, funny saying, "When sleeping in a new place, I want to dream of my groom's face," and closed her eyes.

...Anzhelika tossed and turned in bed, but sleep did not come. Then she rose from the bed and tiptoed barefoot into the hallway. The palace was shrouded in a sleepy silence. Guided by some inner instinct, the girl unerringly found Salah ad-Din's room and pushed the door.

The Sultan's bedroom was well lit by the moonlight streaming through the uncurtained windows. The Sultan woke up and sat up in bed, looking at her.

"Salah ad-Din, I can't sleep peacefully in this new place," Anzhelika complained capriciously. "Sing me a lullaby."

In an instant, she climbed onto the bed next to him. Salah ad-Din leaned back against the pillows, and the girl settled down more comfortably next to him. The Sultan began to quietly sing in his hoarse voice a song in a language unfamiliar to Anzhelika. Soon, Salah ad-Din felt a curious hand on his waist.

"You sing well," came a soft whisper near his ear. "What language is that? I don't know it..."
"It's Kurdish," Salah ad-Din replied. "I can teach you..." He deftly rolled over and pressed his lips to hers.

Anzhelika jumped up, her heart pounding wildly. She looked around – she was alone in bed. The morning sun flooded her room with its rays.

"Lady Angelica," came the slightly puzzled voice of one of the maids, "you asked to be woken up."
"Uh-huh, thank you," Anzhelika muttered, squinting and slowly returning to reality.
"What were you dreaming about, Lady? You jumped up so abruptly..."
"Kurdish lessons," Anzhelika thought. "But the teacher got a little carried away..."
"I don't remember anymore," she said out loud, rubbing her forehead with her palm. She crawled out from under the blanket and headed for the washbasin. It was time to get ready for the hospital.


~~

Salah ad-Din openly shows respect for Anzhelika and invites her into his company... but he doesn't flirt with her. His culture prohibits this in front of strangers. Anzhelika looks a little sad...
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The novel in 🇷🇺 Russian:
https://litgorod.ru/books/view/46375
https://www.quotev.com/story/16838734/%D0%A6%D0%B2%D0%B5%D1%82%D0%BE%D0%BA-%D0%BF%D1%83%D1%81%D1%82%D1%8B%D0%BD%D0%B8
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