A Crusader with System in the Middle Ages

Chapter 434: Chapter 308: The Sultan’s Falsehood and Reality

“But Suleiman Shah, son of Kutalmish, will win back the authority that should have belonged to his father,” Turandot insisted.

“Yes, only not in Kutalmish’s way—but in Tughrul’s.” Eric turned from Turandot and continued toward the inner part of the mansion.

Turandot faltered, pausing for a moment. “Suleiman Shah has never forgotten his father’s path. He will be even greater than his father.”

Perhaps it was the long corridor of the mansion that made Turandot’s voice sound so small and insignificant.

Turandot caught up to Eric, closing the distance between them. They were close enough for any words to be heard, but Turandot did not repeat herself, nor did she launch into effusive praise for Suleiman Shah.

A short while later, Turandot led Eric to a private chamber and then departed.

Turandot did not reappear. Instead, an Attendant would periodically arrive to tell Eric to continue waiting.

Eric waited in the chamber for a considerably long time.

The chamber contained a low, small bed, but it was far too short for Eric to stretch out on.

Eric knew this was a display of power from Suleiman Shah before their negotiations.

However, this did nothing to change Suleiman Shah’s negotiating position.

This agonizing silence would typically only last a single night.

Eric decided to play along. He leaned against the small bed and soon drifted into a state between waking and sleep.

As the first light of Dawn appeared on the horizon, a beautiful female slave woke Eric. She came bearing a platter of sliced fruits, a fresh set of clothes, and a turban made of Zandance silk. Leaning close to his ear, she whispered, “The Sultan will see you after the morning prayer.”

The light, intertwined with the glow from the chandeliers, cast his face in an ivory-like pallor.

Once the slave girl had finished dressing him, Eric stepped out of the chamber. The clamor from outside immediately rushed in, a great and formless tide of sound.

The palace’s grand hall and its surroundings were already overflowing with people. Bustling figures were everywhere: wealthy men in magnificent attire, busy whispering to their companions; beggars in tattered rags, hiding in corners and peering about cautiously; small merchants with sycophantic smiles, fawning over the palace Attendants; and bewildered travelers, looking especially cramped and out of place amid the surging crowd.

At one end of the hall stood its master, the highest hearer of petitions: Suleiman Shah. He was a man of immense stature, his skin tanned to a bronze, and he was dressed in a robe of exquisite embroidery. He stood majestically before his throne.

Yet, as the first petitioner entered the hall, he unexpectedly strode down from his high dais.

The light in the hall fell upon the petitioner, revealing a haggard old farmer.

The old farmer tried to kneel, but Suleiman Shah quickly helped him up. “There is no need to kneel. Today, I am your advocate. It matters not who you are or what you seek; you may state your case here. I will listen, and I will render a just judgment for you all.”

The old farmer looked at him gratefully, his eyes shimmering with tears. Unable to restrain himself any longer, he fell to his knees, raising a battered clay pot with trembling hands. The pot’s surface was covered in mud and cracks, weathered by the elements, much like its owner.

“My lord,” the farmer’s voice was hoarse with desperation. “My crops were trampled by a noble’s soldiers. They took my plow ox. I can no longer farm… my children are starving…” Here, his voice broke, and mud from the pot smeared the clean, white fabric of Suleiman Shah’s sleeve.

A hush fell over the hall. All eyes were fixed on Suleiman Shah, awaiting his reaction.

Suleiman Shah slowly took the pot. He gently brushed the dirt from its surface with his fingers and fell silent for a moment. Then he looked up, his sharp gaze sweeping across the crowd. His voice rang out, loud and firm. “From this day forward, the noble in question will return this man’s land and ox. All his losses shall be repaid threefold. If that noble—or any official—dares to make excuses…” He paused, his voice turning cold. “I will personally walk into his residence and see if he dares to deceive me, your Sultan.”

The words had barely left his lips when the crowd erupted in a mix of hushed cheers and whispers. Relief and joy bloomed on their faces like spring rain on a parched field. Suleiman Shah turned to a secretary at his side. “Record this matter. Ensure the order is executed at once. I want to see it done.”

He then turned back to the farmer, carefully placing the clay pot back in the old man’s hands. “This is your land,” he said softly. “No one has the right to trample upon it. If you suffer such injustice again, you may come to me at any time.”

Tears streamed down the old farmer’s face. “Sultan,” he said, his voice trembling, “may Allah bless you!”

Suleiman Shah drew himself up to his full height and turned to the other commoners in the hall. His voice boomed, “Whatever your Identity, whatever your Status, I am here today to see justice done for you all. If you have been wronged, speak up! I will listen, and I will act.”