The Islam Quintet

by Tariq Ali

  “Then take us to him, you goat-fucker,” said Shirkuh with a cruel laugh.

  He led us to the Caliph’s palace, through vaulted hallways and an endless number of ornamented chambers, each of them empty. Brightly coloured birds from Ifriqiya were making a terrible noise. We passed through a garden which contained tame lion cubs, a bear and two black panthers tied to a tree. Shirkuh was unmoved by all this, yet it was difficult not to be impressed. I tried to mimic my uncle and pretended that I, too, was unaffected. Then we entered a large room with a vaulted ceiling. It was divided by a thick silk curtain of the deepest red, on which circles of pure gold had been sewn, and jewels the size of eggs.

  Shawar bowed before the curtain and laid his sword on the floor. We did not follow suit. Slowly the curtain rose and al-Adid emerged.

  So, I thought to myself, this pathetic and frightened figure, barely eighteen years of age, his dark eyes shadowed by the signs of over-indulgence, surrounded by eunuchs and a great display of inordinate wealth, this was the Caliph of the Fatimids. The Caliph asked Shawar to leave his presence, and the defeated vizir slunk away like a smelly animal.

  Shirkuh did not waste time. “You requested us to save Cairo. We are here. Before anything else, I ask for Shawar’s head. It is he who has brought death and destruction to our people.”

  The Caliph of the Fatimids nodded. He spoke in a strange choked voice as if he too, like most of those who surrounded him, had been castrated.

  “We welcome you to Cairo. We take great pleasure in appointing you as our vizir.”

  Shirkuh bowed his acceptance, and we left the palace. The very next day, with the written permission of their Caliph, I personally separated Shawar’s head from his shoulders, throwing it on the ground at Shirkuh’s feet. My heart trembled, but my hand was strong.

  “Now our Nasir is avenged,” he said, in a voice softened by the memory of his favourite archer.

  Two months after this day, the heavens darkened. A terrible tragedy befell our family. My uncle Shirkuh passed away. I was not the only one who wept as news spread through the ranks of our army. Shirkuh was a much-loved commander, and even the emirs of Damascus, who made fun of the way he spoke the language of the Koran behind his back, were subdued by grief. Who would lead us now that Allah had taken away our mountain lion?

  In our lives we are all prepared to die at any time, but Shirkuh’s death was not necessary. It was his appetite that led to his downfall. He had been invited to a feast where they ate for nearly three hours. Whole sheep had been roasted, goats grilled on an open fire, quails and partridges and every imaginable delicacy had been laid out before us. Shirkuh loved food. Even when he was very young, my grandmother often had to drag him away by force from the food. As I watched him, I remembered the old stories. He used to boast that he could eat and drink more than any other man in his army. Now he could not stop himself. It was a sad and an unpleasant sight. On three occasions Shadhi tried to restrain him, whispering warnings in his ear, but my uncle Shirkuh was in his own world. He choked on his food and began to suffocate. Shadhi hit him hard on the back and made him stand up, but it was too late. He lost consciousness and died in front of our eyes.

  Shadhi and I hugged each other and wept. Throughout the night we kept guard over his bathed and shrouded body, which lay on a simple bed. Shirkuh’s soldiers, many of them veterans who had fought by his side while I was still a child, came in small groups and made their farewell. It was a strange sight to see these hardened soldiers, for whom the loss of a life was all part of a day’s work, weeping like children.

  After midnight, we were left alone. Shadhi would remember an old episode, long before I was born, and begin to weep again. I remembered Shirkuh, his flashing eyes full of laughter as he sang to his own children and to us just as we were approaching manhood. Once when he discovered that I had been going secretly to a tavern, he called me into his room. His face was stern and I was scared. He had a terrible temper. “You have been drinking?” I shook my head. “Don’t lie, boy!” I nodded. He roared with laughter and recited the sayings of Ibn Sina, which he forced me to recite after him:

  Wine is a raging enemy, a prudent friend,

  A small amount is an antidote, too much a snake’s poison,

  In excess it leads to no small injury,

  But in a little there is much profit.

  Alas, it was not a lesson he learnt himself. His death was the price he paid for over-indulgence in meat and wine. Ever since the day when I saw him die, I have been repulsed by the presence of too much meat on my table. Now do you understand why I insist on a balanced diet, Ibn Yakub? I felt the other day when we broke bread together that you really did not appreciate the meal. We shall discuss all this another time. Let us continue.

  The next day, after Shirkuh’s burial, the emirs of Damascus remained aloof from me. They were huddled in little groups whispering to each other. I did not appreciate the cause of their disaffection till much later that evening.

  The advisers of the Caliph of the Fatimids saw me as young, inexperienced, and weak—someone who could be easily manipulated by the court. I was invited to the palace and given the title of al-Malik al-Nasir—victorious king. How they must have laughed amongst themselves, thinking that in me they had found a pliant instrument. I was conscious of the honour, but felt lost without Shirkuh. I felt like a re-channelled river, momentarily disoriented as I observed the new landscape.

  I needed to talk to Shirkuh or, failing him, my own father, who was in Damascus with Nur al-Din. As I thought about our great Sultan, I wondered what he would make of my elevation. His proud emirs, men of noble lineage, were clearly upset that a lowly Kurd from the mountains, who, in their eyes, could not speak the divine language properly, was now Vizir of Misr. I determined to send a message to Nur al-Din reaffirming that he, and not the Caliph of the Fatimids, was my commander. The last person in the world I wanted to be sharply pitted against was Nur al-Din.

  The vizir’s white turban, embroidered with gold, was placed on this head, a sword decorated with jewels was placed in my hand, and a beautiful mare with a saddle and bridle encrusted with pearls and gold was given to me. I then marched at the head of a ceremonial procession with much music and chanting. We came, eventually, to this palace and to this room—here, where we are seated. It is a good place to be, and it is a good time to end our labours for the day, Ibn Yakub.

  I’m glad you insisted that we finish this particular story, but I can see that your fingers are stiff. Your wife will need to rub ointments on your hands tonight, and my loyal al-Fadil must be very angry with me. I have never kept him waiting so long.

  TEN

  I meet Halima in secret to hear her story; she tells of her life in the harem and the brilliance of the Sultana Jamila

  THE NEXT DAY A messenger arrived from the palace. He brought with him a large basket of fruits and other delicacies for my wife and child, and a message for me. The Sultan and the Kadi had left the town for a day or two and I was to be permitted a respite from my tasks. I was somewhat put out. I felt I might have been given the option to decide whether or not I was to accompany them. Where had they gone and why? Perhaps the Kadi was punishing me for having kept Salah al-Din to myself for so long the previous day. How could I write a proper account of the Sultan if I was excluded in this fashion from his daily work?

  There was much rejoicing in the house after the messenger’s departure. For weeks I had barely seen Maryam, and there was much anger that I had arrived late for the feast in honour of her tenth birthday a few weeks ago. Even Ibn Maymun had rebuked me on that occasion. Rachel was, of course, delighted by my temporary leisure. Relations between us had returned to normal, but she still resented the amount of time I spent at the palace. Yet she showed no signs of resentment at the unsolicited gifts arriving regularly at our house. These came not from the palace but from merchants and courtiers, who believed I had a great influence with the Sultan.

  Ever since I had started my work as Sala
h al-Din’s personal scribe, we had not spent a single dinar on food or oil. Add to this the satins and silks which were normally beyond the reach of people like us. Both Rachel and Maryam were now dressed in the fashion of the court nobility. On one occasion, when I taxed Rachel with all this, she laughed without any sense of shame, and replied:

  “The pain of our separation is undoubtedly relieved by the receipt of all these gifts, though I still think that if I was to put you at one end of the big scales in the market and all the gifts on the other, the balance would still favour you.”

  Later that afternoon, as all three of us were wandering aimlessly through the streets, observing what was on offer at the various stalls, a woman I did not recognise handed me a note, slipping rapidly away before I could question her. The message was unsigned, but it asked me to present myself at the palace library the next day. Rachel and I both assumed it was a message from Shadhi, acting on the orders of the Sultan, but I was puzzled by the choice of messenger. Something in me told me that the message had originated with neither Shadhi nor the Sultan.

  The next day, upon entering the library, I was told by an attendant that Salah al-Din and al-Fadil had still not returned from the country. As I sat waiting for the person who had sent me the note, I heard a slight noise behind me, and turned to see the wooden shelves in one wall moving. Slightly nervous, I stepped forward to see a flight of stairs beneath the ground and a figure slowly ascending them. It was Halima. She smiled at my astonishment. The executed eunuch Ilmas had told her of the existence of a secret passage from the harem to the library. It had been built by al-Adid’s grandfather, a Caliph who did not object to his wives or concubines having access to the library. Subsequently the palace had been given to the vizir, and the passage had fallen into disuse.

  It was dangerous to talk in the library. Halima wanted to meet in the room of a friend near the public baths, later that afternoon. The same woman who had handed me the message would meet me within a few hours, and guide me to her presence.

  I was entering stormy waters. If I met her and did not inform the Sultan, my own neck could soon lie beneath the sword. If I did tell Salah al-Din, would Halima’s life be worth living? Perhaps I should disregard her invitation. While walking through the courtyard, I saw Shadhi, who hugged me with real warmth. I had not seen him for some time. He too was annoyed with Salah al-Din for having left without him, but informed me that he was due back in the palace tonight.

  We sat in the sun and talked. It was as if we had always been close and trusted friends. He asked how the Book of Salah al-Din was progressing, and I told him where the narrative had stopped. His memory confirmed Salah al-Din’s account of the circumstances that led to Shirkuh’s death. The memory saddened the old man. Taking my fate in my hands, I told Shadhi of my meeting with Halima. To my surprise he chuckled.

  “Careful of that mare, Ibn Yakub, careful. She’s dangerous. Before you know it you will have mounted her, and she will have galloped across the desert with you tied to her back. She has Kurdish blood, and these mountain women, let me tell you, are very strong-willed. I know not what she has in store for you, but whatever it may be she will not let you resist. Once women like her have decided to do something, they do not permit mere men to stop them.”

  I protested Halima’s innocence and my own.

  “She just wants to tell her story. Is that not my job?”

  The bawdy look on his face indicated that he was not convinced.

  “Go meet her. Don’t be frightened of the Sultan. If he finds out, say you told me and assumed I would have passed on the information. These things do not worry Salah al-Din. It is only if others in the harem discover your secret that Halima will be in danger. And you, my friend, be careful. She is very beautiful, but she is also carrying the Sultan’s child.”

  The news stunned me. I was bathed in a wave of jealousy and anger. Why should a ruler, however benign, have the right to appropriate the body of any woman he finds temporarily desirable? I noticed Shadhi looking at my transformed features, and nodding with a sympathetic, understanding smile. I recovered my composure, regretting my illogical reaction to the news. As I walked towards the palace gates I thought I heard Shadhi’s whisper in my ears: “Careful, be careful, Ibn Yakub.” But it was my imagination.

  Ibn Maymun maintains that in a state of heightened emotions, one sees and hears imaginary things related to the subject of the emotions. He told me once of a man whose favourite horse had been killed as part of an old blood-feud. He used to catch a glimpse of the horse in the oddest places. It is the same with the object of one’s love, regardless of whether that love has ever been spoken. Suddenly I had no desire to see Halima. I wished she was dead. This feeling did not last longer than a few minutes at most and, as I waited at the agreed spot near the public baths, just behind the Street of the Bookbinders, I felt ashamed of myself.

  The messenger-woman saw me from a distance and beckoned me to follow. She was swift of foot and, fearful of losing sight of her, I lost all sense of geography. When she entered the courtyard of a modest house, I had no idea of the quarter. The house was empty. I was directed to a small room and, seeing that I was sweating and out of breath, an attendant provided me with a jug of water. I did not look at him too closely till he spoke, in a strange voice, which made me wonder whether he was a eunuch.

  “Would you like to rest for a while?”

  “No, no, I’m fully recovered.”

  I waited. The attendant continued to stare at me in a familiar fashion. His insolence annoyed me, but I managed a weak smile. He burst out laughing and removed his headgear, revealing the light red tresses of Halima. She had come disguised as a man.

  “Even you, Ibn Yakub, who stared at me so long that day in the palace when I was telling my story, even you did not recognise me. This gives me hope.”

  She showed her pleasure by clapping her hands, like a child. Then she laughed, a throaty deep laugh, the sound of which struck me like a waterfall and increased the pace of my heart. I was glad she disappeared for a while after this performance. I needed a little time to recover. When she returned, in a brocaded green and blue silk robe with large sleeves and gold bracelets, she reminded me once again of those legendary princesses of the Caucasus. Whatever anger I may have felt earlier was soon dispelled. One could not be angry for long with such an exquisite treasure.

  “Have you been struck dumb, scribe?”

  I smiled and shook my head.

  “Why do you think I have summoned you to my presence?”

  “I assumed there was something you wished to communicate to me. You see I have brought my equipment with me so that I may transcribe your every utterance.”

  She ignored my display of servility.

  “Why did you not stay till the end of the shadow-play? Ilmas told me you left before the final act.”

  I sighed.

  “The public humiliation of our Sultan was not pleasing to my eyes or ears. I have grown to like him.”

  Her face changed suddenly. Lightning flashes from her wrath-laden eyes burnt me to the core. I was speechless in the face of her rage. She sipped some water and counted thirty cross-sections on the fingers of both hands. Thus becalmed, the softness returned to her features. She swayed gently from side to side.

  “Can you play the lute, scribe?”

  I shook my head.

  “Then Mansoora shall play for us. When one is sad, the sound of the lute is like the noise of water to a thirsty traveller in the desert.”

  Her maidservant began to strum the lute, and a strange, magical peace embraced the room. Halima started speaking. Slowly she spoke, and my pen moved in perfect rhythm with her words. I was in such a trance that I barely knew what she was saying. Not till I returned home did I understand the import of what she had told me.

  For the first few nights, I couldn’t sleep. Salah al-Din would enter my chamber and possess me with a passion whose intensity was such that it excited me, even though I had no real feelings f
or him. After he had finished, I would leave his sleeping body and wash myself. I did not wish to bear his child.

  I should speak the truth with you. After the first few nights I used to shut my eyes when Salah al-Din mounted me, and I would imagine that he was Messud. You seem shocked, scribe. Or is it that you think my immodesty might cost you your life? Do not worry. My lips will never speak of our encounter, but I wish you to know everything. Or are you worried that I have become too embittered with your Sultan and dream of revenge? Why should I? He saved my life and became my lord and master. For that I am grateful, but in my bed he is a man like any other.

  The only man I have truly loved is Messud. Perhaps it is just as well that he is no more. If he were here, I would risk both our lives to lie in his arms once more. I used to dream that he would make me heavy with his child, and I would pretend it belonged to Salah al-Din. Can gold ever cure grief, scribe? I think of Messud all the time. I torture myself by imagining him in Paradise in the arms of a houri, a creature far more alluring than me. In my heart I am still with him. I tell myself that we have not separated. He disturbs my sleep often. His smiling eyes, his serene gaze, his comforting voice, the feel of his hands stroking my body, all this enters my dreams and I know it will not go away.

  It was during the first few weeks, late at night, that I would hear the others talking loudly and anxiously about their own lives and futures, and about me. They were laughing at me. I suppose they thought that I loved the Sultan, and that when he moved on to feed himself in newer pastures, the blow would cripple me, leaving me alone to nurse my wounded heart. How wrong they were, and how little they knew me in those early days. It was only six months ago, Ibn Yakub, but it seems like an eternity.