by Tariq Ali
We obtained regular reports as to how many moving towers were being built for the siege and the number of knights at Amalric’s disposal. All this information was checked and sent by messenger to Damascus.
It is sometimes said about me, Ibn Yakub, that at critical moments I am not decisive enough. Perhaps this is true. I have inherited my father’s caution, and there are many in my ranks who would much rather I had inherited my uncle Shirkuh’s impulsiveness. I am conscious of this failing, and sometimes I try and combine the two. It is not always easy to make decisions which affect the lives of so many people.
What made Nur al-Din a truly great leader was his capacity to understand one important fact, namely, that unless the Franj were decisively defeated, our people would never be at peace. To make this possible, everything was subordinated to this single goal. That he was irritated by me was a minor irrelevance.
When my messengers arrived in Damascus, and informed him that we were in danger, he did not hesitate for a moment. He prepared a large army and sent it to Misr. We used this army to launch an offensive against the Franj in Palestine, diverting them from Damietta. Allah gave us victory. A sudden storm helped to sink the ships which the Emperor, whose sister was married to Amalric, had sent from Constantinople. The Greek ostrich had come here to find itself a pair of horns. It was obliged, instead, to return without its ears. Nur al-Din was a greater man than I could ever hope to be, and everything I have achieved I owe to him.
A strange smile, a mixture of elation, triumph, envy and sadness, came over his face as he uttered these last words. Perhaps he was thinking how ironic it was that he, Salah al-Din, and not his old master, was the ruler preparing to take Jerusalem. He was the man who would offer prayers at the Qubbat al-Sakhra, the Dome of the Rock, and return it to the care of the Believers.
I wanted to question him further. I wanted to ask him about Nur al-Din. But it was clear from his face that he was thinking of other matters. Suddenly he interrupted my thoughts.
“Go and break bread with Shadhi, but don’t go away. Ride with me to the citadel this afternoon.”
I bowed and made my exit. As I walked through the chambers to the courtyard I was struck by the simplicity of the man. He was surrounded by opulence. While he had stopped the elaborate court rituals of the Caliphs, there was still a great display of wealth and power, as if to show ordinary mortals like me that the two always went together. They were old bedfellows and nothing could ever change that reality.
Salah al-Din was known for his generosity. This was one reason for his great popularity with his own soldiers. Except on ceremonial occasions, he dressed simply. He was fond of riding his favourite steed without a saddle. There was nothing like the feel of a horse’s sweat to encourage dreams of future glory. He told me that on one occasion, adding that it was on the bare back of a horse, galloping through the meadows or across the sand, that his military ideas fell into place. It was, he said, as if the rhythm of the stallion’s gallop coincided with the necessary leaps in his own thoughts.
With Shadhi, I was soon eating a leg of lamb, stewed with beans of three different varieties and soft as butter. Shadhi claimed the credit for the meal. He had threatened to boil the cooks in their own olive oil if they served tough meat again. He had lost a tooth on one occasion. His threats had the desired effect. The tender meat turned out to be pure bliss.
I told Shadhi of Salah al-Din’s strange smile when he had been talking of Nur al-Din, and asked him for his interpretation. The old man snorted like a horse with a strained heart.
“Sometimes our Sultan can be very sly. We all admired Nur al-Din. He was a pure man. Nothing stained his honour. But Salah al-Din resented his authority. On one occasion, I think it must have been the siege of a Frankish castle, Nur al-Din himself joined us, and our Sultan returned to Cairo. He claimed that there was a danger of a rebellion by the remnant of the Fatimids. This was true, but it was nothing that could not have been handled by his brothers. He simply ran away from Nur al-Din. He was frightened of meeting him face to face. Why? Because he knew that Nur al-Din might order him back to Damascus. Nur al-Din was annoyed by Salah al-Din’s insolence, for that is how he saw the situation. A subordinate was behaving as an equal. He needed to be taught a lesson. He decided to march to Cairo.
“Let me now tell you something, my friend. I was present, as was Ayyub, at a meeting of the emirs and commanders of the army when the Sultan told us that Nur al-Din was on his way. Salah al-Din’s favourite nephew shouted impulsively that Nur al-Din should be resisted just like the Franj. Salah al-Din smiled indulgently at his nephew, but Ayyub, sharp as a sword from Damascus, called the boy and slapped his face hard. Right there. In front of everyone. He then stood up and spoke to Salah al-Din. ‘Let me tell you something, boy! If our Sultan Nur al-Din came here, I would dismount and kiss his feet. If he ordered me to cut off your head I would do so without question, even though my tears would mingle with your blood. These lands are his, and we are his retainers. Send him a message today, Salah al-Din. Tell him that there is no need for him to waste his energies in travelling here. Let him but send a courier on a camel to lead you to him with a rope around your neck. Now leave, all of you, but understand one thing. We are Nur al-Din’s soldiers. He can do with us what he will.’
“Everyone left the meeting, all except Salah al-Din and myself. Ayyub rebuked him sharply for permitting his ambition to show in front of the emirs, who would like nothing better than to see him displaced. Salah al-Din looked desolate, as though his heart had been wounded by a careless lover.
“Ayyub watched him for a while, letting the misery colour his features. Then he stood up and hugged him. He kissed him on the forehead and whispered: ‘I know Nur al-Din well. I think your letter of submission will work. If, for some reason, it fails to pacify him, I will fight by your side.’
“Now do you understand, Ibn Yakub? When you saw that smile on the face of the Sultan, maybe he was thinking also of the sagacity of his father. He is on his own now. Ayyub is with his Maker. Shirkuh is no more. Sometimes when I take him some mint tea in the mornings he says: ‘Shadhi, you’re the only one left from the old generation. Don’t you go and die on me as well.’
“As if I would. As if I would. I want to see al-Kuds, Ibn Yakub, the city your people call Jerusalem. I want to be next to him when we pray at the Qubbat al-Sakhra. I don’t pray much, as you know, but on that day I will pray. And have no doubt, that day will happen as surely as the sun rises and sets. Salah al-Din is determined to take the city, whatever the cost. He knows that it will strike a blow at the heart of the Frankish settlement. He also knows that if he succeeds, he will be remembered for ever. Long after our bones have enriched the soil, Believers will remember the name of this lame boy who I once trained to use a sword. How many will remember the name of Nur al-Din?”
TWELVE
The Sultan visits the new citadel in Cairo but is called back to meet Bertrand of Toulouse, a Christian heretic fleeing Jerusalem to escape the wrath of the Templars
ONE REASON WHY THE Sultan did not encourage me to accompany him on his tours of inspection, or on his regular visits to supervise the construction of the new citadel, was because he was painfully aware of the fact that I could not ride. This aspect vexed him, since he could not appreciate that some of us simply lack the skill or the desire to race a horse. As a result he never talked much in my presence of horses. His understanding of the subject was immense, rivalled only by his knowledge of the hadith. Several times he would interrupt his stories and start describing a particular horse that had arrived as a gift from his brother in the Yemen. He would start on its wretched genealogy, and then, seeing my eyes become distant, he would sigh, laugh, and return to his story.
I was thinking of this as I rode in his entourage through the city. He had placed experienced horsemen on either side of me, just in case the animal I was riding took it in its head to bolt. It did nothing of the sort, and soon I even became used to the unpleasantness of the
experience. I knew my backside would be sore at the end of the day, but I was pleased to ride with him.
He rode without effort.
This was not his battle-horse, but a lesser steed. Yet even for this horse, Salah al-Din’s movements had become a habit. He let the horse move at its own pace, neither too fast, nor too slow. With a slight flicker of the Sultan’s heel, the horse increased his pace, obliging all of us to keep up with him. Sometimes it seemed as though the horse and its rider were one creation, just like the make-believe creatures of which the old Greeks sang in their poetry.
We rode out of the Bab al-Zuweyla and were soon passing through streets thronged with people. They interrupted their labours to bow or salute their ruler, but he did not encourage servility and preferred to speed through the city. He wanted to avoid the supplicants and sycophants from the layer of merchants who dominated most of the streets.
Soon we passed the burnt ruins of the Mansuriya quarter, where the Nubian soldiers of the eunuch Nejeh had made their last stand before being driven from the city. The Sultan had ordered that the quarter should remain demolished, as a grim warning to all those who might contemplate treachery in the future.
Without warning, he reined in his horse. Our entire party consisted today of myself, three court scribes to take down the Sultan’s instructions for transmission to the Kadi al-Fadil, and twenty carefully chosen bodyguards—carefully chosen, that is, by Shadhi, who, if the truth be told, only trusted Kurds or members of the family to guard his Sultan, who now beckoned me to join him. He was laughing.
“It pleases me to see you ride, Ibn Yakub, but I think that Shadhi should give you some lessons. Your good wife will need to rub special ointments tonight to ease your behind. I hope this journey does not impair any of your functions.”
He laughed loudly at his own remark, and I nodded my agreement. He managed a generous smile. Then he surveyed the buildings of the burnt quarter and his mood changed.
“We were lucky to survive this revolt. If they had taken us by surprise, the story might well have been different. This permanent state of uncertainty is the devil’s curse against the Believers. It is almost as if we are destined never to be one against the enemy. None of our philosophers or inscribers of history have been able to answer this question. Let us discuss this problem with our scholars one evening.”
He bent over the saddle to stroke the horse’s neck, an indication that our journey was about to be resumed. Soon we had left the swarming streets and there, at a distance, were the mounds of the Mukattam range. Here builders like bees were constructing the new citadel. Huge stones were being carried by humans and donkeys. Thousands and thousands of workers were engaged in the building.
I wondered whether anyone else observing the scene was reminded of the ancient monuments in Giza. They must have been built by the ancestors of those who were at work on this great fortress.
The man in charge of the work was the Sultan’s chamberlain, the Emir Qara Kush, the only person Salah al-Din trusted to carry out his detailed architectural instructions and to supervise the building during his long absences. The sight of these labours pleased Salah al-Din. Again he touched his horse below the neck and the large creature bent to his will, galloping off at a pace which only his guards could match.
The three court scribes and myself followed at a more dignified speed. The court scribes, Copts whose fathers and grandfathers had served the Fatimid Caliphs for centuries, smiled at me and made ingratiating conversation. Underneath, I could see, they were burnt by jealousy. They resented my daily proximity to their master.
Salah al-Din suppressed a smile as he saw me dismount. My legs were aching as I walked up a ramp to a newly completed tower. Here the Sultan was discussing the brickwork with the Emir Qara Kush. This giant eunuch, with a fair complexion and hair the colour of coal, had once been one of Shirkuh’s mamluks. He had been freed and made an emir by his master. Shirkuh had greatly valued his administrative skills, and it was the advice of Qara Kush to the Caliph of the Fatimids that had secured the position of Vizir for Salah al-Din.
Qara Kush was describing how some of the stones had been brought all the way from the pyramids of Giza. He showed how well they mingled with the local limestone. The Sultan was clearly pleased and turned to me.
“Write this down, scribe. The reason we are constructing this new citadel is to create an impregnable fortress which can resist any Frankish adventure. But if you look at how the walls and towers have been planned, you will notice that we could also withstand a local rebellion with some ease. I have never forgotten how close we were to defeat when the eunuchs and mamluks organised the Nubians to surprise us. Here we can never be surprised.”
As we were talking, Qara Kush pointed down to the dust created by the speed of two horsemen riding in our direction. He was not expecting anyone, and was irritated by this unplanned intrusion. He frowned and instructed two of the Sultan’s guards to await the horsemen at the foot of the citadel. Salah al-Din laughed.
“Qara Kush is so nervous. Do you think our old friends from the mountains have sent someone to dispatch me?”
Qara Kush did not reply. When the horsemen arrived, he waited impatiently for the guards to question them and bring them to him. The Sultan’s light-hearted reference to previous assassination attempts had failed to distract the chamberlain. As the riders approached, we all relaxed. They were the Kadi al-Fadil’s special messengers, trained to ride like lightning and supplied with a special breed of racing horses for this purpose. They were used only in urgent circumstances, and the relief at knowing their identity was coloured by worry at the message they might be carrying.
Finally they arrived at the platform where we were standing. They carried a letter for the Sultan from the Kadi. As Salah al-Din began to read the message his face became animated, and his eye began to dart about like a fish in the Nile. He was clearly pleased. The messengers and the guards were dismissed. He showed us the letter. It read:
A Knight Templar has just arrived in Cairo and asked for refuge. He comes from Amalric’s camp and has much information regarding their movements and plans. The reason for his defection is mysterious, and he refuses to divulge his secrets to anyone in the absence of Your Highness. Judging by his demeanour I am convinced he is genuine, but the Emir Qara Kush, who is the best judge of human character and failings, needs to speak with him before you meet him. I await the Sultan’s instructions. Your humble al-Kadi al-Fadil.
Salah al-Din’s immediate response was to grab Qara Kush and myself by the arms, and to run down the mud-strewn path to the place where the horses were tethered. He was truly excited, behaving like a man possessed by demons. He mounted his horse and began to race back to the palace with his guards, who were barely able to keep up with him.
To my immense delight, the Emir Qara Kush was not an expert horseman, and he permitted me to accompany him and his entourage as we rode back. I had never spoken to him before, and his enormous knowledge of Cairo and the wealth contained in its libraries was impressive. He told me that the task I was performing would be of great benefit to historians, and I was pleased that he, unlike al-Fadil, took my work seriously.
The Sultan was waiting for us when we arrived. He wanted both Qara Kush and myself to be present when he questioned the Frank. He clearly had no desire to delay the proceedings, but the sun was already setting. He ordered us to repair immediately to the palace hammam to cleanse ourselves, and then to return to the audience chamber. Since we were both aware that Salah al-Din disliked the grandiose nature of this chamber, we smiled. It was obvious that on this day he wished the Frankish knight to be impressed by the majesty of his court.
Refreshed by the bath, I made my way slowly back, through rooms where mamluks held torches to illuminate our way, to the audience chamber. Here sat Salah al-Din, dressed unusually in his robes of state with the Sultan’s turban on his head, glistening with rare stones. I bowed and was assigned a place, just below the Sultan’s throne. He was f
lanked on one side by Qara Kush and on the other by al-Fadil.
Seated in a semicircle on the floor were the most distinguished scholars of the city, including, to my delight, Ibn Maymun. At a signal from Qara Kush, a mamluk left the room. A few minutes later I heard a drumbeat indicating that the foreigner was on his way. We all fell silent. The Frank, preceded by a guard carrying a scimitar, entered and walked straight to the throne. He placed his sword at the feet of the Sultan and bowed low, not raising his head till permission had been granted. Qara Kush indicated that he should sit down.
“The Sultan is pleased to receive you, Bertrand of Toulouse.”
The lips enunciating these words were familiar enough, but the soft-spoken voice had disappeared. The Kadi spoke with a firmness and authority that surprised me. This, I thought to myself, is how he must speak when he is handing down justice and awarding punishments to the guilty.
“You are in the presence of Yusuf ibn Ayyub, Sultan of Misr and the Sword of the Faithful. We are pleased that you speak our language, albeit in a primitive fashion. We are all eager to hear why you are here.”
Bertrand of Toulouse was of medium height, with an olive-coloured skin that made him a few shades darker than our Sultan. He had dark hair and brown eyes, but an ugly scar across his left cheek had left his face badly disfigured, making it temporarily awkward to concentrate on his other features. The wound, probably the mark of a sword, could not have been more than a week old.
Bertrand was about to respond, when the Sultan spoke. His voice, I was pleased to hear, was normal.
“Like the others, we too are anxious to discover the reasons for your presence. But before you proceed, I want to know if, in my absence, you were made welcome. Have you broken bread?”
Bertrand nodded, with a slight bow.
“Then we offer you some salt.”
