by Tariq Ali
The town crier could be heard in the streets proclaiming the disaster.
“The great Sultan Yusuf Salah al-Din ibn Ayyub has entered our city. Listen now to the terms of surrender...!”
That evening, after he had bathed and rested, the Sultan and I stood on the ramparts of the citadel, watching the waves beat on the rocks below. The sun was about to set. His eyes looked at the horizon. The majesty of the sea had calmed him and he was deep in thought. For what seemed then to be a long time neither of us spoke. Then he turned to me with a strange, faraway look in his eyes.
“Do you know something, Ibn Yakub? If Allah permits the conquest of this coast, and once we have regained al-Kuds, I shall divide our empire. I shall leave it to my brothers and sons. I shall then visit Mecca for the pilgrimage, and take my leave of Allah.
“Then I shall prepare to cross this turbulent sea, whose calm, Ibn Yakub, is deceptive. I will go to the lands where the Franj live, and I will pursue these scoundrels till all of them acknowledge Allah and his Prophet. I will do this even if I die in the attempt. It is important, because others will then pick up my sword and finish what I could not achieve. Unless we strike at the roots of the Franj, they will continue to eat our flesh, like locusts that darken the sky and devour our crops.”
THIRTY-FOUR
Halima dies in Cairo: ugly rumours hold Jamila responsible
THE SULTAN HAD NOT rested in Beirut. Once the Franj were disarmed, he nominated one of his emirs and several hand-picked squadrons to control the city. The rest of us rode on to Damascus with only the stars as our guide. We entered the city as dawn broke. I bade farewell to Salah al-Din as he rode up the incline to the citadel, and made my way home.
Rachel was not in our room. For a moment my heart began to race as I recalled that fateful day in Cairo, but our retainer, rubbing his sleep-filled eyes, set my mind at rest. She was with our daughter, and had not been expecting me back for many months.
I dispatched him to fetch Rachel, while I washed myself from the well in the courtyard. I was exhausted by the all-night ride. Even though I was now used to the horse, I could never fully relax like the Sultan. My backside was sore and my thighs were stiff with pain. The water helped. I went inside and lay on our bed.
It was midday when a small child’s gurgle near my face startled me. I sat up to see the smiling faces of my wife and daughter. The boy was big and healthy, but he screamed when I lifted him to my face and kissed his cheeks. Rachel rescued him as I first hugged his mother and then her mother, who whispered in my ear: “This child is our reward for years of pain and trouble. You are alive and well. God be praised.”
“Perhaps, but the Sultan’s victories helped a little to keep me alive.”
We laughed. Then she spoke again.
“Maryam and I were thinking it would be nice to visit our house in Cairo and spend the winter there this year. Her husband would come as well. He has many friends in Cairo and has never seen the city. We were waiting for your permission.”
“You have my permission, of course. I only wish I could accompany all of you, but we leave in a few days for Jerusalem. The Sultan will not delay any longer. He will pray at the al-Aqsa mosque before the month is over, and I shall visit the site of the old synagogue. Afterwards, if he releases me for a few months, I will join you all in Cairo.”
Rachel smiled. She had always thought, because of what I had said a long time ago, that because of my unhappy associations with the domed room, I never wished to set foot in that house again. But there is a limit to jealousy. If I had forgiven Rachel, and even forgotten the scale of Ibn Maymun’s betrayal, how could I still bear a grudge against the house? The fault lay not within the stones that formed those walls, but in ourselves. Later that afternoon, when we were alone, I said all this to Rachel and much more. Serenity had returned. We lay entwined in each other’s arms and felt that the past had finally been buried.
Alas, there was sad news awaiting me when I arrived at the citadel that same evening. Amjad the eunuch had been impatiently awaiting my arrival and he rushed and hugged me warmly. It was when he moved away that I noticed the wetness on my cheeks.
“Halima died in Cairo a few days ago. The Sultan was mildly upset. He has asked Ibn Maymun to conduct an investigation and send us a report before the week is over.”
The news stunned me. Halima had never known a day’s illness in all the time I had known her. What could have struck her down? Images of her fluttered through my mind in rapid succession. I saw her face pale and motionless beneath the shroud. I wept.
“How did Jamila react to the news?”
Amjad remained silent.
I repeated the question.
“I broke the news to her. She looked straight into my eyes, but remained completely calm. Completely. Her face showed no emotion. Nothing. Perhaps she was wearing a mask to hide her pain. Perhaps.”
The news of Halima’s truncated life had stolen all my powers of concentration. I sat through the meeting of the council of war in a daze. The Sultan’s soft voice, Imad al-Din and al-Fadil’s impassioned interventions, the sense of excitement and expectation that radiated from every emir, were like background noises as far as I was concerned. I was desperate to see Jamila, to condole, to share common memories of Halima, to weep, to find out what she really felt at the death of someone who had meant so much to her and whose life she had greatly affected.
For the first time since I had been employed by the Sultan I did not fulfil the duties that kind ruler had assigned to me. Reader, I did not take any notes of that crucial meeting which decided the fate of Jerusalem. On that subject my notebook is a blank.
Later, I reconstructed that evening with the aid of Imad al-Din, but, as was his wont, he assigned the decisive role to himself and claimed that till he had spoken, the Sultan had been indecisive. I know for a fact that this was not the case, and for that reason I dismissed the great scholar’s testimony as self-serving and unworthy of him. What did become clear in the weeks that followed was that there had been unanimity amongst all those who had comprised the council on that fateful night. They would take Jerusalem.
My mind was still tormented by the death in Cairo. I had asked to see Jamila, but it was not until two days later that she agreed to my request. An unusually sad and silent Amjad came to my house to fetch me.
She was waiting for me in the usual antechamber, the room where I had often met Halima. For a moment Jamila’s features faded and mixed with those of the dead woman, but I clasped my hands so firmly together that they hurt. I was back in the present. I looked at her face and recalled Amjad’s description. There was not a trace of sadness in her eyes.
“It was you who wished to see me, Ibn Yakub.”
My only reply was to weep. I thought I saw her eyes flicker, but she recovered rapidly. She looked at me with a strange gaze.
“Sultana, I came to express my sorrow at her death. I know that your parting was grief-stricken, but...”
She interrupted me with an angry flash of her eyes.
“We parted without recriminations. She wished us to be friends. That was not possible, but we agreed to banish enmity and bitterness. You think I’m cold and unfeeling?”
I sighed.
“There are times when grief is useless, Ibn Yakub. Her death is painful. Her face appears to me, but is soon washed away. Hearts can turn to stone. Let me surprise you, Ibn Yakub. News of her death moved me in a strange way. It helped me discover an inner happiness. I thought you would be shocked, but it is the truth. I feel at ease with myself again. A painful chapter is now definitively over. All that remains are memories. Some of them are happy, most are sad. So you see, my friend, now I have a choice. What I think of her depends on me alone, on my mood, and that, I assure you, is a great relief. Ever since Halima and I parted, I found it difficult to write. Now I have started writing again, and one day I will let you read my manuscript.”
Her callousness startled me. How could she be so indifferent to Halima�
�s fate? She saw the question on my face and her eyes narrowed.
“I know what you are thinking, Ibn Yakub. You see me as a heartless creature, a woman without pity. You forget that, for me, Halima died a long time ago. I wept a great deal for her, and the pain of separation hurt me for many months. Sleep used to avoid my path completely. All that disappeared some time ago. When Amjad the eunuch, with streaming eyes, came to tell me of her death, I felt nothing. Do you understand?”
She looked into my eyes and smiled.
“I understand, Sultana, but for me what is real is the fact that she is no more. She is buried underneath the earth. We will never hear her laugh again. Surely this is different from the death imposed by your brain on your heart.”
I had aroused her anger.
“No! Imposed by my heart on the brain. The last news of her that I received from Cairo revealed that she had once again abandoned the embraces of men. She had found a younger woman, closer to her own age than mine, and, or so my informants wrote, the two of them had become inseparable. A wave of jealousy and anger passed through me, but that was all. Nothing more. For me she was finished for ever. Dead. I am told that she was poisoned on the orders of her last male lover, a poor, deluded mamluk. He will suffer even more if Salah al-Din ever discovers the truth...”
Jamila’s information turned out to be accurate. Ibn Maymun had performed an autopsy and his conclusion suggested a large dose of poison. Everyone pointed their finger in the direction of the mamluk, who pleaded his innocence, but he was executed on the orders of the Kadi. Only Amjad the eunuch was unconvinced.
“She was poisoned, Ibn Yakub. The poor woman was poisoned, but who gave the order? We will never know the truth. That poor mamluk was just like me, used by her to satisfy her physical needs. Nothing more. If she had been poisoned in Damascus they might have executed me! So I feel some sympathy with the poor man. In my heart I feel that Jamila dispatched the poison together with the instructions.”
“Enough of this loose talk, Amjad! Your thought is worse than the poison that killed Halima. Expel it from your wicked heart before it kills you.”
The eunuch’s face paled.
“I have not confided my suspicions in any other living person. I needed to share them with you, but your advice is wise. If I do not quell these thoughts, I myself will perish. Rest assured, Ibn Yakub, I will quell them. No strain of martyrdom pollutes my blood.”
Try as I might I could not banish Amjad’s words from my own thoughts. That embittered eunuch had planted a poisonous seed in my mind as well. Could it be true? Could Jamila have ordered the poisoning of her detached ex-lover? The very idea seemed outrageous. After a few hours of agony I came to the conclusion that Jamila was innocent. Grief had poisoned Amjad beyond redemption.
I was interrupted by the familiar tones of Imad al-Din.
“You look preoccupied, scribe. I was hoping you would join me this evening in visiting the rooms of the purest Damascene nightingale. Remember? Zubayda? The woman who conquered Salah al-Din’s heart when he was a mere boy, but refused to offer him her body?”
“How could I forget her?” was my reply. “You have caught me at an inopportune moment. I was mourning the tragic death of the Sultana Halima.”
Imad al-Din’s face became grave.
“There are ugly rumours floating on the Nile. Al-Fadil tells me that the mamluk who was executed for the crime insisted on speaking to him alone. When he agreed the condemned whispered in al-Fadil’s ear: ‘I administered the poison, but it was sent me by the Sultana Jamila, and she has pledged to look after my family.’ Naturally, al-Fadil has not told the Sultan or anyone else apart from me. I tell you only because both women were close to you.
“Love has the capacity to drive us all mad. Jealousy is its most savage child. What Jamila did is unforgivable, unthinkable, and yet, if I am to be honest with you, I am not shocked by the news. To understand Jamila one has to have suffered the loss of a lover. Alas, you are a cold-water fish, Ibn Yakub. You never will. Come with me to hear the nightingale sing. Zubayda will make you forget everything.”
I agreed to accompany him, but it was an oppressive evening and I begged his leave to return home so that I could bathe and change my clothing. Since Zubayda’s house was not far from where I lived, he agreed to collect me within the hour. The cool of the night was yet to come and the lack of a breeze made me sweat profusely as I walked home. I told Rachel the story of Halima’s death without naming the royal poisoner. I stripped in the courtyard and poured bucketfuls of fresh, cold water from the well on my head. Then Rachel brought me a towel.
I was distracted. There was only one person I wished to see that night. Jamila. I wanted to confront her with the accusations of Amjad and al-Fadil and Imad al-Din. I wanted to shout them in her face and observe her reaction. I wanted the truth, but I did not want to lose Jamila’s friendship. I wanted her to spit in the face of those who spread such vile slanders. I wanted her to proclaim her innocence to me. After I was dressed I wrote a quick note and dispatched it to her, asking for an audience the next day.
Imad al-Din’s retainer knocked on the door. I offered the great man some tea, but he touched his left cheek and shook his head. I had not noticed the swelling earlier that evening, but he appeared to be in pain.
“It is a bad tooth, Ibn Yakub,” he groaned. “I have been sucking cloves to numb the pain, but it will have to be removed tomorrow. To tell you the truth I am not in a mood for anything tonight except the solitude of my bedchamber. Yet Zubayda has not sung for many years. It is an experience you will never forget, something you will tell your grandchildren.”
The town crier preceded us on the narrow streets, often clearing a path through hordes of families and noisy children desperate for some air.
“Make way, make way for the great Imad al-Din, counsellor to the Sultan Yusuf Salah al-Din ibn Ayyub.”
We saw familiar faces outside Zubayda’s house. The Sultan’s personal guards were on duty, swords raised as we approached, but lowered as they recognised us. The Nubian mute, who had been with the Sultan as long as me, grinned at our arrival and hastened to unfasten the door that led to the courtyard. It was to be an outdoor occasion. The courtyard was lit by lamps and the floor covered in rugs and cushions. There were no more than fifteen people present—among them, to my amazement, the Sultana Jamila. She smiled pleasantly to acknowledge my arrival. My heart quickened its pace.
We bowed to the Sultan, who smiled and indicated we should sit by his side. He introduced us to Zubayda. She was approaching her seventieth year, but her face radiated an attraction that surprised me. Her white hair shone in the darkness and illuminated her face. She had not washed it with henna to disguise her age. Her complexion was dark, not unlike that of Jamila, who I was trying to forget that evening and whose presence had shaken me.
Zubayda’s eyes were large and lively, without a trace of sadness or regret. She had lived a rich life, that much was obvious, but had it been a life devoid of pain? Is any life completely without pain? She had been watching me observe her and suddenly she smiled. Her teeth, to my amazement, were as white as snow. How in Allah’s name had she managed to preserve their youth?
It was as if she had heard all my questions.
“Salah al-Din has mentioned you to me, Ibn Yakub.” Her voice was throaty and rich. “I know what you are thinking. Understand that my soul is quiet and tranquil. I want nothing. I regret nothing. I hope that death, when it comes, will be swift, like Salah al-Din’s sword when it strikes the Franj.”
“Umm Zubayda,” the Sultan’s voice was softer than usual. “We have come to hear you sing.”
There were two musicians present, waiting patiently, fingering their lutes. She looked at them and put a finger to her lips. She wanted to sing tonight without any accompaniment. There was an expectant hush and then she sang. Listening to her was like entering heaven. Her voice was truly inimitable. I have not heard one like it before or since. It was a song she had written he
rself, and though it was simple and short, it took half an hour to complete, as each line was repeated several times, with musical variations.
ZUBAYDA’S LOVE SONG
On a warm night we drank some wine.
A soft breeze caressed my burning face.
He took me to the balcony and showed me the moon
And tried to make me believe he loved another.
I laughed. I wept.
I didn’t believe him.
“You poor fool,” I said, “you are young, you confuse reality with dreams.”
He smiled. He left me.
A single salty tear wet my face and I knew
The confusion was all mine.
Yes, mine.
Mine. Mine. Mine. Mine. Mine.
Zubayda did not sing again that night. The musicians entertained us while we ate the food that had been carefully prepared in her kitchen. The Sultan was abstemious, but Imad al-Din’s toothache did not appear to prevent him enjoying the four different varieties of meat that were laid before us.
After dinner there was more music, during the course of which Jamila prepared to depart. She asked me to accompany the litter in which she would be carried back to the citadel. The Sultan nodded his permission and I took my leave of the great singer, who invited me to visit her again so that she could tell me her story.
Jamila did not wait for me to speak.
“So you have heard all the evil talk?”
“Is it true, Sultana?”
“You know full well that my love is as pure as my hate. Jealousy is a poison that has to be removed in order to free more space in our heads for lofty reflections. That is all I will ever say on this subject.”
I walked along in silence as the litter-bearers readjusted their burden slightly so as to ease their climb up the incline that led to the citadel. She dismissed me with a brutal laugh.
