The Islam Quintet

by Tariq Ali

  “I think there is no need to remind the German King of that unfortunate occurrence. Draft a reply now, Imad al-Din. This young man is also a scribe and will take down your words.”

  Imad al-Din looked at the boy and was overcome by desire. He caught his eye, but the Copt scribe looked hurriedly away. The Sultan’s secretary began to dictate, all the while shamelessly eyeing Tarik’s slender frame.

  “To the Great King, Frederick of Germany, in the name of Allah, the Merciful, the Powerful, the Almighty, the Victorious.

  “We thank you for your letter, but, alas, it is too late. With the blessings of Allah we are already in possession of al-Kuds, which you call Jerusalem. Three cities alone remain in Christian hands, Tyre, Tripoli and Antioch, but rest assured, powerful King, that we shall take all these as well.

  “We could not help but notice that you have no words to describe the valour of the Tuscans, Venetians and Pisans, and this upsets us, for we are only too well aware of the qualities of the men who hail from these regions. They are beautiful in body and mind and have provided a great deal of pleasure to our Bedouins, starved of love and life in the desert. We look forward to seeing them again.

  “If you want war, we await you, but understand this: once you are here there will be a sea between you and your lands. Nothing separates us from our people and our possessions. That is why we shall defeat you till the dawn of Judgement Day. This time we shall not be satisfied with your cities on our sea-coast, but will cross the water, and it will please Allah to take away all your lands, since your fighting men will be buried here, underneath the sand.

  “This letter is written in the year 584 by the grace of Allah and his Prophet. It bears the signature of the conqueror of al-Kuds.

  “Yusuf Ibn Ayyub.”

  Imad al-Din looked at the assembled company, enjoying the mirth that greeted his letter. What pleased him the most was the shy smile on Tarik’s face, but the Sultan wanted something far more serious in tone. Salah al-Din had now become very conscious of his place in history. The delegations of scholars gathering in the city and the messages he had received from Believers all over the world, not forgetting, of course, the over-effusive greetings from the Caliph and his courtiers in Baghdad, had confirmed his belief in himself. For this reason he wanted all the dispatches sent in his name to bear the mark of his new status as the saviour of his faith. Imad al-Din was sent to his own office to rewrite the letter in more dignified terms and present it next morning to the Sultan for the attachment of his seal.

  As I left the chamber, a hand tapped me on my shoulder. It was a Nubian eunuch, the old mute with white hair whom I had seen many times before at the citadel in Damascus. With exaggerated gestures of his hand, he indicated that I should follow him. He took me outside a chamber and withdrew.

  “Come in, Ibn Yakub,” said the only too familiar voice behind the latticed door. It was the Sultana Jamila.

  I entered and bowed. She pre-empted my first question.

  “Amjad? Alas, he is no longer with us. He spread so many calumnies to so many people that I had to ask for him to be sent away. The steward dealt with the matter. Do not look so worried. He is still alive.”

  Before I could express my relief, she had moved on to another subject.

  “Does the heart have a language, Ibn Yakub?”

  I smiled, but could not reply. From the brutal disposal of Amjad the eunuch she was transporting us into the intimate world of her philosophy.

  “Come now, scribe, think hard. No? Perhaps your heart is mute. Most hearts speak a strange mixture of realities and dreams, though the exact proportion of each is always variable, since, ultimately, everything is determined by external circumstances. The heart is not a book which you can always open at the same place. If a heart is shattered to pieces it can bleed for many days, but then, suddenly, turn to stone. Do you agree?”

  I nodded. I knew perfectly well what it was that had sent her mind wandering in this direction, but she wanted me to ask and so I posed the question.

  “What has made you think of all this at such a time, Sultana? We are celebrating the fall of Jerusalem, and it surprises me that you are withdrawing deep into your inner self.”

  “My heart has undergone numerous transformations, Ibn Yakub. It has been light for many months, but a heaviness appears to have captured it again. Today, for example, I am crippled by remorse. I should have made my peace with Halima before she felt compelled to run away from my wrath and seek refuge in Cairo. She came to me once, her eyes filled with sadness, and wanted us to be friends again. I was hard-hearted, Ibn Yakub. I rejected her. I spurned her offer with contempt. Why? Because friendship, which has once coexisted with love and passion, is helpless on its own. To even strive towards it is the sign of an unsound mind. Those who think they have succeeded are, sooner or later, struck down by grief.

  “Then she died. Evil tongues accused me of having sent the fatal poison. A base lie, spoken by a man about to meet his Maker and crazed with jealousy. That mamluk, incapable of enduring Halima’s love for another woman, chose to blame me for his foul deed. As you know, I too was upset when I heard that Halima had found another woman, but it was inconceivable for me to punish her with death. I would have preferred to prolong her life so that I could find a delicious way to torture her. Though I will say something that might shock you, Ibn Yakub. It is all part of the language of my heart. When news of her death and its manner first arrived, I was not displeased.

  “She had poisoned our love. She had killed what was precious to both of us. She had been poisoned in return. It was a cruel and unworthy reaction, but it was what my heart was saying at the time. This is the reason I have begun to investigate the connections between the heart and the mind. My paper on the logic of the heart will be finished before the first khutba in the Great Mosque. Do not judge me too harshly. This is a time for celebration. Salah al-Din has taken al-Kuds. My heart is full of joy.”

  I woke late the next morning to find the heat of the sun burning my face. I had not slept well. Jamila’s words of the previous night were passing through my mind in a loop. Her callousness towards Halima had angered me greatly, but now, despite all my misgivings, I found myself admiring her fortitude and honesty. She was truly a woman who, unlike her esteemed and much-loved husband, did not believe in taking prisoners.

  There were times when I wished that, just for a few months, a good djinn would transform this Sultana into the Sultan.

  THIRTY-SEVEN

  The Kadi of Aleppo preaches in the mosque; the Sultan receives a letter from Bertrand of Toulouse; my family are burnt to death in a Franj raid in Cairo

  TEN DAYS LATER, WE were all gathered in the great mosque of al-Aqsa. It had been thoroughly cleaned and the polished stones were shining with the glitter of paradise. All the emirs and kadis from the empire of Salah al-Din were present, as were his son al-Afdal, his nephew Taki al-Din and his favourite commander, the Emir Keukburi.

  The pulpit, which had been constructed for this purpose on the orders of the late Sultan Nur al-Din, had arrived from Damascus.

  The Kadi of Aleppo, dressed in black robes and wearing a green turban, climbed the steps hesitantly, and as he clutched the pulpit to steady himself those of us sitting near the front could see his hands trembling. He knew that the words he spoke this day would be remembered for a long time to come. He was also aware that the Sultan’s patience was notoriously short and he did not look kindly on extended sermons. The Kadi spoke in sonorous tones and began, as befitted such an occasion, with a brief history of the successes achieved by the followers of the Prophet in a short space of time.

  “We begin in the Name of Allah the Merciful, the Beneficent, and his Prophet who showed us the true path. Our Sultan Yusuf Salah al-Din ibn Ayyub has brought the crescent back to this Holy City. He is the upholder of the true faith, the vanquisher of those who worship a Cross and graven images. You have revived the Empire of the Commander of the Faithful in Baghdad. Let us pray to Allah that an
gels may always surround your banners and preserve you for the future of our Faith. May Allah save you and your children for all time to come.

  “Here it was that Omar, whose memory we revere, first planted the colours of our faith, not long after the passing away of the Prophet, may he rest in peace. Here it was then, that this great mosque was built. All of you who have fought for this day are blessed forever. You have rekindled the spirit of Badr. You have been as steadfast as Abu Bakr, fearless and generous like Omar. You remind us of the fierceness of Uthman and Ali. The first four Caliphs, watching you from heaven, are smiling today. All those who fought for this city will enter paradise.

  “Soon afterwards our armies carried the Holy Koran on their swords across the deserts of Africa and to the mountains of Andalus and the lands of the Franj. It was from here that our message was taken to the lands of the fire-worshippers. The people of Persia, once we had shared our knowledge of the true path decreed by Allah, were the first to convert to our cause. As the Sultan has heard many times, one reason why Persia fell into our hands like a ripe apricot is that the poorest of the poor, those who were downtrodden and exploited by degenerate priests, were amazed at the sight of our great generals sharing food from the same vessel as the ordinary soldiers. They saw for themselves that, before the eyes of Allah, we were all equal.

  “We reached the great Indian river Indus and here, too, the poor flocked behind our banners. Even as we speak our traders bear our message to the south of India, the islands of Java and onward to China. I ask you all, is it not a sign from Allah that he enabled us to reach all the corners of the world in such a short time?

  “That is why it is all the more disgraceful that the Franj have been permitted to occupy our coast and this Holy City for so long without fear of punishment. Yusuf Salah al-Din ibn Ayyub, it is thanks to you and your persistence, your courage, your willingness to sacrifice your own life, which is precious to Believers everywhere, that we are praying at al-Aqsa once again. We pray to Allah to prolong your life and your rule over these lands. In one hand you carry a sharp sword. In the other a shining torch...”

  The sermon lasted a whole hour. It was not a memorable speech in itself, but the majesty of the occasion held everyone. After he had finished, a common prayer of thanks to Allah was offered by the congregation. Then the Kadi of Aleppo stepped down and was embraced and kissed by the Sultan and soon after by the Kadi al-Fadil and Imad al-Din. Al-Fadil was in a joyous mood. When the Sultan asked him what he had thought of the sermon, the reply was poetic.

  “O Commander of the Victorious, listening to the sermon the heavens wept tears of joy and the stars abandoned their positions in the firmament not to shoot on the wicked, but to celebrate together.”

  Imad al-Din, who later confessed that he had found the sermon tedious and uninspired in the extreme, now applauded al-Fadil and smiled warmly in the direction of the Kadi of Aleppo.

  That same evening the Sultan called a council of war. Taki al-Din, Keukburi, al-Afdal, Imad al-Din, al-Fadil and myself were the only people present. The Sultan was in a generous and self-deprecatory mood.

  “Let us first thank Imad al-Din, who always stressed the importance of taking this city. You were correct, as you often are, old friend. Keukburi it was who insisted that we do not lift the siege of Tyre. You too were correct. I want the army to take Tyre without further delay. Let them rest. Let them celebrate, but then we take Tyre. A letter arrived this morning from Bertrand of Toulouse. Remember him? The knight whose life we saved from the wrath of the Templars and who returned safely to his home thanks to our merchants. Imad al-Din will read the letter now. I know that we would all have preferred the presence of that beautiful Copt, who translates the Latin into our language with such grace that even those of us who do not swim on the same shores as Imad al-Din could not but admire his beauty. Alas, he is away, old teacher. It is only appropriate that you take his place.”

  If Imad al-Din was surprised at the Sultan’s indelicacy he managed to conceal his feelings admirably. Everyone else exchanged knowing smiles. It was common knowledge that Imad al-Din was besotted with Tarik ibn Isa and had been pursuing him like a wolf on the fourteenth night of the moon. Imad al-Din read the letter from Bertrand of Toulouse to himself.

  “If the Sultan and the emirs will forgive me, I will summarise its contents. Unlike the Copt I am a faltering translator. Our friend in Toulouse writes that they are preparing a massive army to retake Jerusalem. He says that their Pope has already called on the Kings of England, France and Germany to unite their armies and save the honour of the Worshippers of the Cross. He writes that of the three Kings, two have feeble heads full of imperial vapours. One alone is to be feared, for he is like an animal. He refers to Richard of England, whom he describes in the letter as a bad son, an even worse husband who cannot satisfy his wife nor any other woman but has a fondness for young men, a selfish ruler and a vicious and evil man, but not lacking in courage. He does not know when they will set sail, but thinks it could be after a year or more, since funds must be collected. He advises that we use this time to capture every port so that the ships from their lands are destroyed while still at sea. He further advises the Sultan to prepare a fleet that will give battle on water. He feels it is our weakness that we have never taken sea-war as seriously as we do the battles on the land. He signs himself the Sultan’s most humble servant and follower and prays for the day when our armies will cross the water and take the Pope prisoner. He informs us that one of the knights accompanying Richard, a certain Robert of St Albans, is a secret heretic, that is, a true believer, and will be useful to our cause.”

  The Sultan smiled.

  “I think we should ask our friend to return to our side. He is an astute thinker. This letter makes the capture of Tyre our most important objective. Are we agreed? Have you noted all this down, Ibn Yakub?”

  I nodded.

  The next afternoon, as I was preparing to accompany John of Jerusalem to the site of the old Temple, where others of our faith who had returned to Jerusalem were gathering to offer prayers of thanksgiving for the return of the city to the Sultan, a retainer surprised me by his insistence that Salah al-Din was awaiting my presence. I was surprised, since he had explicitly given me his blessing to participate in the ceremony. Nonetheless I followed the retainer to the royal chamber.

  He was sitting on his bed, his face lined with worry. He must have been informed before everyone else. As I entered he rose from his bed and, to my amazement, embraced me and kissed my cheeks. His eyes had filled with tears. I knew that something terrible must have happened to my Rachel.

  “We received a dispatch from Cairo, Ibn Yakub. The news is bad and you must be brave. A small party of Franj knights, enraged by the loss of this city and drunk on anger, rode into Cairo and raided the quarter where your people live. They burnt some houses and killed old men, before the alarm was given and our soldiers captured all of them. They were all executed the next morning. Your house, my friend, was one of them. Nobody survived. I have instructed al-Fadil to make arrangements for you to be taken to Cairo tomorrow morning. You may stay there as long as you wish.”

  I bowed and took my leave of him. I returned to my quarters. For over an hour I couldn’t weep. I sat on the floor and stared at the wall. A calamity had been inflicted on me. Anguish dumbed me. Neither words nor tears could express the pain that had gripped all of me. I thought of Rachel and Maryam, her child clasped close to her bosom, all three sleeping peacefully as the barbarians set our house on fire.

  It was as I began to pack my clothes that I found myself weeping loudly. I thought of all the things I had thought, but not said to Rachel. She had died not knowing the depths of my unspoken love for her. And my little Maryam, who I had wanted to live without misfortune and raise her children in peace with her husband.

  I did not sleep, but went outside and walked on the battlements, watching the eternal movement of the stars and shedding silent tears. I felt bitter and angry. I wanted r
evenge. I wanted to roast Franj knights on a slow fire and laugh loudly at their death agony.

  As we left early next morning I heard the oriole’s mournful song and my face was wet again. I have no recollection of that journey from Jerusalem to Cairo. I know not how many times we stopped or where we slept. All I remember is the kind face of the Sultan’s courier, who offered me a skin flask containing water which I drank and also used to wash the dust off my face. I remember also that at some stage during that pain-filled expedition I suddenly wanted to return to the Sultan. I felt there was no point in raking over the embers of the tragedy. I wanted to forget. I did not wish to see the charred remains of that old house with the domed room. It was too late.

  Ibn Maymun was waiting for me at the ruins of the house. We embraced each other and wept. No words were spoken. Grief had melted old animosities and resentments. He took me to his house. For many months I lived in a daze. I lost all sense of time. I had no idea what was taking place in the world outside. Later I began to accompany the great physician to Cairo. He would attend to his patients in the palace. I would revisit old friends in the library, books I had read when I first became the Sultan’s scribe. Sometimes the books would stir painful memories and Rachel would occupy my mind. Fresh tears would dissolve my concentration.

  Ibn Maymun treated me as a friend and a very special patient. He fed me on fresh fish from the Nile, grilled on charcoal and served on a bed of brown rice. He made me drink herbal concoctions every night which soothed my shattered nerves and helped me to sleep. There were days when I did not speak a word to anyone. I used to walk to the stream near Ibn Maymun’s house and sit on a stone, watching the young boys with their strings trying to catch fish. I always left when they laughed too loudly. I found their mirth disturbing.

  I was lost to the world. All sense of time had disappeared. I lived from day to day, expecting nothing and giving nothing. As I write these lines I have no recollection of what I did every day apart from reading books in Ibn Maymun’s large library and becoming fascinated by the treatises on medicine. I read Galen and Ibn Sina many times and always discovered hidden meanings in their work. If I failed to comprehend the meaning of what these masters had written I would consult Ibn Maymun, who would compliment me on my learning and suggest that I become a physician and help him in his work.