by Tariq Ali
Many months passed. I lost touch with the world of the Sultan. I did not know what was happening on the field of war and I no longer cared.
One day Ibn Maymun informed me that a new party of Franj had landed on the coast and were determined to take back Jerusalem. His eyes filled with tears.
“They must never be allowed to take that city away from us again, Ibn Yakub. Never.”
Perhaps it was the urgency in my friend’s voice that revived my interest in the world. Perhaps my recovery was complete in any event. Whatever the cause, I felt myself again. The sense of loss was still present in me, but the pain had gone. I sent a letter to Imad al-Din, asking him whether I could rejoin the Sultan.
Four weeks later, as spring came to Cairo like a burst of soft laughter, a messenger arrived from Dimask. The Sultan ordered me to return to his side without further delay. I was sitting in the courtyard enjoying the sun, underneath a gnarled tree with twisted twigs. It remained the same through all the seasons and I had become greatly attached to it because it reminded me of myself. I, too, did not feel the delights of spring.
I bade Ibn Maymun farewell. It was an emotional parting. We, who had once been so close, were together again. A small slice of happiness had been recovered from the heart of the tragedy that had befallen me. We agreed never to lose contact again. I had no real desire to carry on inscribing the story of Salah al-Din’s life, but Ibn Maymun was panicked by such a thought. He advised me to carry on and, “if it helps you, Ibn Yakub, write everything to me. I will keep your letters safe here, next to these notebooks with which you have entrusted me.”
LETTERS TO IBN MAYMUN
THIRTY-EIGHT
The Sultan welcomes my return; Richard of England threatens Tyre; Imad al-Din is sick with love
DEAR FRIEND,
I WISH you were here so that we could speak with each other instead of relying on the courier service, which is not always reliable. As you know I was nervous at the thought of returning to Damascus, but everyone made me welcome. Some of the emirs went so far as to say that they regarded my return as an omen of good luck, for whenever I had been with the Sultan he had never lost a battle.
Everything has changed. Fortunes fluctuate like the price of diamonds in the Cairo market. When I left his side, nearly two years ago, the Sultan had conquered every pinnacle. His eyes were bright, the sun had given colour to his cheeks and his voice was relaxed and happy. Success dispels tiredness. When I saw him this morning he was clearly pleased to see me, and he rose and kissed my cheeks, but the sight of him surprised me. His eyes had shrunk, he had lost weight and he looked very pale. He observed my surprise.
“I have been ill, scribe. The war against these wretched infidels has begun to exhaust me, but I could cope with them. It is not simply the enemy that worries me. It is our own side. Ours is an emotional and impulsive faith. Victory in battle affects Believers in the same way as banj. They will fight without pause to repeat our success, but if, for some reason, it eludes us, if patience and skill are required rather than simple bravery, then our men begin to lose their urge. Dissensions arise and some fool of an emir thinks: ‘Perhaps this Salah al-Din is not as invincible as we had thought. Perhaps I should save my own skin and that of my men’, and thinking these ignoble thoughts he deserts the field of war. Or another few emirs, demoralised by our lack of success, will think to themselves that during the last six months they and their men have not enjoyed the spoils of war. They imagine that it is my brothers, sons and nephews who are benefiting and so they pick a quarrel and go back to Aleppo. It is a wearying business, Ibn Yakub.
“I have to fight on two fronts all the time. That is why I did not take Tyre all those months ago, when you were still at my side. I thought the men would not be able to sustain a long siege. It turned out that I was wrong. I overestimated the size of the Franj presence in the city, but if I had been confident of my own soldiers I would have taken the risk. The result, my friend, is a mess. The Franj kings are arriving from across the water with more soldiers and more gold. They never give up, do they? Welcome back to your home, Ibn Yakub. I have missed your presence. Al-Fadil left for Cairo this morning and Imad al-Din has not been to see me for a week. He claims he has a toothache, but my spies tell me that what aches is his heart. Remember Shadhi? He always used to refer to Imad al-Din as the swallower of a donkey’s penis!”
He laughed loudly at the memory, and I joined him, pleased that my return had lightened his mood.
Later that afternoon, I did call on Imad al-Din, who received me graciously. The Sultan’s informants had been correct. The great master was undergoing the pain associated with spurned love. He complained bitterly that the treasury had not paid his salary for many months and it was for that reason that he had decided not to visit the Sultan.
I was surprised, but when I pressed further he decided to confess the true reason for his state. He inflicted his troubles on me. There is nothing more tedious, Ibn Maymun, than listening to a grown man droning on about his shattered heart as if he was fifteen years old and had just discovered heartbreak. Since I had gone to see him it was difficult to bring my visit to an end.
You will, I’m sure, recall a certain Copt translator I once mentioned to you, by the name of Tarik ibn Isa. The one who caught our great scholar’s lewd eye in Jerusalem, soon after we entered the city. The Sultan was pleased by the boy’s abilities and, on Imad al-Din’s advice, the Copt became part of Salah al-Din’s retinue. That is how Tarik came to Damascus. Here Imad al-Din, desperate to vent his lust on the youth, pursued him without shame. He wrote couplets in his honour, he hired minstrels to sing quatrains outside his window on moonlit nights, he even threatened to have the boy dismissed from the Sultan’s service unless he was willing to serve all the needs of Imad al-Din. Now this youth has disappeared, to the consternation of the entire court, and the great man is inconsolable.
This is not, of course, how the Sultan’s most learned secretary views the emotional landscape. He tells his story differently and let your wisdom, Ibn Maymun, be the judge.
Speaking in those sonorous tones I have come to know so well, and which were pleasing to my ears solely because I had not heard them for so long, he told me:
“What I simply could not understand, Ibn Yakub, was the obstinate resistance of this shallow youth. You raise your eyebrows? I know what you’re thinking. Perhaps this boy was not attracted to men. I thought so, but you would be wrong to make that assumption. I had him followed and discovered that he was in love with a man not much younger than myself, but with this important difference.
“Tarik’s lover was a heretic, a blasphemer, a sceptic. He came from Aleppo, but preached his evil in this our purest of cities. He claimed to be descended from Ibn Awjal. You know our faith well, Ibn Yakub. You have heard of Ibn Awjal? No? I must say you surprise me.
“He lived in Kufa, a hundred years after the death of the Prophet. He had converted to our faith from yours, but he was desperate to be famous. He wanted to be a big man. So he published four thousand hadith and was regarded as a scholar, but these hadith were completely false. He had invented each and every one, and put blasphemous and erotic language into the mouth of our Prophet. It is said that one of his hadith claimed that the Prophet had stated that any woman who permitted a man to see her in a state of undress, even by accident, was obliged to give herself to that man, and if she refused the man had a right to take her against her will. May Allah burn that son-of-a-whore in hell forever. There were others of this sort, even worse. In one of them Ibn Awjal claimed prophetic lineage for the remark: ‘Fornicate with your camel by all means, but never on the open road.’ Another hadith claimed that provided the Angel Gabriel ratified the deed, a Believer could satisfy his carnal desires in any way he wished. On another occasion he wrote that the Prophet had told his son-in-law Ali to bare his arse before no person and claimed that two words were missing from the original hadith. These crazed imaginings could not be left unpunished. To abuse our Prophet
in such a way was unacceptable. Ibn Awjal was arrested by the Kadi of Kufa. He admitted manufacturing the hadith. Justice was swift. He was executed immediately after the trial.
“Tarik’s lover claimed descent from Ibn Awjal and began to tell his followers that many of the hadith published by his blaspheming forebear were genuine. When I heard this news I refused to believe my informant, who had insinuated his way into the intimate circles of this heretic. I informed the Kadi, who had all of them arrested, except Tarik. Unlike his more courageous ancestor, this pig of a sceptic denied all knowledge of what had been stated by my informant in the court. He had the audacity to claim that I had forged false evidence to put him out of the way for reasons best known to myself. The Kadi showed no mercy. The Sultan gave his approval. He was executed. That same day Tarik disappeared for ever. Nobody has sighted him, but there are rumours that he took his own life and some say his body was seen floating down the river.
“They tell me that your friend, Jamila, was enraged when she heard of the execution. She stormed into Salah al-Din’s chamber and lashed him with her fiery tongue. That woman is never ambiguous or discreet, is she? She sent me a letter denouncing me as an evil fornicator and lecher and suggesting that this city would be cleaner if I were castrated. These are the real reasons for my gloom, Ibn Yakub, though it would be false if I denied to you that the Treasury seems to have forgotten my existence and this fact has caused me considerable irritation.”
I was in a reflective mood as I left Imad al-Din’s dwelling. I was walking back slowly to my own house and dreading the silence that would greet me as I entered the courtyard. This house is suffused with memories of Rachel, and I think I should remove my belongings from here and shift to the citadel. I was formulating a letter along these lines in my head to dispatch to the steward when I was approached by the familiar figure of the Nubian mute, who handed me a note from the Sultana Jamila demanding my presence. Nothing had changed in the city. I smiled weakly and followed the mute back to the citadel. It is strange, is it not, Ibn Maymun, how one can return to a place after a long absence and find that all the old routines are still in place? The Sultan fights his wars, Imad al-Din sulks in his house and the Sultana summons me for a conversation.
She greeted me like a valued friend. For the first time she touched me. She stroked my head and expressed her sorrow at the loss of my family. Then she whispered in my ear: “We have both lost loved ones. This draws us closer to each other. You must not leave us again. The Sultan and I both need you now.”
Unsurprisingly, she had heard of my visit to Imad al-Din. Nothing escapes her. Even the most trivial conversation involving the Sultan or those close to him is reported to her. This makes her one of the best-informed people in the kingdom. Her authority is such that few deny her the information she craves.
Jamila wanted a detailed account of our conversation. I was about to speak when I realised she was not alone. Seated on a stool behind her was a young woman of striking beauty, whose face, with its sad expressive eyes, was strangely familiar. The young woman was dressed in a yellow silk gown and a matching scarf covered her head. She wore kohl to enhance the beauty of her eyes—not that anything about her needed enhancing. Surprised by the presence of this attractive stranger, I looked inquiringly at Jamila.
“This is Zainab. She is my scribe. She takes down my words so rapidly that my thoughts have to race to keep up with her. Her speed puts you to shame, Ibn Yakub. Now speak. What did that old charlatan tell you?”
I recounted my conversation with Imad al-Din, during the course of which the two women exchanged looks on a number of occasions. Then Jamila spoke with anger in her voice, though her language surprised me.
“Shadhi was not wrong about that swallower of a donkey’s penis! Everything he has told you is a lie. He had an innocent man executed, a man whose only crime was that of being a sceptic, but then so am I, so is Imad al-Din, and even you have been known to express heretical thoughts. Only simpletons refuse to doubt anything. A world without doubt could never move forward. When Salah al-Din was young, he too was a sceptic. It surprises you? Why do you think he never made the pilgrimage to Mecca? Now he is desperate to appease his Maker, but when he had the chance he refused. Imad al-Din ordered the execution because he was jealous. An old man who could not bear the thought of being rejected and went looking for a sacrificial goat. It disgusts me, and I told your Sultan to have his secretary castrated. No boy in Damascus is safe when the sap rises in that old trunk.”
She paused at this point to laugh and looked at Zainab for approval, but there were tears in the younger woman’s eyes, and this made Jamila angry once again.
“Look closely at Zainab, scribe. Imagine her in a man’s gown translating a letter in Latin to the Sultan.”
I was stunned. Now I knew where I had seen a similar face. In Jerusalem! This must be Tarik ibn Isa’s twin sister.
“Not his sister, fool. This is ‘Tarik ibn Isa’. Zainab’s father, an old Copt scholar, educated her as though she were a boy. They lived in Jerusalem, but prayed for deliverance. The Franj knights did not much care for the Copts, who they regarded as bad Christians and heretics. When Salah al-Din’s steward put out the call for a translator, Zainab’s father dressed her as a man and sent her to the court. The rest you know. Let Imad al-Din think that he caused the death of Tarik ibn Isa. Let him suffer for the rest of his life. We are thinking of disguising Zainab as a ghost and sending her outside Imad al-Din’s bedchamber. Do you think it might kill him?”
I looked at Zainab. She had recovered her composure and was pleased that her story had astonished me. I could also see from Jamila’s eyes that she had now found a replacement for the lost Halima.
Contrary to what is said, Ibn Maymun, the fickleness of a woman’s heart is something we can never match.
My warmest greetings to your family.
Your old friend,
Ibn Yakub.
THIRTY-NINE
The Franj plague returns to Acre and Salah al-Din is depressed; he confides his innermost doubts to me
I ENVY YOU, DEAR friend Ibn Maymun. I envy your beautiful home near Cairo. I envy your peace of mind and I wish I had never left the sanctuary that you so kindly provided me in my hour of need.
I am at fault. I have not written to you for many months, but I have been moving all the time in the wake of our Sultan. How everything has changed once again. The fortunes of this war are forever fluctuating. I am writing to you from Acre, which is under siege by the Franj, whose decision to attack the city took us all by surprise. Salah al-Din was two days away, but returned with his soldiers, who were vastly outnumbered by the Franj.
Such is the power of our Sultan that the very news of his approach startled the enemy. They did not put up a fight, but instead withdrew to their camp. We sent some of our soldiers back into Acre and messengers were sent for help. Taki al-Din left his watch outside Antioch and joined us, as did Keukburi. As you know, these are the two emirs who the Sultan would trust with his life, and their arrival cheered his spirits.
The response from other quarters was limited. The in-fighting amongst the rulers of Hamadan and Sinjar and some other towns has meant that their aims no longer harmonise with those of Salah al-Din.
When the Franj finally joined battle the results were not clear. It was neither victory nor defeat for both sides. Our position grows steadily weaker and the Franj grow daily more audacious, but the final victory may belong to our side. The situation as I write is as follows. Picture the Franj trying to besiege Acre and take us by surprise. Now shut your eyes and imagine how our Salah al-Din came up quietly behind the Franj and transformed the besiegers into the besieged. In Imad al-Din’s immortal words, “After being like the brow around the eye, they have now become like the eye surrounded by the eyebrow.” His imagery is powerful, but I think it is designed to conceal the despair that he really feels. We began this year with the Sultan acknowledged as the supreme master of Palestine. Now, once again, we are f
ighting for our survival, and the Sultan sometimes wishes that he had never left Cairo.
He never pauses for a rest. He usually sleeps no more than two or three hours every night. I wish you were here so that you could advise him on how to preserve his health. Looking at him these days, he is like a candle, which still displays a piercing flame, but which is slowly burning itself out. He is over fifty years old, but he leads his soldiers into battle as if he were twenty, his sword raised and without a care in the world. And yet I know that he is extremely worried about the state of his army. It is beginning to affect his spiritual and physical health. He has not slept at all for the last three days. His face is pale, his eyes, normally alert and lively, are listless. I feel he needs someone with whom he can share all his troubled thoughts. As always I wish Shadhi was here, but even Imad al-Din or your great Kadi al-Fadil would be a useful presence. You might mention my worries to al-Fadil if this letter ever reaches you. I am not a good substitute for any of these three men, and yet I am the only one here who knows him and has been close to him for over ten years. Is it really ten years ago that you recommended me to him, Ibn Maymun? Time is cruel.
He talks to me a great deal these days, and sometimes I get the feeling that he wants me to stop being a scribe. He looks into my eyes, demanding a reply that would comfort him and ease his fears, but as you know well, I have no real knowledge of matters military and my understanding of the emirs of Damascus and their rivalries is, alas, limited. I have never realised my own shortcomings as I have on this particular trip, When Salah al-Din has needed me, I could offer him nothing.
