by Tariq Ali
As the sailors approached the minarets they chanted ‘al-madina hama-hallahu’ [Allah protect this City]. He smiled as the ship entered the harbour, an expressionless smile, a slight softening of the eyes, nothing more. He was pleased to be back. The gentle breeze stroked his face like the soft touch of Mayya and inadvertently his hand went to his face to savour the memory. Below a boat was waiting to transport him to dry land. Walking past the men, he thanked each of them in turn. He suppressed a sigh as he was gently tied with silken cords to a chair, which was then lowered on to the boat. He would have happily climbed down the rope ladder, but the captain forbade it. As the chair reached its destination the boatmen welcomed him with ‘Wa Salaam ...’
Nearing the shore, he could see the familiar faces of the courtiers sent to receive him. He knew that underneath their smiles and the exaggerated noises of welcome, they hated him because of the easy access to the palace he enjoyed. And there was the white beard of one of the palace Chamberlains, Abd al-Karim, shouting as loudly as his years permitted.
‘Prepare to receive the Master Ibn Muhammad ibn Sharif al-Idrisi returned home from a long journey in search of the roots of knowledge.’
As was the custom, the others responded to the safe return of the ship and its passenger.
‘There is only one Allah and he is Allah and Muhammad is his Prophet. Welcome home.’
The irritation he felt on these occasions had, in the past, been countered by the presence of his friend Marwan, whose grinning face was the welcome he most enjoyed. But Marwan had left the island. He had abandoned his estates and his peasants in Catania and fled to al-Andalus, to the city of Ishbilia. Here the Sultan al-Mutammid had provided him with both protection and employment. Letters arrived irregularly, always carrying the same message. Muhammad, too, should leave Palermo and return to the House of Islam. He never replied and Marwan stopped writing.
Now he was alone.
‘Will the master be carried or will he ride?’ Abd al-Karim asked.
‘Is my horse here?’
‘It is.’
‘Then I will ride.’
‘The Sultan awaits you tonight. A banquet has been prepared to honour your return.’
‘And if a storm had delayed us?’
Another voice replied. ‘It never has. You always return on the designated day, Ibn Muhammad.’
The scholar smiled. The voice and the face pleased him. It was the Berber, Jauhar, who had married Marwan’s sister.
‘Any news from Marwan?’
The man shook his head.
‘And you? Is your family well? Do you need anything? I have brought some silks for Marwan’s sister. We exchanged them for some food. A merchant ship from Genoa was in some trouble.’
The man smiled.
‘And now I have a favour to ask of you. Go to the palace and apologise to the Sultan on my behalf. Tell him the journey has exhausted me and I would only fall asleep at the banquet. Tomorrow I will attend on him and provide him with the new discoveries he requested. I wish to be alone tonight. I have something to tell the stars.’
Jauhar looked worried and whispered: ‘It is an unwise decision. The Sultan is ill. It has made him irrational. He might misinterpret your refusal to go to the palace tonight. Monks surround him. Franks and Greeks. Vultures. They whisper lies in the Sultan’s ear. We are being accused of fomenting rebellion.’
Idrisi shook his head. He would not change his mind. ‘His Exalted Majesty knows I am the most loyal of his servants, but I have travelled for many days without a bath and will not present myself in such a state of unseemliness. I will call on the Sultan after the morning prayers. Make that clear to the Chamberlain.’
The courtiers had overheard most of this exchange and smiled. He had gone too far this time. He would be punished. They were determined to reach the Sultan before Jauhar to give Rujari their version of the story.
Idrisi, accompanied by a single groom, rode back to his house, which was situated outside the qasr, close to the sea. He could have lived in the precincts of the palace. The Sultan had offered him that on many occasions, but Idrisi had insisted that he needed solitude in order to think. He worked on his manuscript in rooms adjoining the palace library and often ate with the Sultan, but he had chosen to live in a modest house in the Kalisa, overlooking the sea.
It was a choice he had never regretted. The permanent view of the sea he found comforting. Becalmed or white-capped and rough, it never tired him, despite the long journeys on which he had embarked or the storms that had almost taken his life. It was a short ride but one he enjoyed. Gusts of that same wind that had brought the ship into the bay now carried scents of herbs and wild flowers and lemons. The scents brought some painful memories with them, but he repressed them.
As he neared the path at the bottom of the hill he caught the first glimpse of the house. The soft light of candles and oil lamps filled every window. Then he looked more closely. Light was shining even from the windows of the rooms above the courtyard, rooms that had been dark since the day of Walid’s departure. His heart began to race and, almost involuntarily, he spurred his horse on.
TWO
Family life and domestic idiocies. Idrisi foils a plan by his daughters to trap and betray their husbands, but is determined to educate his grandsons.
THE RETAINERS, AS WAS their custom, awaited him outside the house, torches held high to light his path. He dismounted and shook hands with each in turn, but before he could question any of them he was distracted by the scent of grilled lamb and fresh herbs, an aroma of special significance. He hurried into the house to see if Walid had returned. But it was his daughters who greeted him, taking his hands and kissing them. Idrisi embraced each in turn and gently kissed their heads.
‘Welcome home, Abu Walid,’ said Samar, the younger of the two, her red hair shining under the oil lamps.
‘What brings you here, Samar? And you, Sakina? I thought your mother had forbidden ...’
‘You haven’t seen your grandchildren for three years, Abu Walid. Our mother agreed we could make this journey.’
He chuckled. ‘Old age must have softened her. Are the children asleep?’
His daughters nodded.
‘And am I correct in assuming that you have prepared the lamb according to your mother’s instructions?’
Samar laughed. ‘We weren’t sure you would return today, but a messenger from the palace arrived some hours ago to inform us that your ship had been sighted and you would be home tonight. The garlic and herbs travelled with us from Noto.’
He smiled appreciatively. ‘I hope, like you, they retained their freshness.’
Before either of them could reply he clapped his hands, raised his voice slightly and summoned the steward of the household. ‘Is my bath ready, Ibn Fityan?’
The eunuch bowed. ‘Thawdor is waiting to rub oil on Your Excellency’ and the bath attendants have their instructions. Will Your Honour eat inside or on the terrace?’
‘Let my daughters decide.’
Usually, when he lay on the slab of marble, he let the Greek do his work in silence. Not today. ‘Do you have any children, Thawdor?’
The masseur was shocked. In the six years he had served in the household, the master had barely spoken to him.
‘Yes, my lord. I have three boys and a girl.’
‘I suppose two of the boys have been pledged to the Church?’
‘I believe in Allah and his Prophet, but my wife is a Nazarene and insisted on having one of them baptised.’
Now it was Idrisi’s turn to be surprised. ‘But your name is Greek and I thought ...’
‘My name is Thawdor ibn Ghafur, O Commander of the Pen. My mother was Greek and even though she converted to our faith, she insisted on the name of her grandfather Thawdorus for me. My poor father, who could deny her nothing, agreed.’
Idrisi’s curiosity had been aroused. He would ask Rujari to organise a register of all the mixed marriages on the island.
‘Wha
t about your boys?’
‘They are young men now. The youngest was on your ship on this last voyage. His mother will be happy to see him again.’
On hearing this, the master of the house became agitated. He rose, draped a towel around his naked body and clapped his hands for the bath attendants. Two young men entered the room and bowed.
‘Thawdor, describe your boy.’
Idrisi was now sure. ‘Simeon? I spoke with him on the ship. Why did he not tell me that you were his father?’
‘It probably did not occur to him. I’m amazed he had the effrontery to address you, master.’
‘I spoke to him first. The boy is sensitive and intelligent. What he cannot speak is expressed through the flute. He is a gifted boy and must be educated. I will speak to old Younis at the palace and see whether we can find a tutor for him.’
Tears filled Thawdor’s eyes. ‘Your kindness is well known, sir. The boy’s mother might even pray to Allah to reward your goodness.’
Idrisi nodded and the attendants escorted him to the bath next door. They soaped and scrubbed him with the most exquisitely soft sponges. Then he was ready to be dried and dressed. By the time he reached the terrace, the tiredness had been removed from his body. And the lamb was ready to be consumed. How odd it was, eating with his daughters. Why in Allah’s name were they here at all? He did not believe they had come all this way in order for him to see his grandchildren. It was not in their character. Nor, now that he thought about it, was the trouble they must have taken to prepare the lamb. Their mother Zaynab must have whispered nonsense in their ears: ‘Flatter the old man, make him feel you love him, make sure the lamb is cooked in the special way he likes, wait till he has tasted it and then ask what you need to ask.’ The memory of her insinuating voice and the false flattery was not pleasant and he was irritated with himself for having thought of it. It was bound to give him indigestion.
And where were the girls’ husbands? Suddenly he realised that they had come to plead on behalf of their men. Something must have happened. There was always unrest in Noto and in the countryside surrounding Siracusa. In the palace it was referred to as banditry, but he knew it was much more. Well, he would listen when the time came.
He enjoyed the food. The lamb was succulent and tasty, the vegetables fresh and the flask of wine sent by the palace, tasted by Ibn Fityan and pronounced free of poison, had revived his spirits. Noticing this, Samar and Sakina exchanged a knowing look, while Idrisi thought to himself how like their mother the two were.
Nature had not endowed them with his looks or physique. As he recalled Zaynab, whom his father had compelled him to marry and whom he had glimpsed for the first time on the day of his wedding, he shivered at the memory of that night. There had been no light-hearted pleasure for either of them and even now it was a mystery to him how they produced four children. His mother claimed the credit. She told the entire family of how, aware of the problem, she had insisted that Muhammad drink an unpleasant concoction of boiled coffee-plant leaves sweetened with date juice, whose aphrodisiacal effects had first been noticed by the medicine men of Ifriqiya. And, in those early years, on each occasion—not that there were too many of them—that he mounted his wife, he could smell the bitter taste of the leaves. His mother remained convinced that without it he would not have succeeded in producing four children.
If Zaynab’s character had been different he would not have encouraged her departure from Palermo. But she possessed no redeeming qualities, none. Her loud voice heaping abuse on the household servants angered him greatly. And it was even worse when she praised him. He never thought of what it must have been like for her, growing up in a wealthy nobleman’s household, frowned upon by everyone because of her looks, the result of too much inbreeding. He knew that and would sometimes remark to Marwan or Ibn Hamid how the Arabs paid more attention to ensuring thoroughbred horses than their own children. It was not Zaynab’s fault but why had Allah not given her a few brains to compensate?
That Zaynab’s features had been reproduced in both the daughters might have been a misfortune but for the position Idrisi occupied at Court. They had married men from the Arab nobility in Siracusa, whose forebears had arrived from Ifriqiya and laid siege to the city a few hundred years after the Prophet’s death. The girls’ dowries had been generous, their husbands not unkind and, more important, they had managed to perform their duties without the aid of coffee leaves. Children were produced, a son for Samar, and twins—a son and a daughter—for Sakina. The future was secure. The land was now safe, a fair portion already registered in the name of the two boys to avoid property disputes and, at the same time, to reassure the women and their father that whatever else happened the inheritance could not be challenged. Their sons were their official heirs. Having exerted themselves mightily in order to achieve this, the two husbands had moved on and, compatible with their religious beliefs, had begun to till other pastures. It did not take long for Samar and Sakina to realise that there would be no more children. As for the pleasures of the bedchamber, a luxury lost.
It was while they were sipping mint tea after the meal that their father decided to strike first. ‘My children, you know me well enough to understand that I detest those who hide their real thoughts in the depth of their hearts and speak of something else. I know full well you have not come here out of the goodness of your hearts, but because you need something from me. I have no idea what it is, but I am your father and will help you. But in Allah’s name I ask you to speak now and speak the truth.’
The women panicked, unsure as to whether this was the right moment to discuss their problems. They had thought it best to wait till the next morning when the presence of the children might make their father more receptive to their needs. Sakina made a brave, if feeble, attempt to create a diversion.
‘But Abi you haven’t told us whether you really enjoyed the lamb. We made it especially for you and ...’
The sight of her father’s anger-filled face brought her up short. Samar saw it was futile to conceal the purpose of their visit any longer.
‘Abi, we have never asked anything important of you till now, but we are very unhappy. Our husbands have abandoned us and need to be punished and we thought you ...’
He raised a hand to stop her. ‘Before you proceed any further, I want to be clear on one matter. Have your husbands left your homes or have they asked you to leave and find shelter elsewhere?’
‘No,’ the women replied in unison.
‘But ...’ Samar was about to continue when he interrupted her again.
‘Listen to me very carefully. You began with an untruth. Your husbands have not abandoned you in the meaningful sense of the word. They may not share your beds, but that is a different matter. I want you to tell me as straightforwardly as you can why you are here, what you really want and how you think I can assist you. Start with that and then we might proceed to see how you arrived there. Am I making myself clear?’
Samar and Sakina looked at each other in despair, then sank into an uncharacteristic silence. He liked the silence. He could hear the sea again and the gentle breeze that made the palms sway gently. For a moment he forgot the presence of his daughters, but Samar’s cold and now resigned voice interrupted once again.
‘Very well, Abi. I shall do as you wish. We have come to plead with you to persuade the Sultan to disinherit our husbands, remove their names from the land register and put everything in the name of your grandchildren. That’s all. If it will help we can produce witnesses who will swear on al-Quran that both Samir ibn Ali and Umar ibn Muhammad have been involved in conspiracies with the Amir against the Sultan. They are preparing for war.’
‘Is that true?’ he asked in a stern voice as he looked straight at them. It would be astonishing if the Amir of Siracusa were preparing a rebellion. They averted their eyes from his gaze and he knew then that they were lying. Why were they so intent on destroying the men who had married them? He knew the answer. They were both very stup
id. They did not realise that when lands are seized from a disloyal family, the law does not discriminate between father and son. Everything is taken away.
‘And will both of you be prepared to confirm what you have told me under oath and in the presence of the Sultan?’
They nodded their assent.
‘Go to sleep now. I will reflect on your request and make a decision tomorrow.’
For the first time that evening, they thought that their plan would succeed. Foolishness has no limits. His wife had taken a violent dislike to both her sons-in-law and was bent upon doing away with them. She had convinced the girls of this and sent them to Palermo, loaded with false accusations.
Deep in thought, their father savoured the silence that followed their departure. The birds, too, had retired for the night. Only the sea was awake and the waves were growing noisy. He looked up at the sky. It was a clear, starry night. As he rose and walked to the edge of the terrace he saw the fireflies dancing in space. This always made him melancholy. They reminded him of the first evening, a dark winter’s night, he had spent with Mayya after they had declared their love for each other, when he was twenty and she five years younger. The crescent moon had already disappeared. As they saw the fireflies, she had laughed and started dancing.
