Damurdash had little option but to surrender Aleppo to Temur in the hope of preventing further bloodshed. He was well treated, but Sudun, who had killed Temur’s ambassador, was taken prisoner. The treasures of this famous city now belonged to the irresistible conqueror. But the viceroy’s hopes of a peaceful conclusion to the battle were cruelly shattered, as the historian Ibn Taghri Birdi, whose father was commander-in-chief of Sultan Faraj’s armies, related.
The women and children fled to the great mosque of Aleppo and to the smaller mosques, but Tamerlane’s men turned to follow them, bound the women with ropes as prisoners, and put the children to the sword, killing every one of them. They committed the shameful deeds to which they were accustomed; virgins were violated without concealment; gentlewomen were outraged without any restraints of modesty; a Tatar would seize a woman and ravage her in the great mosque … in sight of the vast multitude of his companions and the people of the city; her father and brother and husband would see her plight and be unable to defend her … because they were distracted by the torture and torments which they themselves were suffering; the Tatar would then leave the woman and another go to her, her body still uncovered. They then put the populace of Aleppo and its troops to the sword, until the mosques and streets were filled with dead, and Aleppo stank with corpses.
For four days the massacres and looting continued. Trees were hacked down, houses demolished and mosques burnt. One account spoke of the mass slaughter of the city’s Jews, who had taken shelter in the synagogue. ‘He left the city fallen on its roofs, empty of its inhabitants and every human being, reduced to ruins; the muezzin’s call and the prayer services were no longer heard; there was nothing there but a desert waste darkened by fire, a lonely solitude where only the owl and the vulture took refuge.’*
Looming high over this devastated city were Temur’s dreadful totems. This time the piles of bloody heads were shaped like knolls, fifteen feet in height and thirty in circumference. Vultures, scenting carrion, wheeled overhead, swooping down to pluck eyes out of sockets as twenty thousand expressions of abject terror, horror, disgust and defiance stared out into a blank sky.
The road to Damascus was now open. The first city of the Levant, one of the greatest in the Mediterranean and among the oldest in the world, lay just two hundred miles to the south. After the precipitate fall of Aleppo it was inconceivable that the conqueror should ignore this prize, inevitable that the marches south continue, whatever the protests of his amirs. These officers now suggested that the army should retire to the winter pastures around Mount Lebanon, where the weary soldiers could rest, but Temur refused to countenance this. The sultanate of Egypt was divided and off balance. It must not be given time to prepare its defences. On the Tatars pressed, and the cities, towns and fortresses that lay between them and Damascus collapsed like houses of cards, first Hama, then Homs, quickly followed by Baalbek, Sidon and Beirut.
But Temur’s focus was on Damascus herself, a city which had grown rich at the crossroads of Asian and European commerce. To her west stood the Anti-Lebanon mountains, which rose up mightily to ten thousand feet before sweeping down towards the Mediterranean; to the east stretched the burning wilderness of the Badiyat ash Sham desert. Damascus had grown wealthy on the back of revenues from the caravans which arrived daily, rich also in the arts and crafts for which she was famed. In the bazaars worked metalsmiths, glassblowers, farriers, weavers, tailors, gem-cutters, carpenters, bow-makers, falconers, craftsmen of every kind. It was a highly cultured and cosmopolitan city, with mathematicians and merchants, astronomers and artists. From 661 to 750 she had been the home of the caliphs, capital of the Arab Islamic empire.
One building more than any other recalled those glorious years. ‘Damascus surpasses all other cities in beauty, and no description, however full, can do justice to its charms,’ wrote Ibn Battutah. ‘The Cathedral Mosque, known as the Umayyad Mosque, is the most magnificent mosque in the world, the finest in construction and noblest in beauty, grace and perfection; it is matchless and unequalled.’ Three minarets leapt towards the firmament, soaring above a princely lead dome which presided in turn over a grand arcade and gallery and a central courtyard which could house a multitude. Glittering mosaics traced their way across the façades with images of paradise gardens, colonnaded palaces, lofty castles, rivers and verdant landscapes. ‘Even now, as the sun catches a fragment on the outside wall, one can imagine the first splendour of green and gold, when the whole court shone with those magic scenes conceived by Arab fiction to recompense those parched eternities of the desert,’ wrote Robert Byron in The Road to Oxiana.
Damascus, wrote Ibn Taghri Birdi, was ‘the most beautiful and flourishing city in the world’. Now, as streams of refugees from Aleppo flooded through her gates in distress, telling terrible stories of the slaughter, she braced herself for Temur’s arrival and the most calamitous attack in her history. The disarray which had followed Barquq’s death, communicated to the Tatar by his spies, now made itself felt on a military level. Since there was no single overarching source of command, the Syrians and Egyptians fell prey to ‘discord, confusion, division, conflict and altercation’, lamented Arabshah, who was eight or nine at the time. Too many energies were being expended on competition between the amirs for ‘offices, fiefs and control of the government’, said Ibn Taghri Birdi, too little on the imminent danger of Temur, which was treated ‘as though it did not exist’.
By January 1401, the Tatar forces were camped within reach of the city. The Egyptian sultanate now made a desperate but inventive attempt on the conqueror’s life by sending an assassin disguised as a dervish into his camp. The would-be killer’s manner aroused suspicion, however, and when a hidden dagger was found on him he was instantly killed. The two men accompanying him were returned to Faraj with their ears and noses cut off.
Another envoy was despatched to Faraj, demanding the return of Temur’s ambassador Atilmish, and advising the young Egyptian to coin money in his adversary’s name and to surrender:
This you ought to do, if you have any compassion for yourself or your subjects. Our soldiers are like roaring lions, which hunger for their prey. They seek to kill their enemy, pillage everything he owns, take his towns, raze his buildings to the ground. There are only two ways to choose. Either peace, the consequences of which are quiet and joy; or war, which will lead to disorder and desolation. I have set both before you. It is up to you which path to follow. Consult your prudence and make your choice.
Faraj promised to comply, but stalled for time. A series of incidents then convinced the Damascenes that the tide was now flowing in their favour. First, Temur withdrew from the walls of the city in order to secure pasturage for his army’s horses. Not unreasonably, the besieged concluded the Tatars were in retreat. Next came news that Temur’s grandson Sultan Husayn, who had led the vanguard of the right wing at Aleppo, had defected to the Syrian cause. Finally, when they looked out across the plain, where only days earlier Temur’s army had been camped, there now stood the troops of Faraj, just arrived from Cairo. In the excitement whipped up by these auspicious developments, a force of Damascenes threw open the gates of the city and started attacking Temur’s rearguard.
Disaster now seemed imminent, for Faraj had broken his agreement to surrender. Worse, some of Temur’s men had been killed in the hot-blooded assault. Furious, the emperor ordered his troops to wheel around 180 degrees and close in on Damascus. Although weakened by months of continual campaigning, they still presented a fearsome sight. At night the line of their campfires was said to extend for 150 miles. Faraj, sensing ruin, despatched a formal apology for the attack, blaming it on a local rising within the city and assuring Temur that he would come to terms. The conqueror was unlikely to be pacified so easily.
The only hope for Damascus lay with Faraj’s army. Unlike the Tatars, his Mamluks were well rested and had not had to cross half a continent in forced marches. They were a formidable fighting force. But on the morning after Temur’s
men had encircled the city, the Damascenes woke to a terrifying sight. The Egyptian army had simply melted away, like the cruellest desert mirage, under the cover of darkness. Faraj was returning to Cairo, from where he had heard rumours of court intrigues to overthrow him, leaving Damascus to face a vengeful Scourge of God alone.
While detachments of Tatars pursued the fleeing Egyptians and cut down some of Faraj’s senior officers and bodyguards, Temur turned to the task at hand. Damascus, now facing devastation, barricaded the city gates and called a jihad against the invader. As at Delhi and most recently Aleppo, Temur was not inclined to mount a long siege. He was far from home, sandwiched between the two hostile sultans Faraj and Bayazid. A lightning assault or an immediate surrender were the favoured options. Besides, the city was heavily protected and rich in supplies. Bringing her to her knees by siege would be a massive undertaking.
Instead, Temur resorted to diplomacy, doubtless confident that military action, if required, would achieve everything the negotiations failed to deliver. Another envoy was sent into the city proposing peace terms. In return, Damascus sent its own delegation. It contained a man who was in Damascus by chance rather than inclination. He had been invited to join Sultan Faraj’s expedition only to be abandoned in the city after the Egyptian’s surprise departure. This man happened to be the greatest historian ever to emerge from the Arab world. The stage was set for a truly remarkable meeting.
Twenty years earlier, in what is today Algeria, Ibn Khaldun finished his monumental Muqaddimah or Foreword, the first volume of his Universal History. Originally conceived as a comprehensive history of the Arabs and Berbers, it evolved into something far more complex, a philosophy of history and a pioneering analysis of how societies change and dynasties rise and fall over several generations. Given his education and the turbulence of North African politics of his time, Khaldun was uniquely well equipped to comment on such matters.* By the time he reached Damascus with Sultan Faraj he had achieved widespread renown during a peripatetic, rollercoaster career. He had enjoyed the patronage of Sultan Barquq, served as Malikite chief qadi (judge) of Cairo, and worked as secretary, chamberlain, statesman, adviser, negotiator and ambassador to all of the leading rulers of North Africa. Perhaps his most unusual appointment came while a senior court official in Granada, when he was despatched to Seville as an envoy to Pedro the Cruel, king of Castile. He had also experienced the insides of various North African prisons. Despite, or perhaps because of, his many talents and considerable patronage, Khaldun made enemies wherever he went. Sometimes they were seen off, at others they prevailed. Just as his position seemed secure, he tended to fall victim to the latest intrigue against him; and he was equally guilty of plotting against sultans and viziers himself.
In his account of their fateful meeting, the Tunisian diplomat and scholar describes how, having advised the city elders to surrender to the Tatar, he feared for his life from a hostile faction advocating all-out war. One morning he had himself lowered over the city walls to seek an audience with the conqueror. The details of those discussions he scrupulously recorded.
His first sight of Temur was in the audience tent, where the emperor was ‘reclining on his elbow while platters of food were passing before him while he was sending one after the other to groups of Mongols sitting in circles in front of his tent’. Temur held out a hand for the Tunisian to kiss. ‘May Allah aid you – today it is thirty or forty years that I have longed to meet you,’ the historian began with all due deference. ‘You are the sultan of the universe and the ruler of the world, and I do not believe there has appeared a ruler like you from Adam until today.’ Khaldun told Temur how he had met a priest and divine in the Mosque of al Qarawiyin in Fes who had, in 1358, predicted the Tatar’s rise to power. The imminent conjunction of the planets, the priest said, was momentous: ‘It points to a powerful one who would arise in the north-east region of a desert people, tent dwellers, who will triumph over kingdoms, overturn governments, and become the masters of most of the inhabited world.’
The calculated flattery found its mark. Khaldun was invited to dine in the emperor’s tent, where the conversation turned to history and geography. Temur asked his guest numerous questions about North Africa. He wanted to know the location of Tangier, Ceuta and Sijilmasa. Khaldun did his best to explain, but it was not good enough for Temur. ‘He said, “I am not satisfied. I desire that you write for me a description of the whole country of the Maghreb, detailing its distant as well as its nearby parts, its mountains and its rivers, its villages and its cities – in such a manner that I might seem actually to see it.”’
Khaldun returned to the city, where he rushed out the required volume in a matter of days. In all he spent thirty-five days in the Tatar camp, and was eyewitness to a number of discussions between Temur and his amirs, evidence of the high regard in which he was held. He watched imperial audiences and receptions, and even listened to councils of war in which Temur directed his amirs to find the most vulnerable points in Damascus’s defences. Given his historical expertise, he was asked to pronounce on the legitimacy of a request made by a claimant to the caliphate to be restored to his rightful place in Cairo. Khaldun obliged, judging the man’s claim after lengthy debate ‘not valid’. ‘Temur then said to this claimant: “You have heard the words of the judges and the jurists, and it appears that you have no justification for claiming the caliphate before me. So depart, may Allah guide you aright!”’
One of Khaldun’s friends, well acquainted with the etiquette of the Tatar court, advised him to offer a gift to Temur, ‘however small its value might be, for that is a fixed custom on meeting their rulers. I therefore chose from the book market an exceedingly beautiful Quran copy, a beautiful prayer rug, a copy of the famous poem al-Burda by al-Busiri, in praise of the Prophet – may Allah bless him and grant him peace; and four boxes of the excellent Cairo sweetmeats.’
These offerings, extremely modest in comparison with the treasures he was accustomed to receive from submissive leaders, nevertheless pleased Temur and further endeared the Tunisian to him. He was invited to sit on Temur’s right-hand side, a public display of the emperor’s high regard for him. A consummate diplomat, well versed in the arts of courtly practice, Khaldun recognised this as an opportune moment to plead for the lives of the learned men brought to Damascus as part of Sultan Faraj’s entourage:
These Quran teachers, secretaries, bureau officials, and administrators, who are among those left behind by the Sultan of Egypt, have come under your rule. The King surely will not disregard them. Your power is vast, your provinces are very extensive, and the need of your government for men who are administrators in the various branches of service is greater than the need of any other than you.
He asked me, ‘And what do you wish for them?’
I replied, ‘A letter of security to which they can appeal and upon which they can rely whatever their circumstances may be.’
He said to his secretary, ‘Write an order to this effect for them.’
I thanked him and blessed him, and went out with the secretary until the letter of security had been written.
Khaldun had achieved his mission. The white-robed clerics were spared.
Towards the end of Temur’s stay at Damascus, Khaldun recorded one of his more baffling conversations with the Tatar. Temur, it emerged, was something of a mule-fancier.
After we had completed the customary greetings, he turned to me and said, ‘You have a mule here?’
I answered, ‘Yes.’
He said, ‘Is it a good one?’
I answered, ‘Yes.’
He said, ‘Will you sell it? I would buy it from you.’
I replied, ‘May Allah aid you, one like me does not sell to one like you, but I would offer it to you in homage, and also others like it if I had them.’
He said, ‘I meant only that I would reimburse you for it generously.’
I replied, ‘Is there any generosity left beyond that which you have already shown me?
You have heaped favours upon me, accorded me a place in your council among your intimate followers, and shown me kindness and generosity, which I hope Allah will repay to you in like measure.’
He was silent. So was I. The mule was brought to him while I was with him at his council and I did not see it again.
Later, when Khaldun had returned to Cairo, the Egyptian sultan’s ambassador to Temur sent a messenger to him with a sum of money from the Tatar reimbursing him for the loss of his mule. Corruption was no stranger to Egyptian politics at this time. The messenger apologised that the cash was ‘not complete’, insisting that this was the sum that had been given to him.
According to Arabshah’s account, Temur permitted the Tunisian to leave him only on condition he return with his family and great library, a promise he never kept. Khaldun himself, however, remembered things differently. He wrote of his offer to serve in Temur’s court and the conqueror’s reply in the negative, instructing him instead to ‘return to your family and to your people’.
Safely out of Temur’s orbit, Khaldun wrote a letter to Abu Said Othman, ruler of the Maghreb, recounting the Tatar’s advance on Damascus. ‘Temur had conquered Aleppo, Hama, Hims and Baalbek and ruined them all, and his soldiers had committed more shameful atrocities than had ever been heard of before,’ he reported. In an apologetic tone, he explained how he had had ‘no choice but to meet him’. He had been treated kindly, he added, and thanks to his diplomatic efforts ‘obtained from him amnesty for the people of Damascus’.
There followed a potted history of the Tatars, whom he defined as ‘those who came out of the desert beyond the Oxus, between it and China … under their famous king Jenghiz Khan’. From Genghis, Khaldun moved on to a portrait of Temur and his hordes.
The people are of a number which cannot be counted. If you estimate it at one million it would not be too much, nor can you say it is less. If they pitched their tents together in the land, they would fill all empty spaces, and if their armies came even into a wide territory the plain would be too narrow for them. And in raiding, robbing and slaughtering settled populations and inflicting upon them all kinds of cruelty they are an astounding example.
Tamerlane Page 31
