A Sultan in Palermo

by Tariq Ali

  ‘I’m truly astonished that you have heard of him, Jiddu.’ Abu Ali spoke in such a soft voice that Idrisi cupped his ear. ‘He is the son of our cook and has been prone to visions since he was a boy. He was born blind and that may have encouraged the visions. He is twenty years old but many people from neighbouring villages come to see and hear him. His verses burn with a religious passion and he sings them with a beautiful voice. If you have time, come and stay with us for a few days. Ali will be thrilled and you can meet the cook’s son. I can’t stress this enough, but there is something remarkable about him. As you can imagine, he sings a great deal of future battles, of victories and of the day we will occupy the palaces and Allah’s vengeance against all those who collaborated with the enemy.’

  The sound of children’s laughter interrupted their conversation. Ali and Khalid, chased by attendants, ran towards the fountain.

  Slowly, the three men began to head in the same direction.

  ‘I will try and find the time to visit your village, Abu Ali.’

  ‘It is more important you visit Abdu Khalid’s estates,’ replied his son-in-law. ‘There you will meet the Trusted One.’

  Idrisi was puzzled. ‘I have not heard of him before.’

  SIX

  Love and a secret marriage in Siracusa. The poetry of Ibn Quzman. Elinore asks many questions, while Balkis listens.

  EVEN THOUGH HE HAD seen them only a few days ago, Idrisi could not conceal his delight at the sight of Elinore and her mother. And to see them now with Balkis, the only wife of the Amir and Mayya’s younger sister who he had last seen as a three-year-old, was especially pleasurable. Balkis had long brown hair and a skin so fair that Mayya appeared swarthy by comparison. Her eyes and nose resembled the statue of a Greek goddess he had seen in Djirdjent. Or was it someone else? A thought entered his head and startled him. Perhaps Greek blood had flowed through this family. He must remember to ask Mayya.

  At the palace in Palermo he and Mayya had been nervous. Here they relaxed and the Amir, aware that his retainers were all-seeing, dismissed them from the dining chamber with an imperious gesture. The food had been served. Large earthenware jugs containing fresh orange juice, lemonade and unfermented date wine were placed on the table. The Amir did not permit alcohol to be served in his palace except when the Sultan himself was visiting.

  Now that they were on their own, Mayya lost any inhibition: ‘Elinore, what do you think of your father?’

  Elinore, who knew her mother better than anyone else, did not bother to reply.

  ‘Mayya, please ...’ her sister attempted to restrain her and the Amir, pleading matters of state, took his leave. He was, if truth be told, a little bit frightened. What if news of this reached the Sultan? Might he not be held responsible?

  Idrisi burst out laughing. ‘Mayya,’ said Idrisi, looking straight into her eyes and then letting them travel all over her body. ‘You will never change and I will never stop loving you.’

  ‘Should the rest of us leave?’ asked Elinore, as the black pupils of her deep-set eyes sparkled mischievously.

  ‘No,’ answered her mother. ‘I will spend the night with your father. So you can stay till then.’

  ‘Mayya,’ her sister pleaded, ‘nothing can be kept secret here. If news reaches Rujari that you and Ibn Muhammad were here together, he might ...’

  ‘He might nothing. He simply does not care that much about women,’ Mayya interrupted. ‘We are there to produce children. Nothing more. Rujari’s intimates are all men, including the great geographer who honours us with his presence tonight. There were times when I thought that Rujari wanted to raise his friendship with the great Master Idrisi to a higher level, from a spiritual to a physical union. After all, they spend a great deal of time together and it would only be natural, but the thought enraged me. I would have hated them spending a night together, but before I could ...’

  Idrisi made an effort to control his temper, but the insinuation that he and Rujari were lovers was not confined to Mayya. During the early years of his friendship with Rujari, enemies at court enjoyed circulating the calumny. It used to drive him mad, but he always maintained an admirable self-control. Now the suppressed, cumulative anger burst forth as he half-rose from the chair.

  ‘It was never true, Mayya. You know that perfectly well. It was your inflamed imagination. That’s all.’

  She was delighted that she had managed to provoke him. ‘Better my inflamed imagination than your inflamed arse.’

  Balkis covered her mouth to hide a smile, but Idrisi rose from the table in anger. ‘Mayya, this is unacceptable. My tolerance has its limits.’

  ‘I’m happy that you’re my father,’ said Elinore, stepping in rapidly to mend the breach. ‘It’s not that I don’t love the Sultan. But I think deep inside he knows perfectly well I am not his daughter. He talked of you and your work together on the book with so much intensity ...’

  ‘How could he possibly know that, child? He chose your name, he insisted you were baptised, he supervised your education,’ interjected her mother.

  ‘I can tell by the way he sometimes looks at me that he is not at all sure I am his daughter. And even though I never told you, Mother, the number of times he mentioned his friend, the great scholar Ibn Muhammad al-Idrisi, was slightly strange. It was as if he was trying to interest me in my real father. Ever since you told me who my real father is, I’ve been thinking of many things the Sultan said to me. Now it’s clear.’

  ‘It was not at all strange,’ replied her mother. ‘The Sultan and your father spent a great deal of time together looking at the stars and questioning sailors from strange parts of the world. That’s why he mentioned him a lot. Your imagination is far too strong, child. Try and curb it.’

  ‘I think Elinore is right,’ said Idrisi. ‘The Sultan questioned me about you, Mayya. He knew we were from neighbouring villages, that our families knew each other well, and sometimes I got the feeling that he knew about us and wanted me to confess so he could forgive me and perhaps even hand you over to me as a gift.’

  ‘Then why didn’t you?’ came the response from his lover.

  Before he could reply, their daughter interrupted once again. ‘Since you will have my father alone to yourself for the rest of the night, Mother, perhaps I could ask him three questions before you retire.’

  ‘Ask,’ said her father.

  ‘When did you realise that I was your child?’

  ‘A few days ago at the palace in Palermo. Your mother had told me long before—in fact soon after you were born—but I was not sure whether to believe her or not.’

  Mayya screamed. ‘Muhammad! You traitor. How dare you admit this?’

  Idrisi ignored the outburst.

  ‘And are you pleased with what you see, Father? I know you have four other children.’

  ‘More than you could ever imagine, child. Of my other children the one closest to me is Walid. The rest? There is nothing to say.’

  ‘We should retire,’ Balkis muttered softly.

  ‘One more question, please. Do you prefer Strabo to Ptolemy?’

  Idrisi’s surprise was visible. ‘Who told you about them?’

  ‘The Sultan. He said he preferred Ptolemy but that you modelled your work on Strabo.’

  ‘Not completely true,’ replied her father. ‘Strabo was completely gripped by the location of places, their customs, crops, animals and the like. He wanted to compile the most accurate map of the known world. Ptolemy was more interested in the stars and the sky and the shape of the earth and the moon and how all this affected the change in seasons. They were both great masters and I have learnt much from them. In my heart I wished to pursue and develop the arguments advanced by Ptolemy, but I realised the dangers. It was a difficult path and in that direction lay trouble. Where others looked up and spoke of the poetry of the stars, I noted in great detail how close the ancients had come to solving the mysteries of the universe. Close, but they could not move further. I noticed that everythin
g moved, how each night the movement was repeated and yet never the same till twelve months had passed. Yes, my child. Everything moved. If what I thought was true, the Book was wrong and if the Book was mistaken was it Allah or his Messenger who made the mistake? I did not let these thoughts settle in my mind. They were flashes of lightning that illuminated the future. I am sure that one day discoveries will be made that will challenge the teachings of all the Prophets, including our own. It will be a brave man who publishes such findings. It might cost him his life.’

  ‘Isn’t the search for knowledge always dangerous?’

  ‘Perhaps, Elinore, I will return to the subject again before I die. Are you interested in the stars?’

  ‘Yes, but not their poetry.’

  ‘I’m tired,’ said Balkis, yawning demonstratively and looking nervously in the direction of her older sister. ‘And perhaps, Mayya, we should retire to our own chambers. Once the servants have left, Ibn Muhammad can explain the movement of the stars or the blemishes on the moon to you. I would suggest he does so from your balcony. The view is clearer.’

  It was a warm night. Mayya had discarded her sleeping robe and opened the doors that led to the balcony. The full moon had begun to wane while they were drinking their fill of each other. Afterwards, as they lay silent on her bed, each buried in memories, a soft, refreshing sea breeze arose and brushed their naked bodies.

  ‘Are there any blemishes on the moon?’ she inquired.

  ‘None,’ he replied as he stroked her back gently, resting his hands on her softness. ‘These two half-moons remain unchanged. They are exactly as they were ten years ago. You must bathe them in asses’ milk.’

  ‘They’re softer bathed in your sweat. And I’m not satisfied with just once. Will not the young cock crow once more and hide in my nest again?’

  ‘He is not as young as once he was, but why not ask him?’

  She did and the response pleased them both.

  They talked the night through and not just of the past they had not been able to share. That they had discussed many times as her refusal to leave the palace. He knew the reasons well and after a few years he stopped seeing her. They would exchange messages, but nothing more. His travels kept him away, but it was more than that: he did not wish to see her as long as she was a creature of the harem.

  She knew the most intimate details about his life and had questioned him closely as to how he had managed to produce four children with his wife. It had made her angry: ‘There is no difference between you and a donkey. You mount, ejaculate and plant your seed. Nothing more.’ He agreed with her, but would she prefer him to take another wife, someone who might meet with her approval? That was usually enough to end the conversation.

  He had written down the dates that Rujari had visited her bedchamber in the harem. There were not many, but it was a torment that he could not bear and after each of the royal visits he would not contact her for many months. She was astounded when he told her. She had not realised the efficiency with which information was conveyed out of the palace. He told her it caused him great pain, but she would shrug her shoulders and refuse to discuss the matter. It was not her fault that he had married someone else. Why had he not resisted? Was the joining of two estates more important than their love? And, of course, he had no reply. It had been deference to his dying father’s wishes rather than cowardice that had decided the matter, but he had suffered enough. Was that not sufficient punishment?

  Strange how these memories no longer pained them. The ten-year absence had been sufficient punishment and neither wished to prolong the agony. Nothing hurt any longer. Elinore was the balm. Elinore, who bore little resemblance to him in her features, but whose expressions and hand movements were extraordinarily similar. She was the product of their loins. If only ...

  ‘Muhammad?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I was thinking. If we could have another child, a brother for Elinore ...’

  He sat up in bed, startled by the symmetry of their thoughts. ‘How strange. I was thinking the same. I was also thinking that after the Sultan dies, I should take you as my wife. We could live together.’

  The suggestion irritated her. ‘Everything must wait till he dies. The resistance of our people as well as our wedding. Was that Philip’s recommendation as well?’

  He held her close and kissed her lips and then her eyes. ‘Why did you get angry?’

  ‘Because I hate your plans. Why can’t we just do as we wish? Why must everything be linked to death?’

  ‘You know me better than anyone else. You know why I control myself.’

  She calmed down and began to stroke his head. ‘I know you rage inwardly, trying hard to repress your anger. You worry lest it damage those close to you. I know that, but I don’t want to wait for anyone to die. Our love is not dependent on that, is it? Perhaps I will be with child after tonight. What then? This time Rujari will know it’s definitely not his. Does the thought frighten you?’

  He buried his head between her legs and muttered:

  ‘What kind of musk is this? What scent? From this magic others are created.’

  Afterwards, she held him close and whispered, ‘Who wrote the zajal? Not you. Not Rujari. Is it Ibn Quzman? Tell me now.’

  ‘It is his verse. Poor Ibn Quzman. I hear he is in trouble with the new Sultan in Qurtuba.’

  ‘Why can’t he come here? Should I ask Rujari?’

  ‘No. Ibn Quzman travels where he wishes. He has admirers in every city of al-Andalus. When he is in trouble in Qurtuba, he rushes to Gharnata. If his verse offends the Sultan in that city he flees to Ishbiliya or al-Marriya. Once he spent six months in Balansiya. That’s where I met him.’

  ‘You met him?’

  ‘I did.’

  ‘Why did you not tell me at the time?’

  ‘I was away from Palermo for two years. When I returned the sight of you made me forget all else.’

  ‘Did Ibn Quzman recite a zajal for you?’

  ‘He did that too, but he had consumed a great deal of wine that day and was not sure whether it should be written down or even repeated.’

  Mayya held his face in her hands. ‘Recite it to me now. Now!’

  He did as she asked.

  ‘My failures in life so far you know,

  How will I spend the rest of it?

  Only among people who appreciate sodomy or adultery;

  Of this I am certain: I like both.’

  Mayya clapped her hands in delight. ‘And you kept that from me all these years? Why? Could it be that you, too, prefer the company of sodomites and ...’

  His hand covered her mouth.

  She fell asleep just as the stars were beginning to fade. Admiring her sleeping form in the morning light, he covered her with a sheet. Then he put on his tunic and went to the balcony, the only one in the palace that was not overlooked. Thoughtful Balkis. Why can’t it be like this always? The muezzin drowned all else. Idrisi left Mayya’s bedchamber and hurried to his own, but he cursed as he saw his attendant in the corridor outside, his head touching the ground as he said his morning prayers. Idrisi slipped into his chamber and, soon after, clapped his hands to summon the man outside.

  ‘The bath is prepared, sir.’

  A few hours later a message from Elinore summoned him to a game of chess. He rarely took part in amusements and could not recall the last occasion he had played. His father had patiently taught him the rules and even though he became a competent player, he had never enjoyed the contest. Perhaps the avalanche of laughter from assembled relatives that had greeted his defeat when he was ten or eleven had discouraged him. Rujari was a keen player, but the scholar had declined to take part in palace tournaments. As he followed the attendant to the library where Elinore awaited him he wondered whether she had ever played with the Sultan. Who else could have taught her?

  She greeted him noisily, abandoning the pose of a young lady.

  ‘Wa Salaam, Abu.’

  ‘Wa Salaam, daughter.’


  ‘I told my mother I wanted to be alone with you. It was she who suggested a game of chess.’

  ‘She doesn’t play either,’ replied her father and both began to laugh.

  Elinore plied him with questions. Nothing could stop her onward rush. She did not wait for him to reply: it was her way of making him listen to her and understand her preoccupations. There was nothing false about her and he was filled with pride.

  Her mode of speech, the way she emphasised some words and not others, her ever-alert eyes, the use of her hands and the way she touched her hair reminded him of Mayya. Suddenly she stopped. ‘Well, what do you think? You haven’t been listening?’

  ‘On the contrary, I’ve been listening closely and carefully. Which part of your questioning requires a reply?’

  ‘The Hauteville family. Were they as heroic as the Sultan told us each year?’

  ‘Did the stories change at all with the years? Did you detect an increase in heroism as you grew older?’

  ‘No, they were always the same. By the time I was ten I could recite them myself.’

  ‘In that case, they were probably true. The men who left the northern part of the barbarian icelands in their sailing ships and came to burn and steal from the Franks were undoubtedly brave. They were masters of war and skilled in cruel combat. Finally the King of the Franks gave them a portion of the land and hoped they would live in peace with him. This they did, but as their settlements grew and families became larger, there was not enough food to feed them all and not enough land to share. So they began to travel again. One of their Barons, William, conquered a neighbouring island and Allah help them, Elinore, it is a cold and miserable land on which the sun never shines in the winter. Cold and dark, it rains and rains. For months it is impossible to see the sky or the stars.’