by Tuvia Fogel
Francesco hadn’t understandood a word of the exchange, but something told him that Master Ezekiel and the sultan knew each other, and he realized that the Jew’s role would be more influential than he expected. He closed his eyes and entreated the Holy Spirit to turn his words into flames that would keep burning from one tongue to the other.
“Sire,” he began when the exchange between the two had petered out, “if you will listen to our words, you will be enlightened, but if you will believe our words, then we will consign your soul to God. Because I tell you, in truth: if you die professing the law you follow now, God will never receive your soul! For the law of your Mahomet, a perfidious deceiver, is worth nothing!”
Brother Illuminato and Galatea gasped, the mystery of Francesco’s true intent finally solved, but al-Kamil, thankfully, didn’t notice them. Yehezkel set to work at once to save the friar’s life.
He had told Francesco that unless he was seeking martyrdom, insulting Muhammad was the one thing he must not do. Now, as he translated the part on consigning al-Kamil’s soul to God, he feverishly sought a phrase to replace the insults to the Prophet, whose name the Sultan had recognized. “For the Law of your Mahomet is useless, so vague that men have twisted all justice out of it!” he finally said, cursing himself for replacing Francesco’s Latin words with twice as many Arabic ones.
Francesco knew what he had said and expected the sultan to react with outrage, if not fury. Instead, al-Kamil looked bemused, and for a moment the friar asked himself if the Jew had betrayed him but then pushed the thought from his mind. Meanwhile, al-Kamil was finding himself strangely charmed by the idea of a conversation with those Christian Sufis.
“What you say about the prophet’s Law is interesting . . . and provoking,” he said severely. “I see you dress like Sufis do, so I expect the sermon with which you intend to save my soul will be full of Love and annulling oneself for the sake of others.”
Yehezkel translated the first words dishonestly, warning the friar to watch his tongue as if reacting to the insults. As he’d hoped, Francesco was struck by the sultan’s mild-mannered tolerance and seemed inclined to abandon his original intent to provoke him.
Then al-Kamil’s irony on Sufis made the monk smile and convinced him to debate the infidel king instead. “Call your wisest theologians, sire,” he began, “and I will prove to them, with solid arguments, that Mahomet’s Law cannot save your soul!”
Al-Kamil smiled condescendingly. “It would take more than solid arguments to shake my faith in Allah, Messer Francesco, but I believe in preaching Islam to the infidel. The Holy Qu’ran tells us to say to the people of Scripture, ‘We believe in what was revealed to us and in what was revealed to you, and our God and your God are one and the same—to Him we are both submitters!’”
Al-Kamil looked straight at Francesco as he waited for the interpreter to catch up, and smiled when he saw the friar relishing the qu’ranic verse on their gods being the same. Then he stood up, arranged his robe, and summoned his four principal ulema to the tent. The Christian Sufi may not have been sent as a channel for negotiations, he thought, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t become one, if handled properly.
As they waited for the greatest authorities in the Ayubbid empire on Qu’ran and sharia,*49 al-Kamil seemed to notice for the first time the tall squire with his eyes on the ground.
“Why does your squire look so dejected, Tabib? Is it because we took his sword away?” he jested.
Yehezkel knew that once in al-Kamil’s tent, hiding Galatea’s sex would be impossible and decided to confess the little trick they’d played on Pelagius before the sultan found out for himself. “Commander of the Faithful, the cardinal heading the infidels—may his name be rubbed out of all books—would never allow this Italian noblewoman to accompany the monks on such an expedition, so I . . . I convinced her to dress up as my squire!” he lied, hiding behind the Arabic to shamelessly appropriate Galatea’s idea as his own.
Al-Kamil was amused and called out to the squire. Galatea looked up, and right away the sultan gestured for her to come closer. Yehezkel chose not to tell al-Kamil that the noble lady was also the abbess of a religious house, but now, seeing the look in his eyes, he called himself an idiot. If she was just a Christian noblewoman, she was legal war booty! With one word, if he so wished, the sultan could put her in his harem! How could he have been such a fool?
Four rigid figures in long black robes walked in and bowed to the sultan, their beards and turbans vast white expanses between which the small, dark stains of their faces looked almost lost. The oldest one, unsteady on his feet, was Fakhr ad-Din al-Fârisî, who recognized Yehezkel but only acknowledged him by a lowering of the eyelids. Al-Kamil welcomed them into the tent.
“Honorable friends, these two infidel monks had the temerity to come here to preach their religion to me. I want you to help me show them the light of the Holy Qu’ran.”
The four scholars bowed again, and the first one to speak—the youngest, thought Yehezkel—at once declined to assist al-Malik in his intent. “My lord and king, not only does sharia forbid listening to the preaching of kuffar beliefs, it decrees death for the kaffir who dares preach to believers!”
The second one chimed in, “If you want to be called Defender of All Believers, you must have these two worms beheaded without further discussions!”
Yehezkel translated both comments in Francesco’s ear. When the friar heard he’d been called a worm, he blurted out joyfully, “Thank you, thank you, Your Excellency! I don’t see how I could become a better creature than a worm! Just look at it: it accomplishes its Creator’s will without ever destroying anything!”
Yehezkel pronounced Francesco’s retort in Arabic, with a straight face. Al-Kamil laughed.
The third alim gave the Sultan’s request a little more thought, and said, “I will give the kuffar a brief introduction to the revelation of our Prophet—peace be upon Him—as you ask, but debating with them the merits of our religions, which is what I suspect you would like to see us do, well, that does indeed go against half a dozen injunctions in the Holy Qu’ran.”
The last one to speak was Fakhr. He sounded very tired. “Naser, I’m too old for the words of a Christian monk, however courageous, to endanger my faith. Let my colleagues run away and protect themselves as the law prescribes, I’ll stay and listen to him with you.” The old alim paused and smiled. “And help you confound him, if you should lack for words.”
“Let it be as you say!” grunted al-Kamil, disappointed at the lost opportunity for another disputatio like the one he’d presided over with Coptic monks in al-Kahira.
The three ulema fled the tent. Francesco knowingly watched the old Saracen clerics deliver their harsh judgments to their king, all the while praying for the Holy Spirit to inspire him. Then, when only Fakhr remained, he said almost slyly, clearly working up to some coup-de-scéne, “Actually, I’m glad there will be no disputatio with your sages, sire. You said solid arguments wouldn’t convince you that only Christ can save your soul . . . well, for me, too, faith is above and beyond reason.”
He stopped to allow Yehezkel to translate and then went on in the ringing, prophetic voice that always startled everyone coming from such a small man, “To replace your sages, sire, have some brushwood brought in and have them light it—this tent is big enough for a small fire. Then we will let God be the judge of our religions, and I shall prove Christ to you by walking into the fire when it roars, protected by nothing but my faith!”
At first, when Yehezkel told him what Francesco came up with, Al-Kamil was speechless. Then he exchanged whispers with Fakhr on the platform. A giggle escaped him as he turned to the friar. “No, Messer Francesco, I will not allow you to walk into a fire in my tent. First, because I would prefer to debate the foundations of our religions, as I’ve done with other Christian clerics, than watch you play with fire. Second, because if fire didn’t burn you, word would get out and some of my troops may want to embrace your religion.
Unfortunately, sharia commands the execution of anyone who abjures Islam.”
As he translated, Yehezkel recognized Fakhr’s elegant irony in pointing out to the monk that if he gained any converts, this would instantly make martyrs of them. But the sultan hadn’t finished. “I have to go now, Messer Francesco, but I would enjoy speaking with you some more tomorrow, with the help of the tabib here.” He gestured to Yehezkel to translate and turned to the old man.
“Fakhr, how do I stop your colleagues branding me an apostate for talking with a Christian monk? In fact, won’t they assail me like wasps just for not putting both of them to death?”
Fakhr smiled. “Easy, Nasser. Declare him a Majnun.*50 The Sunna holds that by taking away his mental sanity and responsibility, Allah conferred the greatest of all graces on the Majnun, the inability to sin. If you have sympathy for the monk and you find that he speaks nonsense and says everything just to mock this world, you can declare him a fool of God and let him live.”
Al-Kamil smiled, relieved. “You’re priceless, Fakhr. I don’t know what I’ll do without you when . . .”
“Oh, you’ll manage, Naser. I’ve no doubt.”
Al-Kamil took his leave of the monks. “You’ll be assigned a tent, and no one will touch a hair of your beards.” The word reminded him of the beardless squire, and he turned to her. “You will be lodged with other women in the camp, my lady, but before I leave, may I ask whom I have the honor and pleasure of hosting in my makeshift encampment?”
Yehezkel translated. Galatea curtsied to the sultan and introduced herself. “I am Countess Galatea degli Ardengheschi, abbess of the convent of San Maffìo in Venice, sire.”
When Yehezkel translated, al-Kamil’s displeasure was evident. “Convent? You are a member of a religious order?” He glared at Yehezkel. “Why didn’t you tell me, Tabib? Why did you only say ‘Italian noblewoman’? Surely you’re not thinking of . . . selling her?”
Yehezkel wished the ground would open up and swallow him, like the Israelites who rebelled against Moses. “Forgive your clumsy servant, Commander of the Faithful. What I thought was tactful turned out to be tactless.”
Al-Kamil ignored him and turned back to the squire, whose mix of chain mail and violet eyes he found far more beguiling than the monk’s puerile attempts to consign his tent to the flames of hell. “And why would a noblewoman,” he asked her, “who is also the head of a women’s religious house, take up arms to protect extravagant monks?”
Galatea smiled. “We Christians have a long tradition of women caring for wandering holy men, sire. Jesus was but the first of them. Before I met Brother Francesco, I was on a pilgrimage to Jerusalem.”
“Ahh, Jerusalem!” said al-Kamil dreamily. “I first saw the Holy City when I was seven, and my uncle Salah ad-Din took her back. Ninety years earlier the infidels inflicted a massacre on the city, but when we rode in, my uncle spared everyone, to show the world who is more civilized.”
As Yehezkel translated, the sultan watched the infidel thoroughbred’s glowering eyes. He turned to Yehezkel with a bitter smile. “Your oversight nearly changed her life, Tabib. She’s a female priest, so I can’t touch her, but had she just been a follower of the Majnun monk, she would have become by far the most beautiful of my wives.”
Yehezkel thanked the Almighty from the bottom of his by now besotted heart.
Twice the next day and once more on the third, Francesco spent time with the sultan and explained to him the scandal of Christianity, the victory over death of a man who was also God’s only Son. He told of how accepting that His death had been the ultimate sacrifice that absolved men of their sins would instantly save his soul and allow it to enter God’s Kingdom.
Although he’d heard Christians espouse their creed before, al-Kamil listened graciously. The very idea of God having a son made his blood curdle, and he was amused to see the Jew straining, as he translated, to disguise his own distaste for the monk’s beliefs. But Francesco’s inspired sincerity and flowery tongue touched him, and twice he was moved to remind him that Jesus and his mother Mary were deeply revered by the only true religion—that is, by Islam.
On the second day, al-Kamil gently pushed the friar to talk of the war. He was pleasantly surprised to discover that Francesco was opposed to it and believed that Christians and Saracens should live side by side, free to mingle and preach their religion to each other, if they so wished. This, al-Kamil told him, was also the opinion of Sufis, of whom he was not as critical as his ulema.
“Will you bear an embassy to your cardinal,” said the sultan, “to help bring an end to this war?”
“Cardinal Pelagius is not impressed with my mission . . . or my style of preaching, sire. But I’ll gladly convey your embassy to the bishop of Acre, who is influential and a good friend.”
Yehezkel couldn’t resist the opportunity to air his own plan to save Damietta. “I hope the Commander of the Faithful will forgive my insolence if I express an uncalled-for opinion, but I had many conversations with the nobles I was curing in the infidel camp, and I was hoping for a chance to tell you my impression of the situation there . . . politically.”
The sultan was immediately attentive. “Go ahead, Yehezkel ibn Yusuf. I’m listening.”
“The cardinal is certain that Damietta is close to falling. That’s why he refused all the offers you made to give them Jerusalem if they leave Egypt. But many important people there don’t share his certainty and want to go home. Especially after the disaster of two weeks ago.” Yehezkel hadn’t yet said anything al-Kamil didn’t already know. Then he unveiled his idea. “My lord, Christians are so superstitious they’re more like pagans than believers! Add to your offer that you’ll return the wood captured by your uncle at Hattin, which they call the True Cross and hold as the Relic of Relics. Offer a thirty-day truce to consider the offer. They’ll accept the truce, but the offer will split their camp right down the middle! It wouldn’t surprise me if fights broke out between factions!”
“It’s a good idea, Tabib. Fakhr thought of something similar . . . but there’s a problem. My brother and I know our father received the wood from his brother, who took it from the infidels, but when I asked al-Muazzam to send it, he came back saying they couldn’t find it! The confounded officials chose a hiding place for it, and no one alive remembers where the place was! Can you believe it, Tabib?”
Yehezkel was silent, squeezing his beard as he considered the quandary. “Tell me, Commander of the Faithful, what would be the difference between confessing now to the Franks that the True Cross has been lost and confessing it after they leave Egypt?”
Al-Kamil smiled knowingly. “Only the fact that if I offer the wood now I would be lying, because I already know I don’t have it.”
“Exactly. But suppose you had not yet asked your brother to look for it, then your offer would be made in good faith, for you would still think you had it somewhere . . .”
The sultan smiled admiringly. “My father used to say that your teacher, Musa ibn Maimun, was the smartest man in the world. A little of that may have rubbed off on you, Tabib.”
Yehezkel looked so pleased with the compliment that Francesco and Galatea regretted not having followed the exchange.
The sultan went on. “I shall follow your advice. You’ll remain in camp until the infidels react to the offer, and if they behave as you predicted, you’ll be rewarded. Is there anything in particular your heart desires?” He grinned in complicity and, had Yehezkel not been a Jew, would have winked. “After all, Tabib, renouncing my wartime claims on your Italian countess is reward enough, is it not?”
Yehezkel blushed under his beard, pretending not to grasp the insinuation, and then took his chance. “Actually, my lord, there is something I would appreciate. A letter with your seal on it, giving me permission to carry out searches on the Haram al-Sharif, both above and below ground.”
“Mmhh . . . and what exactly would your searches in that holy place aim to find?”
“All I know
, my lord—and even that only from rumors and speculation—is that whatever it is, it would be the undoing of Christianity.”
The sultan’s dark eyes searched his face. “Something tells me you’re not exaggerating, Tabib. All right, if the cardinal accepts the truce but not the offer, you’ll have your letter with my seal.”
On the third day, the sultan told Francesco his new offer, asking him to convey it to Jacques de Vitry. At the mention of the True Cross, the friar’s face lit up like a small sun, confirming to al-Kamil the relic’s power over Christian hearts. Then, to express his esteem of the Christian Sufi, he offered him various gifts, but Francesco predictably refused everything.
The one thing Francesco and Illuminato accepted during their three days in al-Kamil’s camp were the delicious meals cooked for the guests and brought to their tent. During one meal, Francesco told Yehezkel how taken he was with the camp’s muezzins.
“The calls to prayer that spread among the tents here five times a day are sudden, piercing reminders of God even in the middle of war,” he said, “so much more direct and personal than church bells!”
On the 15th, the time came for separation. The two friars and the escort the sultan insisted on were headed back to the Christian camp, while Yehezkel, Galatea, and Aillil would remain in Färiskür.
Galatea asked Francesco for his blessing.
The little monk hesitated, as if uncertain that blessing her without looking her in the eyes was possible, and then asked all three of them to kneel down, put his hands on Galatea’s and Aillil’s heads, with Yehezkel in the middle, and pronounced, “Ego vos benedico, in nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti!”
As they got to their feet, Francesco unexpectedly fell on his knees before Yehezkel, saying, “I want your blessing, too, Master Ezekiel! Please don’t refuse me!”
