by Tariq Ali
He was fully engaged in the Holy War against the Franj. My father had been put in command of Baalbek by Sultan Zengi, and now he was worried that we might have to pack our tents and move again.
It was Zengi who had defeated the Franj and, after a month’s siege, taken the city of al-Ruha, which they called Edessa. The city had become a jewel set in the dagger of our faith, as we looked with longing towards al-Kuds and the mosque of Caliph Omar.
I still remember the words of the poet, often sung in Baalbek by both soldiers and slaves. We used to join them, and I think if I begin to sing, the words will come back:
He rides in a wave of horsemen,
They flow o’er the earth like a flood,
His spears talk to the enemy
Like tongues encrusted in blood.
He’s merciful and forgiving
But not in the heat of the fight,
For in the battle’s fire and rage
The only law is might.
My father had enjoyed warm relations with Sultan Zengi and was genuinely upset by the manner and cause of his death. Years later, Shadhi told me the real story.
Zengi was fond of wine. On the night of his death, he had consumed an entire flask of wine. While still in his cups he had sent for a young soldier who had caught his eye during the siege. The Sultan used the young man to assuage his lust.
Yaruktash, the eunuch who killed Zengi, had loved the boy. He could not bear the thought of his sculpted body being defiled by an old man in a hurry. In a fit of jealousy he followed the boy, and observed what took place. He brought wine to the guards outside the tent, making them drowsy. While they slept, he crept in and stabbed his master to death, joined by the young soldier whose body was still warm from Zengi’s embrace. It was a crime of passion.
The scribes who write history pretend that the eunuch and his friends had stolen Zengi’s wine. Fearful of being discovered, they had killed their ruler in a drunken frenzy. But this version doesn’t make sense. Shadhi told me the truth. He must have heard it from my father or my uncle. Little escaped the notice of those two men.
At the time I knew little or nothing of this. Nor was I especially interested in the affairs of that other world inhabited by adults. Once again, I benefited from not being the eldest son. That was the privilege reserved for Shahan Shah. He was obliged to sit next to my father during Friday prayers, and when other matters were being discussed. He was being trained in the arts of rulership. Turan Shah and I would sometimes find it difficult not to laugh when Shahan Shah began to adopt my father’s way of speaking.
The occupation of our coastal cities, and even of al-Kuds, which the Franj call the Kingdom of Jerusalem, had become, for me, one of the simple facts of life. Sometimes I would hear my father and my uncle Shirkuh talk of the past, often when the children were present. They would be speaking to each other, but we were the real audience. It was their way of making sure we understood the scale of what had taken place in our lands.
They would talk of how the barbarians had first arrived, and of how they ate human flesh and did not bathe. Always they told sad stories of the fate of al-Kuds. The barbarians had decided to kill all the Believers. All of your people, Ibn Yakub, as I’m sure you know better than I, were collected in the Temple of Suleiman. The exits were blocked, and the Franj set the holy sanctuary on fire. They wished to wipe out the past and to rewrite the future of al-Kuds, which once belonged to all of us, the People of the Book.
The only story that really moved me as a child was that of al-Kuds. The cruelty of the barbarians was like a poison that makes men mute. Al-Kuds was never absent from our world of make-believe. We used to climb on our horses and pretend we were riding to drive the Franj out of al-Kuds, an event which usually meant driving Shadhi out of the kitchen. Yet the real day is not so far away, Ibn Yakub. Our people will soon return to al-Kuds. The cities of Tyre and Acre, of Antioch and Tripoli, will once again belong to us.
That the Franj must be defeated was obvious, but how could we emerge victorious when the camp of the Believers was so bitterly divided? For a start, there were two Caliphs: one in Baghdad who ruled only in name, and another in Cairo, who was weak. The collapse of the Caliphate had led to little kingdoms springing up everywhere. My father told us on the day Zengi died that unless we were united the Franj would never be defeated. He spoke as a general, but his words were also true in a greater, spiritual sense. The animosities within our own side ran deep. We were fiercer in fighting our rivals than in resisting the Franj. Those words have always stayed with me.
“And your father?” I asked the Sultan. “You have not yet spoken of him. What kind of a man was he?”
My father Ayyub was a good-natured man. He was a cautious and trusting person. When trying to explain something to us, he would ask in his soft voice: “Is it simple? Is it clear? Does everyone understand?”
In a more tranquil world he might have been content in charge of a large library or as the man responsible for the regular functioning of the public baths of Cairo. You smile, Ibn Yakub. You think I underestimate the qualities of my father. Not in the least. All I am saying is that we are all creatures of our fate, and our lives are determined by the times in which we exist. Our biographies are determined by circumstance.
Take Ibn Maymun, for instance. If his family had not been compelled to leave Andalus, he might have been the Vizir of Granada. If al-Kuds had not been occupied, you might be living there and not in Cairo.
Take our Prophet himself. It was fortunate, was it not, that he received the Revelation at a time when two great empires were beginning to decay. Within thirty years of his death, the Believers, with the guidance of Allah, had succeeded beyond our wildest dreams. If we did not succeed in civilising the lands of the Franj, the fault is ours alone. It was human error that prevented us from educating and circumcising the Franj. The Prophet knew that reliance on Allah alone would never be enough. Did he not once remark: “Trust in Allah, but tie your camel first”?
My father, you must understand, never liked to travel. He was a man of sedentary habits, unlike my grandfather, who, by the way, was also called Shadhi, and my uncle Shirkuh. These two were never satisfied in one place. My enemies often refer to our family as adventurers and upstarts. Even the Prophet, may he rest in eternal peace, was called an upstart, so that does not upset me. As for being adventurers, I think that is true. The only way to move forward in this world is through adventure. If you sit still in one place, you get burnt by the sun and you die. Yet I know that my father would have liked to have stayed in Dvin, in Armenia.
The news of Zengi’s murder was not just a personal blow. It meant turmoil and trouble. Zengi’s two sons lost little time in asserting their rule in Mosul and Aleppo. My father had little confidence in their capacities. He was proved wrong, of course, but who was to know at the time that the dour and puritanical Nur al-Din would rise to such heights?
My father’s fears were soon to be vindicated. Within weeks, the armies of the ruler of Damascus were at the gates of Baalbek. Resistance, my father knew, was futile. He felt that there was no reason to spill the blood of the Believers. He negotiated a peaceful surrender, and the people were grateful.
Years later, when my father and I were riding together outside Damascus, the edge of the sky turned suddenly red-gold. He noticed this first and we drew in our reins, paying silent homage, for what seemed a long time, to the inimitable beauty of nature. As we began to ride home, none of us spoke. We were still awed by that sky which had changed again as the first stars began to appear. Just as we reached the Bab Shark, my father spoke in his soft voice.
“We often forget that even a necessary war is seen as a calamity by most people. They always suffer much more than us. Always. Never forget that, my son. Engage in battle only when there is no other way.”
Why is it that we forget certain crucial facts, and have to work hard to recall them, yet other events remain clear in our minds? I still remember that day. It is fresh in my mind
. My oldest brother, Shahan Shah, had died suddenly some years before, and my father had not fully recovered from the blow. He was still distraught. For some reason, relations between him and Turan Shah had never been close. My brother, who I loved, was far too undisciplined and headstrong a personality to appeal to my father. One day I heard my mother shouting at him: “Turan Shah, is it not enough that you leave a bitter taste in your father without annoying me as well. You are nothing but pain and trouble. Did you hear me...” So many stones had been thrown at him that he was no longer frightened of them, and he would laugh at our mother.
Since Turan Shah was excluded from the list, I was the next in line for my father’s attentions.
I was sixteen years of age and had been presented with a hunting hawk and a fine steed from Kufa. I think it was the first time that my father had taken me seriously. He treated me as an equal. We discussed many problems. He talked about his fears and worries, about the future, about a time when he would no longer be there to guide me.
The very thought of his mortality sent a chill through my body, and I began to tremble. I wanted to embrace him and kiss his cheeks, to weep on his shoulder, to shout “I don’t want you ever to die”, but I contained myself. There is a sacred boundary between father and son which cannot be crossed by emotion. Lips stay silent. The heart remains helpless.
I became aware of all this some years after we left Baalbek. My father had not surrendered the citadel without conditions. He was rewarded with a fief of eight villages near Damascus, a large sum of money, and a house in the heart of the old city. Once again, we were on the move. I was sad to leave the old temples and the streams. I had grown to love Baalbek. Life was happy and sheltered. To this day it brings a smile to my lips.
But it was Damascus that made me a man.
To my relief, the Sultan had stopped speaking and I could rest my weary hand. He noticed my plight and shouted for his attendant. Instructions were given. I was to be bathed and oiled. My hands were to be massaged till each finger had lost its tiredness. After that, I was to be provided with a meal, and permitted to rest till he returned. He wanted an evening session that day. He was due to ride through the city to inspect the building of the new citadel, his citadel, and he was being dressed for the occasion.
Just before I left his presence, I was amazed to see the entrance of a transformed Halima. This was not the tear-stained, sad-eyed creature whose tale we had heard in silence a few days earlier. She walked in with a confidence that took me aback. It answered the question that had been troubling me. She had not been violated. He had been seduced.
Now Halima wanted to visit the citadel with him. Her audacity astonished Salah al-Din. He refused. She persisted, threatening to disguise herself as a soldier and ride out after him. His eyes suddenly hardened, and his face became stern. He spoke in a harsh voice, warning her not to leave the palace without his permission. Outside these protected walls, her life was in danger. Kamil had been whipped in public only yesterday, but the crowd, which included many women, had demanded the stoning of Halima. The news that she had obtained refuge in the palace had not been well received.
Halima still had a defiant look in her eye, but the Sultan’s will prevailed. He suggested, as a conciliatory gesture, that she might perhaps take her midday meal with me. She gave me a slightly contemptuous look, and left the room.
“Sometimes,” muttered the Sultan in a weary voice, “I think I’m a better judge of horses than of men. Halima is more troublesome than a filly. If she deigns to eat with you this afternoon, Ibn Yakub, I am sure that you will offer her sage advice.”
Halima did not honour me with her company that day. I was greatly disappointed. Shadhi’s arrival, just as I was about to start eating, did not improve my humour. I was not in the mood to listen to the tales of old men, but courtesy dictated that I share my meal with him, and one thing led to another. He was soon boasting of his own exploits. His singular prowess as a rider featured in every episode.
Prior to this meeting, I had never spent much time with him, nor had I taken him particularly seriously. Yet now as I watched him, while he spoke, I saw something in his mannerisms which struck me as familiar. They alerted me to the real reason why he was treated with such respect by servant and master alike. He lifted his right hand, and raised his eyebrow just like Salah al-Din.
I let the thought pass. It was not such a surprising observation. Shadhi had probably spent more time with the Sultan than anyone else, and the young boy had picked up some of the characteristics of the retainer. Yet as the old man carried on talking, the thought returned to me. This time, I interrupted him.
“Respected uncle, I have a question for you. You talk much of your past exploits and adventures, and your stories are of great value in helping me to understand the Sultan. Yet I would like to know something about you. Who was your father? And your mother? I ask not out of curiosity alone, but...”
He interrupted me fiercely.
“Impertinent Jew! I have killed men for less!”
My face must have paled slightly, because he immediately burst out laughing.
I can’t believe you are frightened of an old man like me. Since what you are writing will not be published till we are all dead and gone, I will answer your question. My mother was a poor woman in Dvin, the only daughter of a woodcutter who delivered wood to many big houses in the area. Her mother had died giving birth to her, and her father never married again. That is a rare enough event in these times, but was unheard of when my grandfather was young, over a hundred years ago. He was as big as a giant, and his ability with the axe was known in all the nearby villages. He could fell a tree faster than anyone else in that part of the world.
He had become close friends with a young cook in the house of Shadhi ibn Marwan, the Sultan’s grandfather, and decided that this was the man for his fifteen-year-old daughter. They were married. My mother became part of Ibn Marwan’s household. I have not yet told you, scribe, that my mother was as renowned for her beauty as my grandfather for his strength. What had to happen, happened. The master caught sight of her and bent her to his will. She did not resist. I am the result. When I was born, the Sultan’s late father, Ayyub, and his uncle Shirkuh were already over ten years old. Their mother was a ferocious lady. When she heard the news, she insisted that the cook and my mother—I was still in her stomach—should be given some money and sent to a neighbouring village.
Shadhi ibn Marwan gave in to her. When I was born, my mother named me Shadhi, to annoy everyone. There my story would have ended, were it not for the fact that, when I was seven years old, my mother’s husband died. He had been a good father to me and treated me no differently from his own son, who was a year younger than me.
I have no idea how the news reached Ibn Marwan. All I know is that one day, with his retinue in attendance, he rode into our village and spoke to my mother in private. Allah alone knows what they said to each other. I was too busy admiring the horses and the beautifully coloured saddles.
At the end of their conversation, my mother called me in and hugged me in a tight embrace. She kissed both my eyes while trying to keep the tears out of her own. She told me that, from now on, I was to work in the house of Shadhi ibn Marwan, and to obey him blindly.
I was very upset, and I wept for many months. I missed her greatly. I would go and see her once or twice a year, and she would feed me my favourite cakes, made of maize and sweetened with mountain honey.
It was only when we were leaving Dvin, and moving southwards to Takrit, that I found out about my real father. I had gone to say farewell to my mother. I knew we would never see each other again. She had my brother and his wife and their children, and I knew they loved her and would look after her, but I was still overcome by sadness. As we parted she kissed me on the forehead, and told me everything. I cannot recall how I felt at the time. Long, long ago. I was both pleased and angry.
Shadhi’s story had confirmed my suspicions, and I was desperate to question hi
m further. Before we could speak, the Sultan had entered, with his two sons by his side. They were introduced to me, but it was obvious that they had come in search of Shadhi. His eyes had lit up on seeing the boys. As he took them away, the Sultan whispered: “Did she?” in my ear. I shook my head, and he burst out laughing.
Five
Ibn Maymun’s wisdom and his prescriptions
ONE EVENING, AFTER TWO long and exhausting days with the Sultan, I returned home to find Rachel, my wife, in deep conversation with Ibn Maymun. She was registering a set of complaints against me with our great teacher, knowing how much influence and respect he commanded in our household. As I entered the room, I heard her tell him how the amount of time I was spending in the palace was affecting my way of thinking, my character, and my attitude to “less privileged mortals”. Most important of all, I was being charged with the neglect of my duties to her and to our family.
“I think this is a case for the Kadi,” replied Ibn Maymun, stroking his beard thoughtfully. “Should I transmit your reproach to him, and demand that he punishes Ibn Yakub?”
My laughter annoyed Rachel, and she left the room, her face as hard as the stale bread she had been compelled to serve our unexpected guest. Ibn Maymun was tired. His duties to the Kadi were heavy, given that he lived in Fustat, some two miles distant from the Kadi’s palace. He visited him early in the morning, on every day, attending to his needs as well as his children’s, and those of the inmates of the harem.
Thus he spent most of the day in Cairo, returning home late every afternoon. Waiting for him was a unique combination of people: Jews and Gentiles; noblemen and peasants; friends and enemies; and young children and their grandfathers. These were his patients. The price of success was that Ibn Maymun was much in demand. The number of his patients increased by the day and, true physician that he was, he could never turn anyone away.
Sometimes, when desperately in need of rest, he would spend the night at our house in the Juderia, a short walk from the palace. Here, he told me, he could enjoy total peace and recover his energy. I apologised to him for Rachel’s outburst.
