The Book of Saladin (23 page)

This was a difficult order. Salah al-Din’s movements were still unclear. Even if one knew where he was, it was perfectly possibly that he would be somewhere completely different by the time one reached him. We had not received news for some weeks. Neither pigeon nor courier had arrived, and Farrukh Shah was slightly concerned. Other reports of Franj activity, not far from Damascus, had been received two days ago. Even as Shadhi and I were talking, an attendant summoned us to Farrukh Shah’s presence. He had returned earlier that day from a skirmish with a small group of Franj knights about half an hour away from Damascus.

Farrukh Shah was not the most intelligent of rulers, but his generosity and courage were well known. Imad al-Din’s complaints regarding his extravagance were not exaggerated, but they underplayed the fact that little of the money was spent on himself. He rewarded loyalty, and in this he was not unlike his uncle, except that Salah al-Din’s austere tastes and habits were so well known that even the poorest of the poor never believed that he spent much on himself. Some rulers are motivated by artistic pursuits, others are addicted to hedonism, others still to the pursuit of riches as an end in themselves. The Sultan was only concerned with the well-being of others.

It was a moonlit sky as we crossed the ramparts to the audience chamber. We had been excluded from it ever since the departure of Salah al-Din. The emirs were already gathered as we entered. I bowed to Farrukh Shah, who looked exhausted, as if he hadn’t slept for many days. Shadhi glared at the Sultan’s nephew, who ignored the old man completely, but he came and welcomed me with a display of real warmth.

“I’m glad you could come, Ibn Yakub. A letter has just arrived from my uncle, and we are instructed that you and old man Shadhi are to be invited when it is read to the council.”

I bowed again to thank him. Shadhi sniffed loudly and swallowed his phlegm. One of the younger court scribes, a pretty, fair-skinned boy with golden hair and curled eyelashes, probably no more than eighteen years of age, had been selected to read the letter.

“Look at this shameless hussy,” whispered Shadhi, looking at the scribe. “He’s probably just walked here from Farrukh Shah’s bed, and he’s still busy making eyes at him.”

I frowned at my old friend, hoping to control his bitterness, but he grinned at me defiantly.

The boy spoke in a cracked voice.

“Castrated,” muttered Shadhi.

“Silence!” shouted Farrukh Shah. “Silence when a letter from our Sultan Salah al-Din ibn Ayyub is being read to the court.”

The scribe began to speak, at first with a certain nervousness, but then, as Imad al-Din’s prose gathered its own momentum, with much greater confidence.

“This letter is addressed to my dear nephew Farrukh Shah and all our loyal emirs of Damascus. We are outside Aleppo and desirous, as ever, of avoiding the unpleasant sight of Believer killing Believer, I have offered the emirs an honourable truce, provided we occupy the citadel. I am not sure that they possess the intelligence to appreciate our generosity.

“One of them rode out to meet us yesterday. He was full of flowery words and grand flourishes, hoping to flatter me into withdrawal, offering me untold treasures and swearing eternal loyalty to us on the Koran. ‘We are your friends, O great Sultan, and we will be at your side on that day which is about to come, the day when you take al-Kuds and drive the Franj out of our lands.’

“These fine words made no impact on me, since only three days previously our spies had reported that the nobles of Aleppo had sent urgent messages to the Franj and the
hashishin
in the mountains, offering them money if they could keep me out of the city.

“I replied to him as follows: ‘You claim to be my friend. For me friendship is a sacred trust, Acred, but tell me something: who are your enemies? Name your real enemies and I will name your friends. For me friendship means, above all, common animosities. Do you agree?’

“The fool nodded. At this point I showed him a copy of the letter his master had sent to the Franj. He began to sweat and tremble, but I contained my anger. Shadhi, bless his heart, would have advised sending this rogue’s severed head back to Aleppo, and I was greatly tempted, but I rose above my anger. Anger is never a good emotion when one is determining a higher strategy. We sent the Emir back to Aleppo with a severe warning that, if they persisted in their defiance, then I would have no alternative but to take their city by storm. I warned them not to imagine that, in these circumstances, all their citizens would rush to defend them.

“We wanted to send you a dispatch after the armies of Mosul, backed by their allies, decided to meet us on the plain of Harzim, just below Mardin, but we waited for them in vain. They may have advanced like men, but they vanished like women. We were tempted to chase them, but instead I decided to isolate them completely from the neighbouring towns.

“Two days ago we took the city of al-Amadiyah, without too much resistance, though too much time was taken by our soldiers in piercing the massive black basalt walls. This was a pleasurable victory because of the surprising treasures contained in the city. We have, as a result of this victory, succeeded in capturing many weapons, enough to create two new armies. Both al-Fadil, who was here for the siege, and Imad al-Din, were interested only in the library, which contained a million volumes. These were loaded on seventy camels and are, even as I write, making their way to Damascus. Ibn Yakub should be placed in charge of ensuring that they are placed safely in our library till Imad al-Din returns. They include three copies of the Koran which date to the time of the Caliph Omar.

“The Franj will not be able to resist their offer, and that is the main reason for this letter. The aim of the Franj will be to prevent me from assembling a large army. I think they will attempt a diversion in both Damascus and Cairo. If my instincts are justified then you need to forestall such a move by taking the offensive.

“You have done well, Farrukh Shah. I have detailed reports of your recent victories, but we need Aleppo and Mosul under our control if the Franj are to be dislodged from our world and returned over the sea to their own.

“Tomorrow we march back to Aleppo. The mountain air has done us all much good and has dispelled our tiredness. The soldiers know that the sun in the plains will be like the fires of Hell, but our Heaven will be Aleppo. It will take us fifteen days to reach it and, Allah willing, we shall take the city this time. Only then will I return to Dimask to make our final preparations for the jihad. Be on your guard against surprise attacks by the Franj.”

The chamberlain indicated that the meeting was over, and as Shadhi and I rose to leave the chamber, we bowed in the direction of Farrukh Shah. But there was something wrong, and suddenly his attendants, too, realised that he had fainted. The room was cleared, and the physicians summoned. It is to the credit of all the emirs present that there was no sense of fear or panic, of the kind which usually accompanies the illness of a ruler. Perhaps this was due to the fact that Farrukh Shah was not a Sultan, but acting on his behalf.

Shadhi was dismissive, refusing to take the illness seriously.

“He probably had too much to drink or extended himself too far when fondling that foolish boy who read Salah al-Din’s letter. Go to bed, Ibn Yakub.”

I did go to bed, but I was too worried to sleep, so I got up again, put on my robe and walked outside. The moon had set and the stars had changed places. I walked slowly in the direction of Farrukh Shah’s bedchamber, only to be greeted by his favourite attendant who was weeping like a child, loudly and uncontrollably. I feared the worst, but he was still alive, though still in a swoon.

The next morning, Farrukh Shah’s condition weakened. He never recovered. Even as the Sultan was marching towards Aleppo, loud screams and wailing rent the citadel in Damascus, announcing to all of us that his nephew had breathed his last.

We buried him the next day, with all the honours due to his person. It was not just a gathering of nobles. Thousands of ordinary people, including several hundred vagrants, came to offer prayers at the side of his grave. This was the clearest indication to me that perhaps Shadhi’s hostility to the dead man had been misplaced.

I
N THE ABSENCE OF
the Sultan my daily routine had been transformed. I would spend most of the morning in the library, studying any manuscript I could find which related to my own work. Here in Damascus there was a private collection in the possession of a great scholar, Ibrahim ibn Suleiman, now nearly ninety years of age. I had first heard of him and his library from someone whose memory even now brings me pain. My only image of him is that of an animal satisfying his lust on my wife’s body. I shall not dwell on him again, or so I have hoped.

Ibrahim was the oldest Rabbi in the city. I used to see him nearly every day as I made my way to the synagogue, behind which his library was situated. On most days he could be found there. Old age had not yet affected his mental faculties. On the few occasions when I needed to ask him for some advice, he revealed the splendours of his mind, making me feel somewhat sad and inadequate. He had heard a great deal of the intellectual prowess of the man I have no desire to mention again, and one day he sat me down and wanted to know everything I could tell him about Ibn Maymun.

The spell is broken. The accursed name has again darkened these pages. And yet...And yet, I could not deny Ibrahim ibn Suleiman the information for which he yearned with all the eagerness of an eighteen-year-old scholar.

So, against my will, and to please this great and generous old man, I talked of Ibn Maymun and of the work on which he was engaged. I mentioned why he was writing
The Guide to the Perplexed,
and, as I spoke, the wrinkled map that was Ibrahim’s face was suddenly wreathed in a smile so pure that I was shaken by the change. This was the face of true wisdom.

“I will the happy now, Ibn Yakub. Another has done what I wanted to, but could never achieve. I will write to Ibn Maymun, and give you the letter. You can use your position as the Sultan’s favoured scribe to have it sent to Cairo immediately. I will also enclose with the letter some of my own work on the subject which he might find of some use. How well do you know him?”

How well did I know him? The question echoed and re-echoed in my mind. A deep pain, which I thought I had transcended, gripped my insides once again, as the memory of that awful night burst like a thunderstorm that drowned me in the moment. I did not realise that tears were pouring down my face. Ibrahim wiped them with his hands and hugged me.

“He brought you grief?”

I nodded.

“You may tell me if you wish, even though I may not be able to help.”

And so my heart poured out its long-repressed agony to this patriarch in his robes. He sat listening, as Musa must once have listened to the troubles of his children. When I had finished, I realised that the pain had disappeared. This time I felt it had gone forever. It would never return.

The comfort Ibrahim offered was written on his face. His alert, intelligent eyes did not flicker. He understood. He did not need to say anything. I understood. In the scale of suffering that our people had undergone, my personal experience was a grain of sand. Nothing less. Nothing more. All this had been suggested by his presence alone. As if through a miracle my head had suddenly cleared. The residual pain had disappeared. My inner balance was restored. Everything could be seen through a different, centuries-old perspective. I wanted to laugh out loud, but restrained myself. He noted the change.

“Your face has cleared, Ibn Yakub. The lines on your forehead have evaporated. I hope the dark clouds inside your head have once again given way to the sun.

I nodded my head. He smiled.

As I made my way back to the citadel, the sun was at its zenith, piercing the black muslin robe that I wore. I was beginning to sweat and feel uncomfortable. The minute I had reached my destination, I headed straight for the baths. I lay in the cold water for a long time. Slowly the heat and discomfort in my body gave way to a cool calm. I dried myself and returned to my chamber fully restored. I drank some water and lay down to rest. My dreams were very clear, as they usually are during the afternoon sleep. Because one is sleeping lightly, the memory is clearer. I was dreaming of the domed room in Cairo, and I saw my wife and daughter sitting in front of a vessel containing water, which they were pouring over each other. How the dream would have developed, I do not know. I felt myself being shaken out of my slumber, and raised my eyelids to see the grinning face of Amjad the eunuch.

“The Sultana wishes to see you now, Ibn Yakub.”

I sat up in bed and glared angrily at him, but he remained unaffected.

“Which Sultana?” I asked.

He refused to reply, as was often his wont, merely indicating with an arrogant gesture that I should follow him. In some ways he reminded me of the eunuch Ilmas in Cairo, who had come to a bad end.

It was Jamila who awaited me in the antechamber which led to the harem. She dismissed Amjad with a flicker of an eye. She was not her usual ebullient self; her languid eyes were unhappy. She had been crying, and had clearly not slept well for many a night. What could have upset this woman whose piercing intelligence and strength of character had dazzled the Sultan himself? She stared at me for a long time without speaking.

“The Sultana appears distracted. Can a humble scribe help in any way?”

“Your old friend Halima has betrayed my trust, Ibn Yakub. In her I thought I had found a worthy friend. She shared my criticisms of the way we lived. For many months, as you know, we were inseparable. We lost count of the days we spent together. She learnt to appreciate Andalusian philosophy and the satirical poetry of our wits in Cairo and Damascus. We used to laugh at the same things. Even our animosities were matched. For fear of offending your delicate sensitivities, I will not describe our nights together, but believe me, Ibn Yakub, when I say that they move me still. We played together like the flute and the lyre. Need I say more? When, looking at me, she used to smile, her face flowed like a freshwater spring, radiating goodness and tempting one to bend down and drink its refreshing waters. When she smiled it was as though the world smiled with her.