The Book of Saladin (32 page)

What were they thinking? What thoughts were crossing their minds? Were they, like me and Jamila and Amjad, thinking of the battles that lay ahead? Victory or defeat? Both were possible. The feeling of deep solidarity that existed in all these men when they marched together was undeniable. That solidarity was created by the knowledge that if they succeeded in driving the Franj out of al-Kuds, this army of which they were a part would be remembered throughout history.

This solidarity gave them a collective identity when they thought only of victory, but these soldiers were also individual human beings. They had mothers and fathers, and brothers and sisters and wives, and sons and daughters. Would they see their loved ones again? True this was a jihad, and that meant they would go straight to heaven without any accounting by the angels. But what if people close to them failed to win entry to heaven? What then? It was thoughts of this sort that dominated their minds as they savoured the night sky before closing their eyes. I know this because I spoke to many of them and heard their stories.

“If we lose,” said Jamila, “and Salah al-Din is killed, I will take my sons and return to my father’s home. I do not wish to sit in Damascus and watch more wars whose only aim is to determine who succeeds him. I suppose pessimism is natural on the eve of a war. My instinct, however, says the opposite. I feel strongly that he will win this war. Let us retire for the night, Ibn Yakub, and careful you do not betray my secret.”

I bade goodnight to the bearded Jamila, but the Sultan clearly had other plans for me. Just as I was walking to my tent, one of his bodyguards waylaid me with instructions to attend to the Sultan without delay. I rushed to my tent to collect my pen and ink and sheafs of paper.

The Sultan’s tent was surprisingly modest. It was only slightly bigger than mine, and the bed in the corner was no different to that on which I slept. The only sign of rank was a large silk carpet which covered the sand and on which he sat, leaning against a pile of cushions. Next to him were the Emir Keukburi and Taki al-Din. The Sultan was in a light mood. He looked at me and winked.

“Who is this Ibn Said from Aleppo who insults my Kurdish warriors?”

“A man of no importance, Commander of the Victorious.”

“I hope you are right. Keukburi is convinced that he is a spy of some sort.”

“Spies,” I replied, “are usually keen to ingratiate themselves with the enemy. They flatter shamelessly the better to deceive. The stranger from Aleppo is one of nature’s sceptics, with a whip for a tongue and a brain so sharp that it could slice a camel in two.”

The Sultan laughed.

“You have just described the Sultana Jamila.”

Everyone laughed at this sally, and Keukburi, unaware that he was the butt of the joke, louder than most, to show that he really appreciated the dig at his sister-in-law.

Before Keukburi’s ignorance as to the real identity of Ibn Said could be further exploited, the tent flap opened and the Sultan’s oldest son, al-Afdal, all of seventeen years, walked in and bowed to his father, acknowledging the rest of us with a patronising smile. He had grown since I last saw him over a year ago. His beard was neatly trimmed and his whole demeanour suggested a person of authority. I remembered him and his brothers as small boys being taught to ride in Cairo. I had seen this boy being taught how to fight with a sword on horseback and on foot.

Assuming that father and son wished to be alone, Taki al-Din, Keukburi and myself rose to leave. The Sultan permitted the other two to leave, but waved me to stay seated. After the two men had departed, he allowed his son to sit down.

The boy had fought his first battle several weeks ago and had sent his father a glowing account, comparing his first war to the deflowering of a virgin, an analogy that had greatly displeased Imad al-Din. He had muttered rudely that, whatever else he might become, al-Afdal could never be a prose stylist. Salah al-Din was a loving but stern father. Since the arrival of his son, his mood had changed. His face had taken on a severity which did not augur well for the young prince, who realising this just as I did, frowned at my presence. I smiled at him sweetly and he turned his face away, not looking his father in the eyes.

“Look at me Afdal! We are about to fight a battle in which I might die. Our spies tell us that the Franj King, Guy, has offered a large reward to the knight who lances me in the heart.”

The boy was moved to tears.

“I will be at your side always. They will have to kill me first.”

The Sultan smiled, but his face did not lighten as he continued.

“Listen to me, boy. You are still young. Understand one thing. In the field of battle, respect must be earned. I was given a chance by my uncle Shirkuh to prove myself early in life, just like you, except that I exercised no power whatsoever till much later. Shirkuh never believed in inherited authority.

“I was grateful to him, even though at the time I felt like a man who does not know how to swim but is thrown into a river. He has to learn how to swim and reach the other side at the same time. You think because you are the son of the Sultan that the soldiers and the emirs will respect you. They may want you to believe that, but you would be a fool to do so. Once you have fought by their side, eaten sand and tasted blood, then they might begin to see you as their equal. After you have fought with them several times, they might begin to respect you. The right to give orders does not win respect.

“Imad al-Din and al-Fadil have educated you well. I am aware that you are well acquainted with the history of all the great wars we have fought since the days of our Prophet, may he rest in peace, but that knowledge, important though it is, will not come to your aid in the battlefield. In wars, experience is a much better teacher.

“What you learn from books you can just as easily forget, unless you are blessed with the memory of Imad al-Din. What you experience yourself stays with you till you die.

“I summoned you because it has come to my attention that some weeks ago you challenged the authority of your cousin and my brother’s son, Taki al-Din, in front of the emirs, ordering him to carry out an instruction contrary to what he had already decided. He was disciplined, and did as you asked. In his place my uncle Shirkuh and I would have slapped your neatly bearded face. Fortunately your orders did not lead to disaster, otherwise I would have had to reprimand you in public.

“I want to be clear on one point. Taki al-Din is my right arm. I trust his judgement. I trust him with my life. If, in the course of the battle, Allah decides that my time has come, Taki al-Din is the only emir genuinely respected by the soldiers, who could still lead our side to victory. I am leaving orders to that effect. You can learn a great deal by observing your cousin and staying by his side, but that is a decision for you alone. Tomorrow morning I want you to go to him, apologise for what you did, and kiss his cheeks. Is that plain? Now go to bed.”

The Sultan’s chosen heir was in chastened mood as he bowed to both of us and left the tent.

“Do you think I was too harsh, Ibn Yakub?”

“Not having a son myself, O Sultan, I am not the right person to comment on relationships between a father and his son, but as a leader of men, what you said was totally justified. He was hurt, but mainly because of my presence. He would have taken it better without me, but a young prince who aspires to be a good ruler must learn to make his own way in this harsh world.”

“I could not have put it better myself, scribe. I wanted you to be present so that you could inscribe it and it will remain part of our family history. If he turns out to be a good Sultan he will appreciate these words, for he might need to use them to his own son. Leave me now. I think I will spend the night exploring the mind of Ibn Said. I shall send for our sceptic from Aleppo to warm my bed and stimulate my brain.”

I looked at him in surprise. There was a twinkle in his eye, but how would Jamila receive the news of the intended exploration? She had not shared the Sultan’s bed for many years, and the look on his face made it clear that this was what he had in mind.

A
SHTARA, THREE DAYS’ JOURNEY
south of Damascus, lies on a plateau that crowns a large hill. We had been there for almost a month. The Sultan was delighted with the progress being made by the soldiers. While there would always be differences between the units gathered under his command, he now felt that they understood how he wanted to fight the war. Much time had been spent explaining the meaning of different signs and sounds. Each unit assigned a member to watch the Sultan’s tent. For troops at a distance, the ability to understand what the shifting banners signified was as much a matter of life and death as a correct interpretation of the drumroll was for soldiers in closer proximity to the Sultan. All this took time to explain to the emirs and nobles in command of the different units and squadrons of Salah al-Din’s armies.

One day after morning prayers, he breakfasted in his tent with only Taki al-Din and myself in attendance. He looked his nephew in the eye, saying with a laugh: “The dust that rises when my army marches to al-Kuds will eclipse the sun!”

This was the only time that I saw him excited by the prospect of war. He had embarked on the conflict at this particular moment, not because military strength favoured him, but for reasons of state. He had behind him the most united army of Believers ever raised to defeat the infidel. There were Jews and Christians as well, but their numbers were small. Many of them were simply waiting for an opportune moment to convert to the faith of the Prophet of Islam. Not the Copts, however. Their strong beliefs and implacable hostility to Rome and to Constantinople made them Salah al-Din’s natural allies.

I was walking away from the Sultan’s tent when Amjad the eunuch took me by the arm and whispered: “Ibn Said, the mute, desires your attendance.”

I followed him without a word. I had still not become used to Jamila’s new identity. Only when her eyes twinkled did I recognise the woman behind the disguise. That and her voice, which could only be heard in the secrecy of her tent.

“Salah al-Din tells me that he shocked you, confessing the desire for me that was filling his loins a few nights ago. True?”

I could never get used to this woman. She invariably took me by surprise. Amjad the eunuch laughed at my discomfiture. How in heaven’s name could I reply?

“The truth, Ibn Yakub. As always, the truth!”

“I was not shocked by the Sultan’s announcement that he wished you to share his bed again. That was normal for him. You are very beautiful and...”

She became impatient.

“And I’m the only woman in the camp. Yes, yes, I am aware of this fact, but what was it that shocked you, master scribe?”

“It was the thought of how degrading it might be for you if you were compelled to submit to the desires of a man.”

She smiled and stroked her false beard.

“I thought as much, and it was noble of you to feel a sense of shock at my predicament. As you can see, I survived the experience. I am used to your Sultan. I could not have submitted my body to any other man—or, for that matter, a eunuch.”

Amjad the eunuch flinched as if he had been touched by fire. He appeared upset by her remark. Realising this, she stroked his head and whispered an apology, immediately putting him on the defensive.

“Trying to persuade Amjad to talk about his past is like pulling a tooth from the mouth of a crocodile.”

The eunuch smiled, pleased with her attention. She continued to press him.

“Who knows whether any of us will live or the over the next few weeks? Today you must tell us your story, Amjad. We have the advantage of the scribe’s presence. Ibn Yakub will write it all in his little book, and you will be immortalised for the future. What say you to this, my red-haired friend?”

It was now for the first time that I observed Amjad’s features. The reddishness of his hair was emphasised by the whiteness of his skin. His eyes were grey. He was much taller than me, and I am taller than the Sultan. I had never been interested in him as a person, but his closeness to Shadhi and Jamila mirrored my own affections. I too appealed to him directly.

“Amjad,” I said. “Shadhi often spoke with me about you. He had a high regard for your intelligence and yet, despite this, we know little of each other. Who are you? When did you come to Damascus, and how did you end up in the citadel as a retainer of the Sultan?”

His eyes became melancholic and he sighed, before speaking in his soft, unbroken voice.

“The reason I have resisted the Sultana’s previous injunctions to speak of myself is because I know very little of my past. I am a
saqalabi,
that much is clear from my appearance, and I am a eunuch, which almost reduces me to the level of a caged animal.

“As you are both no doubt aware, people like me come in different shapes and sizes. There are some eunuchs whose entire penis has been removed. This variety is popular amongst those kings and sultans who watch their women like tigers, ready to pounce on them at the first signs of betrayal. They imagine that a eunuch whose organ has been completely removed can, for that reason, be trusted completely. Strange how the degree of trust for some nobles and emirs is dependent on the degree to which a eunuch has been mutilated. If they really wanted to avoid all physical contact between a eunuch and a woman they would have to eliminate more than a poor penis. Fingers, toes and the wonderfully agile tongue would also need to be removed. But I have long given up studying the inconsistencies of emirs and sultans.

“There are others like me, who are simply castrated and sold to churches. We are taught to sing in praise of Isa, and in our spare time we gratify the carnal desires of priests and bishops. Fate favoured me. I did not undergo any such ordeal. I was castrated when I was four or five years old, bought by Jewish merchants in the lands of the Bulgars, and sold in the market in Andalus. Here I was bought by another trader, who believed in Allah and the Prophet, and brought me to Damascus. All this I was told by the family to whom I was sold at the age of seven.