The Book of Saladin (29 page)

Usamah was delighted with the praise, but refrained from endorsing the Sultan’s view.

“That is certainly one possible interpretation, Commander of the Wise.”

T
HE SULTAN, DRESSED IN
his formal robes of office, was seated cross-legged on a raised platform, surrounded by the most powerful men in Damascus. I had been summoned earlier, but he had no time to speak with me and I stood in a corner waiting for the ceremony to begin.

The chamberlain clapped his hands twice and Imad al-Din ushered in the ambassador from the Caliph in Baghdad, who fell on his knees before the Sultan. Rising slowly, he presented him with a letter from his master on a little silver platter. The Sultan did not touch it, but signalled to Imad al-Din, who bowed to the ambassador and accepted the royal communication.

Normally any such letter was read aloud before the court so that the message could be made known to a slightly wider public. But Salah al-Din, presumably to express his irritation with Baghdad, dispensed with tradition and dismissed the court. Only Imad al-Din and myself were asked to remain behind.

The Sultan was not in a light mood that morning. He frowned at his secretary of state.

“I suppose you know what the letter contains?”

Imad al-Din nodded.

“It is not a well-written letter, which means that Saif al-Din must be ill or otherwise engaged. The letter is long, and full of inept flattery and clumsy sentences. It refers to you as the ‘Sword of the Faith’ on four separate occasions, but its purpose is expressed in one sentence. The Commander of the Faithful wishes to be informed as to when you intend to renew the jihad against the unbelievers. He also asks whether you will find time to make the pilgrimage to Mecca this year and kiss the Ka’aba.”

The Sultan’s face grew dark.

“Take my reply, Imad al-Din. Write it as I speak. You too, Ibn Yakub, so we have another copy immediately. I know that Imad al-Din will coat my words with honey, and for that reason we shall compare the two versions at my leisure. Are you ready?”

We nodded, and dipped our pens in the ink.

“To the Commander of the Faithful. From his humble servant, Salah al-Din ibn Ayyub.

“You ask when I intend to renew our war against the Franj. I reply when, and only when, I am sure that there is no dissension within our own camp, and when you will use the authority vested in you by Allah and the Prophet to warn all Believers who collaborate with the Franj for petty gain, to desist from their acts which harm our cause. As you know full well, I have been trying to tame some of the princes whose citadels are not far from the Euphrates. On each occasion they have refused to accept your authority, and have gone hands outstretched to plead for money and support from our enemies. If you can keep vermin of this sort under control, I will take al-Kuds within the next year.

“I have fought so many battles in recent years that my cheeks have become permanently scorched by the sun. Alas, many of these wars have been against Believers, which has weakened our cause.

“Reynald, that visitor from Hell, under whose cold and emotionless gaze so many of our women and children have died and whose terror has even silenced the birds, whose name is used to frighten recalcitrant peasants, that Reynald still lives, while his puppet in al-Kuds who they refer to as ‘King Guy’ refuses to honour the terms of the truce. Our soldiers still rot in the dungeons of Karak, in open violation of all that was agreed between both sides.

“I say this so that the Commander of the Faithful realises that it is some of the so-called Faithful who have prevented me from fulfilling our aims this year. Fortunately for us the Franj, too, are divided. The noble Raymond of Tripoli, who, I hope, will one day become a Believer, has sent me much valuable information. Be reassured that the jihad will be resumed very soon, provided the Commander of the Faithful plays his part in the campaign.

“I share your worry regarding my inability, till now, to make the pilgrimage to Mecca. I ask Allah’s forgiveness each time I offer prayers. I am so busy as the ‘Sword of the Faith’ that I have not yet found time to kiss the Ka’aba. I will make up for this lapse soon, after I have taken al-Kuds, and given thanks for our victory to Allah at the Dome of the Rock. I pray for your health.”

The Sultan had barely left the chamber to relieve himself when Imad al-Din exploded.

“This letter is a disgrace, Ibn Yakub. A disgrace. It will have to be rewritten from beginning to end. A letter from the most powerful Sultan in the land to the Caliph, whose authority is great but whose power is weak, must be dignified as befits the position of Salah al-Din.

“What you have transcribed will give offence, but without being effective. It is couched in crude language, its tone is petulant, and it fails to deploy an irony that would deceive the Caliph, while simultaneously alarming his more astute advisers.

“It has one serious factual error. Our Sultan is besotted with Count Raymond of Tripoli. It is true that Raymond has helped us in the past, but precisely because of that he was accused of treachery and collaboration with the enemy. Our intelligence reports suggest that he has now made his peace, sworn an oath of loyalty to the so-called King of Jerusalem, and is pledged to take arms against us. The Caliph must be informed of this fact. The Sultan’s hope of converting Raymond could, in the circumstances, appear as a serious misjudgement. If you don’t object, Ibn Yakub, I will take your copy as well and have a new version prepared tomorrow.”

Despite the Sultan’s express instructions to the contrary, I could not resist the great scholar’s logic. I meekly handed him my copy of the letter. He marched out of the chamber with a triumphant smile, leaving me alone to confront the wrath of my master. When Salah al-Din returned he was, to my pleasure and relief, accompanied by the Sultana Jamila, whose return to Damascus had been reported to me by Amjad the eunuch earlier that day. The Sultan gave me a knowing smile, as if to indicate that he was not surprised at Imad al-Din’s absence. I bowed before the Sultana, whose complexion had fed on the sun. She was much darker now, but the lines of worry that had marked her forehead and the space below her eyes had disappeared.

“Welcome back, Princess. The citadel was dark without your light.”

She laughed, and immediately I knew that she had recovered from the pain of Halima’s betrayal. It was her old laugh, and her shoulders shook as she watched me.

“A compliment from you, good friend Ibn Yakub, is as rare as a camel with a scented behind. I, too, am glad to be back. It is wonderful, is it not, how distance from pain can heal our innermost wounds better than anything else?”

The Sultan was clearly pleased by her return, though I was surprised by her openness in his presence. He read my thoughts.

“Jamila and I are now good friends, scribe. We have no secrets from each other. Do you know what this woman has been reading in her father’s palace?”

I shook my head respectfully.

“Blasphemy. Cursed philosophy. Scepticism.”

Jamila smiled.

“He is not wrong this time. I have been devouring the writings of al-Farabi. He has reinforced my instinctive belief that human reason is superior to all religious faiths, ours included. His writings are more convincing than the works of Ibn Hazm.”

The Sultan grimaced and took his leave, but told me to stay.

“I am preparing the orders for the last battle of this jihad, Ibn Yakub, to show that our religious faith is superior to that of the Franj. You are welcome to listen to Jamila’s stories, but I forbid you to be convinced by her. Heads may roll if you do.”

“I am only the storyteller, O great Sultan.”

Jamila had lit a pipe of
banj
and smiled at my surprised expression.

“I permit myself this indulgence once a week. It was more than that when I arrived at my father’s palace, but it helped to deaden the pain. It relaxes me, yet if I smoke a pipe more than once a week it slows down my brain. I find it difficult to think or concentrate my attention on a book.”

“It is good to hear the Sultana laugh again as she used to in the old days. I hope you are fully recovered, and that the hurt you suffered is now firmly in the past.”

She was touched by my concern.

“Thank you, my friend. I thought of you often while I was away. Once I even had an imaginary conversation with you which was very soothing. It is strange how our deepest and most heartfelt emotions can be so transient. In Arab and Persian literature, if the river of true love is diverted, it must perforce travel through a valley of madness. A lover deprived of his beloved loses his mind. This is sheer nonsense. People love. Their love is rejected. They suffer. Do you know of a single case where any person has really lost his or her mind? Has this ever happened, or is it a poet’s fantasia?”

I thought for a long time before a reply worthy of her question came to mind.

“Love is the music that is first heard by our soul and then transferred slowly to the heart. I have known instances where a deprived lover enters into a deep decline and his entire life-pattern is transformed. He suffers from a dull headache that never leaves him, and his mind is numbed by the sense of loss. One such person was Shadhi, who is now no more.”

She interrupted me.

“I am sad that he is dead, but there are limits, Ibn Yakub. You talk of love as the poetry of the soul, and in the same breath you talk of Shadhi, a crude, uncouth mountain goat. Is this a callous joke? Are you mocking me?”

I told her then of the tragedy that had befallen Shadhi, of how the only woman he had ever loved had taken her own life, and of the price he had paid for his cruel mistake. The tale astonished her.

“Strange how you can see a person every day, but not know his real story. I’m glad you told me, Ibn Yakub. So, the old goat did have a heart, but surely you agree that the permanent loss of his love did not make him go mad. One of the more reassuring things about him was his ability to distance himself from events and individuals and look at both with an indifferent rationality. The sign of a totally sane person.”

“Madness can take many forms, Sultana. Our poets paint a picture of the distressed lover as a long-haired youth, whose hair has greyed prematurely and who wanders the desert talking to himself, or who sits at the edge of a stream and stares endlessly at the water, seeing in it the images of his lost one. In reality, as you know even better than me, madness can make you bent on a cruel revenge. You conceal your feelings by wearing a polite mask. You talk to your friends as if nothing had happened. Yet inside your blood boils with rage, with anger, and with jealousy, and you want to skewer those who have caused you pain and burn them on an open fire. You can only do so in your imagination, though even that helps to ease the torment, and slowly you are able to rebuild your strength.”

She looked at me, and the old sad smile reappeared.

“How many times did you burn Ibn Maymun, my friend?”

She, too, knew my story.

“I was not talking of myself, Sultana. Let me give you another example. The case of our young poet Ibn Umar, all of nineteen years old, yet he produces verses that make grown men weep. The whole of Damascus sings his praises. Cups of wine are drunk in his honour in every tavern. Young men talk to their lovers in Ibn Umar’s language...”

“I know all about this boy,” she said impatiently. “What has happened to him?”

“While you were away, he fell in love with a married woman, several years older than him. She encouraged his attentions and the inevitable tragedy occurred. They became lovers. Her husband was informed of what was taking place and he had her poisoned. Simple solution to a simple problem. Ibn Umar and his circle of friends, however, refused to let the matter rest in the grave. One day, while in their cups, they planned their revenge. The husband, a decent man by all accounts, was ambushed and battered to death on the street. The Kadi arrested Ibn Umar, who confessed everything.

“The city was divided. Those under forty years of age wanted the poet released. The rest demanded his execution. Ibn Umar was indifferent to his fate. He carried on writing, till the Sultan intervened.”

“Ah, yes, the judgement of Salah al-Din,” she said with a laugh. “Tell me about it.”

“Ibn Umar has been sent to join the Sultan’s son in the army which is assembling near Galilee.”

“Typical.” she muttered. “The Sultan has lost interest in poetry. Twenty years ago he could recite whole poems with real passion. Sending poets to fight in wars is like roasting nightingales. I will have that boy returned.”

“I
N THE MOUNTAINS THE
cowherds used to suck the vagina of the cow while she was being milked. They claimed it improved the quality and the quantity of the milk. As boys we used to watch them and get excited. Which part of your wife excites you the most, Ibn Yakub? Her breasts or her behind?”

It was typical of Shadhi. He often asked a question without waiting for my reply. This time he began to laugh. Noisy, crude, laughter.

I was dreaming. The only reason I remember this trivial dream is that it was brutally interrupted by a deafening and insistent knocking at the front gate. Rachel was still asleep, but my sudden leap out of bed disturbed her and she began to stir. I opened the shutter. It was still not morning, though signs of dawn were visible on the horizon in the shape of a single, thin stripe of red. I pulled on my gown and hurried through the courtyard to open the gate.

I was greeted by the familiar smile of Amjad the eunuch. His smile, which so often irritated me, now seemed reassuring.

“The Sultan wants you in the council chamber before the day breaks. Should we return together?”

“No!” I replied, my voice harsher than I had intended, something I immediately regretted. “Forgive me, Amjad. I have only just risen from bed and need a few minutes to recover and prepare for the Sultan. I will follow you very soon.”