The Book of Saladin (41 page)

“My father and my uncle Shirkuh would not have believed that this could happen, but Shadhi always knew my banners would be raised one day in al-Kuds. At this moment I miss him more than anyone else.”

We were interrupted by the presence of Balian.

“Why do they weep so much?” the Sultan asked him.

“The women weep, sire, for their dead or captive husbands. The old weep for the fear they will never see these sacred walls again. The children are frightened.”

“Tell your people,” Salah al-Din told him, “that we shall not treat them as your forebears treated us when they first took this city. As a child I was told of what Godfrey and Tancredi did to our people. Remind these frightened Christians of what Believers and Jews suffered ninety years ago. The heads of our children were displayed on pikes. Old men and women of all ages were tortured and burnt. These streets were washed in our blood, Balian. Some of the emirs would like to wash them again, but this time in your blood. They remind me that we all believe in an eye for an eye and a tooth for a tooth.

“I have quietened them and stilled their fears. I have told them that we are all the People of the Book, and this city belongs to all those who believe in the Book. Tell your women they are free to go even if they cannot afford the ransom.

“Alas, we lack the powers of your Prophet Isa and are not able to bring the dead back to life. We will release captive knights provided they swear an oath never to take arms against us again. You avert your eyes, Balian of Ibelin, and so you should. You, too, swore such an oath. An oath before Allah cannot be forsworn by any human, be he a Patriarch or a Pope. If that is understood, we will be generous. If you hear of any of my soldiers offending the honour of a single Christian woman, come and tell me. If you are told that any of your sacred shrines are being despoiled by my men, please let me know at once. It shall not be permitted. That is my word as a Sultan.”

Balian fell on his knees and kissed Salah al-Din’s robe.

“You have shown us a courtesy that we do not deserve, O great King. For this single act we shall never forget you. I, for one, do swear before Almighty God that I will never bear arms against you again.”

Salah al-Din nodded, and our party rode through the streets to the citadel. The town criers were proclaiming our terms, and telling Christians that they were free to worship in their churches and shrines. People fell silent as we rode past them, looking at Salah al-Din with curiosity, tempered by fear.

That night I received a written message from a man who signed himself as John of Jerusalem. He was the grandson of an old Jew who had saved himself ninety years ago by shaving his beard and locks and pretending to be a Christian. In secret he had maintained his belief, and brought up his son as a Jew.

“I am not circumcised,” wrote John of Jerusalem, “but my father was, and he was proud of his faith. It was impossible for me to be the same for fear of discovery. When I heard that the Sultan’s scribe was of that faith, I had to write to you. It would be a great honour for my family if you would eat with us one day this week.”

That was how I found myself in a small, two-roomed house, sipping wine with John and his beautiful, fair-haired wife, Mariam. Their son, who was probably ten years of age, observed me in silence. He was frightened.

“Our fear was plain enough. The last time, as you know better than me, Ibn Yakub, all our people had suffered horribly. The Franj killed us all. We have never forgotten that evil day, and nor have they. They thought that the Sultan and his army, poised outside the city, would exact a terrible revenge. The tears they weep are tears of guilt and fear. They rose to power on a mound of corpses, and they are fearful of joining that mound.

“When news came that the Franj nobles had accepted your terms, there was a strange silence on the streets. Nothing moved. The silence was broken by the sound of horses and marching feet, and by the shrill voices of their soldiers, whose internal equilibrium appeared to be somewhat disturbed. They were talking loudly and laughing, but without conviction. Poor fools. They were trying to convince themselves that it was a day like any other day. Have you noticed how people who feel insecure speak in loud voices and are cruel to those they regard as inferior to them?

“When your Sultan marched in through the Gate of David a wave of fear passed through the city. They are still in a state of shock. God has let them down and permitted Allah to triumph. They still find it difficult to believe that they are still alive and have been treated well. Some of them think it is all a plot and they will be executed soon. My own feeling, which may not be worth much, but which I would like you to convey to the Sultan, is not to trust the Franj. I have lived amongst them all my life. I know how they think, what they feel. They are sullen and embittered people. Better to keep them as hostages against the ill-fortune that will come, as surely as night follows day, from across the water. They will not show you mercy. Please pass this on to the Sultan from one of his humble admirers. I used to pray in secret for this day.”

As news of our victory spread, there were rejoicings and prayers of thanksgiving were offered to Allah in all the dominions of the Caliph. Kadis and learned scholars began to arrive in Jerusalem in growing numbers.

Jamila was the first of the Sultan’s wives to arrive. This time she did not travel alone or disguised as a man, but entered the city with her entourage of armed guards, eunuchs and maids-in-waiting. It was as if she was determined to show Jerusalem that she and none other was the Sultana closest to the Conqueror of the Holy City.

Salah al-Din, for his part, was personally supervising the cleaning of the Dome of the Rock and the al-Aqsa mosque, where the first
khutba
was due to be delivered in fourteen days’ time. Many Christians had elected to remain in the city, though most of these were either Copts or belonged to denominations that had never sought or won the approval of the religious orders favoured by the Franj.

Imad al-Din was in his element. He was surrounded by six scribes and was busy dictating dispatches to all the rulers in the world of Islam. One evening I went to inform him that the Sultan needed his advice on a somewhat insolent message that had belatedly arrived from Frederick I Barbarossa, the Holy Roman Emperor, warning the Sultan not to even think of taking Jerusalem. The letter, in Latin, had been read aloud in Arabic by the Sultan’s new interpreter, an eighteen-year-old Copt by the name of Tarik ibn Isa, whose jocular rendering had resulted in much merriment. The Copt had such a beautiful face that even those of us who did not swim near the other shore were bewitched by his presence. The great scholar, I knew, would find it difficult to contain himself. I described the scene in some detail to Imad al-Din, and he chuckled, but the question that formed itself on his sensuous lips related to the Copt.

“Only eighteen years of age? Surprising. Is he a local boy?”

I shrugged my shoulders. I had no idea.

As we entered the Sultan’s chamber the mood was light. Imad al-Din took the letter from Tarik ibn Isa and began to laugh.

“Which passage amuses you the most?” asked the Sultan.

“It is his threats, O Commander of the Victorious. Just listen to them again: ‘If you do not desist you will learn what it is to experience Teutonic anger. You will experience the wrath of the Rhinelanders, the big Bavarians, the cunning Swabians, the cautious Franconians, the Saxons, who sport with their swords, Thuringians, Westphalians, the fiery men from Burgundy, the nimble-footed mountaineers from the Alps, the Frisians with their javelins, the Bohemians who die with smiles on their faces, the Poles, tougher than beasts of the forest, and my own right hand is not so enfeebled by age that it can no longer wield a sword.’

“What is interesting in this letter is that he could find no frightening words to attach to the Tuscans and the Pisans. Perhaps we should question him about this omission in our reply. As for the fiery Burgundians, does Your Grace remember the knight from Burgundy who we met some years ago? The only fiery aspect of his personality was his farting, which was so potent that you walked out of the tent, leaving my nose to bear the brunt of the explosion.”

The Sultan began to laugh at the memory.

“I think there is no need to remind the German King of that unfortunate occurrence. Draft a reply now, Imad al-Din. This young man is also a scribe and will take down your words.”

Imad al-Din looked at the boy and was overcome by desire. He caught his eye, but the Copt scribe looked hurriedly away. The Sultan’s secretary began to dictate, all the while shamelessly eyeing Tarik’s slender frame.

“To the Great King, Frederick of Germany, in the name of Allah, the Merciful, the Powerful, the Almighty, the Victorious.

“We thank you for your letter, but, alas, it is too late. With the blessings of Allah we are already in possession of al-Kuds, which you call Jerusalem. Three cities alone remain in Christian hands, Tyre, Tripoli and Antioch, but rest assured, powerful King, that we shall take all these as well.

“We could not help but notice that you have no words to describe the valour of the Tuscans, Venetians and Pisans, and this upsets us, for we are only too well aware of the qualities of the men who hail from these regions. They are beautiful in body and mind and have provided a great deal of pleasure to our Bedouins, starved of love and life in the desert. We look forward to seeing them again.

“If you want war, we await you, but understand this: once you are here there will be a sea between you and your lands. Nothing separates us from our people and our possessions. That is why we shall defeat you till the dawn of Judgement Day. This time we shall not be satisfied with your cities on our sea-coast, but will cross the water, and it will please Allah to take away all your lands, since your fighting men will be buried here, underneath the sand.

“This letter is written in the year 584 by the grace of Allah and his Prophet. It bears the signature of the conqueror of al-Kuds.

“Yusuf Ibn Ayyub.”

Imad al-Din looked at the assembled company, enjoying the mirth that greeted his letter. What pleased him the most was the shy smile on Tarik’s face, but the Sultan wanted something far more serious in tone. Salah al-Din had now become very conscious of his place in history. The delegations of scholars gathering in the city and the messages he had received from Believers all over the world, not forgetting, of course, the over-effusive greetings from the Caliph and his courtiers in Baghdad, had confirmed his belief in himself. For this reason he wanted all the dispatches sent in his name to bear the mark of his new status as the saviour of his faith. Imad al-Din was sent to his own office to rewrite the letter in more dignified terms and present it next morning to the Sultan for the attachment of his seal.

As I left the chamber, a hand tapped me on my shoulder. It was a Nubian eunuch, the old mute with white hair whom I had seen many times before at the citadel in Damascus. With exaggerated gestures of his hand, he indicated that I should follow him. He took me outside a chamber and withdrew.

“Come in, Ibn Yakub,” said the only too familiar voice behind the latticed door. It was the Sultana Jamila.

I entered and bowed. She pre-empted my first question.

“Amjad? Alas, he is no longer with us. He spread so many calumnies to so many people that I had to ask for him to be sent away. The steward dealt with the matter. Do not look so worried. He is still alive.”

Before I could express my relief, she had moved on to another subject.

“Does the heart have a language, Ibn Yakub?”

I smiled, but could not reply. From the brutal disposal of Amjad the eunuch she was transporting us into the intimate world of her philosophy.

“Come now, scribe, think hard. No? Perhaps your heart is mute. Most hearts speak a strange mixture of realities and dreams, though the exact proportion of each is always variable, since, ultimately, everything is determined by external circumstances. The heart is not a book which you can always open at the same place. If a heart is shattered to pieces it can bleed for many days, but then, suddenly, turn to stone. Do you agree?”

I nodded. I knew perfectly well what it was that had sent her mind wandering in this direction, but she wanted me to ask and so I posed the question.

“What has made you think of all this at such a time, Sultana? We are celebrating the fall of Jerusalem, and it surprises me that you are withdrawing deep into your inner self.”

“My heart has undergone numerous transformations, Ibn Yakub. It has been light for many months, but a heaviness appears to have captured it again. Today, for example, I am crippled by remorse. I should have made my peace with Halima before she felt compelled to run away from my wrath and seek refuge in Cairo. She came to me once, her eyes filled with sadness, and wanted us to be friends again. I was hard-hearted, Ibn Yakub. I rejected her. I spurned her offer with contempt. Why? Because friendship, which has once coexisted with love and passion, is helpless on its own. To even strive towards it is the sign of an unsound mind. Those who think they have succeeded are, sooner or later, struck down by grief.

“Then she died. Evil tongues accused me of having sent the fatal poison. A base lie, spoken by a man about to meet his Maker and crazed with jealousy. That mamluk, incapable of enduring Halima’s love for another woman, chose to blame me for his foul deed. As you know, I too was upset when I heard that Halima had found another woman, but it was inconceivable for me to punish her with death. I would have preferred to prolong her life so that I could find a delicious way to torture her. Though I will say something that might shock you, Ibn Yakub. It is all part of the language of my heart. When news of her death and its manner first arrived, I was not displeased.

“She had poisoned our love. She had killed what was precious to both of us. She had been poisoned in return. It was a cruel and unworthy reaction, but it was what my heart was saying at the time. This is the reason I have begun to investigate the connections between the heart and the mind. My paper on the logic of the heart will be finished before the first
khutba
in the Great Mosque. Do not judge me too harshly. This is a time for celebration. Salah al-Din has taken al-Kuds. My heart is full of joy.”