The Book of Saladin (45 page)

Richard of England sent a messenger asking to meet the Sultan alone in the presence of an interpreter, but the Commander of the Loyal rejected the request with contempt. He told the messenger: “Tell your King we do not speak the same language.”

Richard broke his word on several occasions. He had promised Salah al-Din that he would release our prisoners provided we kept to our side of the agreement of surrender. We did. We sent the first instalment of the money. The Franj leaders replied with the dishonesty that has marked them ever since they first came to these lands.

One Friday, a holy day for the followers of the Prophet Mohammed, Richard ordered the public execution of three thousand prisoners and his knights kicked their heads into the dust. As news of this crime reached our camp a loud wail rent the sky and soldiers fell on their knees and prayed for their massacred brethren. Salah al-Din swore revenge and ordered that henceforth no Franj was to be taken alive. Even he, the most magnanimous of rulers, had decided on an eye for an eye.

The Sultan did not eat for a week, till one morning after a secret deliberation, Taki al-Din, Keukburi and I knelt down before him and pleaded that he break his fast. Then he took the bowl of nourishing chicken broth from my hands and began to sip it slowly as he savoured the taste. We looked at each other, smiled and sighed with relief. After he had finished he spoke in a direct fashion to his nephew, Taki, whom he favours even more than his own sons and whom he would secretly like to succeed him as Sultan, but fears a fratricidal conflict if he were to insist on this choice.

“I will never say this in public”—Salah al-Din spoke in a weak voice—“but the three of you are amongst my closest and most trusted friends. I am sad not because of Acre. We have lost other cities in the past and a single defeat can, on its own, change little, but what distresses me is the lack of unity in the ranks of the Believers. Imad al-Din’s close friends in the Caliph’s court in Baghdad have informed him that, in private, the Caliph is pleased that we have lost Acre. Why do you all appear shocked? Ever since I took al-Kuds the Commander of the Faithful and his closest advisers have looked in my direction with fear-filled eyes. They think I am too powerful because the common people appreciate me more than the Caliph. Their diseased minds, wrecked by
banj,
see their victory in our defeat.”

This was the first time the Sultan had directly questioned the piety and leadership of the Caliph in my presence. I was shocked, but also pleased that I was now a trusted adviser, on the same scale as Imad al-Din and your friend, the inimitable Kadi al-Fadil.

Since the fall of Acre we have suffered another big defeat at Arsluf, and the Sultan is now concentrating our minds on defending Jerusalem. There were no easy victories for the Franj. They suffered heavy losses, and some of the soldiers fresh from across the water are finding it difficult to adjust to the August heat in Palestine. Richard asked for a meeting with the Sultan. It was refused, but al-Adil did meet him and they spoke for a long time. Richard wanted us to surrender Palestine, but the audacity of the request angered al-Adil and he refused.

Over the last ninety years, even when there was a lull in the long war, we never felt these people to be anything else but usurpers—outsiders who were here against our will and because of our weaknesses. Richard was only the latest in a long line of brutal knights to have landed on these shores. On our side, the cloak of diplomacy conceals a silver dagger. The Sultan often asks himself whether this bad dream will ever end or is it our fate as the inhabitants of an area which gave birth to Moses, Jesus and Mohammed, to be always at war. Yesterday he asked me whether I thought Jehovah, God and Allah could ever live in peace. I could not supply him with an answer. Can you, dear friend?

Imad al-Din arrived from Damascus on the morning of al-Adil’s contemptuous rejection of Richard’s peace terms. He spent most of the day speaking with some Franj knights we had taken by surprise and who were due to be executed at sunset. Three of them converted to the faith of the Prophet and were spared, but all of them were only too eager to speak with Imad al-Din.

Next morning I was defecating at the edge of the camp when he joined me to fulfil a similar function. After we had washed ourselves and sat down to breakfast, he began to tell stories of Richard, which had not been recounted before.

“One of the Franj knights spoke of Richard as fighting with the ferocity of a lion. He said that for this reason they referred to him as Lionheart. This report was confirmed by the others, and I think that our knowledge of his warlike activities confirms this aspect of his character. He fights like an animal. He is an animal. The lion, dear friend Ibn Yakub, as we know only too well, is not the most cultured amongst Allah’s creations.

“But even if we accept the appellation as an approbation, this view is not universally held amongst the Franj. Three knights I spoke with separately corroborated another view. According to them he fights ferociously only when he is surrounded by other knights. They insist that he is capable of low cunning, treachery and cowardice and has been known to desert the field of battle before any of his soldiers when he fears defeat. His execution of our prisoners at Acre was the act of a jackal, not a lion.

“We shall remember this king as Richard the Lion-Arse. I’m pleased that my prediction amuses you, Ibn Yakub, but it was meant seriously. I have chanced, on several occasions, to view the anus of a slain lion, and what has struck me every time is its gigantic size. One of the unexplained mysteries of nature.

“Richard’s posterior, on the contrary, has not been enlarged by nature. Whole armies have passed through here, according to my informants, and still he is not sated. Secretly he yearns to be entered by al-Adil, the dearly beloved brother of our Sultan. Salah al-Din laughed when this was reported to him and, in my presence, remarked to his brother: ‘Good brother al-Adil, in order to further the cause of Allah, I might need you to do your duty and make the ultimate sacrifice.’

“I laughed a bit too loudly at what was intended as a joke. This caused both men to become silent, look at me and then at each other. I knew what was passing through their mind. They were wondering whether I might be the person to make the ultimate sacrifice and enter the lion’s arse. As you can imagine, dear friend, I did not give time for this foolish idea to mature. Pleading a call of nature, I obtained their permission to leave the Sultan’s tent and did not return.”

It is now three days since I wrote the above lines. Another tragedy has occurred. The Sultan’s favourite nephew, the young Emir Taki al-Din, was killed in the course of an unnecessary engagement with the Franj. He had been opposed to the encounter, but was overruled by some young bloods and then compelled to lead them, when he knew they were hopelessly outnumbered. Salah al-Din took the news badly and is still sick at heart. Truly, he loved Taki al-Din more than his own sons. Taki’s father had died a long time ago and the Sultan had virtually adopted him, treating him not just like a son, but, more importantly, also as a friend.

It happened like this: together with al-Adil and a few emirs from Damascus, I was summoned to the Sultan’s tent. When we arrived he was weeping. They were huge sobs, and the sight of al-Adil made his anguish even louder. We were so distressed at this sight that without even knowing the cause of his sorrow, we too began to shed tears. When we found out the reason we were stunned. Taki al-Din was not simply his nephew, but one of the few trustworthy emirs who understood the meaning of this war and who, the Sultan used to hope, would see it through to the end. The courage of this emir was a source of inspiration to his men and his uncle, but the latter also knew that the timbre of his soul was gentle, and it was this quality that he loved in him. Without Taki, it became important to win as many victories as possible, in order to demoralise the Franj and send their leaders back across the water.

The next morning the Sultan handed me a piece of paper containing a tribute to his fallen nephew. In Imad al-Din’s absence he wished me to cast an eye on the verse and improve it before dispatching it to his brothers and nephews. The great scholar was often brutal in dealing with the Sultan’s handiwork, but I lacked the authority or the self-confidence to make any changes. Truth is, Ibn Maymun, I rather liked the verse and sent it to many parts as it was written. Do you agree?

In the desert alone, I

count the burnt-out lamps of our youths.

How many have been claimed by these execution-grounds?

How many more will die?

We can never call them back with the sound of the flute or the songs we write,

But every morning at sunrise

I will remember them all in my prayers.

Death’s cruel arrow has claimed Taki al-Din and

the harsh walls of this world have closed in around me.

Darkness rules.

Desolation reigns.

Can we illuminate the path again?

Your friend,

Ibn Yakub

(Personal Scribe to the Sultan Salah al-Din ibn Ayyub)

G
OOD FRIEND, IBN MAYMUN,

We were in a state of great perplexity. There was so much dissension amongst the emirs that had Richard laid siege to Jerusalem, who can say that he would not have succeeded? There were times when the Sultan used to go to al-Aqsa and moisten the prayer mats with his tears. He, too, was not confident that his emirs and soldiers would be able to resist the onslaught.

At one council of war, an emir addressed Salah al-Din in harsh language and insisted: “The fall of Jerusalem would not damage the faith. After all we have survived many years without Jerusalem. It is only a city and there is no shortage of stones in our world.” I had never before seen the Sultan so angry in public. He rose and we all rose with him. Then he walked up to the emir who had spoken thus and looked him straight in the eyes. The emir averted his gaze and fell on his knees. The Sultan did not speak a single word. He returned to his place and said in a soft voice that Jerusalem would be defended to the last man, and that if it fell he would fall with it, so that in times to come their children would remember and understand that this was no ordinary city of stone, but a place where the future of our faith was decided. Then he left the chamber. No one spoke. Slowly, the room emptied.

Left on my own I sat there and reflected on the tumultuous events of the last few years. We had grown too confident after our victory in Jerusalem. I loved the Sultan as I would my own father, but there was a flaw in his character. At times when he needed to be decisive, to make unpopular choices, to be alone in the knowledge that his instincts were correct, at such a time he weakened and allowed himself to be swayed by lesser men than he. Often I wanted to transcend my position and speak to him as a friend, just as you have so often spoken to me. Are you wondering what I would say? I’m not sure myself.

Perhaps I would whisper in his ear: “Don’t lose your courage if some emir deserts you now, or if the peasants disregard your instructions and supply the Franj with grain. Your instincts are good. You are usually right, but the guarantee of our final victory lies in nothing but an extreme unwillingness to yield, the strictest straightforwardness when speaking to our soldiers and the rejection of all compromises with vacillators in our own ranks. It was in this directness, this quality as of a javelin in flight, that lay the secret of your uncle Shirkuh’s victories.”

Fortunately for us, Richard too was frightened of defeat. He feared the sun. He feared the poisoned wells. He feared our wrath, but above all, he feared the Sultan. He was also anxious to return home. One of the few occasions when I have heard the Sultan laugh was when one of our spies reported serious dissensions within the enemy camp. Richard and the French King did not agree on any single issue. Their hatred for each other grew so fierce that it began to outweigh their desire to defeat us.

“Allah be praised,” the Sultan had laughed, “it is not only our side that is divided by petty conflicts and rival ambitions.”

He thought this was a good time to conclude a peace. The Franj could keep their coastal towns. Let them have Tyre, Jaffa, Ascalon and Acre. These are nothing compared to what we now control, and though we have not driven them into the sea, time is on our side. That is how the Sultan reasoned, and in this he was correct.

Richard has left our shores. He stayed for two years, but failed to take the Holy City. His expedition came to naught. He may have taken pleasure in executing helpless prisoners, but his crusade failed and therein lies our victory.

Our Sultan remains the only sovereign ruler of this area. I know you will not be surprised to hear that no sooner had Richard bade farewell to our shores than we began to receive deputations of Franj nobles, desperate to seek the protection of the Sultan against each other. They wish to buy their security by agreeing to become his vassals.

And this is how we returned to the citadel in Damascus, from where I am writing these lines. I now have three large rooms at my disposal and am treated as a guest rather than a servant. The chamberlain visits me regularly to ensure that my needs are not ignored. He does so on the express instructions of his master. It is as if Salah al-Din has decided to reward my diligence over the years by ensuring that my last years are pleasurable and not lacking in comfort.

I see the Sultan every day. He talks often of his father and uncle, but the person he misses the most is our old friend, Shadhi, the Kurdish warrior who was also his uncle by blood and who never hesitated to speak the truth. Yesterday he reminded me of “Shadhi’s capacity to turn rhetoric into logic” and we both laughed, not as ruler and servant, but as two friends mourning the loss of something precious.

I worry about him a great deal, Ibn Maymun, and sincerely wish you could travel to this city and be his physician. He needs care. His face is lined and shows signs of real weariness. White hairs dominate his beard. Exertions tire him and he finds it difficult to sleep through the night. Could you recommend some herbal infusions?