The Book of Saladin

One

On the recommendation of Ibn Maymun, I become the Sultan’s trusted scribe

I HAVE NOT THOUGHT of our old home for many years. It is a long time now since the fire. My house, my wife, my daughter, my two-year-old grandson — all trapped inside like caged animals. If fate had not willed otherwise, I too would have been reduced to ashes. How often have I wished that I could have been there to share the agony.

These are painful memories. I keep them submerged. Yet today, as I begin to write this story, the image of that domed room where everything once began is strong in me again. The caves of our memory are extraordinary. Things that are long forgotten remain hidden in dark corners, suddenly to emerge into the light. I can see everything now. It comes to my mind clearly, as if time itself had stopped still.

It was a cold night of the Cairo winter, in the year 1181 according to the Christian calendar. The mewing of cats was the only noise from the street outside. Rabbi Musa ibn Maymun, an old friend of our family as well as its self-appointed physician, had arrived at my house on his way back from attending to the Kadi al-Fadil, who had been indisposed for several days.

We had finished eating and were sipping our mint tea in silence, surrounded by thick, multi-coloured woollen rugs, strewn with cushions covered in silk and satin. A large round brazier, filled with charcoal, glowed in the centre of the room, giving off gentle waves of heat. Reclining on the floor, we could see the reflection of the fire in the dome above, making it appear as if the night sky itself were alight.

I was reflecting on our earlier conversation. My friend had revealed an angry and bitter side, which had both surprised and reassured me. Our saint was human just like anyone else. The mask was intended for outsiders. We had been discussing the circumstances which had compelled Ibn Maymun to flee Andalus and to start on his long fifteen-year journey from Cordoba to Cairo. Ten of those years had been spent in the Maghrebian city of Fez. There the whole family had been obliged to pretend that they were followers of the Prophet of Islam. Ibn Maymun was angered at the memory. It was the deception that annoyed him. Dissembling went against his instincts.

I had never heard him talk in this fashion before. I noticed the transformation that came over him. His eyes were gleaming as he spoke, his hand clenched into a fist. I wondered whether it was this experience that had aroused his worries about religion, especially about a religion in power, a faith imposed at the point of a sword. I broke the silence.

“Is a world without religion possible, Ibn Maymun? The ancients had many gods. They used their worship of one to fight the supporters of the other. Now we have one god and, of necessity, we must fight over him. So everything has become a war of interpretation. How does your philosophy explain this phenomenon?”

The question amused him, but before he could reply we heard a loud knocking on the door, and his smile disappeared.

“Are you expecting someone?”

I shook my head. He leaned forward to warm his hands at the brazier. We had both wrapped ourselves in woollen blankets, but still we felt the cold. I knew instinctively that the late knock on the door was for my friend.

“Only the retainer of a powerful man knocks in that fashion,” sighed Ibn Maymun. “Perhaps the Kadi has taken a turn for the worse, and I will have to see to him.”

My servant, Ahmad, walked into the room carrying a torch that trembled in his hands. He was followed by a man of medium height, with undistinguished features and light red hair. He was wrapped in a blanket, and walked with a slight limp in his right leg. I saw a sudden flash of fear cross Ibn Maymun’s face as he stood and bowed before the visitor. I had not seen this man before. It was certainly not the Kadi, who was known to me.

I, too, rose and bowed. My visitor smiled on realising that he was a stranger to me.

“I am sorry to intrude at such an hour. The Kadi informed me that Ibn Maymun was present in our town, and spending the night in your illustrious house. I am in the house of Isaac ibn Yakub am I not?”

I nodded.

“I hope,” said the stranger with a slight bow, “that you will forgive me for arriving without warning. It is not often that I have the chance of meeting two great scholars on the same day. My thoughts were floating undecided between the merits of an early night or a conversation with Ibn Maymun. I decided that your words might have a more beneficial effect than sleep. And here I am.”

“Any friend of Ibn Maymun is welcome here. Please be seated. Can we offer you a bowl of soup?”

“I think it will be good for your constitution, Commander of the Brave,” said Ibn Maymun in a soft voice.

I realised I was in the presence of the Sultan. This was Yusuf Salah-ud-Din in person. In my house. I fell to my knees and touched his feet.

“Forgive me for not recognising Your Majesty. Your slave begs forgiveness.”

He laughed and pulled me up on my feet.

“I do not care much for slaves. They are too prone to rebellion. But I would be grateful for some soup.”

Later, after he had eaten the soup, he questioned me on the origins of the earthenware bowls in which it was served.

“Are these not made from the red clay of Armenia?”

I nodded in surprise.

“My grandmother had some very similar to these. She only brought them out for weddings and funerals. She used to tell me that they were from her village in the Armenian mountains.”

Later that night, the Sultan explained to Ibn Maymun that he needed to engage a trustworthy scribe. He wished to have someone to whom he could dictate his memoirs. His own secretary was too engaged in intrigues of various sorts. He could not be fully trusted. He was quite capable of distorting the meaning of words to suit his own future needs.

“You know well my friend,” said the Sultan, looking directly into the eyes of Ibn Maymun, “that there are times when our lives are in danger every minute of the day. We are surrounded by the enemy. We have no time to think of anything but survival. Only when peace prevails can one afford the luxury of being left alone with one’s own thoughts.”

“Like now?” said Ibn Maymun.

“Like now,” murmured the Sultan. “I need someone I can trust, and a person who will not flinch from revealing the truth after I have turned to dust.”

“I know the type of person Your Highness needs,” said Ibn Maymun, “but your request poses a problem. You are never in one city for too long. Either the scribe must travel with you, or we will have to find another one in Damascus.”

The Sultan smiled.

“Why not? And a third city beckons. I hope to be visiting al-Kuds soon. So perhaps we will need three scribes. For each of the three cities. Since I am the author, I will make sure not to repeat myself.”

My friend and I gasped in amazement. We could hardly conceal our excitement, and this appeared to please my exalted guest. Jerusalem — al-Kuds to the Islamic world — was an occupied city. The Franj had become self-satisfied and arrogant. The Sultan had just announced, and in my house, that he intended to dislodge the enemy.

For over three score years we, who had always lived in this region, and the Franj, who came across the water, had been at each other’s throats. Jerusalem had fallen to them in 1099. The old city had been shattered and ruined, its streets washed in Jewish and Muslim blood. Here the clash between the barbarians and our world had been more brutal than in the coastal towns. Every Jew and Muslim had been killed. Congregations in mosque and synagogue had risen in horror as news of this atrocity spread through the land. They had cursed the barbarians from the West, and pledged to revenge this ignoble deed. Perhaps the time had now come. Perhaps the quiet confidence of this man was justified. My heart quickened its pace.

“My friend, Ibn Yakub, whose home Your Excellency has privileged this night, is one of the most reliable scholars of our community. I could think of none better than him to be your scribe. He will not breathe a word of it to anyone.”

The Sultan looked at me for a long time.

“Are you willing?”

“I am at your service, Commander of the Loyal. With one condition.”

“Speak.”

“I have read many books about the kings of old. The ruler is usually portrayed as god or devil, depending on whether the account is written by a courtier or an enemy. Books of this sort have no value. When truth and untruth lie embracing each other in the same bed it is difficult to tell them apart. I must have Your Excellency’s permission to ask questions which might help me to clarify the meaning of a particular episode in your life. It may not be necessary, but we all know the cares which rest on your shoulders and I…”

He interrupted me with a laugh.

“You can ask me whatever you wish. I grant you that privilege. But I may not always reply. That is my privilege.”

I bowed.

“Since you will come to the palace regularly, we cannot keep your appointment secret, but I value discretion and accuracy. There are those in my circle, including our much-loved Kadi, al-Fadil, who will envy you. After all, our al-Fadil is a gifted writer and much admired. He could certainly write what I dictate, but his language is too ornate, too precious for my taste. He clothes the subject in so many fancy words that it is sometimes difficult to perceive his meaning. He is a word-juggler, a magician who is the master of disguise.

“I want you to take down what I say as exactly as you can, without embellishments of any sort. Come to the palace tomorrow and we will make an early start. Now if you will excuse me for a few moments, I wish to consult Ibn Maymun on a personal matter.”

I left the room.

An hour later, as I went to inquire whether they were ready for another bowl of chicken broth, I heard the loud and clear tones of my friend.

“I have often told your Kadi that the emotions of our soul, what we feel inside ourselves, produce very major changes in our health. All those emotions that cause Your Highness upset should be smoothed out. Their cause should be uncovered and treated. Have you told me everything?”

There was no reply. A few minutes later, the Sultan left my house. He was never to return. His retainers would arrive at regular intervals with gifts for my family, and sheep or goats to celebrate the Muslim festival of al-Fitr, that commemorates the sacrifice of Abraham.

From that night till the day he left for Jerusalem, I saw the Sultan every single day. Sometimes he would not let me return home, and I was assigned my own quarters in his palace. For the next eight months, my life was taken over by the Sultan Yusuf Salah-ud-Din ibn Ayyub.

Two

I meet Shadhi and the Sultan begins to dictate his memoirs

IBN MAYMUN HAD WARNED me that the Sultan was an early riser. He woke before dawn, made his ablutions, and consumed a cup of warm water before riding to the Mukattam Hills on the outskirts of the city. Here the citadel was being built. The Sultan, a keen student of architecture, would often overrule the chief builder. He alone knew that the reason for the new structure was not to defend Cairo against the Franj, but to defend the Sultan against popular insurrection.

The city was known for its turbulence. It had grown fast, and attracted vagabonds and malcontents of every sort. For that reason, Cairo frightened its rulers.

Here, too, the Sultan tested his own skills and those of his steed. Sometimes he would take Afdal, his oldest son, with him. Afdal was but twelve years old, and this was his first extended stay in Cairo. The Sultan would use the time to train the boy in the arts and the politics of war. Dynasties, after all, are made or lost on the battlefield. Saladin had been taught this by his father Ayyub and his uncle Shirkuh.

When the Sultan returned that morning, I was waiting for him. I touched my forehead in silent greeting.

“You have arrived at exactly the right moment, Ibn Yakub,” he said, leaping off his horse. He was flushed and sweaty, with his eyes were shining like those of a child. Happiness and satisfaction were written on his face.

“This augurs well for our work, my friend. I will take a bath and join you for breakfast in the library. We can have an hour alone before the Kadi arrives. Shadhi will show you the way.”

An old Kurdish warrior in his nineties, his beard as white as the mountain snow, took me by the elbow, guiding me gently in the direction of the library. On the way he talked about himself. He had been a retainer with the Sultan’s father long before Yusuf was born, and long before Ayyub and his brother Shirkuh had moved down to the plains of Mesopotamia.

“It was I, Shadhi, who taught your Sultan how to ride and wield a sword when he was not yet eight years old. It was I, Shadhi, who…”

In more normal circumstances, I would have listened intently to the old man, and questioned him in great detail, but that day my thoughts were elsewhere. It was my first visit to the palace, and it would be foolish to deny that I was in a state of great excitement. Suddenly my star had risen. I was about to become a confidant of the most powerful ruler of our world.

I was being taken to the most celebrated private library of our city. The books on philosophy alone numbered over a thousand. Everything was here from Aristotle to Ibn Rushd, from astronomy to geometry. It was here that Ibn Maymun came when he wanted to consult the medical formularies of al-Kindi, Sahlan ibn Kaysan, and Abul Fadl Daud. And, of course, the master himself, al-Razi, the greatest of them all. It was here that Ibn Maymun wanted his own books and manuscripts to be kept after his death.

Entering the library, I was entranced by its magnitude and soon lost in lofty thoughts. These volumes, so exquisitely bound, were the repository of centuries of learning and study. Here was a special section containing books unobtainable elsewhere, works denounced as heretical. Such books, to put it another way, as might help to unlock closed minds. They were only available in the reading rooms of the Dar al-hikma if the reader was prepared to offer the librarian an extremely generous gift. Even then, not everything was possible.

Abul Hassan al-Bakri’s Sirat al-Bakri, for instance, had vanished from the shops and the public libraries. A preacher at al-Azhar had denounced the book, a biography of the Prophet of Islam, as a total fabrication. He had informed the faithful at Friday prayers that al-Bakri was roasting in hell because of his blasphemy.

Here now in front of me lay the offending book. My hands had trembled slightly as I removed it from the shelf and began to read its opening lines. It seemed orthodox enough to me. I was so absorbed that I noticed neither the recumbent form of Shadhi prostrate on a prayer rug in the direction of Mecca, nor the unannounced arrival of the Sultan. He interrupted my private reverie.

“To dream and to know is better than to pray and be ignorant. Do you agree, Ibn Yakub?”

“Forgive me, Your Excellency, I was…”

He signalled that we be seated. Breakfast was being served. The Sultan was preoccupied. I had suddenly become nervous. We ate in silence.

“What is your method of work?”

I was taken by surprise.

“I’m not sure I grasp your meaning, Commander of the Brave.”

He laughed.

“Come now, my friend. Ibn Maymun has told me that you are a scholar of history. He spoke highly of your attempt to compile a history of your own people. Is my question so difficult to answer?”

“I follow the method of the great Tabari. I write in a strictly chronological fashion. I ascertain the veracity of every important fact by speaking to those whose knowledge was gained directly. When I obtain several different versions of a fact, from several narrators, I usually communicate all of these to the reader.”

The Sultan burst out laughing.

“You contradict yourself. How can there be more than one account of a single fact? Surely there can be only one fact. One correct account and several false versions.”

“Your Majesty is talking about facts. I am talking about history.”

He smiled.

“Should we begin?”

I nodded and collected my writing implements.

“Should we start at the beginning?”

“I suppose so,” he muttered, “since you are so wedded to chronology. I mean it would be better to start with my first sight of Cairo, would it not?”

“The beginning, O Sultan. The beginning. Your beginning. Your first memories.”

I was lucky. I was not the eldest son. For that reason not much was expected from me. I was left to myself a great deal, and enjoyed much freedom. My appearance and demeanour did not pose a threat to anyone. I was a very ordinary boy. You see me now as a Sultan, surrounded by all the symbols of power. You are impressed and, possibly, even a bit frightened. You worry that if you exceed certain proprieties your head might roll in the dust. This fear is normal. It is the effect which power has on the Sultan’s subjects. But this same power can transform even the most diminutive personality into a figure of large proportions. Look at me. If you had known me when I was a boy and Shahan Shah was my oldest brother you would never have imagined that I could be the Sultan of Misr, and you would have been right. Fate and history conspired to make me what I am today.

The only person who saw something in me was my paternal grandmother. When I was nine or ten years old, she saw me and a group of my friends trying to kill a snake. As boys we would compete with each other in these foolish things. We would try and grab a snake by its tail and then swing it, before crushing its head on a stone or, as the braver ones among us did, stamping on its head with our feet.

My grandmother, having observed this scene carefully, shouted at me.

“Yusuf! Yusuf ibn Ayyub! Come here at once!”

The other boys ran away, and I walked slowly towards her, expecting a blow around my ears. My grandmother had a legendary temper and, so Shadhi had once told me, she had struck my father across the face when he was a grown man. No one dared to ask the cause of such a public display. My father had left the room and, so they say, mother and son did not speak to each other for a year. In the end, it was my father who apologised.

To my amazement, she hugged me and kissed me in turn on both my eyes.

“You are fearless, boy, but be careful. Some snakes can strike back, even when you have them by the tail.”

I remember laughing with relief. She then told me of a dream she had experienced before I was born.

“You were still inside your mother’s belly. I think you kicked a great deal. Your mother used to complain sometimes that she felt she was going to give birth to a colt. One night I dreamt that a large man-swallowing snake was crawling towards your mother, who was lying uncovered in the sun. Your mother opened her eyes and began to sweat. She wanted to move, but could not lift her body. Slowly the snake crawled towards her. Then suddenly, like the door of a magical cave, her belly opened. An infant walked out, sword in hand, and, with one mighty blow, decapitated the serpent. Then he looked at his mother and walked back into her stomach. You will be a great warrior, my son. It is written in your stars and Allah himself will be your guide.”

My father and uncle laughed at my grandmother and her foolish dreams, but even at that time this interpretation undoubtedly had a positive effect on me. She was the first person to take me seriously.

Her words must have had some effect. After this incident, I noticed that Asad al-Din Shirkuh, my uncle, was beginning to watch me carefully. He took a personal interest in my training as a horseman and sword-fighter. It was he who taught me everything I know of horses. You are aware, are you not, Ibn Yakub, that I know the complete genealogies of all the great horses in our armies? You look surprised. We will talk about horses another day.

If I shut my eyes and think of my earliest memories, the first image that fills my mind is the ruins of the old Greek temples at Baalbek. Their size made one tremble in admiration and awe. The gates leading into the courtyard were still intact. They were truly built for the gods. My father, as representative of the great Sultan Zengi of Mosul, was in charge of the fortress and its defence against the Sultan’s rivals. This was the town where I grew up. The ancients named it Heliopolis, and worshipped Zeus there, and Hermes and Aphrodite.

As children, we used to divide into different groups at the feet of their statues, and hide from each other. There is nothing like a ruin to excite the imagination of a child. There was magic in those old stones. I used to daydream about the old days. Till then the world of the ancients had been a complete puzzle. The worship of idols was the worst heresy for us, something that had been removed from the world by Allah and our Prophet. Yet these temples, and the images of Aphrodite and Hermes in particular, were very pleasing.

We used to think how exciting it would have been if we had lived in those times. We often fought over the gods. I was a partisan of Aphrodite, my older brother, Turan Shah, loved Hermes. As for Zeus, all that remained of his statue was the legs, and they were not very attractive. I think the rest of him had been used to build the fortress in which we now lived.

Shadhi, worried at the corrupting effect of these remnants from the past, would try and scare us away from the ruins. The gods could transform humans into statues or other objects without their losing their minds. He would invent tales of how djinns and demons, and other ungodly creatures, would gather at these sites whenever there was a full moon. All they discussed was how to grab and eat children. Hundreds and thousands of children have been eaten here by the djinns over the centuries, he would tell us in his deep voice. Then, seeing the fright on our faces, he would qualify what he had said. Nothing would harm us, since we were under the protection of Allah and the Prophet.

Shadhi’s stories only added to the attraction. We would ask him about the three gods, and some of the scholars in the library would talk openly of the ancients and of their beliefs. Their gods and goddesses were like humans. They fought and loved, and shared other human emotions. What distinguished them from us was that they did not die. They lived for ever and ever in their own heaven, a place very different from our paradise.

“Are they still in their own heaven now?” I remember asking my grandmother one night.

She was enraged.

“Who has been filling your head with all this nonsense? Your father will have their tongues removed. They were never anything else but statues, foolish boy. People in those times were very stupid. They worshipped idols. In our part of the world it was our own Prophet, may he rest in peace, who finally destroyed the statues and their influence.”

Everything we were told increased our fascination with these things. Nothing could keep us away from them. One night, when the moon was full, the older children, led by my brother, decided to visit the sanctuary of Aphrodite. They were planning to leave me behind, but I heard them whispering and threatened to tell our grandmother. My brother kicked me hard, but realised the danger of not including me.

It was cold that night. Even though we had wrapped ourselves in blankets, my teeth were trembling and the tip of my nose was numb. I think there were six or seven of us. Slowly we crept out of the fortress. We were all frightened, and I remember the complaints when I was compelled to stop twice to water the roots of an old tree. We became more confident as we approached Aphrodite. We had heard nothing except the owls and the barking dogs. No djinns had appeared.

Yet just as we entered the moonlit temple courtyard, we heard strange noises. I nearly died, and clung tightly to Turan Shah. Even he was scared. Slowly we crept towards the noises. There stretched out before us was the bare backside of Shadhi as he heaved forwards and backwards, his black hair waving in the wind. He was copulating like a donkey, and once we realised it was him we could not restrain ourselves. Our laughter swept through the empty yard, striking Shadhi like a dagger. He turned and began to scream abuse at us. We ran. The next day my brother confronted him.

“The djinn had a very familiar arse last night, did it not Shadhi?”

Salah-ud-Din paused and laughed at the memory. As luck would have it, Shadhi entered the library at that moment with a message. Before he could speak, the Sultan’s laughter reached a higher pitch. The bewildered retainer looked at us in turn, and it was with great difficulty that I managed to control my features, though I too was inwardly bursting with laughter.

Shadhi, by way of explanation, was told of the story that had just been recounted. His face went red, and he spoke angrily to Salah al-Din in the Kurdish dialect, and stormed out of the room.

The Sultan laughed again.

“He has threatened revenge. He will tell you tales from my youth in Damascus, which he is sure I have forgotten.”

Our first session was over.

We left the library, the Sultan indicating with a gesture that I should follow him. The corridors and rooms we passed through were furnished in an endless variety of silks and brocades, with mirrors edged in silver and gold. Eunuchs guarded each sanctuary. I had never seen such luxury.

The Sultan left me little time to wonder. He walked quickly, his robe streaming in the wind created by his rapid movements. We entered the audience chamber. Outside stood a Nubian guard, a scimitar by his side. He bowed as we entered. The Sultan sat on a raised platform, covered in purple silks and surrounded by cushions covered in satin and gold brocade.

The Kadi had already arrived at the palace for his daily report and consultations. He was summoned to the chamber. As he entered and bowed, I made as if to leave. To my surprise, the Sultan asked me to remain seated. He wanted me to observe and write down everything of note.

I had often seen the Kadi al-Fadil in the streets of the city, preceded and followed by his guards and retainers, symbols of power and authority. The face of the state. This was the man who presided over the Diwan al-insha, the chancellery of the state, the man who ensured the regular and smooth functioning of Misr. He had served the Fatimid Caliphs and their ministers with the same zeal he now devoted to the man who had overthrown them. He embodied the continuity of the institutions of Misr. The Sultan trusted him as a counsellor and friend, and the Kadi never flinched from offering unwelcome advice. It was also he who drew up official and personal letters, after the Sultan had provided the outlines of what he wished to say.

The Sultan introduced me as his very special and private scribe. I rose and bowed low before the Kadi. He smiled.

“Ibn Maymun has talked much of you, Ibn Yakub. He respects your learning and your skills. That is enough for me.”

I bowed my head in gratitude. Ibn Maymun had warned me that if the Kadi had become possessive of the Sultan, and resented my presence, he could have me removed from this world without much difficulty.

“And my approval, al-Fadil?” inquired the Sultan. “Does that mean nothing at all? I accept that I am not a great thinker or a poet like you, nor am I a philosopher and physician like our good friend, Ibn Maymun. But surely you will admit I am a good judge of men. It was I who picked Ibn Yakub.”

“Your Excellency mocks this humble servant,” replied the Kadi in a slightly bored fashion, as if to say that he was not in the mood for playing games today.

After a few preliminary skirmishes, in which he refused to be further provoked by his master, the Kadi sketched out the main events of the preceding week. This was a routine report on the most trivial aspects of running the state, but it was difficult not to be bewitched by his mastery of the language. Every word was carefully chosen, every sentence finely tuned, and the conclusion rewarded with a couplet. This man was truly impressive. The entire report took up an hour, and not once had the Kadi had occasion to consult a single piece of paper. What a feat of memory!

The Sultan was used to the Kadi’s delivery, and had appeared to shut his eyes for long spells during his chancellor’s exquisite discourse.

“Now I come to an important matter on which I need your decision, Sire. It involves the murder of one of your officers by another.”

The Sultan was wide awake.

“Why was I not informed earlier?”

“The incident of which I speak only happened two days ago. I spent the whole of yesterday in establishing the truth. Now I can report the whole story to you.”

“I’m listening, al-Fadil.”

The Kadi began to speak.

Three

A case of uncontrollable passions: the story of Halima and the judgement of the Sultan

MESSUD AL-DIN, AS YOU will recall, was one of Your Grace’s bravest officers. He had fought by your side on many an occasion. Two days ago, he was dispatched by a much younger man, Kamil ibn Zafar, one of the most gifted swordsmen, I am told, in our city. The news was brought to me by Halima, herself the cause of the conflict between the two men. She is now hiding under my protection till the matter is resolved. If the Sultan were to see her, he would understand why Messud lies dead and why Kamil is prepared to suffer a similar fate. She is beautiful.

Halima was an orphan. There was no rosy childhood for her. It was as if she knew the transgressions that were destined to flow from her. She stepped into adult life and startled it with her beauty, her intelligence, her audacity. She became a serving woman in the household of Kamil ibn Zafar, where she worked for his wife and looked after his children.

Kamil could have done what he wanted with her. He could have used her body when overcome by desire, he could have installed her in his house as an official concubine. But he loved her. She was not the one to demand that he should marry her. The pressure came from him, and the marriage duly took place.

Halima insisted on behaving as if nothing had changed. She refused to stay at home the whole day. She would serve Kamil at home, and then remain in the room while his male friends were present. She told me that although Kamil was a kind and considerate man, she did not feel the passion for him that he felt for her. Her explanation of the marriage was that it was only through such a link that he felt she would be his property for life. Yes, Sire, that is the word she used. Property.

Messud had first seen Halima at the house of his friend, Kamil, who had opened out his heart to him. Kamil told Messud of his love for Halima, and how he could not live without her. The two men spoke of her a great deal, and Messud came to learn of her most appealing qualities.

On the occasions when Messud called to enjoy a drink with his friend, and Kamil was absent, he would accept a small glass of tea from Halima. She would speak to him as an equal, and regale him with the latest stories and jokes from the bazaar, often at the expense of your Kadi, O merciful Sultan. And sometimes the darts were aimed at the Caliph in Baghdad and at your own good self.

Kamil’s mother and his oldest wife were shocked by Halima’s behaviour. They complained bitterly, but Kamil was unmoved.

“Messud is like my own brother,” he told them. “I serve under him in the glorious army of Yusuf Salah al-Din. His family is at home in Damascus. My house is his house. Treat him as you would someone who is part of our family. Halima understands my feelings better than you. If Messud displeases you, then keep out of his way. I do not wish to impose him on you.”

The subject was never raised again. Messud became a regular visitor.

It was Halima who made the first move. Nothing is more attractive than forbidden fruit. One evening, when Kamil and the rest of the family were at the funeral of his first wife’s father, Halima found herself alone. The servants and armed retainers had accompanied their master to the burial. Messud, unsuspecting Messud, unaware of the death in the family, arrived to eat with his friend. He found the beautiful Halima greeting him in the empty courtyard. As the setting sun shone on her light red hair, she must have reminded him of a fairy princess from the Caucasus.

She did not give me an exact account of how our noble warrior Messud ended the afternoon by resting his satisfied body on hers, his head pressed gently on her peach-like breasts. I know Your Grace appreciates every detail, but my modest imagination is incapable of satisfying you today. Their passion for each other became like a slow-working poison.

As the months passed, Messud would look for opportunities to send Kamil on special missions. He would be drafted to Fustat, or to supervise the construction of the new citadel, or to train young soldiers in the art of sword-fighting, or sent on any other mission that occurred to Messud’s twisted and obsessed mind.

Halima told me that they had found a trysting place, not far from the Mahmudiya quarter where she lived. Unbeknown to her, Kamil’s mother had started having her followed by a loyal servant, until the lovers’ routine had become well-established. One day she sent a messenger to fetch her son. She pretended that death itself was knocking on her door. Kamil, sick with worry, rushed home and was relieved to see his mother well. But the look on her face told him everything. She did not speak a word, merely nodding to the twelve-year-old servant-spy and indicating to her son to follow him. Kamil was about to leave his sword behind, but she told him he might soon have some use for it.

The boy walked at a brisk pace. Kamil followed him in a daze. He knew his mother disliked Halima. He knew that wherever he was going, there he would find her. But he was hardly prepared for what he saw when he entered the room. Messud and Halima, lying naked on the floor, were drowning each other in bliss.

Kamil screamed. It was an awful scream. Anger, betrayal, jealousy were all wrapped up in that scream. Messud covered himself and got up on his feet, his face disfigured by guilt. He did not put up a fight. He knew what was his due, and he waited patiently for his punishment. Kamil ran his sword through his friend’s heart.

Halima did not scream. She grabbed her cloak and left the room. She did not see her lover’s spurting blood send her husband into a frenzy. But the boy observed everything. He saw his master punish the dead body of his friend. He saw him cut off the offending organ. Then, his anger spent, Kamil sat down and wept. He talked to his dead friend. He pleaded to be told why Messud had regarded Halima’s body as more important than their friendship.

“If you had asked me,” he shouted at the body, “I would have given her to you.”

At this point in the Kadi’s story, the Sultan interrupted him.

“Enough, al-Fadil. We have heard all that we need to know. It is a wretched business. One of my finest horsemen lies dead. Killed, not by the Franj, but by his best friend. My day had started so well with Ibn Yakub, but now you have ruined it with this painful story. There is no solution to this problem. The solution lay within the problem. Is that not the case?”

The Kadi smiled sadly.

“At one level, of course, you are correct. Yet looked at from the point of view of the state, this is a serious offence, a question of discipline. Kamil has killed a superior officer. If he were to remain unpunished, news would spread. It would demoralise the soldiers, especially the Syrians who loved Messud. I think punishment is necessary. He should not have taken the law into his own hands. Justice in Your Highness’ realm is my responsibility and mine alone. Only you can override my decision. What do you suggest in this case?”

“Your choice, al-Fadil.”

“I demand Kamil’s head.”

“No!” screamed the Sultan. “Flog him if you must, but nothing more. The offence was caused by a fit of uncontrollable passion. Even you, my friend, would have found it difficult to exercise restraint in such circumstances.”

“As the Sultan desires.”

The Kadi remained seated. He knew instinctively, from long years of service to his Sultan, that Salah al-Din had not yet finished with this story. For a few minutes, none of us spoke.

“Tell me, al-Fadil,” said the familiar voice, “what has become of the wench?”

“I thought you might like to question her yourself, and I took the liberty of bringing her to the palace. She should be stoned to death for adultery. The Sultan must decide the sentence. It would be a popular decision. The talk in the bazaar is that she is possessed by the devil.”

“I am intrigued. What kind of animal is she? As you leave, have her sent to me.”

The Kadi bowed and, without the tiniest acknowledgement of my presence, he left the room.

“What as yet I cannot understand, Ibn Yakub,” said the Sultan, “is why al-Fadil brought this case to me. Perhaps it was because he could not risk executing a Misrian officer without my approval. Perhaps. I suppose that’s the reason. But one must never underestimate al-Fadil. He is a sly camel. I’m sure there was a hidden motive.”

At this point a retainer entered, and announced that Halima was outside the door. The Sultan nodded, and she was ushered before him. She fell on her knees and bowed, touching his feet with her forehead.

“Enough of this,” said the Sultan in the harsh voice of a ruler sitting in judgement. “Sit down in front of us.”

As she sat up, I saw her face for the first time. It was as if a lamp had lit the room. This was no ordinary beauty. Despite her sadness, her tearful eyes were shining and intelligent. This one would not go willingly to the executioner. She would fight. Resistance was written on her face.

As I turned to the Sultan, pen poised and waiting for him to speak, I could see that he too was bewitched by the sight of this young woman. She must have been twenty years old, at the most.

Salah al-Din’s eyes betrayed a softness I had not seen before, but I had not been with him before in the presence of a woman. He was staring at her with an intensity which would have frightened anyone else, but Halima looked straight into his eyes. It was the Sultan who finally averted his gaze. She had won the first contest.

“I am waiting,” he finally said. “Tell me why I should not hand you over to the Kadi, who will have you stoned to death for your crime.”

“If love is a crime,” she began in a self-pitying tone, “then, Commander of the Merciful, I deserve to die.”

“Not love, wretched woman, but adultery. Betraying your husband before God.”

At this her eyes blazed. The sadness had evaporated and she began to speak. Her voice changed too. She spoke with confidence and with no trace of humility. She had entirely regained her self-possession, and spoke to the Sultan in a confident voice as though addressing an equal.

“I could not understand how small this world can be for two people. When Messud was not with me, the memory of him became a torment. I care not whether I live or die, and I will submit to the Kadi’s punishment. He can have me stoned to death, but I will not beg for mercy or shout my repentance to the vultures. I am sad, but I am not sorry. The short spell of happiness was more than I had thought possible in this life.”

The Sultan asked if she had any relatives. She shook her head. He then requested Halima to tell her story.

I was two years old when I was sold to the family of Kamil ibn Zafar. They said I was an orphan, found abandoned miles away by Kurdish traders. They had taken pity on me, but the term of their pity was limited to only a couple of years. Kamil ibn Zafar’s mother could not conceive again. Her husband, they told me at the time, was dead. She lived in her father’s house, and this kind old man bought her a child from the streets. I was part of the seasonal trade. That is all I know of my past.

Kamil was ten or eleven years old at the time. He was kind and loving even then, and always attentive to my needs. He treated me as though I was his real sister. His mother’s attitude was different. She could never decide whether to bring me up as a daughter or as a slave girl. As I grew older, she became clearer as to my functions in the house. I still ate with the family, which annoyed the other servants, but I was trained to become her serving woman. It was not such a bad life, though I often felt lonely. The other serving women never fully trusted me.

Every day an old man came to the house to teach us the wisdom of the Koran, and to recount the deeds of the Prophet and his Companions. Soon Kamil had stopped attending these lessons. He would go riding with his friends, and shooting arrows at the mark. One day the teacher of holy texts grabbed my hand, and put it between his legs. I screamed. Kamil’s mother rushed into the room.

The teacher, muttering the name of Allah, told her that I was indecent and licentious. In his presence she slapped my face twice, and apologised to him. When Kamil came home, I told him the truth. He was angry with his mother, and the teacher was never allowed near our house again. I think that she was nervous of Kamil’s affection for me, and she soon found him a wife. She chose her sister’s daughter, Zenobia, who was two years older than me.

After Kamil’s wedding, I was made to attend to the needs of his young wife. I liked her. We had known each other since I had first entered the household, and we often shared each other’s secrets. When Zenobia bore Kamil a son, I was as delighted as all of them. I looked after the child a great deal, and I grew to love it as if it were my own. I envied Zenobia, who Allah had blessed with unlimited amounts of milk.

Everything was fine — even Kamil’s mother had become friendly again — until that fateful day when Kamil took me aside and told me that he loved me, and not just as a brother. Allah is my witness, I was wholly surprised. At first I was scared. But Kamil persisted. He wanted me. For a very long time, I resisted. I felt much affection for him, but no passion. Not so much as a trace.

I know not what would have happened, or even how it would have ended, had Kamil’s mother not attempted to marry me off to the son of the water-carrier. He was a rough type, and did not appeal to me. Yet marriage, as Your Grace knows, is never a free choice for women. If my mistress had decided my fate, I would have married the water-carrier’s boy.

Kamil was upset by the news. He declared that it would never happen, and immediately asked me to become his wife. His mother was shocked. His wife declared that she was humiliated by his choice, taking her servant as a second wife. Both women stopped speaking to me for many months.

Imagine my situation. There was no one to talk to about the problems of my life. In bed at night, I used to weep, yearning for the mother I never knew. I considered the choices confronting me quite coldly. The thought of the water-carrier’s son made me feel ill. I would rather have died or run away than bear his touch. Kamil, who had always been kind and loving to me, was the only possible alternative. I agreed to become his wife.

Kamil was overjoyed. I was satisfied and not unhappy, even though Zenobia hated me, and Kamil’s mother treated me as if I were dirt from the street. Her own past hung over her like a cloud. She could never forget that Kamil’s father had deserted her for another, while she was heavy with their child. He had left Cairo one night, never to return. I am told he has a family in Baghdad, where he trades in precious stones. His name was never mentioned, though Kamil used to think of him a great deal. What I have recounted is his mother’s side of the story.

In the kitchen, there was another version which is common knowledge. I was told it only after the servants were convinced that I would not carry tales to the mistress. For the truth is that Kamil’s father ran away from our city when he discovered, on returning from a long voyage abroad, that his wife had coupled with a local merchant. The child in her belly did not belong to him. Kamil confirmed this to me after we were married. His mother knew that I had been told, and the very thought filled with her hatred. What would have happened to all of us Allah alone knows.

Then Messud, with eyes like almonds and lips as sweet as honey, entered my life. He told me tales of Damascus, and how he had fought by the side of Sultan Yusuf Salah al-Din ibn Ayyub. I could not resist him. I did not wish to resist him. What I felt for him was something I had never experienced before.

That is my story, O great Sultan. I know that you will live without misfortune, you will win great victories, you will rule over us, you will pass judgement, and you will make sure your sons are brought up as you wish them to be. Your success has put you where you are. This benighted, blind and homeless creature puts her trust in you. Allah’s will must be done.

While Halima had been talking, Salah al-Din had drunk in every word, observed every gesture, and noticed every flash of the eyes. She had the look of a wild, but cornered, cat. Now he inspected her with the steady, emotionless gaze of a Kadi, as though his face were made of stone. The intensity of the Sultan’s gaze unnerved the girl. This time, it was she who averted her eyes.

He smiled and clapped his hands. The ever-faithful Shadhi entered the chamber, and the Sultan spoke to him in the Kurdish dialect, which I could not understand. The sound struck some deep chord in Halima. Hearing them talk in their tongue startled her, and she listened carefully.

“Go with him,” the Sultan told her. “He will make sure you remain safe, far away from the Kadi’s stones.”

She kissed his feet, and Shadhi took her by the elbow and guided her out of the chamber.

“Speak frankly, Ibn Yakub. Your religion shares many of our prescriptions. In my place, would you have allowed such a beautiful creation to be stoned to death outside the Bab-el-Barkiya?”

I shook my head.

“I would not, Your Highness, but many of the more orthodox within my religion would share the view of the great Kadi.”

“Surely you understand, my good scribe, that al-Fadil did not really want her to be killed. That is what all this business is about. He wanted me to take the decision. That is all. Had he wished, he could have dealt with the whole matter himself — and then informed me when it was too late to intervene. By asking me to listen to her story, he knew that he was not consigning her to the cruel uncertainties of enigmatic fate. He knows me well. He would have been sure I would keep her alive. If the truth be told, I think our Kadi, too, fell under Halima’s spell. I think she will be safe in the harem.

“Now, it has been a tiring day. You will break some bread with me, I trust?”

Four

A eunuch kills the great Sultan Zengi and the fortunes of Salah al-Din’s family take a turn; Shadhi’s story

THE FOLLOWING MORNING, I arrived at the palace at the agreed time and was taken to the library by Shadhi. The Sultan himself did not appear. I busied myself with volumes hitherto unknown to me.

At noon I was told by a messenger, with Shadhi trailing behind him, that matters of state were occupying the Sultan and that he had no time that day.

I was about to leave when Shadhi winked at me. I was wary of this stooped old man, who was still vain enough to dye his white beard with henna and whose well-oiled bald head glistened dangerously in the sun. My face must have registered confusion.

“Matters of state?”

The old man laughed, a rasping, loud, vulgar, sceptical laugh, as if to answer his own question.

“I think the Defender of the Weak is not inspecting the citadel as he should be at this hour. Instead, he is exploring the cracks and crevices of the girl with red hair.”

I was slightly shocked, not even sure myself whether I was disturbed more by the words that Shadhi had spoken or by the message they conveyed. Could it be true? The Sultan’s speed on horseback was legendary, and I wondered whether this same impatience had characterised his movements in the bedchamber. And Halima? Had she yielded willingly, without a struggle or, at the very least, a verbal plea for patience? Was it a seduction, or a violation?

The report was probably accurate. I was desperate for more information, but I refrained from comment, not wishing to encourage Shadhi further. This irritated him. He was trying to develop a familiarity with me by sharing a secret, and he took my lack of response as a snub.

I hurriedly took my leave of him and returned home.

To my surprise, when I returned the next morning, I found the Sultan waiting for me in the library. He smiled at my entrance, but wanted to begin immediately, wasting no time in pleasantries. In my mind’s eye, I thought I caught a brief glimpse of Halima, before the Sultan’s familiar tones forced me to concentrate my attention on his words. My hand began to move on the paper, pushed as if by a force much greater than me.

Spring always came to Baalbek like a traveller with stories to tell. At night the sky was like a quilt sewn with stars. During the day it was an intense blue, as the sun smiled on everything. We used to lie in the grass and inhale the fragrance of the almond blossom. As the weather grew warmer, and summer approached, we would compete with each other to see who would dive first into the small freshwater lake, endlessly supplied by several little streams. The lake itself was hidden by a clump of trees, and we always treated its location as our little secret, though everyone in Baalbek knew of its existence.

One day, while we were swimming, we saw Shadhi racing towards us. He could run in those days, though not as well as in his youth. My grandmother used to talk of how Shadhi could run from one mountain village to another, over distances of more than twenty miles. He would leave after the morning prayer and return in time to serve breakfast to my grandfather. That was a long time ago, in Dvin, before our family moved to Takrit.

Shadhi told us to get out of the water and run as fast as we could to the citadel. Our father had summoned us. He swore at us, threatening vile punishments if we did not obey his instruction immediately. His face was taut with worry. On this occasion, we believed him.

When my older brother, Turan Shah, inquired as to the reason for such haste, Shadhi glared, telling him that it was for our father to inform us of the calamity that had befallen our faith. Genuinely alarmed, we ran as fast as we could. I remember Turan Shah muttering something about the Franj. If they were at the gates, he would fight, even if he had to steal a sword.

As we approached the citadel, we heard the familiar sound of wailing women. I remember clutching Turan Shah’s hand, and looking at him nervously. Shadhi had noticed this and correctly interpreted my anxiety.

As he lifted me onto his shoulders, he whispered soothing words in my ear.

“Your father is alive and well. In a few minutes you will see him.”

It was not our father but the great Sultan Zengi who had died. The Defender of the Faith had been murdered by a drunken eunuch while he slept in his tent by the Euphrates.

He was fully engaged in the Holy War against the Franj. My father had been put in command of Baalbek by Sultan Zengi, and now he was worried that we might have to pack our tents and move again.

It was Zengi who had defeated the Franj and, after a month’s siege, taken the city of al-Ruha, which they called Edessa. The city had become a jewel set in the dagger of our faith, as we looked with longing towards al-Kuds and the mosque of Caliph Omar.

I still remember the words of the poet, often sung in Baalbek by both soldiers and slaves. We used to join them, and I think if I begin to sing, the words will come back:

He rides in a wave of horsemen,

They flow o’er the earth like a flood,

His spears talk to the enemy

Like tongues encrusted in blood.

He’s merciful and forgiving

But not in the heat of the fight,

For in the battle’s fire and rage

The only law is might.

My father had enjoyed warm relations with Sultan Zengi and was genuinely upset by the manner and cause of his death. Years later, Shadhi told me the real story.

Zengi was fond of wine. On the night of his death, he had consumed an entire flask of wine. While still in his cups he had sent for a young soldier who had caught his eye during the siege. The Sultan used the young man to assuage his lust.

Yaruktash, the eunuch who killed Zengi, had loved the boy. He could not bear the thought of his sculpted body being defiled by an old man in a hurry. In a fit of jealousy he followed the boy, and observed what took place. He brought wine to the guards outside the tent, making them drowsy. While they slept, he crept in and stabbed his master to death, joined by the young soldier whose body was still warm from Zengi’s embrace. It was a crime of passion.

The scribes who write history pretend that the eunuch and his friends had stolen Zengi’s wine. Fearful of being discovered, they had killed their ruler in a drunken frenzy. But this version doesn’t make sense. Shadhi told me the truth. He must have heard it from my father or my uncle. Little escaped the notice of those two men.

At the time I knew little or nothing of this. Nor was I especially interested in the affairs of that other world inhabited by adults. Once again, I benefited from not being the eldest son. That was the privilege reserved for Shahan Shah. He was obliged to sit next to my father during Friday prayers, and when other matters were being discussed. He was being trained in the arts of rulership. Turan Shah and I would sometimes find it difficult not to laugh when Shahan Shah began to adopt my father’s way of speaking.

The occupation of our coastal cities, and even of al-Kuds, which the Franj call the Kingdom of Jerusalem, had become, for me, one of the simple facts of life. Sometimes I would hear my father and my uncle Shirkuh talk of the past, often when the children were present. They would be speaking to each other, but we were the real audience. It was their way of making sure we understood the scale of what had taken place in our lands.

They would talk of how the barbarians had first arrived, and of how they ate human flesh and did not bathe. Always they told sad stories of the fate of al-Kuds. The barbarians had decided to kill all the Believers. All of your people, Ibn Yakub, as I’m sure you know better than I, were collected in the Temple of Suleiman. The exits were blocked, and the Franj set the holy sanctuary on fire. They wished to wipe out the past and to rewrite the future of al-Kuds, which once belonged to all of us, the People of the Book.

The only story that really moved me as a child was that of al-Kuds. The cruelty of the barbarians was like a poison that makes men mute. Al-Kuds was never absent from our world of make-believe. We used to climb on our horses and pretend we were riding to drive the Franj out of al-Kuds, an event which usually meant driving Shadhi out of the kitchen. Yet the real day is not so far away, Ibn Yakub. Our people will soon return to al-Kuds. The cities of Tyre and Acre, of Antioch and Tripoli, will once again belong to us.

That the Franj must be defeated was obvious, but how could we emerge victorious when the camp of the Believers was so bitterly divided? For a start, there were two Caliphs: one in Baghdad who ruled only in name, and another in Cairo, who was weak. The collapse of the Caliphate had led to little kingdoms springing up everywhere. My father told us on the day Zengi died that unless we were united the Franj would never be defeated. He spoke as a general, but his words were also true in a greater, spiritual sense. The animosities within our own side ran deep. We were fiercer in fighting our rivals than in resisting the Franj. Those words have always stayed with me.

“And your father?” I asked the Sultan. “You have not yet spoken of him. What kind of a man was he?”

My father Ayyub was a good-natured man. He was a cautious and trusting person. When trying to explain something to us, he would ask in his soft voice: “Is it simple? Is it clear? Does everyone understand?”

In a more tranquil world he might have been content in charge of a large library or as the man responsible for the regular functioning of the public baths of Cairo. You smile, Ibn Yakub. You think I underestimate the qualities of my father. Not in the least. All I am saying is that we are all creatures of our fate, and our lives are determined by the times in which we exist. Our biographies are determined by circumstance.

Take Ibn Maymun, for instance. If his family had not been compelled to leave Andalus, he might have been the Vizir of Granada. If al-Kuds had not been occupied, you might be living there and not in Cairo.

Take our Prophet himself. It was fortunate, was it not, that he received the Revelation at a time when two great empires were beginning to decay. Within thirty years of his death, the Believers, with the guidance of Allah, had succeeded beyond our wildest dreams. If we did not succeed in civilising the lands of the Franj, the fault is ours alone. It was human error that prevented us from educating and circumcising the Franj. The Prophet knew that reliance on Allah alone would never be enough. Did he not once remark: “Trust in Allah, but tie your camel first”?

My father, you must understand, never liked to travel. He was a man of sedentary habits, unlike my grandfather, who, by the way, was also called Shadhi, and my uncle Shirkuh. These two were never satisfied in one place. My enemies often refer to our family as adventurers and upstarts. Even the Prophet, may he rest in eternal peace, was called an upstart, so that does not upset me. As for being adventurers, I think that is true. The only way to move forward in this world is through adventure. If you sit still in one place, you get burnt by the sun and you die. Yet I know that my father would have liked to have stayed in Dvin, in Armenia.

The news of Zengi’s murder was not just a personal blow. It meant turmoil and trouble. Zengi’s two sons lost little time in asserting their rule in Mosul and Aleppo. My father had little confidence in their capacities. He was proved wrong, of course, but who was to know at the time that the dour and puritanical Nur al-Din would rise to such heights?

My father’s fears were soon to be vindicated. Within weeks, the armies of the ruler of Damascus were at the gates of Baalbek. Resistance, my father knew, was futile. He felt that there was no reason to spill the blood of the Believers. He negotiated a peaceful surrender, and the people were grateful.

Years later, when my father and I were riding together outside Damascus, the edge of the sky turned suddenly red-gold. He noticed this first and we drew in our reins, paying silent homage, for what seemed a long time, to the inimitable beauty of nature. As we began to ride home, none of us spoke. We were still awed by that sky which had changed again as the first stars began to appear. Just as we reached the Bab Shark, my father spoke in his soft voice.

“We often forget that even a necessary war is seen as a calamity by most people. They always suffer much more than us. Always. Never forget that, my son. Engage in battle only when there is no other way.”

Why is it that we forget certain crucial facts, and have to work hard to recall them, yet other events remain clear in our minds? I still remember that day. It is fresh in my mind. My oldest brother, Shahan Shah, had died suddenly some years before, and my father had not fully recovered from the blow. He was still distraught. For some reason, relations between him and Turan Shah had never been close. My brother, who I loved, was far too undisciplined and headstrong a personality to appeal to my father. One day I heard my mother shouting at him: “Turan Shah, is it not enough that you leave a bitter taste in your father without annoying me as well. You are nothing but pain and trouble. Did you hear me…” So many stones had been thrown at him that he was no longer frightened of them, and he would laugh at our mother.

Since Turan Shah was excluded from the list, I was the next in line for my father’s attentions.

I was sixteen years of age and had been presented with a hunting hawk and a fine steed from Kufa. I think it was the first time that my father had taken me seriously. He treated me as an equal. We discussed many problems. He talked about his fears and worries, about the future, about a time when he would no longer be there to guide me.

The very thought of his mortality sent a chill through my body, and I began to tremble. I wanted to embrace him and kiss his cheeks, to weep on his shoulder, to shout “I don’t want you ever to die”, but I contained myself. There is a sacred boundary between father and son which cannot be crossed by emotion. Lips stay silent. The heart remains helpless.

I became aware of all this some years after we left Baalbek. My father had not surrendered the citadel without conditions. He was rewarded with a fief of eight villages near Damascus, a large sum of money, and a house in the heart of the old city. Once again, we were on the move. I was sad to leave the old temples and the streams. I had grown to love Baalbek. Life was happy and sheltered. To this day it brings a smile to my lips.

But it was Damascus that made me a man.

To my relief, the Sultan had stopped speaking and I could rest my weary hand. He noticed my plight and shouted for his attendant. Instructions were given. I was to be bathed and oiled. My hands were to be massaged till each finger had lost its tiredness. After that, I was to be provided with a meal, and permitted to rest till he returned. He wanted an evening session that day. He was due to ride through the city to inspect the building of the new citadel, his citadel, and he was being dressed for the occasion.

Just before I left his presence, I was amazed to see the entrance of a transformed Halima. This was not the tear-stained, sad-eyed creature whose tale we had heard in silence a few days earlier. She walked in with a confidence that took me aback. It answered the question that had been troubling me. She had not been violated. He had been seduced.

Now Halima wanted to visit the citadel with him. Her audacity astonished Salah al-Din. He refused. She persisted, threatening to disguise herself as a soldier and ride out after him. His eyes suddenly hardened, and his face became stern. He spoke in a harsh voice, warning her not to leave the palace without his permission. Outside these protected walls, her life was in danger. Kamil had been whipped in public only yesterday, but the crowd, which included many women, had demanded the stoning of Halima. The news that she had obtained refuge in the palace had not been well received.

Halima still had a defiant look in her eye, but the Sultan’s will prevailed. He suggested, as a conciliatory gesture, that she might perhaps take her midday meal with me. She gave me a slightly contemptuous look, and left the room.

“Sometimes,” muttered the Sultan in a weary voice, “I think I’m a better judge of horses than of men. Halima is more troublesome than a filly. If she deigns to eat with you this afternoon, Ibn Yakub, I am sure that you will offer her sage advice.”

Halima did not honour me with her company that day. I was greatly disappointed. Shadhi’s arrival, just as I was about to start eating, did not improve my humour. I was not in the mood to listen to the tales of old men, but courtesy dictated that I share my meal with him, and one thing led to another. He was soon boasting of his own exploits. His singular prowess as a rider featured in every episode.

Prior to this meeting, I had never spent much time with him, nor had I taken him particularly seriously. Yet now as I watched him, while he spoke, I saw something in his mannerisms which struck me as familiar. They alerted me to the real reason why he was treated with such respect by servant and master alike. He lifted his right hand, and raised his eyebrow just like Salah al-Din.

I let the thought pass. It was not such a surprising observation. Shadhi had probably spent more time with the Sultan than anyone else, and the young boy had picked up some of the characteristics of the retainer. Yet as the old man carried on talking, the thought returned to me. This time, I interrupted him.

“Respected uncle, I have a question for you. You talk much of your past exploits and adventures, and your stories are of great value in helping me to understand the Sultan. Yet I would like to know something about you. Who was your father? And your mother? I ask not out of curiosity alone, but…”

He interrupted me fiercely.

“Impertinent Jew! I have killed men for less!”

My face must have paled slightly, because he immediately burst out laughing.

I can’t believe you are frightened of an old man like me. Since what you are writing will not be published till we are all dead and gone, I will answer your question. My mother was a poor woman in Dvin, the only daughter of a woodcutter who delivered wood to many big houses in the area. Her mother had died giving birth to her, and her father never married again. That is a rare enough event in these times, but was unheard of when my grandfather was young, over a hundred years ago. He was as big as a giant, and his ability with the axe was known in all the nearby villages. He could fell a tree faster than anyone else in that part of the world.

He had become close friends with a young cook in the house of Shadhi ibn Marwan, the Sultan’s grandfather, and decided that this was the man for his fifteen-year-old daughter. They were married. My mother became part of Ibn Marwan’s household. I have not yet told you, scribe, that my mother was as renowned for her beauty as my grandfather for his strength. What had to happen, happened. The master caught sight of her and bent her to his will. She did not resist. I am the result. When I was born, the Sultan’s late father, Ayyub, and his uncle Shirkuh were already over ten years old. Their mother was a ferocious lady. When she heard the news, she insisted that the cook and my mother — I was still in her stomach — should be given some money and sent to a neighbouring village.

Shadhi ibn Marwan gave in to her. When I was born, my mother named me Shadhi, to annoy everyone. There my story would have ended, were it not for the fact that, when I was seven years old, my mother’s husband died. He had been a good father to me and treated me no differently from his own son, who was a year younger than me.

I have no idea how the news reached Ibn Marwan. All I know is that one day, with his retinue in attendance, he rode into our village and spoke to my mother in private. Allah alone knows what they said to each other. I was too busy admiring the horses and the beautifully coloured saddles.

At the end of their conversation, my mother called me in and hugged me in a tight embrace. She kissed both my eyes while trying to keep the tears out of her own. She told me that, from now on, I was to work in the house of Shadhi ibn Marwan, and to obey him blindly.

I was very upset, and I wept for many months. I missed her greatly. I would go and see her once or twice a year, and she would feed me my favourite cakes, made of maize and sweetened with mountain honey.

It was only when we were leaving Dvin, and moving southwards to Takrit, that I found out about my real father. I had gone to say farewell to my mother. I knew we would never see each other again. She had my brother and his wife and their children, and I knew they loved her and would look after her, but I was still overcome by sadness. As we parted she kissed me on the forehead, and told me everything. I cannot recall how I felt at the time. Long, long ago. I was both pleased and angry.

Shadhi’s story had confirmed my suspicions, and I was desperate to question him further. Before we could speak, the Sultan had entered, with his two sons by his side. They were introduced to me, but it was obvious that they had come in search of Shadhi. His eyes had lit up on seeing the boys. As he took them away, the Sultan whispered: “Did she?” in my ear. I shook my head, and he burst out laughing.

Five

Ibn Maymun’s wisdom and his prescriptions

ONE EVENING, AFTER TWO long and exhausting days with the Sultan, I returned home to find Rachel, my wife, in deep conversation with Ibn Maymun. She was registering a set of complaints against me with our great teacher, knowing how much influence and respect he commanded in our household. As I entered the room, I heard her tell him how the amount of time I was spending in the palace was affecting my way of thinking, my character, and my attitude to “less privileged mortals”. Most important of all, I was being charged with the neglect of my duties to her and to our family.

“I think this is a case for the Kadi,” replied Ibn Maymun, stroking his beard thoughtfully. “Should I transmit your reproach to him, and demand that he punishes Ibn Yakub?”

My laughter annoyed Rachel, and she left the room, her face as hard as the stale bread she had been compelled to serve our unexpected guest. Ibn Maymun was tired. His duties to the Kadi were heavy, given that he lived in Fustat, some two miles distant from the Kadi’s palace. He visited him early in the morning, on every day, attending to his needs as well as his children’s, and those of the inmates of the harem.

Thus he spent most of the day in Cairo, returning home late every afternoon. Waiting for him was a unique combination of people: Jews and Gentiles; noblemen and peasants; friends and enemies; and young children and their grandfathers. These were his patients. The price of success was that Ibn Maymun was much in demand. The number of his patients increased by the day and, true physician that he was, he could never turn anyone away.

Sometimes, when desperately in need of rest, he would spend the night at our house in the Juderia, a short walk from the palace. Here, he told me, he could enjoy total peace and recover his energy. I apologised to him for Rachel’s outburst.

“Be careful, Ibn Yakub. Your wife is a good woman, but her inner strength and her love for you is slowly ebbing away. She will not tolerate your absences for ever. You seem to spend most of your time at the Sultan’s palace. Why not tell the Sultan that you need to be with your family on the Sabbath?”

I sighed. I too was feeling weary and worn out that evening.

“I understand you, my friend, but was it not you who recommended me to Salah al-Din? There are times, I admit, when I feel like a prisoner. Yet I would be telling you an untruth if I claimed to be unhappy. The fact is, I like this Sultan. I would like to be riding by his side as we approach the Kingdom of Jerusalem, and I would like to be present when the city falls to our armies, when Jerusalem becomes al-Kuds again, and when we can pray once more in the precincts of the Temple. We buried the sun in Jerusalem. We will meet there again. It would be worth my whole life to see that day. A bright new age is drawing near to our sacred city. I have faith in Salah al-Din. In his own quiet way, after much thought, he will retake Jerusalem.”

The sage nodded his head.

“I understand you only too well, but Rachel’s needs are no less important than your desire to be part of history. Find a balance. Happiness is like good health. You only miss it when it disappears.”

Ibn Maymun retired to bed after our short exchange.

Alone, I reflected on his advice. How best could I preserve a balance between my work and my family? Rachel wanted me to return home to resume my work on the history of our people. That, for her, was far more important than becoming a court scribe.

She did not understand that Ibn Maymun had deliberately turned me away from my own work. He was concerned that my researches would alienate the Rabbis. Fearful of our fragile status in this world, he did not want me to provoke a dispute with our great religious scholars, whose understanding of our past was limited to the scriptures. Ibn Maymun agreed with me that the movement of our people westwards had begun long before the Fall of the Temple or the siege of Masada. We had discussed the subject many times.

As I went out into the courtyard to relieve myself, I was startled by the brightness of the starlit sky. I stood and stared at the stars for a long time. I saw them take different shapes and, heaven help me, I could have sworn that I saw Halima’s simple beauty reflected in one glowing cluster. I had become fascinated by Halima. She refused to leave my thoughts. Why had she not shared a meal with me today when Salah al-Din had encouraged her to do so? And why had he encouraged her? Did he regard me as a eunuch? Was she sharing his bed tonight, or had he already drunk his fill and moved on to another oasis?

It was already late, but all these questions continued to torment me as I made my way to our bedchamber. Rachel was awake, but she was still angry. I spoke to her in a tender voice, but she refused to answer my questions. Nor did she submit to my desires. Sleep eluded us both that night. We lay in silence, waiting for the day to break.

Ibn Maymun always began the day by sipping a large cup of warm water. Whenever he stayed with me, I was compelled to observe the same ritual. It cleansed our insides, he insisted, and prepared the body for the shock of the new day. Ibn Maymun’s prescriptions were essentially preventative. The secret of his medical success lay in the importance he attached to what we ate — and how much. Eight large cups of water during the winter months, and double that amount during the summer, was essential to good health.

On these matters he was very stern. Debate was discouraged. It was easier to argue with him on the relative merits and demerits of our religion. That did not bother him at all, but he insisted on the sanctity of his medical prescriptions. I could never understand the reason for his firmness. Perhaps it had to do with the fact that he earned his living as a physician. If word had spread that he was unsure of the efficacy of his own treatments, his patients might have taken their custom elsewhere. Yet perhaps not. Patients came to him because they knew his cures were successful.

Now he was busy preparing an ointment for the Kadi. The room began to smell of onions and garlic. To these, he was adding mustard, wormwood, arsenic, crushed bitter almonds and vinegar. I felt sick and rushed immediately to open the door to the courtyard, to let in some fresh air. He smiled.

“Is the Kadi ailing?” I asked him. “Or are you preparing to poison him? The smell alone would send me to an early grave.”

“He is not ill, but he is very upset.”

“Why?”

“He is beginning to lose his hair. He does not wish to grow completely bald. He may be older than us, but he is still a vain man. Perhaps he has his eye on a young wench.”

“If his eye fell on a young girl, she would be offered to him on a tray made of gold. His lack of hair would play no part at all. Leaving all that aside, what good will your stinking concoction do?”

“This ointment will strengthen and thicken the hair that still remains. Who knows, it might even make it grow again.”

“Why is the great al-Fadil so concerned? Surely the loss of hair is a sign of great maturity. Not far from where we sit, in days gone by, the ancient priests and kings used to shave their heads to demonstrate their power.”

“True. But the Prophet of Islam had a fine crop of hair. He did not like the thought of it turning grey. He insisted on dying it, with a mixture of red anemone and oil of myrtle; or so their traditions tell them.”

I was about to challenge this assertion, but the look on his face made it clear that he was not prepared to answer any more questions on the medical treatment he was preparing to rejuvenate our Kadi.

Instead he began to talk of the Kadi’s skills as an administrator, his sense of justice, his ability to challenge even the Sultan’s decisions and, above everything else, the quality of the advice he offered his ruler.

As we left my house to walk towards the palace, Ibn Maymun took me completely by surprise.

“Answer me truthfully, Ibn Yakub. Has your heart abandoned Rachel?”

I shook my head in vigorous denial. Yet my heart had begun to beat a little bit faster, as if to rebut me. My mind was confused, and I could not speak. He continued to interrogate me.

“Are you sure that the warm, luxuriant braids of a new addition to the Sultan’s household have not bewitched you?”

I shook my head again. How could he possibly know about Halima? I had kept my thoughts to myself. I wasn’t even sure of my own feelings. How in heaven’s name had Ibn Maymun reached this conclusion? For a moment I was too shaken to speak. When I regained my composure, I asked him to explain himself. At first, he shrugged his shoulders and did not reply. I insisted.

“In the course of my work, I have had the opportunity of listening to the problems of many households. What Rachel tells me is not new. It is an old story. She asked me to pray for her. I declined. I told her that to know and to sleep is better than to pray and be ignorant.”

“Neither of us slept last night. My conscience is clean. My soul is free of guilt.”

“And your heart?”

“It dreams. You understand that well. Is not a world without dreams worse than hell?”

“Talk to her, Ibn Yakub. Talk to Rachel. Share your dreams. Destiny has never permitted our people the taste of too much honey.”

We parted.

Six

Salah al-Din’s boyhood memories of Damascus; Shadhi’s account of the Sultan’s first taste of carnal knowledge

I WAS TOLD TO follow the attendant to the Sultan’s bedchamber. He was resting, but sat up on my arrival, leaning against cushions of every shape and description. He gave me a weak smile. His chest was heavy. His throat was sore. I offered to return when he was feeling better, but he shook his head vigorously, insisting that the day must not be wasted.

“Life is short, Ibn Yakub. In times of war Allah can withdraw any of his ghazis from this world.”

I watched in silence as the attendants prepared his medicine. Ginger had been boiled in water, till the mixture went dark. Salah al-Din sniffed the concoction and turned his face away. The second attendant sweetened the ginger-water with generous amounts of honey. This time the patient scowled, but sipped the mixture slowly. He signalled for the jug to be left behind. The attendants bowed and retired. Even as they left, Shadhi entered the room and felt the Sultan’s forehead.

“No fever. Good. Make sure you drink the last drop. A word for you, Ibn Yakub. Limit your presence. He should rest his tongue today.”

He left without waiting for the Sultan’s response, which was a curse and a smile. He spoke in a hoarse whisper.

I am missing the old city today. Whenever I feel unwell, I am reminded of my tiny room in Damascus. We used to live in a house, not far from the citadel in the western part of the city. As I was lying in bed one day, possessed by a fever which seemed to have been inspired by Satan himself, Shadhi entered my room — just as he did a few moments ago — and felt my forehead. Then he whispered in my ear: “Ibn Ayyub, recover your strength. Recover your strength.”

It was his special way of informing me that our family had suffered a loss. I was not in a fit state to understand his message, and I remember having bad dreams that night. By the next morning, the fever had run its course. That same day my father entered my room, to tell me that my grandmother had passed away. I wept loudly and my wrenching sobs must have moved him. It was the only time in my life that my father held me in his arms, and stroked my head with tenderness.

He spoke soothing words. Allah, in his infinite mercy, he told me, had permitted her a long life. She had left this world without regrets. Her last words to her son concerned me. She had, according to my father, scolded him for paying too little attention to me and my future. As he told me all this, he was gently feeling this amulet which you can see resting on my chest.

It was first hung around this neck by my grandmother. Every year she would remove it and lengthen the string, muttering invocations to some unknown gods — I never heard her calling Allah in these special prayers — to make me strong. It is my lucky charm. I cherish it because of her, but it has also become a part of me. Before I join each and every battle, I hold it in my fist and rub it gently across my heart before praying silently to Allah for our success.

It was in Damascus that I became a man. For the first few months I used to yearn for the freedom of Baalbek. Damascus was a city full of dangers. Not a day went by when we did not receive news of someone important or someone close to someone important being assassinated.

My father’s instincts had, as usual, served him well. The atabeg of Damascus had placed him in charge of the citadel. My father was responsible for the defence of the town. His sudden rise to power had made him enemies. The local notables, many of whom claimed descent from the first Believers in Allah and his Prophet, were openly hostile and regarded all of us with contempt. For them my father and my uncle Shirkuh were nothing but Kurdish adventurers, clever opportunists who sold their services and their souls to the highest bidder. It is difficult to deny that their disdain concealed an element of truth.

At the time of our arrival, Damascus was governed by the atabeg Muin al-Din Unur. It was he who, tiring of the growing factionalism amongst his commanders, had asked my father to reorganise the defences of the city. Unur was an enemy of the Sultan Zengi and his son, Nur al-Din. My uncle Shirkuh was a military commander working directly under Nur al-Din. If I had been a Turcoman loyal to Unur and his master, Abak, I, too would have been more than a little nervous. After all, it was hardly a secret that ours was a close-knit clan. My father and his brother, far from being enemies, were as close to each other as the handle to the sword. Unur, however, trusted my father. On his deathbed, or so we were told, he advised the Sultan Abak to retain my father’s services.

Abak was not totally convinced. He was a weak man, much given to wine and women, and easily swayed by unscrupulous advisers. Though in this case, I must confess, their worries were not without foundation. If Nur al-Din attacked Damascus, would my father take up arms against an army led by his brother Shirkuh? This was the question that bothered them day and night.

My father was adept at wearing a mask. He was a great courtier, in the sense that he listened attentively and said very little. When Abak apprised him of what was being said, my father smiled and told him: “Perhaps they are right to suspect my loyalty. You are the sole judge. To this day I have never spoken an untruth. If my presence worries you, I will leave with my family tomorrow. Just speak the command.”

The supreme ruler of Damascus chose to retain my father’s services. It was a mistake that cost him his throne, but it united the Believers and brought closer the day when we would reclaim our lands from the Franj.

I know what you’re thinking, Ibn Yakub. You’re wondering what would have happened if we had been expelled from Damascus. I have little doubt that the end result would have been the same, but only after the spilling of much blood. My father’s actions were not solely determined by the needs of his family. Those wars in which Believer fought against Believer were truly repugnant to him.

The effect of all these rivalries was to limit our freedom. We were not permitted to ride alone. We were barred from exploring the city after dark. We were warned never to enter the wine-cellars. My father threatened to flog us in public if we violated this last injunction.

It was the forced company which drove me to playing chogan. Given that my brother al-Adil and I had several guards, we decided to make use of them. Every day we would ride out of the Bab-al-Djabiya at sunrise. First the soldiers would perform their duty and teach us the art of swordsmanship. Then, after a short rest and some refreshments, we were shown how to fight on horseback. At the end of our training session, we entertained ourselves by teaching the soldiers how to play chogan.

It is a strange fact, is it not, Ibn Yakub, that the more one exerts oneself, the less tired one gets? After riding for two hours, I could easily ride the whole day. Yet on days when it was not possible to leave the house, I felt listless and exhausted, just like today. My physicians praise Allah and tell me that it is all to do with how the blood flows through the body, but do they really know?

The Sultan fell silent. Assuming that he was deep in thought, I made some small corrections to the text, but when, quill poised, I looked up at him to resume our work, his eye was firmly closed. He was fast asleep.

I have not previously drawn attention to the fact that Salah al-Din ibn Ayyub was possessed of only one working eye. He had not yet told me of how he lost the other, and Ibn Maymun had warned me that this was an extremely touchy subject. Under no circumstances should I raise it myself. Being a disciplined scribe, I had cast all curiosity out of my mind. To tell the truth, I had become used to his infirmity, and rarely gave it much thought. Yet seeing him like this, fast asleep, with his bad eye wide open, created the impression that he was half-awake, an All-Seeing Sultan.

It gave me a strange sensation. I wanted to know how and when he had lost his eye. Was it a childhood accident? If so, who had been responsible? How did it affect his bearing in war? My mind was flooded by questions.

How long I would have sat there, gazing on the sleeping Sultan, I do not know. A gentle tap on my shoulder alerted me to the presence of the ubiquitous Shadhi. He placed a finger on his lip to demand silence, and indicated that I follow him out of the chamber.

As we sat in the courtyard, enjoying the winter sun, dipping bread in labineh and munching radishes and onions, I asked Shadhi about the eye. He smiled, but did not reply. I persisted.

“Salah al-Din will tell you himself. It is the one subject we never discuss.”

“Why not?”

No reply was forthcoming from the old man. Instead he wiped the yoghurt off his drooping moustache and belched. Perhaps, I thought to myself, he is in a bad mood. Something has upset him. But I was wrong. It was only the forbidden subject of the missing eye that had silenced him.

He asked me whether Ayyub and his family had reached Dimask in the chronicles I was transcribing. I nodded.

“Then,” he said with a lascivious smile, “the Sultan has told you of his youthful escapades?”

“Not yet.”

“Not yet, not yet!” he mimicked me and roared with laughter. “He will never tell you. The memory of great men is always faulty. They forget their past so easily, but fortunately for you, my good scribe, Shadhi is still alive. Let us first eat some lamb, and then I will tell you tales of Damascus which our great Sultan will never remember again.”

After we had finished our meal, the old man began to speak.

“I won’t bore you with stories of our first visits to the Umayyad mosque, where the great Caliphs preached the Friday sermon and where long ago the congregation trembled in silent rage as Muawiya held up the bloodstained shirt of the murdered Caliph Uthman. I will leave all that to the Sultan.”

Shadhi laughed loudly, as if what he had just told me was an almighty joke. He was given to laughing a great deal at his own remarks, something to which I was now accustomed, yet it never failed to irritate me. Outwardly I smiled and nodded politely, to neutralise the intense gaze to which I was subjected following such outbursts. After drinking another cup of buttermilk, and noisily wiping the residue off his lips and moustache, he began again to tell his story.

“It was a hot summer afternoon. Everybody was resting. Your Sultan was fourteen years of age, perhaps not quite fourteen. Taking advantage of the hot weather, he defied his father’s instructions and went to the stables. He found his favourite horse, mounted it bare-backed, and left the city all on his own. It was foolish of him to imagine that he could leave the gates without being recognised. Dangerous, too, since his father had enemies in the city. But who can restrain the wildness of youth?

“The guards stationed at the gate were intrigued. They knew that the children of Ayyub were not usually seen out on their own. One of them rushed to the house and reported his departure immediately. Ayyub was woken up and informed of what had taken place. Curiously, he appeared pleased rather than angered by his son’s disobedience. I saw him smile.

“He asked me to ride after Salah al-Din, but without any trace of panic. My instructions were to follow him, to observe where he went, but to keep a careful distance. In other words I was to be a spy. Naturally, I did as I was asked.

“It was not difficult to pick up his trail. Just outside the Bab al-Djabiya, as you will see when the Sultan takes you with him, there is a very large maidan, bisected by a river. When you stand on the ramparts of the citadel, the light of the setting sun can play strange tricks with your eyes. The maidan becomes a giant green carpet made from the finest silks. It was here that Salah al-Din and his brothers played chogan. It was here that they raced horses and learnt to wield the sword and the bow and arrow. The river is surrounded by a large grove of poplar trees.

“In the distance I could see him galloping ahead, his head uncovered and without any protection. I saw him rein in his horse and dismount. I did the same and tied my horse to a tree. Then I walked towards the boy, making sure he did not see me. Soon I had found a suitable position behind some bushes, and there I could observe him quite clearly without being seen in return. You’re getting impatient with this old fool, Ibn Yakub, but I’m almost there.

“Salah al-Din had taken off his clothes and jumped into the river. He was swimming first with the flow and then against it. I laughed to myself. What a strange boy. Why had he not told us that all he wanted was a swim? Some guards would have come and kept watch till he had finished. End of story.

“I was about to walk to the bank and hail him, when suddenly I saw a woman who must also have been watching him walk towards where he had left his clothes. She picked them up and folded them. Then she sat and waited for him to finish. He swam to the shore and said something to her. I couldn’t hear the words since, on glimpsing the woman, I had once again taken my distance. She was laughing and shaking her head. He was insisting. Suddenly she jumped up, discarded her clothes and jumped in with him.

“She was a mature woman, Ibn Yakub, at least twice the age of the boy. The rest you can imagine. When they had finished their swim, they dried themselves in the sun, and then that sorceress mounted our boy and taught him what it was like to be a man. Allah be praised, Ibn Yakub, but they were shameless. There underneath the clear blue sky, under the gaze of Allah in his heaven, they were behaving like animals.

“I waited patiently, making a mental note of everything as I had been ordered to do by the master. She left first. She just seemed to disappear. He lay there for a few moments and then dressed himself. At this stage, as you can imagine, I was tempted to declare my presence. This would have been my revenge for that episode in Baalbek, but I had my orders. I rode back to the city, not waiting for young Salah al-Din to regain his composure. Back at the house, I reassured his father that all was well.

“Ayyub, may he rest in peace, wanted to know everything. Happily, I was in a position to supply him with each and every detail. I have given you a very short version, O learned scribe, but at that time it was all fresh in my mind.

“Ayyub, to my great surprise, clapped his hands and exploded with laughter. Perhaps he was relieved that it was a wench, rather than one of his soldiers or a young mare! His severe face returned as he threatened me with a terrible fate if even a word of what had transpired ever found its way to Salah al-Din.

“It was difficult for me to remain silent. I had always felt close to the boy and, in different circumstances, this tongue of mine would have defied the instructions. But there was something in Ayyub’s tone that warned me against disregarding his injunction. Despite the strong temptation, I obeyed him.”

“You mean,” I asked, “that to this day the Sultan is unaware of what happened? Can this be possible?”

Shadhi grinned, and picked his nose.

“I waited for the right moment. I told him on his wedding night. He was in a cheerful mood, and he laughed, but I should have known him better. A month later, when I thought he had forgotten the whole business, he asked me for an explanation. His face was stern. I told him. He expressed surprise that neither of his parents had ever raised the matter with him. I shrugged my shoulders. That was hardly my responsibility.”

Seven

The Spring Festival in Cairo; an erotic shadow-play in the Turcoman quarter

WEEKS PASSED. IT WAS no longer winter, yet the spring had not yet begun. I had still received no word from Halima, and the intoxication was beginning to lose its effect. On Ibn Maymun’s advice, I had stopped tormenting my own heart by yearning for her. I had not seen him now for many days. At home, Rachel had recovered her good spirits. Our lives had adjusted to a new routine.

In the palace, the Sultan was busy with his most trusted family members, discussing his strategy for liberating al-Kuds. This was the only time I was denied entrance to his council chamber. The deliberations in which he was engaged were not intended for ordinary ears. These were truly confidential talks. An indiscretion or a thoughtless boast, the Sultan always used to say, could cost our side an entire army and set back our cause for decades. Yet it would be dishonest of me to pretend that I was not upset. I thought of myself as someone in the total trust of his ruler. The Sultan must have noticed this, for he tried to soothe my hurt pride.

“Ibn Yakub, what you are writing is known to me, the Kadi and three other people. If I were to permit you to attend our military council, everyone would know who you are and this would be dangerous. One of my brothers or nephews might think that you hold the secret to my succession. They might torture or kill you, and then forge documents claiming whatever they wish people to believe. Do you understand?”

I nodded and bowed my head, acknowledging the truth in the words he had spoken.

The Cairenes greeted the early morning mists of spring as they had done for hundreds of years. The city was taken over by its people. All were equal on that first day of spring. In the schools and colleges, the students either stayed away, in preparation for the late-afternoon festivities, or came and kidnapped their teachers, holding them prisoner till a ransom was paid. The money was spent on food and wine, freely distributed to the poor throughout the day.

I had avoided the streets for the last few years, in fact, ever since some revellers had thrown Rachel into a fountain, the better to see her breasts through her soaked clothes. Her objections had been mild compared to mine, but this year I was determined to spend the whole day in the company of the common people. Who would be the object of their humour this year? For the last three years they had targeted the Kadi al-Fadil, laughing at his poetry, mocking his pomposity, and cruelly mimicking his courtroom manners.

Ibn Maymun, who never missed a festival, admitted that the mock trial of a donkey, accused of pissing on a preacher, had made him laugh aloud. The student acting the part of the Kadi had heard the arguments, questioned the donkey and then pronounced his judgement. The donkey was to be publicly humiliated. His penis was to be sliced into five portions, arranged on a platter, and served to the preacher it had insulted. Furthermore the donkey was to be forced to bray in public, at least five times every day. When asked whether he accepted the verdict, the donkey emitted a loud fart.

“Their thoughts and actions are by no means lofty,” Ibn Maymun had told me on that occasion, “but only a deaf and blind person could deny that they are hugely popular.”

Rachel and I went to where the big procession was due to assemble. This year the youths were all wearing thin beards as they laughed and joked on the streets. Snake-charmers and jugglers were competing for attention with acrobats and contortionists and conjurors. There were spellbound children everywhere, their innocent laughter bringing a smile of joy to the face of even the most cynical adult.

We bought leopard masks and had barely managed to cover our faces when we were surrounded by other masked leopards of all sizes. We began to exchange greetings, when one of them suddenly extended his arms and began to feel Rachel’s breasts. She slapped the offending hands, and the masked offender ran away.

Who would be elected the Emir of the Spring Festival? It was Rachel who first noticed the candidates for the “Emir”. A young man climbed a wall of shoulders and began to introduce the choices. As each one was paraded, the crowd made its preference clear. The transvestite attired as a dancing girl, with exaggerated make-up and water-melons masquerading as breasts, was declared the Emir by loud acclaim. He was led to the ceremonial mule, painted red, yellow and purple for the occasion, with green encircling its posterior.

The Emir of the festival, holding a fan in one hand, mounted the animal, and the whole crowd, including Rachel and myself, began to sing and dance. The Emir fanned himself in an exaggerated fashion, anticipating the summer to come. Four naked men, their private parts covered by a mi’zar, and their bodies smeared all over with a white fluid, suddenly emerged from the heart of the crowd. They were loudly cheered.

Two of them carried bits of ice and jugs of cold water and drenched the Emir. The other two rushed up and fed him a bowl of warm soup. They put a blanket round his shoulders to drive away the cold.

The ceremony over, the four naked men took their places in front of the ceremonial mule and began to fart, each attempting to better the performance of the one who preceded him. There was total silence as we strained our ears to capture the rough music of these gifted farters. Such musical farting was a much-appreciated accomplishment on these occasions, and the final crescendo, performed in unison, won much applause and laughter. Their performance proved strangely infectious, and those of less advanced years attempted to mimic the masters of the art for the rest of the afternoon. Mercifully their success was limited, and we did not have to pray to Allah to send us a breeze from heaven to cleanse the air.

At last the procession began to move. Its pace was slow, deliberately slow. It gave the participants time and opportunity to purchase and consume small flasks of wine from wayside vendors. We were winding our way to the large square outside the Sultan’s palace. Would he appear and greet the crowd? This was the first time he had been physically present in Cairo during the Festival.

In previous years the Kadi al-Fadil had made a token appearance, to be greeted by a display of a thousand phalluses. The Kadi had quickly retreated, and refused to address the common people. This year, with the Sultan in the city, the Kadi was taking no risks. He could not afford to let the Festival degenerate into an orgy. His inspectors had appeared on the streets the previous night, accompanied by the criers, shouting out a warning: all obscene displays would be severely punished. The response of the people was equally severe. A transvestite had been picked to be the Emir.

When we reached the square outside the palace, the noise had subsided. It was as if everyone simultaneously had felt the Sultan’s presence. He was seated on his horse, surrounded by his personal bodyguards. As our Emir approached, Salah al-Din rode forward to meet him. Words were exchanged between them, but only the transvestite heard them. A hundred different versions were circulating later that afternoon. The Sultan was seen to smile. Then he rode back into the palace.

The revelry would continue late into the night, but many of us, exhausted and hungry, began to make our way home as the sun began to set. Rachel and I had removed our masks. We were buying some wine to take home when a face I thought I recognised approached, bent over my ear and whispered.

“Ibn Yakub, if you want to see some real fun tonight, go to the Turcoman quarter, just behind al-Azhar. Don’t go to the Bab al-Zuweyla this year. The shadow-plays will be something unusual.”

Before I could reply, the man had disappeared. Why was his face so familiar? Where had I seen him before? My inability to place him began to irritate me. Then, while we were eating our evening meal, I remembered who he was, and the memory made me gasp. He was one of the eunuchs, Ilmas by name, who worked in the harem. I had seen him, on occasion, talking to Shadhi and whispering in the Sultan’s ear. He must be a spy sent to observe the shadow-players, and to report on each of their performances. He had spoken to me conspiratorially, but was his whispered message in reality an order from the Sultan? Usually the players performed just outside the Bab al-Zuweyla. Was the eunuch Ilmas trying to keep me away from something? I gave up and decided to follow his advice.

The festivities were approaching a natural climax as I walked back through the maze of lamplit streets to the Bab al-Zuweyla. Reassured by the fact that nothing unusual was taking place there, I walked on till I had reached the Turcoman quarter. The square was lit by lamps, and people were drinking and eating as they discussed the events of the day.

Salah al-Din, according to the gossips in this quarter, had complimented the “Emir” on his eye make-up, and asked whether he and his friends would come and celebrate the impending liberation of al-Kuds. At this critical point, our transvestite leader had evidently lost his tongue and simply nodded like a child in the presence of a magician.

The odour of hashish, not at all unpleasant, wafted by me at several points. At a distance I could see a large gauze cloth, behind which the shadows of the musicians and the actors could be seen preparing for the first of the evening’s performances.

The play began at midnight. It was the story of a beautiful girl, surprised with her lover by an angry husband. The anguished crowd sighed with sympathy as the lover was slain and the woman dragged away by her husband.

During the interval, the fate of the woman was the only subject of discussion. Angry debates shook the square. Should the husband have killed her as well? Why had he killed the lover when it was his wife’s fault in the first place? Why kill anyone? Love was sublime and no laws, Allah be praised, could prevent the attraction of one person for another.

As the evening progressed, I realised that what we were watching was no ordinary tale. I seemed to know all these characters — or was my imagination at work, seeing parallels where there were none? The emotional tension in the square indicated that I was not the only one to have noticed a degree of coincidence.

The second part of the performance removed all my doubts. The husband was sentenced to a public flogging at the Bab al-Zuweyla, and the errant wife was sent to a lame preacher, blind in one eye. The preacher, instead of offering her spiritual sustenance, soon seduced her, and at this point the curtain began violently shaking. A shadow-copulation began, with a cucumber symbolising the preacher’s penis and a gourd his victim’s vagina.

On most occasions, when these plays reach their bawdy climax the audience joins in with unrestrained laughter and slow claps, but not tonight. With entry effected, the musicians began to hum a dirge. This union, they were telling us, was not a joyous one.

The atmosphere during the second interval was more restrained. People spoke in whispers. Misfortunes like this were common in the town, but it was obvious to everyone that the half-blind preacher was a barely disguised version of the Sultan. That was why Ilmas, the eunuch, had wanted me to come here tonight. Was this Halima’s revenge? I felt a hand on my shoulder, and turned to confront the grinning visage of Ilmas.

“How did our great scholar find the play?”

“Who wrote it, Ilmas? Who?”

“Can’t you guess?”

I shook my head.

“I think,” he whispered, “the authorship will be obvious before the performance concludes.”

There was something in the way he spoke that sent a chill through my body. Instinctively I felt that I should leave at this point, and not stay till the end. I was curious to see how it would end, but I was also fearful.

The Sultan trusted me. If he found out that I had been present at this occasion, but had not provided him with a detailed account, he might question my loyalty. If I stayed till the end, I would have to tell the Sultan. If I left now, it would be proof enough that I had a low regard for the play and did not believe it merited any special report.

I nodded a farewell to Ilmas, who could not conceal his surprise, and began to walk away.

Eight

The story of the sheikh who, in order to keep his lover at home with him, forces his sister into marriage with the man, and the disastrous consequences for all three

“YOU HAD BETTER PROCEED immediately to the audience chamber, Ibn Yakub. The Sultan has been waiting for you and he is not in good spirits this morning.”

Shadhi’s tone worried me, but from his eyes I learnt nothing. Perhaps it was my now waning guilt at having attended the shadow-play. I had misinterpreted his voice.

The Sultan was indeed looking stern, but he was not alone. The Kadi al-Fadil was seated in front of him. Both men smiled as I entered the chamber. That, at least, was reassuring. I bowed and took my place, just below the Sultan’s throne.

“Peace be upon you, Ibn Yakub,” said the Sultan. “I’m glad you did not stay for the final act of the performance in the Turcoman quarter last night. Al-Fadil and I were admiring your good taste and judgement.”

The Kadi aimed his stern gaze straight at me. I did not avert my eyes. He smiled with his lips, but his eyes remained hard.

“The eunuch who betrayed the Sultan’s trust was executed early this morning. If you take a walk this evening you will see how his head decorates the Bab al-Zuweyla.”

I nodded my head in appreciation. Should I ask them why the foolish Ilmas had decided on the course which had led to his beheading, or was it better to remain silent? Curiosity triumphed. I looked at al-Fadil.

“Why did the eunuch Ilmas decide…?”

“The answer lies in the play. He was in love with the red-haired temptress. She had rebuffed him several times. The only way to possess her was in his imagination.”

“Enough!” said Salah al-Din with a frown. “We have more important matters to discuss. Begin, al-Fadil, and prepare to write, scribe.”

The Kadi raised his glass of lukewarm mint tea to his lips, draining it in a single gulp as if he needed extra strength. Al-Fadil was not a well man. Ibn Maymun had told me that his diet was unhealthy. His weight was too heavy for a man his size, and he suffered from swollen knees. Today, as he spoke, he paused frequently to regain his breath.

“A few days ago, a young woman, not yet twenty, was handed over to one of my inspectors by her husband’s father, and charged with adultery. The young woman admitted that she had a lover, but she insisted that the reason she had found one was because her husband refused to consummate their marriage. According to our laws, that is no justification for adultery. Hence I had no option but to sentence both the girl and her lover to be stoned to death.

“She is the younger sister of Sayed al-Bukhari, one of our most respected and venerable sheikhs. It is a story, Commander of the Valiant, that fills my heart with sadness. The final decision rests with you. The sheikh al-Bukhari awaits your decision. I took the liberty of bringing him with me. It is best that you hear the story from his lips rather than mine. His words will carry greater weight if spoken by him. What is the Sultan’s pleasure?”

Salah al-Din remained silent. He was thinking. What could he be thinking? Probably making up his mind whether this affair was best handled by the Kadi, so that it was al-Fadil who took the blame for what might not be a popular decision.

“Send for al-Bukhari. We will hear his case.”

A few minutes later, a tall, well-built man, too proud to dye his white hair, was brought to the chamber. He fell on his knees and touched the Sultan’s feet with his head.

“I am sorry we meet in these conditions, al-Bukhari,” said the Sultan, in a remarkably soft voice. “I remember well your presence at our evening discussions several years ago. I valued what you said then, and it is for that reason that I have agreed to hear your story myself. Explain to me why your sister should not be punished, as our merciful Kadi has decreed.”

The sheikh looked at his ruler gratefully. A sad smile appeared on his face as he began his story.

“If anyone should be punished, O merciful Sultan, it is not my unfortunate sister, but me.

“I alone am to blame for the terrible misfortune that has befallen her.

“Some five years ago, a mysterious visitor entered the crowded room where I used to provide my interpretation and commentaries on the hadith that were written down by my great forebear. May Allah forgive me, for I had no idea that I was about to dishonour my ancestor.

“The new arrival attracted the attention of all those who were present. He was a young man with striking features. His sparkling grey eyes illuminated his pale face. His hair was the colour of wheat. A silent question appeared on the faces of the Believers. Who was he?

“He had come to Cairo as a child, on a trading vessel from the land of the Franj. His father, a merchant from Genoa, had died suddenly. The sailors on the ship refused to accept any responsibility. It was bad luck to sail with an orphan. The superstitions of these people were primitive. The boy, who was seven or eight years at the time, was adopted by a merchant in the street of sword-sellers. This man’s first wife, who was childless, lavished great care on the boy and he grew up, Allah be praised, as one of the sons of the family. Naturally he had to be circumcised, and his new family obtained the services of Your Excellency’s own barber, Abu Daniyal, to perform the rites.

“They called him Jibril, which pleased him greatly since it was the original version of the name that he had been given on birth — Gabriel. Once he spoke our language, his adoptive mother often talked to him of his real mother and his sisters, whom he missed greatly. They promised him that when he grew up they would ensure his return to Genoa. The education he received was so refined that soon it became difficult to say that he had ever been anything else but one of us.

“He grew up to be an extremely intelligent logician, much attracted to the writings of our friends in Andalus. It was his interest in logic that caused his friends to send him to my lectures. They thought I might cure him of his addiction to heresy. Indeed I might have done, but for the fact that he was a very beautiful young man. His sudden arrival had unsettled me.

“He would arrive twice a week and sit at my feet, drinking in every word I uttered with his shining, attentive, but always questioning eyes. Was it just my imagination, or did I, on occasion, catch a glimpse of torment in those grey eyes?

“At the end of my talk, while others asked polite questions to help me elaborate on certain points, this young Jibril would question me in such a way that to even reply to him would have demolished the architecture of my thought.

“One day, they all came late to my class. When they arrived, I was stunned. They were intoxicated, and Jibril was completely naked. His colleagues were laughing, but he did not seem to understand that he was the cause of their mirth. When I asked him to explain himself, he replied that they had all tried to sharpen their memories by drinking a strong dose of a fermented infusion of cashew-nuts. The others, he continued, had lost control of their wits. He alone had remained sane. I covered him with a sheet and put him to bed.

“I cannot lie to the Sultan or his great Kadi. I must confess that I was bewitched by the demeanour of this young man. When he was present, I spoke as if he was the only one in the room.

“I was in the grip of the old disease brought to our world by the idol-worshipping Yunanis and the accursed Rumis. Jibril, through no fault of his own, became the fountain of all my misery. His absences gave me the most unbearable headaches. I would fall on my knees and pray: ‘Ya Allah, why are you punishing your slave in this cruel fashion?’

“One day he came when I was alone in the house. My face must have expressed all the emotions that my heart was trying to repress. He reacted well, and declared his feelings for me. May Allah forgive me, but we became lovers. The flowering of his passion aroused me in such a way that I was transported to the sixth heaven. We had tasted the forbidden fruits. Our conscience had become a fathomless abyss. Nothing else mattered any longer.

“I see from the face of our venerable Kadi that my frankness is only arousing feelings of disgust. I will not continue in this vein much longer.

“I am what I am, but I am still one of you. Please try and understand.

“Soon I could not bear to be without him. I began to think of how I could live with Jibril forever. The idea came to me one day when I saw him talking to my sister. She is a beautiful girl, and it was clear to me that her feelings for Jibril were no different to mine. Why should he not marry her? Then he could live in our house quite openly, without fear of cruel tongues. To tell you the truth, I would not have even objected to sharing him with my sister.

“Jibril accepted the plan. The wedding took place. He moved in to our house, but from the very first week it was obvious that my sister was unhappy. Jibril gave her cold comfort. He felt no attraction for women. Not even a tiny spark. Therein lay the real cause of this tragedy. My sister took a lover. Jibril and I enjoyed much happiness.

“We lived just for ourselves. Our selfishness, instead of receding, grew by the hour. Nothing seemed to affect us. The khamsin would blow sand in our hair. Our throats would become parched. Stars would chase each other in the night sky. My sister would sit quietly, gazing patiently at the window, waiting for the next message from her lover. Autumn came and went, followed by a rainy winter. We never felt the night cold. The barking of stray dogs never disturbed our peace. He knew how to love and he taught me the virtues of submissive tenderness.

“It was only when the merciful Kadi, may Allah give him inner strength, sent for me one morning that my heart was seriously troubled. The rest you know.

“I place my head at your feet, Commander of the Merciful. Do with it whatsoever you wish, and I will accept whatever punishment you decree, but, in the name of Allah, I plead with you to spare my sister further humiliation. She has suffered enough for my sins.”

The Sultan stared at the ground in silence. He had appeared to be moved by the intensity of the love described by the sheikh. The Kadi and I looked at each other. How would he decide this particular case? Would he ask to see Jibril and keep him as an attendant at the palace?

“One thing is clear to me, Sayed al-Bukhari. Your sister deserves no punishment. Al-Fadil will make sure that she is freed today. The Kadi will also make sure that the man she loves will marry her in the sight of Allah and with his blessing. As for you and Jibril, this is a more difficult decision. As a scholar, perhaps you could give me some help. Is there anything in the hadith that could help me decide your case? I have studied most of the hadith myself, and I cannot think of any precedents in this regard.

“While you give my request further thought, and consult other scholars, I think the time has come for Jibril’s family to honour their pledge to him and send him on a journey to his place of birth. Let him meet his sisters. And let it be a long absence. Is my meaning clear?”

Our bearded scholar had come to the palace determined to save his sister from the stone-throwers. He had come fully expecting to sacrifice his own head, and possibly even that of his young lover. As he realised that the Sultan had, in effect, pardoned him, tears of gratitude slid down his cheeks like a torrent, drenching his beard. He bent down and kissed Salah al-Din’s feet.

After the departure of the bearded scholar, a man much relieved, none of us spoke. It was time for the midday repast and I rose to take my leave. To my surprise, the Sultan asked me to stay and eat with him and al-Fadil.

We walked out of the cool semi-darkness of the audience chamber into a blinding sun and a gust of hot wind, harbingers of the miseries that lay ahead. The Cairo summer was not far away.

We entered the eating room to be greeted by Afdal, the oldest son of the Sultan. He rushed forward to embrace his father, before bowing to the Kadi and me. Salah al-Din put on a stern face.

“Why did you not go riding today?”

“I was fast asleep. The others left without me.”

“That is not the story I heard. I was told that when Shadhi and Othman came to arouse you, all they got was a shower of abuse. True or false?”

Afdal started laughing.

“True and false. Othman tried to wake me up by pouring cold water on my head, while Shadhi stood behind him and bared his gums. In these circumstances, Abu, it was difficult for me either to restrain my tongue or to go riding with them.”

The alert eyes of the twelve-year-old were sparkling with mischief. Afdal looked straight at his father to determine the reaction. Salah al-Din smiled and stroked the boy’s head.

“This evening you will ride with me to the citadel.”

“When will it be finished, Abu?”

“When I am dead and, Allah permitting, you sit in my place. You will celebrate its completion. Do you understand?”

Afdal’s face clouded. He clutched his father’s hand and nodded. The Sultan hugged and gently guided him out of the room.

The food laid on the floor before us could by no means be described as a feast. The Sultan’s austere tastes were highly praised by the people, since the contrasts with the Caliphs in Baghdad or his predecessors in Cairo could not have been more pronounced. This admiration was not universally shared. The Sultan’s household and his brother al-Adil in particular, mocked his simplicity and often declined to eat with him. He ate only one full meal a day, and that was in the evening.

We were served some wheat bread to dip in a modest bean stew, a plate full of fresh cucumbers, onions, garlic and ginger, and nothing else. The Kadi suffered from chronic indigestion and, on Ibn Maymun’s instructions, was not permitted to eat beans. These, as is well known, only served to exacerbate his problem. While the Sultan and I ate the stew with relish, the Kadi broke some bread, nibbled a cucumber, and drank a glass of tamarind juice.

As we ate, it became obvious that the Kadi was somewhat displeased. The Sultan asked him if it was the lack of variety in the food which upset him.

“The Sultan knows that I am under the medical instructions of Ibn Maymun. He has prescribed a very strict diet and obliges me to reduce the amount of food I eat. No, it is not the food that worries me, but Your Highness’s excessive generosity.”

The Kadi was unhappy with the pardoning of Sayed al-Bukhari. He felt it established an unfortunate precedent. The Sultan heard his complaint in silence. The table was cleared and a large bowl of fruit was placed before us. The Sultan had still not replied, and none of us spoke. The Kadi felt the weight of the silence. He bowed and took his leave. The minute he had left the room, Salah al-Din roared with laughter.

“I have come to know all his tricks. He’s not worried about al-Bukhari. In fact he is pleased with our decision. Did you know, Ibn Yakub, that al-Fadil often attended al-Bukhari’s lectures? He was close to him. But if people complain that the sheikh was let off too lightly, the Kadi will sigh, agree with his interlocutors, and tell them that the problem is our Sultan. There are times when he is too soft-hearted. He will also insist that the next case is dealt with severely so that our authority is reaffirmed.

“Now tell me something, Ibn Yakub, and speak the truth. Was the food we have just consumed sufficient or would you have preferred, as is your wont, to compete with Shadhi as to which of you can bite more meat off a leg of lamb? Speak the truth!”

I decided to lie.

“It was more than sufficient, Commander of the Generous. It was a meal which could have been prepared by Ibn Maymun himself. The only function of food, in his eyes, is to keep us healthy in mind and body. When he stays with us, my wife never serves meat.”

Salah al-Din smiled.

Nine

The young Salah al-Din is abandoned by his mistress for an older man and gets drunk in the tavern; his uncle Shirkuh decides to divert him by taking him on a short mission to conquer Egypt; Salah al-Din becomes the Vizir at the court of the Fatimid Caliph

I DID NOT WANT to leave Damascus. Can you believe that, Ibn Yakub? I had grown to love the city. Despite my father’s injunctions to the contrary I had explored every quarter and every street, usually on my own, but sometimes with my brother. We used to pay a few street-pedlars to sell us their clothes. This simple disguise was our armour against most would-be assassins. In this fashion I wandered the city at will.

On a summer’s night I have seen the full moon light up the dome of the Umayyad mosque. I have watched bare-footed labourers carrying bricks on planks, precariously perched on their heads. They might have been building a five-storied house for some merchant or other. I loved throwing stones in those ancient ditches outside the old walls of Damascus. And I have seen women with translucent eyes, the colour of sea-water, bought and sold for bagfuls of dinars in the market-place. I am attached to Cairo, but make no mistake, Damascus is the heart of our world. Its fears and worries have become mine.

Till now, Baalbek had been my favourite home, but it was displaced, and you know precisely why, don’t you, my good scribe? Shadhi told you of my first love. You look embarrassed. It was better left to him than me. My own memory is now hazy. What I remember well is the day she left me, not because of the parting, but because something much more important than our puny lives was taking place outside the city walls.

She was a woman some ten years older than me, possibly more. She gave me great pleasure and taught me how to enjoy a woman’s body. One day we had arranged to meet just after sunrise, but when I rode to the glade by the river she was not there. I waited and waited. Still no sign of her. I was about to leave when she arrived, out of breath and with a puffy face. She had been crying. I realised that this idyll, too, had come to an end. She kissed my cheeks and then my eyes. She had found a man closer to her own age and, by contrast, I must have seemed a bit dull.

Naturally, I was upset, but what could I do to ease my pain? I could not discuss the matter with anyone because, in the dream-world that I inhabited at that age, I thought nobody else knew. It was our secret.

So I rode back to Damascus in a jealous rage, weeping tears of anger and of sadness. So preoccupied was I that I did not notice anything. I went home and changed, and dragged my brother out of bed. We went to the only tavern in the city which opened before the midday meal. It was run by Armenians in the Christian quarter. Not only did they ask no questions, they also served some of the best wine in Damascus. This was not brought by traders from the lands of the Franj, but made from Taif grapes, grown in the mountain vineyards in the highlands just above Mecca. It is said that the wine of Taif is so potent that it can transform dwarves into giants.

When Adil and I arrived, the tavern was virtually empty. A few eunuchs who had come to recover after a hard night somewhere in the city were too intoxicated to bother about us.

We began to drink the wine which is forbidden by our Holy Book. Adil could see that I was upset, but dared not ask the reason. He stole occasional glances at me, and would press my arm to comfort me. He knew. It was instinct, just as I knew that he went to male brothels and had set his heart on a young flute-player. He may not have known the exact reason for my sadness, but he could tell I was nursing a wounded heart.

Slowly the wine took its effect. The serving-woman carrying the flasks began to change shape in front of my eyes. Was it a gazelle? I became blind to the world outside. Soon we were singing impromptu songs about women who betrayed their lovers, about the lover’s revenge and the kadi’s displeasure. Food was placed before us and we ate without knowing what it was that we were eating. Then we sang some more, and this time the eunuchs joined us. I cannot recall now how long we were there, but I can remember Shadhi, my guardian angel Shadhi, shaking me firmly by the arm to wake me up. If I shut my eyes I can still see his worried face, and hear his voice whispering: “Yusuf Salah al-Din. Yusuf Salah al-Din. Time to come home.”

The thought still makes me shiver with shame. You know why, Ibn Yakub? That was the day that our great Sultan of Aleppo, Nur al-Din, the oldest son of the slain warrior, Zengi, was outside the gates of Damascus. He wanted to take the city, and at his side was my uncle Shirkuh. Inside, commanding the armies of his enemies, the rulers of Damascus, was my father Ayyub.

My uncle had sent a secret messenger two weeks prior to that day to alert my father. Both men knew they would never fight against each other. My father’s main concern, as always, was to avoid bloodshed. He negotiated a settlement acceptable to the ruler of Damascus. No blood stained our streets that day. Nur al-Din took the city unopposed. All this took place while I was in my cups, feeling sorry for myself.

I arrived in time to see Shirkuh hugging my father on the ramparts of the citadel. At first I thought it was an apparition, but then my uncle lifted me off the ground. He hugged me with such force that my stomach turned and the Taif wine let me down badly. I vomited at his feet. All I can remember is the horrified look on my father’s face, and Shadhi’s roar of laughter.

Nur al-Din was the first ruler who had a plan for uniting the Believers and driving out the Franj. He believed that until there was one Caliph as the fount of all authority, the Franj would always play on our weaknesses and rivalries. Nur al-Din could not have been more unlike his illustrious father, Zengi. Where Zengi allowed his instincts to determine his strategy, his son took advice from his commanders and emirs. He examined every detail, weighed every option, and closely studied the special maps prepared for him, before ever reaching a decision. Unlike his father, he never permitted even a drop of wine to taint his lips.

Nur al-Din was determined to conquer their Kingdom of Jerusalem. In order to achieve this aim he needed a powerful and reliable Misr, whose ruler was strong enough to resist Franj attempts to take Cairo. Misr was possessed of great wealth and weak rulers. A beautiful bride waiting for a husband.

I remember the Sultan often asking my uncle Shirkuh: “Any news from Misr?” and Shirkuh would shake his head with a strange expression on his face. “Do not expect any good news from there, My Lord. Their Caliph, the pretender al-Adid, is addicted to banj and brothels, and surrounded by mothers and grandmothers who scheme and plot each minute of the day. It is the vizir who rules, and his successor is usually his assassin.”

One day there was news from Misr. It was the summer of 1163 and there was excitement in the palace. It was announced that Shawar, the most recently deposed vizir, had escaped with his life and arrived in Damascus. A few days later, a more official messenger arrived from Cairo, carrying a letter from Dirgham, the new vizir. He brought with him a large ivory box inlaid with gems, containing some of the most flawless diamonds to be viewed in our city.

Nur al-Din smiled and handed the box to his secretary, with instructions that it should be placed in the great treasury of the state. The accompanying letter offered other inducements, and pleaded with the Sultan of Damascus to abandon Shawar. Nur al-Din called my father and uncle to his council chamber.

“I think we shall take Misr. Can you imagine the state of a country whose rulers plead with us to back them and not a deposed vizir? They will make similar offers to the Franj. It is imperative that we reach Cairo and Alexandria before the enemy. Shirkuh, you will lead our soldiers with the bravery of a mountain lion.

“Treat Shawar as one would a juicy date on a long march through the desert. Once his usefulness is over, spit him out as you would the seed. Do not delay. He has promised us a third of the grain revenues of Cairo. Hold him to his word.”

Shirkuh insisted on taking me with him. I was reluctant. It was not that I disliked the thought of combat. The fact was that I had grown accustomed to meeting a group of friends on most evenings, and we would think heretical thoughts, and recite and discuss poetry. On some nights I would go to a secret assignment near the public baths, to exchange glances and sometimes a little more with a young woman whom I was not permitted to marry.

I was slightly upset at the eagerness with which my father agreed to his brother’s request. I had no time for farewells. Shadhi was sent to keep an eye on me. Within three days of the decision being made, we were on our way to Cairo. The combination of Ayyub and Shirkuh was formidable. The “mountain lion” was indomitable, impulsive, incautious and injudicious. My father was crafty, but careful. He was a brilliant organiser of supplies. It was thanks to him that the sword-makers and the tent-makers had been alerted to Shirkuh’s needs. He made sure that they had the raw material to provide our expedition with everything needed.

Thus began the journey which finally ended in this palace. If, at that time, a friend had joked that I would one day end up as the Sultan, my uncle and Shadhi would have laughed all the way to Misr.

We are never fully in command of our own biographies, Ibn Yakub. Allah pushes us in a certain direction, the courage and skill of our commanders can change the course of a battle, but ultimately a great deal depends on fate. To a large extent it is who lives and who survives on the battlefield, or on the track to where the fight will take place, that determines our future. I learnt this elementary fact during my first campaign.

We rode for twenty-five days, following the paths of the old wadi to Akaba Eyla on the Red Sea. This was to be our longest stop before the march to Cairo.

It is not easy, Ibn Yakub, to march with over nine thousand men, and the same number of horses and camels, from Damascus to Cairo, avoiding marauding detachments of Franj. We could have defeated them, but it would have been a distraction that would have delayed our mission.

Our Bedouin guides knew all the routes through the desert; there were twenty-five of them attached to our army. They needed neither maps nor stars in the sky to guide them. They knew the location of every oasis and even the tiniest watering holes did not escape their notice. Without this knowledge, it would have been impossible to refill our goatskins. All soldiers rightly fear thirst more than the enemy. It is tedious now to recall or describe every detail, but it is during such marches that good commanders discover many truths about the men who will fight under them. The men even learn to detect the moods of their horses.

Shadhi it was who taught me how to look after horses. To this day he can tell when a horse gets dizzy, and sees the world whirling in strange circles before his dimmed eyes. Imagine if that happened in the heart of a battle! Why, the rider would become even more disoriented than the horse. It was the same Shadhi who taught me how to draw sweet and frothing milk in abundance from the firm teats of a mare.

During the night we would light a fire and sing songs to keep our spirits high. Like most of the men, I slept in a tent, but I envied the Bedouin guides and the soldiers under their influence, who covered themselves in blankets, lay on the sand, drank date wine from flasks made of camel hide, and told each other stories about the desert before the victories of our Prophet. They went to sleep with the starlight shining on their foreheads.

We had been on the march for fifteen days before we reached our target. The partisans of the Cairene vizir, Dirgham, were waiting for us at Tell Bastat, half a day’s march from Bilbais. My good uncle Shirkuh was always reluctant to lose the life of any of his men without good reason. He suggested to Shawar that since this was primarily a Misrian question, it should be Shawar and his followers — as the claimant — who should give battle. He, Shirkuh, would intervene only if it became necessary. Shawar won. The Caliph in Cairo abandoned Dirgham. Shawar entered the city through the Bab al-Zuweyla and was reinstalled as vizir. Only then did what Nur al-Din had shrewdly suspected begin to come true.

Once in power, Shawar grew nervous of our presence. He would have been better advised to fulfil his side of the bargain. This would have made it difficult for Nur al-Din not to recall us to Damascus. Instead, foolish and vain as a peacock, Shawar thought he could form an alliance with the Franj to defeat us. He sent a message to King Amalric of Jerusalem, a man who had previously been engaged in numerous intrigues with the ill-fated Dirgham. At the same time, he constructed a veritable pyramid of excuses to demonstrate why our forces should not enter Cairo. Shirkuh, compelled to kick his heels at Fustat, was livid.

His instinct was to defy military logic, to raid the city, and to capture Shawar. But the logistics of such an operation were daunting, and our casualties would be high. His emirs resisted the adventure. In desperation he looked at me.

“What do you think, Salah al-Din?” he asked me.

I was torn between family loyalty and good sense. I thought hard and finally came down against him. To my surprise, he was not angry at all. If anything, he was impressed with my reasoning. Even as we were talking, a messenger brought news that a Frankish force under the command of Amalric was heading towards Bilbais.

Like Nur al-Din, the Frankish King had understood that if he did not take Misr we would, and that would be the end of his Kingdom of Jerusalem. Of all our sultans and emirs the Franj feared no one as much as they did Nur al-Din. They were not wrong. He was single-minded in his resolve to drive the Franj out of our lands. The passion that raged in his heart almost made you feel that he regarded the occupation as a personal affront.

Shawar did not keep his side of the bargain. Shirkuh instructed me to take half our force and occupy Bilbais. I did as I was asked. Shawar appealed to Amalric for help, and Shirkuh joined me with the remainder of our army. For three whole months, Ibn Yakub, we kept the Franj outside the city. Three whole months in Bilbais. It was not my idea of a good life. Then Nur al-Din, realising we could not resist for much longer, took the Franj by surprise, and confronted them outside the fortress of Harim, near Antioch. It was a famous victory. The Franj were crushed, losing ten thousand men. Their leaders, Baldwin of Antioch and the Count of Tripoli, were captured. The news of this defeat frightened Amalric. He sued for peace. We did not lose face. The mountain lion led us back to Damascus.

Before this I had no idea of what a war entailed. Having observed Shirkuh in command of an army, I had learnt a great deal, but I was totally exhausted. For the first week after my return I spent most of my days in the baths, being rubbed with oils. In the evening I went to enjoy poetry and wine in the tavern. Then, you know, Ibn Yakub, something strange happened to me. I became restless. The aimlessness of my daily existence began to nauseate me, and I yearned for the comradeship of the battlefield. I had seen the Franj face to face, and now, suddenly, all the childhood stories I had heard of the time when they first invaded and occupied our lands came back to me. How fate had smashed us as if we were tiny pieces of glass. The shards had scattered.

I remembered Shadhi’s voice descending into a frightening whisper: “Sons of Ayyub, do you know what the Franj did in Ma’arra? They captured Believers and placed them in cooking-pots filled with boiling water. They roasted little children on spits and ate them grilled. These are the wild beasts who have devoured our country.”

To tell you the truth, I never really believed Shadhi. I thought he was making all of this up to frighten us, so that we never missed a riding lesson, but it was the truth. The pure truth, unadulterated by invention. I have read the manuscripts of the infidel chroniclers. You have as well? Good. Then you understand the anger that expanded my chest when I first caught sight of the Franj in Misr. This anger was not mollified by women rubbing oil on me or the joys of the Taif grape, not to mention the delights of fornication. I felt that all of this was as nothing compared with the tasks that lay ahead.

Before Nur al-Din took Damascus, there was no sultan who understood the burning need to drive out the Franj, to recover the Dome of the Rock and the Temple of Solomon for the People of the Book. Before Nur al-Din, our emirs and sultans were happy to make their peace with the enemy. “Kiss any arm you cannot break,” as they say, Ibn Yakub, “and pray to Allah to break it.” But that was not the attitude of our Prophet. Did he not say, “Pray to Allah, but make sure you have tied your camel first!”

Pleased with himself, the Sultan burst out laughing. Naturally, I had heard him laugh before, but always in a restrained fashion as befitted a prince. Now it was uncontrolled. The saying of the Prophet, at best mildly amusing to myself, made him laugh and laugh. Tears poured down his face. When he recovered, and had wiped away the tears from his face and beard, he explained himself.

“You look surprised, scribe. I just thought of what could have made the Prophet say such a thing, and an image flashed past my mind of the early Believers who had come to pray. Trusting in the power of Allah, they left their camels outside, only to discover that they had been stolen. This could not have enhanced their faith in Allah, could it, scribe? Enough for today. I have to discuss the late collection of the taxes with al-Fadil, who thinks that this could lead to a national calamity.”

I pleaded for one more hour. “The line contained in the Sultan’s narrative today is very straight and clear. I fear that if we stop now we might never return to this part again. Could Your Highness not finish with the fall of Shawar and your return to Cairo?”

Salah al-Din sighed and then a frown crossed his forehead. Finally he nodded and continued, but not in his usual relaxed fashion. He began to gallop, and my fingers had to race to keep up. Usually there are at least five scribes present to note the words of the Sultan. After he has finished, they compare notes and we end up with one agreed version. I was alone.

Shirkuh never forgot Shawar’s treachery. He burned for revenge. He would often remark: “That goat-fucker Shawar used us to win power, and used the Franj to neutralise us.”

It was time, Nur al-Din said one day as he addressed a council of war, for Shirkuh and Salah al-Din to return to Misr. This was the first time he had mentioned me in the presence of all the emirs. My chest expanded with pride. My father, too, was much pleased, though his face, as usual, showed no emotion. Shirkuh bowed.

And so began our great adventure. Our spies reported that Shawar had concluded a deal with Amalric against us. This, dear friend, was the state of our world. Believers joined infidels against other Believers. Shawar and Amalric had joined forces and were waiting for us just outside Cairo. Shirkuh, who taught me everything I know about making war, was a brilliant commander. He refused to fight on the ground they had chosen. Instead we crossed the Nile. We marched northwards from Cairo and set up our tents near the pyramids of Giza. The great river separated us now from the enemy.

From this position Shirkuh sent Shawar a message. I see him now, roaring like a lion, as he reads the message first to our own soldiers. “The Frankish enemy is at our mercy. They are cut off from their bases. Let us unite our forces to exterminate them. The time is ripe and this opportunity may not rise again for a long time.”

Our men roared their approval. For a long time, or so it seemed that day, there were loud cries of Allah o Akbar, so loud that the pyramids appeared to shake. Every soldier volunteered to take the message to Shawar. Every eye was strained. Who would Shirkuh pick?

His choice fell on his favourite bodyguard, Nasir, a young Kurdish archer whose sharp eyes had saved Shirkuh’s life on more than one occasion.

Shawar received the message and showed it immediately to his ally, Amalric. To prove his loyalty to the Franj, he had Nasir executed. His head, wrapped in filth, was returned to Shirkuh. I don’t think I have ever seen my uncle so angry as he was that day. The sun was setting and soldiers were making their ablutions before the evening prayers. Shirkuh interrupted them. He was naked except for a piece of cloth that covered his loins. He grabbed Nasir’s head and ran like a madman, showing it to everyone. Nasir was a much-loved man, and tears filled so many eyes that evening that the level of the Nile itself must have risen.

Loud cries rent the camp. Shirkuh, still holding the head, climbed on his stallion. The last rays of the sun caught his hair as he screamed in rage: “I swear on the head of this boy, who like me came from the mountains. I swear that Shawar’s head will fall. Nothing can keep him alive. Neither his Franj, nor his eunuchs, nor his Caliph. I swear this in front of you all, and may my soul rot in Hell if I fail.”

There was complete silence as we drank in the import of his words. For a long time none of us spoke. We were thinking of Nasir’s death, of cruel fate, and of how far we were from home. We were also thinking of ourselves. Shawar had declared war. Who would win this war? Even as we were thinking, the plaintive sounds of a flute floated through the air and, following it, the voices of the Bedouin who sang a lament for Nasir. The Nile rose again.

That night, after we had finished our meal, my uncle Shirkuh could be seen pacing up and down outside his tent, like a man possessed. I was sitting on the sand, dreaming of Damascus and watching the shooting stars. I have never seen such a sky as one glimpses lying at the feet of the pyramids. A messenger interrupted my dreams. It was a summons from Shirkuh.

The emirs and commanders were already assembled when I arrived. Shirkuh pointed to an empty place on the floor. I sat down not knowing what to expect. To everyone’s amazement, Shirkuh told us that he was not going to confront Shawar and Amalric outside Cairo, or even here where we had set camp. He was planning to take the port-town of Alexandria instead. Everyone gasped at the audacity. By the light of lamps, Shirkuh sketched out his plan in the sand, giving each of us detailed instructions. He was aware that Amalric was marching to encircle and destroy us. Shirkuh knew that we had to fight a battle before reaching Alexandria. I was given command of the centre and ordered to retreat the minute the enemy charged. Unlike me, Shirkuh left nothing to chance. That is why, Ibn Yakub, I still believe that he was the greatest of our military leaders. I am nothing as compared to him. Nothing. Nothing.

We met the enemy at al-Babyn. When Amalric and his knights charged towards me, I feigned fear and led a retreat. The Franj unfurled their banners and accepted the challenge. The chase began. They had not realised that the left and right flanks of our army had been placed to circumvent a Frankish retreat. At a given signal, I stopped our forces, turning round to confront the knights. Soon they realised how exposed and isolated they were, but it was too late. Very few managed to escape, Amalric, alas, one of them.

Shirkuh did not permit us to celebrate the victory. That same day we began our march northwards across Misr, in the general direction of Alexandria. It was the first time I had seen the sea. I could have sat there for hours, breathing in its air and drinking its beauty. Shirkuh had given us no quarter. We were exhausted in body and mind. The sight of all that water soothed our nerves. I felt calm again. A few days later we entered Alexandria. We were showered with flowers and greeted with great acclaim by the people of the city. They had strongly resented Shawar’s alliance with the Franj.

The pride in Shirkuh’s face, the tears on mine, and the joy, the sheer joy of being greeted as saviours, these are what I remember. Shirkuh did not speak for long that day. He knew we didn’t have much time. Yet the whole city had gathered to welcome us. He had to offer them a message of hope. His face was tired. He had not slept for two nights, just managing to catch the odd nap while he rode. The sight of the people aroused him. He stood on a wall outside the citadel. The crowd fell silent. Shirkuh spoke.

“Looking at you now, I can count the stars on your foreheads. What I am doing, what we are doing, everyone is capable of doing. Once our people understand this simple truth, the Franj are lost. I speak to all of you, not just the Believers. You are all under my care, and we will defend you. But the Franj are already on their way. Let us celebrate, but let us also prepare.”

This was my uncle who had taken Alexandria. This was my uncle who had spoken these simple but meaningful words. I was overcome by emotion. As he stepped down, I hugged him and kissed his cheeks. He spoke a few kind words in my ear, telling me that he was getting old and soon I would have to fight in his place. Telling me that he was proud of how I had fought. What else would he have told me had not messengers arrived with news of the Frankish response?

Shawar and Amalric were shaken by the speed with which we had travelled from south to north. They were mustering a large army to crush us. Now Shirkuh missed my father’s presence. He needed someone to plan the defence of the city, to take measures to withstand the Frankish siege, to ensure that food was saved and equally distributed, to make certain that flame-throwers were stationed in the port — to deter Frankish vessels from disembarking knights behind our backs. In my father’s absence, I was assigned all these tasks.

As you know, Ibn Yakub, that siege has now entered our books of history. I have nothing more to add, except to confess to you that I was prepared for death. Fear, which haunts us all, had disappeared completely. We were surrounded by Frankish ships behind us, and their knights were outside the city walls, their catapults hurling fire and stones. I wanted to die a noble death, as did our army. I did not want us destroyed by famine or diseases, both of which were spreading as the city was paralysed. Once again it was Shirkuh who refused to contemplate either surrender or a thoughtless battle in which, hopelessly outnumbered, we would all die.

Shirkuh’s daring had no equal. He placed me in command of the city and then, taking two hundred of our best fighters, he left under cover of darkness, galloped at full speed through the surprised ranks of the enemy, and headed for Cairo. Shadhi went with him and used to tell of Shirkuh going to villages, appealing to the peasants in a language they understood and appreciated — describing Shawar and Amalric as camel and horse droppings and making them laugh. In this fashion, he convinced the younger men among them to join his army.

The Franj, worried by this diversion, agreed to lift the siege, and we left Alexandria without losing a single soldier. The Franj, too, withdrew. Shirkuh, realising we were outnumbered, took us all back to Damascus. In his report to Nur al-Din, delivered in my presence, he predicted that within a year Shawar and Amalric would be at each other’s throats. That, he suggested, would be the best time for us to return.

And it happened, just as he had said. Shawar refused to pay Amalric the booty he had been promised, and the Franj decided to teach him a lesson.

One day a messenger reached us from Cairo. He was a spy that Shirkuh had planted in Shawar’s ranks. He had been present at the negotiations between Amalric and Shawar’s son. The Franj had demanded Bilbais in return for the help he was prepared to provide Shawar for use against us.

Shawar’s son, angered by this outrageous request had shouted: “Do you think Bilbais is a piece of cheese for the eating?” to which Amalric had responded: “Yes, it is cheese, and Cairo is the butter.”

These proved to be more than empty words. Amalric took Bilbais, killed and enslaved its population, and burnt it to the ground. Then he marched onwards to capture Cairo. To delay his old friends, Shawar burnt the old city to the ground. The people fled to where we are now, the new centre of Cairo. The fire raged for one whole month. Shawar again tried to appease Amalric. He offered him gold and a free hand in the rest of the country, but still there was no change.

At this point the Caliph al-Adid sent a messenger to our Sultan. Nur al-Din summoned me, and told me what was taking place. He sent me to Horns to fetch Shirkuh. When we returned, Nur al-Din ordered us to return to Cairo. I was reluctant. I could still see the suffering on the faces of the people at Alexandria. I did not want to experience another siege. Shirkuh took me aside.

“Are you the son of my brother or the son of a dog? Do you think I enjoy suffering? This time we will take Cairo. I need you at my side. Go and prepare your horses.”

I did as he asked. On hearing of our departure, Amalric had decided to withdraw. He had already seen that the Cairenes would resist him all the way despite the manoeuvres of Shawar. It was winter 1169 when we entered the city. As in Alexandria the previous year, we were welcomed, and the horses on which my uncle and I rode into Cairo were fed the most amazing dishes. We met Shawar in this very room, Ibn Yakub. He rose as Shirkuh and I entered, and pretended to welcome us, but his eyes would not meet my uncle’s. He fell on the floor and kissed Shirkuh’s feet. We asked whether the Caliph was expecting us, and Shawar nodded mutely.

“Then take us to him, you goat-fucker,” said Shirkuh with a cruel laugh.

He led us to the Caliph’s palace, through vaulted hallways and an endless number of ornamented chambers, each of them empty. Brightly coloured birds from Ifriqiya were making a terrible noise. We passed through a garden which contained tame lion cubs, a bear and two black panthers tied to a tree. Shirkuh was unmoved by all this, yet it was difficult not to be impressed. I tried to mimic my uncle and pretended that I, too, was unaffected. Then we entered a large room with a vaulted ceiling. It was divided by a thick silk curtain of the deepest red, on which circles of pure gold had been sewn, and jewels the size of eggs.

Shawar bowed before the curtain and laid his sword on the floor. We did not follow suit. Slowly the curtain rose and al-Adid emerged.

So, I thought to myself, this pathetic and frightened figure, barely eighteen years of age, his dark eyes shadowed by the signs of over-indulgence, surrounded by eunuchs and a great display of inordinate wealth, this was the Caliph of the Fatimids. The Caliph asked Shawar to leave his presence, and the defeated vizir slunk away like a smelly animal.

Shirkuh did not waste time. “You requested us to save Cairo. We are here. Before anything else, I ask for Shawar’s head. It is he who has brought death and destruction to our people.”

The Caliph of the Fatimids nodded. He spoke in a strange choked voice as if he too, like most of those who surrounded him, had been castrated.

“We welcome you to Cairo. We take great pleasure in appointing you as our vizir.”

Shirkuh bowed his acceptance, and we left the palace. The very next day, with the written permission of their Caliph, I personally separated Shawar’s head from his shoulders, throwing it on the ground at Shirkuh’s feet. My heart trembled, but my hand was strong.

“Now our Nasir is avenged,” he said, in a voice softened by the memory of his favourite archer.

Two months after this day, the heavens darkened. A terrible tragedy befell our family. My uncle Shirkuh passed away. I was not the only one who wept as news spread through the ranks of our army. Shirkuh was a much-loved commander, and even the emirs of Damascus, who made fun of the way he spoke the language of the Koran behind his back, were subdued by grief. Who would lead us now that Allah had taken away our mountain lion?

In our lives we are all prepared to die at any time, but Shirkuh’s death was not necessary. It was his appetite that led to his downfall. He had been invited to a feast where they ate for nearly three hours. Whole sheep had been roasted, goats grilled on an open fire, quails and partridges and every imaginable delicacy had been laid out before us. Shirkuh loved food. Even when he was very young, my grandmother often had to drag him away by force from the food. As I watched him, I remembered the old stories. He used to boast that he could eat and drink more than any other man in his army. Now he could not stop himself. It was a sad and an unpleasant sight. On three occasions Shadhi tried to restrain him, whispering warnings in his ear, but my uncle Shirkuh was in his own world. He choked on his food and began to suffocate. Shadhi hit him hard on the back and made him stand up, but it was too late. He lost consciousness and died in front of our eyes.

Shadhi and I hugged each other and wept. Throughout the night we kept guard over his bathed and shrouded body, which lay on a simple bed. Shirkuh’s soldiers, many of them veterans who had fought by his side while I was still a child, came in small groups and made their farewell. It was a strange sight to see these hardened soldiers, for whom the loss of a life was all part of a day’s work, weeping like children.

After midnight, we were left alone. Shadhi would remember an old episode, long before I was born, and begin to weep again. I remembered Shirkuh, his flashing eyes full of laughter as he sang to his own children and to us just as we were approaching manhood. Once when he discovered that I had been going secretly to a tavern, he called me into his room. His face was stern and I was scared. He had a terrible temper. “You have been drinking?” I shook my head. “Don’t lie, boy!” I nodded. He roared with laughter and recited the sayings of Ibn Sina, which he forced me to recite after him:

Wine is a raging enemy, a prudent friend,

A small amount is an antidote, too much a snake’s poison,

In excess it leads to no small injury,

But in a little there is much profit.

Alas, it was not a lesson he learnt himself. His death was the price he paid for over-indulgence in meat and wine. Ever since the day when I saw him die, I have been repulsed by the presence of too much meat on my table. Now do you understand why I insist on a balanced diet, Ibn Yakub? I felt the other day when we broke bread together that you really did not appreciate the meal. We shall discuss all this another time. Let us continue.

The next day, after Shirkuh’s burial, the emirs of Damascus remained aloof from me. They were huddled in little groups whispering to each other. I did not appreciate the cause of their disaffection till much later that evening.

The advisers of the Caliph of the Fatimids saw me as young, inexperienced, and weak — someone who could be easily manipulated by the court. I was invited to the palace and given the title of al-Malik al-Nasir — victorious king. How they must have laughed amongst themselves, thinking that in me they had found a pliant instrument. I was conscious of the honour, but felt lost without Shirkuh. I felt like a re-channelled river, momentarily disoriented as I observed the new landscape.

I needed to talk to Shirkuh or, failing him, my own father, who was in Damascus with Nur al-Din. As I thought about our great Sultan, I wondered what he would make of my elevation. His proud emirs, men of noble lineage, were clearly upset that a lowly Kurd from the mountains, who, in their eyes, could not speak the divine language properly, was now Vizir of Misr. I determined to send a message to Nur al-Din reaffirming that he, and not the Caliph of the Fatimids, was my commander. The last person in the world I wanted to be sharply pitted against was Nur al-Din.

The vizir’s white turban, embroidered with gold, was placed on this head, a sword decorated with jewels was placed in my hand, and a beautiful mare with a saddle and bridle encrusted with pearls and gold was given to me. I then marched at the head of a ceremonial procession with much music and chanting. We came, eventually, to this palace and to this room — here, where we are seated. It is a good place to be, and it is a good time to end our labours for the day, Ibn Yakub.

I’m glad you insisted that we finish this particular story, but I can see that your fingers are stiff. Your wife will need to rub ointments on your hands tonight, and my loyal al-Fadil must be very angry with me. I have never kept him waiting so long.

Ten

I meet Halima in secret to hear her story; she tells of her life in the harem and the brilliance of the Sultana Jamila

THE NEXT DAY A messenger arrived from the palace. He brought with him a large basket of fruits and other delicacies for my wife and child, and a message for me. The Sultan and the Kadi had left the town for a day or two and I was to be permitted a respite from my tasks. I was somewhat put out. I felt I might have been given the option to decide whether or not I was to accompany them. Where had they gone and why? Perhaps the Kadi was punishing me for having kept Salah al-Din to myself for so long the previous day. How could I write a proper account of the Sultan if I was excluded in this fashion from his daily work?

There was much rejoicing in the house after the messenger’s departure. For weeks I had barely seen Maryam, and there was much anger that I had arrived late for the feast in honour of her tenth birthday a few weeks ago. Even Ibn Maymun had rebuked me on that occasion. Rachel was, of course, delighted by my temporary leisure. Relations between us had returned to normal, but she still resented the amount of time I spent at the palace. Yet she showed no signs of resentment at the unsolicited gifts arriving regularly at our house. These came not from the palace but from merchants and courtiers, who believed I had a great influence with the Sultan.

Ever since I had started my work as Salah al-Din’s personal scribe, we had not spent a single dinar on food or oil. Add to this the satins and silks which were normally beyond the reach of people like us. Both Rachel and Maryam were now dressed in the fashion of the court nobility. On one occasion, when I taxed Rachel with all this, she laughed without any sense of shame, and replied:

“The pain of our separation is undoubtedly relieved by the receipt of all these gifts, though I still think that if I was to put you at one end of the big scales in the market and all the gifts on the other, the balance would still favour you.”

Later that afternoon, as all three of us were wandering aimlessly through the streets, observing what was on offer at the various stalls, a woman I did not recognise handed me a note, slipping rapidly away before I could question her. The message was unsigned, but it asked me to present myself at the palace library the next day. Rachel and I both assumed it was a message from Shadhi, acting on the orders of the Sultan, but I was puzzled by the choice of messenger. Something in me told me that the message had originated with neither Shadhi nor the Sultan.

The next day, upon entering the library, I was told by an attendant that Salah al-Din and al-Fadil had still not returned from the country. As I sat waiting for the person who had sent me the note, I heard a slight noise behind me, and turned to see the wooden shelves in one wall moving. Slightly nervous, I stepped forward to see a flight of stairs beneath the ground and a figure slowly ascending them. It was Halima. She smiled at my astonishment. The executed eunuch Ilmas had told her of the existence of a secret passage from the harem to the library. It had been built by al-Adid’s grandfather, a Caliph who did not object to his wives or concubines having access to the library. Subsequently the palace had been given to the vizir, and the passage had fallen into disuse.

It was dangerous to talk in the library. Halima wanted to meet in the room of a friend near the public baths, later that afternoon. The same woman who had handed me the message would meet me within a few hours, and guide me to her presence.

I was entering stormy waters. If I met her and did not inform the Sultan, my own neck could soon lie beneath the sword. If I did tell Salah al-Din, would Halima’s life be worth living? Perhaps I should disregard her invitation. While walking through the courtyard, I saw Shadhi, who hugged me with real warmth. I had not seen him for some time. He too was annoyed with Salah al-Din for having left without him, but informed me that he was due back in the palace tonight.

We sat in the sun and talked. It was as if we had always been close and trusted friends. He asked how the Book of Salah al-Din was progressing, and I told him where the narrative had stopped. His memory confirmed Salah al-Din’s account of the circumstances that led to Shirkuh’s death. The memory saddened the old man. Taking my fate in my hands, I told Shadhi of my meeting with Halima. To my surprise he chuckled.

“Careful of that mare, Ibn Yakub, careful. She’s dangerous. Before you know it you will have mounted her, and she will have galloped across the desert with you tied to her back. She has Kurdish blood, and these mountain women, let me tell you, are very strong-willed. I know not what she has in store for you, but whatever it may be she will not let you resist. Once women like her have decided to do something, they do not permit mere men to stop them.”

I protested Halima’s innocence and my own.

“She just wants to tell her story. Is that not my job?”

The bawdy look on his face indicated that he was not convinced.

“Go meet her. Don’t be frightened of the Sultan. If he finds out, say you told me and assumed I would have passed on the information. These things do not worry Salah al-Din. It is only if others in the harem discover your secret that Halima will be in danger. And you, my friend, be careful. She is very beautiful, but she is also carrying the Sultan’s child.”

The news stunned me. I was bathed in a wave of jealousy and anger. Why should a ruler, however benign, have the right to appropriate the body of any woman he finds temporarily desirable? I noticed Shadhi looking at my transformed features, and nodding with a sympathetic, understanding smile. I recovered my composure, regretting my illogical reaction to the news. As I walked towards the palace gates I thought I heard Shadhi’s whisper in my ears: “Careful, be careful, Ibn Yakub.” But it was my imagination.

Ibn Maymun maintains that in a state of heightened emotions, one sees and hears imaginary things related to the subject of the emotions. He told me once of a man whose favourite horse had been killed as part of an old blood-feud. He used to catch a glimpse of the horse in the oddest places. It is the same with the object of one’s love, regardless of whether that love has ever been spoken. Suddenly I had no desire to see Halima. I wished she was dead. This feeling did not last longer than a few minutes at most and, as I waited at the agreed spot near the public baths, just behind the Street of the Bookbinders, I felt ashamed of myself.

The messenger-woman saw me from a distance and beckoned me to follow. She was swift of foot and, fearful of losing sight of her, I lost all sense of geography. When she entered the courtyard of a modest house, I had no idea of the quarter. The house was empty. I was directed to a small room and, seeing that I was sweating and out of breath, an attendant provided me with a jug of water. I did not look at him too closely till he spoke, in a strange voice, which made me wonder whether he was a eunuch.

“Would you like to rest for a while?”

“No, no, I’m fully recovered.”

I waited. The attendant continued to stare at me in a familiar fashion. His insolence annoyed me, but I managed a weak smile. He burst out laughing and removed his headgear, revealing the light red tresses of Halima. She had come disguised as a man.

“Even you, Ibn Yakub, who stared at me so long that day in the palace when I was telling my story, even you did not recognise me. This gives me hope.”

She showed her pleasure by clapping her hands, like a child. Then she laughed, a throaty deep laugh, the sound of which struck me like a waterfall and increased the pace of my heart. I was glad she disappeared for a while after this performance. I needed a little time to recover. When she returned, in a brocaded green and blue silk robe with large sleeves and gold bracelets, she reminded me once again of those legendary princesses of the Caucasus. Whatever anger I may have felt earlier was soon dispelled. One could not be angry for long with such an exquisite treasure.

“Have you been struck dumb, scribe?”

I smiled and shook my head.

“Why do you think I have summoned you to my presence?”

“I assumed there was something you wished to communicate to me. You see I have brought my equipment with me so that I may transcribe your every utterance.”

She ignored my display of servility.

“Why did you not stay till the end of the shadow-play? Ilmas told me you left before the final act.”

I sighed.

“The public humiliation of our Sultan was not pleasing to my eyes or ears. I have grown to like him.”

Her face changed suddenly. Lightning flashes from her wrath-laden eyes burnt me to the core. I was speechless in the face of her rage. She sipped some water and counted thirty cross-sections on the fingers of both hands. Thus becalmed, the softness returned to her features. She swayed gently from side to side.

“Can you play the lute, scribe?”

I shook my head.

“Then Mansoora shall play for us. When one is sad, the sound of the lute is like the noise of water to a thirsty traveller in the desert.”

Her maidservant began to strum the lute, and a strange, magical peace embraced the room. Halima started speaking. Slowly she spoke, and my pen moved in perfect rhythm with her words. I was in such a trance that I barely knew what she was saying. Not till I returned home did I understand the import of what she had told me.

For the first few nights, I couldn’t sleep. Salah al-Din would enter my chamber and possess me with a passion whose intensity was such that it excited me, even though I had no real feelings for him. After he had finished, I would leave his sleeping body and wash myself. I did not wish to bear his child.

I should speak the truth with you. After the first few nights I used to shut my eyes when Salah al-Din mounted me, and I would imagine that he was Messud. You seem shocked, scribe. Or is it that you think my immodesty might cost you your life? Do not worry. My lips will never speak of our encounter, but I wish you to know everything. Or are you worried that I have become too embittered with your Sultan and dream of revenge? Why should I? He saved my life and became my lord and master. For that I am grateful, but in my bed he is a man like any other.

The only man I have truly loved is Messud. Perhaps it is just as well that he is no more. If he were here, I would risk both our lives to lie in his arms once more. I used to dream that he would make me heavy with his child, and I would pretend it belonged to Salah al-Din. Can gold ever cure grief, scribe? I think of Messud all the time. I torture myself by imagining him in Paradise in the arms of a houri, a creature far more alluring than me. In my heart I am still with him. I tell myself that we have not separated. He disturbs my sleep often. His smiling eyes, his serene gaze, his comforting voice, the feel of his hands stroking my body, all this enters my dreams and I know it will not go away.

It was during the first few weeks, late at night, that I would hear the others talking loudly and anxiously about their own lives and futures, and about me. They were laughing at me. I suppose they thought that I loved the Sultan, and that when he moved on to feed himself in newer pastures, the blow would cripple me, leaving me alone to nurse my wounded heart. How wrong they were, and how little they knew me in those early days. It was only six months ago, Ibn Yakub, but it seems like an eternity.

The first few weeks were fine, though being the latest concubine in the harem was not a pleasurable experience. Salah al-Din’s first wife, Najma, was a noble but ugly lady. She is the daughter of Nur al-Din. He told me he found her repulsive, but that did not prevent him planting his seed in her. The marriage, as you can imagine, was hardly designed for pleasure. It had only one purpose, and that was fulfilled when she bore him three sons in succession. She, too, felt her duty done, and never left Damascus.

Salah al-Din’s visits, thanks be to Allah, became fewer and fewer, and once I was with child he stopped altogether. At this stage everyone became more friendly. I was surprised when I first entered the harem to discover that there were not many of us. Apart from myself, there were eighty other concubines and two wives, but there was no real distinction between us when it came to enjoying the privileges of the court — except that we had six attendants to serve our needs, while the wives had eight or nine.

I had realised in the very first week that there was one woman who dominated the harem. This was Jamila, a lute-player from Arabia, of noble birth. The Sultan’s brother sent her as a gift, and Salah al-Din was entranced by her beauty and her skills. Since you will never set eyes on her, Ibn Yakub, let me describe her to you. She is of medium height, not as tall as me, dark-skinned and dark-haired, with eyes which change colour from grey to green, depending on where you catch sight of them. As for her body, what can I say? I embarrass you again. I will stop. If you think that Mansoora plays the lute like a magician, you should hear Jamila. In her hands the lute begins to speak. When it laughs, we smile. When it is sad, we cry. She makes it almost human. It is Jamila who keeps our minds alive. Her father was an enlightened Sultan. He adored her and insisted that she be educated, just like her brothers. He refused to tolerate any attempt to restrict her learning. What she has learnt she tries to teach us.

I was exhilarated when she started talking about us in a very bold way. Not us in the harem, but us women. Her father had given her a manuscript by the Andalusian Ibn Rushd, and she talked of him in a reverential tone. She told us of how Ibn Rushd had criticised the failure of our states to discover and utilise the ability of women. Instead, he argued, women were used exclusively for purposes of procreation, child-rearing and breast-feeding. I had never heard talk like this in my whole life and, judging by the expression on your face, nor have you, my dear scribe.

Jamila told us that many years ago in Cairo, one of the Caliphs of the Fatimids, Al-Hakim, had woken up one morning and decided that women were the well of all wickedness. He promptly passed a decree preventing women from walking in the streets and, in order to make sure they stayed at home, shoemakers were forbidden to make shoes for women. He had all the wives and concubines in his palace packed into crates and thrown into the river. Jamila said that though Al-Hakim had undoubtedly taken leave of his senses, it was interesting that his madness was directed exclusively against women.

Jamila and I have become close friends. We hide nothing from each other. My innermost secrets are hers and hers are mine. She has already borne Salah al-Din two sons, and now he rarely comes to her. At first, like me, she was upset, but now she sighs when he comes. It is not the other way round. How fickle our emotions can be! I wonder how I would have felt if the memory of Messud was not so strong in me. Jamila thinks that Messud is a fantasy that I nourish to keep myself sane. I know that the past loses power over the heart, but it hasn’t happened to me yet, and in the meantime Jamila lets me dream. Sometimes she encourages me in this, for she never had a Messud. She also encourages me to stop shaving the hair on my pudenda.

My only other friend was Ilmas the eunuch. He had been in the harem for a long time. Long before Salah al-Din came here. The stories he used to tell, Ibn Yakub. Allah protect me, I cannot bring myself to repeat them, even to you. Perhaps if you had been a eunuch, but that is foolish. Forgive me. I had no right to speak like this to you.

Ilmas was really a poet. I still don’t understand what devil possessed him. Why did he write that shadow-play? He was killed for telling the truth, for in the last act which you were too cowardly to watch — or was it your seventh sense that warned you it might be dangerous? — Ilmas described the love of one inmate of the harem for another. The love of a concubine for one of her maids. I think he had Mansoora in mind, because the lute figured prominently. He certainly could not have had me in his mind. I have not moved in that direction yet, though if I did it would be Jamila’s warm embrace that would comfort me. A sign to her that I was ready to take such a step would be to stop removing my body hair. I am close to a decision. Misery-laden days are about to end.

Look at your face. Do I detect disgust? Surely a man of the world like you, Ibn Yakub, is not shocked by such details. Cairo and Damascus, not to mention Baghdad, are full of male brothels where beardless youths satisfy every conceivable need and desire of those who visit them. This is tolerated, but mention women smelling the musk of each other’s bodies and it is as if the heavens were about to fall.

I think I should stop. You look as though you’re about to choke on your own anger, and your friend Ibn Maymun would never forgive me if I was responsible for making you ill.

I’m disappointed in you, scribe. I don’t think I shall summon you again.

Before I could reply, Mansoora had ushered me to the door and straight into the courtyard. I turned back to catch a last glimpse of Halima, but there was no sign of her. My last memory of her remained a strange, obstinate, half-contemptuous gaze which was her farewell.

I walked into the street, upset and disoriented.

Eleven

Shadhi and the story of the blind sheikh; Salah al-Din tells how he overcame his rivals

MY CLANDESTINE MEETING WITH Halima had shaken me to the core. I felt abused, though when I recalled her exact words there was nothing in them to upset me. I suppose I was taken aback by her decision that henceforth all men, except Messud, were out of bounds. My reaction was nothing personal. I was shocked on behalf of all males, or, at least, that is how I consoled myself.

Shadhi was not so easily convinced. He was waiting for me anxiously at the palace. The Sultan was back, but would not be able to see me till later in the afternoon. Shadhi wanted to hear of my meeting with Halima and so I obliged him. He was not in the least bit perturbed.

“I could tell you stories of harems which would make you die of shame on their behalf,” he chuckled. “Not that I ever died. I have lived long enough to know that of all Allah’s creations, we human beings are the least predictable. Do not plague your heart with the problems of women, Ibn Yakub. Leave Jamila and Halima to be happy. They will never be as free as you or me.”

I was astonished by Shadhi’s carefree attitude, but also relieved. I had told him everything. If the Sultan ever discovered our secret, both of us would share the blame. My fear, which had given me a sleepless night, evaporated and I became cheerful again. I saw Shadhi laughing to himself. When I inquired as to the cause of his merriment, he spat loudly before speaking.

“There is a blind sheikh, who preaches his nonsense a few miles outside the Bab-al-Zuweyla. He’s the sort who makes a living out of religion. He uses his blindness as a pretext to feel every part of the men with soft voices, all the time reciting the hadith. People leave him gifts of food, clothes, money and sometimes jewellery. Six months ago a trader brought him a beautiful shawl to keep him warm during the evenings. The sheikh loved this shawl. He would put one end of it through a tiny ring and then pull it out with one sharp tug, to show his disciples the unusual character of the wool. One evening, just after he had finished his prayers, a man entered his house. The sheikh was seated on a rug on the floor playing with his beads and muttering invocations and prayers and whatever else these charlatans mouth to gull the poor.

“The man who entered muttered a few prayers and placed a little bundle at the feet of the preacher. Pleased with his present, he asked the stranger’s name, but received no reply. For a while they prayed in silence. Then the stranger spoke.

“‘Tell me something, learned teacher. Are you really blind?’

“The sheikh nodded.

“‘Completely blind?’

“The sheikh nodded more vigorously, this time with a touch of irritation.

“‘So, if I were to remove the shawl from your shoulders,’ the man’s voice was gentle and reassuring, ‘you would never know who I was?’

“The sheikh was amused by the suggestion and smiled, while the enterprising young thief lifted the shawl and calmly walked from the house. The holy man rushed out after him with his stick. The mask disappeared as he began to scream abuse at the thief. Mother-fucker. Sister-fucker. Twice-born-camel-cunted-son-of-a-whore. And worse, Ibn Yakub, words that I would not want to repeat to you. Later it was discovered that the bundle which the thief had left for the sheikh consisted of three layers of pigeon shit covered with straw!”

Shadhi began to laugh again. His laughter was infectious, and I managed a weak smile. But he could tell that I found the story only mildly amusing. This annoyed him, and he spat in an elegant arc over my head to express his disapproval. Then stared into my eyes and winked. I laughed. Peace was restored.

It was late in the afternoon when the Sultan deigned to notice my insignificant presence. He was in good spirits, and when I inquired if his trip with the Kadi had been successful, he sighed.

“Convincing people to pay taxes to the state is not one of my duties, but al-Fadil insisted that my presence was necessary in the North. As usual, he was not wrong. My being there had the desired effect. In two days we collected taxes that had not been paid for two years. So, let us continue with our story. Where did we finish?”

I reminded him of how he had become the Vizir of Misr.

I had been worried that the Sultan Nur al-Din might have been misled by the behaviour of some of the Damascus emirs. They scarcely bothered to hide their envy and contempt for me. I had sent Nur al-Din a message, and now eagerly awaited his reply. It came after a week. The form of address he had chosen revealed his nervousness at my elevation. I was still the Emir Salah al-Din, Chief of the Army. I quickly sent another message stressing that he, Nur al-Din, was my Sultan and I was obedient to his instructions alone. I also requested that my father Ayyub, and the rest of our family, might be permitted to come and live with me in Cairo. Without them I felt lonely and homeless. After several months, this request was granted. I had not seen my father and mother for nearly a year. Great was our mutual joy at the reunion decreed by Allah.

I told my father that if he would like to take the position of vizir, I would immediately transfer my position and power to him. He refused, insisting that Allah’s choice had fallen on me. It would be wrong to tamper with his will. I did, however, persuade him to become the Treasurer, a key position. Without control of the treasury, it was difficult to wield real power.

The Caliph of the Fatimids and his courtiers were enraged by this decision. They had chosen me to be the vizir because they thought me weak and unprepossessing. Now they realised that power was slipping away from their hands. The Caliph al-Adid was a weakling, manipulated by eunuchs. One of these creatures, a Nubian named Nejeh, with a complexion as black as his heart, was a particular favourite of al-Adid. It was Nejeh who supplied his master with both opium and false reports.

The Caliph had harboured ambitions of becoming the vizir himself, but had felt it would be easier to retain power in the court by acting through me. The spies put in place by al-Fadil reported one evening that the Nubian eunuch Nejeh had sent a secret messenger to the Franj. The Caliph pleaded with them to attack Cairo as a feint. He knew I would ride out and give battle to the occupiers. Then, once I was fully distracted, Nejeh and his Nubians would thrust their daggers in our back.

On the advice of al-Fadil, I decided that Nejeh had to be dispatched as soon as possible. It was difficult to do this while he was in the palace without provoking a full-scale war. You must realise that tens of thousands of Nubians followed Nejeh as if he were a god. But we discovered that he had a male lover. He used to meet him regularly at a country house far from the palace. We waited for the right moment, and then, when the time had come, both Nejeh and his lover were consigned to hell.

My father had taught me that two armies under two different commands can never coexist for long. Sooner or later, Allah willing, one or the other must triumph. What was taking place in Cairo in these months was a struggle to achieve absolute power. I told the Caliph of the Fatimids that his men had established contact with the enemies of our Prophet. I told him that the eunuch Nejeh had been captured and executed. I told him that my Sultan Nur al-Din wanted Friday prayers in al-Azhar to be offered in the name of the only true Caliph, the one who lived in Baghdad.

On hearing these words, the pathetic boy began to tremble and shake. Fear had paralysed his tongue. He spoke not a word. I did not tell him that Nur al-Din wanted me to get rid of him without further delay.

The next morning, the Nubians came out on the Beyn al-Kaisreyn. Armed from head to foot, with their sharp scimitars glistening in the sun, they began to taunt my soldiers. We had many black soldiers in our army, but these Nubian brutes shouted insults in our direction. My father advised me to show no mercy to these devils. As they saw me, riding out to confront them, their ranks began to heave with hatred and a chant reached my ears:

“All white men are pieces of fat and all black men are burning coal.”

My archers were ready to shoot, but first I sent the Nubians a message. If all white men were pieces of fat, I inquired, how come that Nejeh had been plotting treachery with the Franj? In the sight of Allah we are all equal. Surrender and give up your arms, or be crushed forever. One of the rebels struck my messenger on the face with a sword. Blood had been spilled and we gave battle.

The fighting lasted for two whole days, and the Nubians burnt streets and houses to slow our advance. On the third day it was clear that Allah had granted us another victory. When we burnt al-Mansuriya, the quarter in which most of the Nubians lived, they realised that further resistance would be foolish. It was a costly victory, Ibn Yakub, but the prize was worth every life we lost, for now Misr was under our sole control.

All our emirs wanted to topple the Caliph of the Fatimids and declare our immediate loyalty to the rightful Caliph in Baghdad. I sympathised with the emirs, but, in private, I consulted my father. His sense of caution advised against further bloodshed. He reminded me that it was the Caliph al-Adid who had placed the vizir’s turban on my head. His motives may have been dishonourable, but it would be a greater dishonour to our clan to act ungenerously. I was not entirely convinced by his line of argument. I pressed my father further and finally, after making sure that no eavesdroppers had been stationed outside the chamber, he whispered in my ear:

“This wretched Caliph will help keep Nur al-Din at bay. Destroy the Caliph and you become the Sultan. What will Nur al-Din, the Sultan of Damascus and of Aleppo, think if you made such a leap? I know him well. He would ask himself: how is it that one of my youngest emirs, a jumped-up Kurd from the mountains, a boy whose uncle and father are my retainers, how come, he would ask, how come this upstart has arrogated to himself the position of Sultan without offering it to me first? Be patient, son. Time favours you. Now is the time to consolidate our power. Your brothers and cousins must be placed in all the vital positions of the state. So that when the Caliph of the Fatimids one day takes so much opium that he can only sleep the sleep that knows no waking, at that time we must make sure that the succession is smoothly handled.”

“What succession?”

“Yours. The minute he dies, you will abolish this Caliphate, you will announce from the pulpit at al-Azhar that henceforth there is only one Caliph and he sits in Baghdad. All prayers are offered in his name and you, Salah al-Din, are his Sultan.”

My father, may he rest in peace, was an inspired adviser. He was proved correct once again. The Caliph fell ill and I immediately instructed the Kadi to change the prayers. From that day on, the prayers were said in our city in the name of the only true Caliph. When the news reached Baghdad, there was great rejoicing. I received from the Caliph a ceremonial sword and the black Abbasid flag. It was a great honour.

A few days later, the last of the Fatimids died. I instructed Qara Kush, one of the shrewdest men in Cairo at the time and one of my advisers, to tell al-Adid’s family that their time was over. For nearly three centuries the Fatimid Caliphs had ruled this country. They had done so in the name of their heretical Shiite sect. Their rule was finished, and I offered thanksgiving prayers to Allah and his Prophet.

I became Sultan, with the written authority of the Caliph in Baghdad. Nur al-Din accepted my elevation, but it would be an exaggeration to say that he was pleased. I received two requests to meet him in Damascus, but I was too busy fighting the Franj. They had become greatly alarmed when they saw that Misr was now under our control. I captured a number of their citadels, including Eyla, a necessary fortress from which to provide a safe-conduct to the pilgrims visiting Mecca.

Some of his advisers suggested to Nur al-Din that I was only engaged in skirmishes with the Franj to avoid obeying his instructions to return to Damascus. This was malicious gossip. The Franj were worried by the fact that we now controlled both Alexandria and Damietta, the two ports they most needed in friendly hands. They feared, and in this they were right, that I would use our control of these harbours to destroy their line of communications with Europe. In time, that would mean the end of their occupation of our lands. They would crumble into dust. Qara Kush suggested an immediate offensive, but we were not in a strong position. It was reported that the Emperor in Constantinople had sent over two hundred ships laden with soldiers to lay siege to Damietta.

We obtained regular reports as to how many moving towers were being built for the siege and the number of knights at Amalric’s disposal. All this information was checked and sent by messenger to Damascus.

It is sometimes said about me, Ibn Yakub, that at critical moments I am not decisive enough. Perhaps this is true. I have inherited my father’s caution, and there are many in my ranks who would much rather I had inherited my uncle Shirkuh’s impulsiveness. I am conscious of this failing, and sometimes I try and combine the two. It is not always easy to make decisions which affect the lives of so many people.

What made Nur al-Din a truly great leader was his capacity to understand one important fact, namely, that unless the Franj were decisively defeated, our people would never be at peace. To make this possible, everything was subordinated to this single goal. That he was irritated by me was a minor irrelevance.

When my messengers arrived in Damascus, and informed him that we were in danger, he did not hesitate for a moment. He prepared a large army and sent it to Misr. We used this army to launch an offensive against the Franj in Palestine, diverting them from Damietta. Allah gave us victory. A sudden storm helped to sink the ships which the Emperor, whose sister was married to Amalric, had sent from Constantinople. The Greek ostrich had come here to find itself a pair of horns. It was obliged, instead, to return without its ears. Nur al-Din was a greater man than I could ever hope to be, and everything I have achieved I owe to him.

A strange smile, a mixture of elation, triumph, envy and sadness, came over his face as he uttered these last words. Perhaps he was thinking how ironic it was that he, Salah al-Din, and not his old master, was the ruler preparing to take Jerusalem. He was the man who would offer prayers at the Qubbat al-Sakhra, the Dome of the Rock, and return it to the care of the Believers.

I wanted to question him further. I wanted to ask him about Nur al-Din. But it was clear from his face that he was thinking of other matters. Suddenly he interrupted my thoughts.

“Go and break bread with Shadhi, but don’t go away. Ride with me to the citadel this afternoon.”

I bowed and made my exit. As I walked through the chambers to the courtyard I was struck by the simplicity of the man. He was surrounded by opulence. While he had stopped the elaborate court rituals of the Caliphs, there was still a great display of wealth and power, as if to show ordinary mortals like me that the two always went together. They were old bedfellows and nothing could ever change that reality.

Salah al-Din was known for his generosity. This was one reason for his great popularity with his own soldiers. Except on ceremonial occasions, he dressed simply. He was fond of riding his favourite steed without a saddle. There was nothing like the feel of a horse’s sweat to encourage dreams of future glory. He told me that on one occasion, adding that it was on the bare back of a horse, galloping through the meadows or across the sand, that his military ideas fell into place. It was, he said, as if the rhythm of the stallion’s gallop coincided with the necessary leaps in his own thoughts.

With Shadhi, I was soon eating a leg of lamb, stewed with beans of three different varieties and soft as butter. Shadhi claimed the credit for the meal. He had threatened to boil the cooks in their own olive oil if they served tough meat again. He had lost a tooth on one occasion. His threats had the desired effect. The tender meat turned out to be pure bliss.

I told Shadhi of Salah al-Din’s strange smile when he had been talking of Nur al-Din, and asked him for his interpretation. The old man snorted like a horse with a strained heart.

“Sometimes our Sultan can be very sly. We all admired Nur al-Din. He was a pure man. Nothing stained his honour. But Salah al-Din resented his authority. On one occasion, I think it must have been the siege of a Frankish castle, Nur al-Din himself joined us, and our Sultan returned to Cairo. He claimed that there was a danger of a rebellion by the remnant of the Fatimids. This was true, but it was nothing that could not have been handled by his brothers. He simply ran away from Nur al-Din. He was frightened of meeting him face to face. Why? Because he knew that Nur al-Din might order him back to Damascus. Nur al-Din was annoyed by Salah al-Din’s insolence, for that is how he saw the situation. A subordinate was behaving as an equal. He needed to be taught a lesson. He decided to march to Cairo.

“Let me now tell you something, my friend. I was present, as was Ayyub, at a meeting of the emirs and commanders of the army when the Sultan told us that Nur al-Din was on his way. Salah al-Din’s favourite nephew shouted impulsively that Nur al-Din should be resisted just like the Franj. Salah al-Din smiled indulgently at his nephew, but Ayyub, sharp as a sword from Damascus, called the boy and slapped his face hard. Right there. In front of everyone. He then stood up and spoke to Salah al-Din. ‘Let me tell you something, boy! If our Sultan Nur al-Din came here, I would dismount and kiss his feet. If he ordered me to cut off your head I would do so without question, even though my tears would mingle with your blood. These lands are his, and we are his retainers. Send him a message today, Salah al-Din. Tell him that there is no need for him to waste his energies in travelling here. Let him but send a courier on a camel to lead you to him with a rope around your neck. Now leave, all of you, but understand one thing. We are Nur al-Din’s soldiers. He can do with us what he will.’

“Everyone left the meeting, all except Salah al-Din and myself. Ayyub rebuked him sharply for permitting his ambition to show in front of the emirs, who would like nothing better than to see him displaced. Salah al-Din looked desolate, as though his heart had been wounded by a careless lover.

“Ayyub watched him for a while, letting the misery colour his features. Then he stood up and hugged him. He kissed him on the forehead and whispered: ‘I know Nur al-Din well. I think your letter of submission will work. If, for some reason, it fails to pacify him, I will fight by your side.’

“Now do you understand, Ibn Yakub? When you saw that smile on the face of the Sultan, maybe he was thinking also of the sagacity of his father. He is on his own now. Ayyub is with his Maker. Shirkuh is no more. Sometimes when I take him some mint tea in the mornings he says: ‘Shadhi, you’re the only one left from the old generation. Don’t you go and die on me as well.’

“As if I would. As if I would. I want to see al-Kuds, Ibn Yakub, the city your people call Jerusalem. I want to be next to him when we pray at the Qubbat al-Sakhra. I don’t pray much, as you know, but on that day I will pray. And have no doubt, that day will happen as surely as the sun rises and sets. Salah al-Din is determined to take the city, whatever the cost. He knows that it will strike a blow at the heart of the Frankish settlement. He also knows that if he succeeds, he will be remembered for ever. Long after our bones have enriched the soil, Believers will remember the name of this lame boy who I once trained to use a sword. How many will remember the name of Nur al-Din?”

Twelve

The Sultan visits the new citadel in Cairo but is called back to meet Bertrand of Toulouse, a Christian heretic fleeing Jerusalem to escape the wrath of the Templars

ONE REASON WHY THE Sultan did not encourage me to accompany him on his tours of inspection, or on his regular visits to supervise the construction of the new citadel, was because he was painfully aware of the fact that I could not ride. This aspect vexed him, since he could not appreciate that some of us simply lack the skill or the desire to race a horse. As a result he never talked much in my presence of horses. His understanding of the subject was immense, rivalled only by his knowledge of the hadith. Several times he would interrupt his stories and start describing a particular horse that had arrived as a gift from his brother in the Yemen. He would start on its wretched genealogy, and then, seeing my eyes become distant, he would sigh, laugh, and return to his story.

I was thinking of this as I rode in his entourage through the city. He had placed experienced horsemen on either side of me, just in case the animal I was riding took it in its head to bolt. It did nothing of the sort, and soon I even became used to the unpleasantness of the experience. I knew my backside would be sore at the end of the day, but I was pleased to ride with him.

He rode without effort.

This was not his battle-horse, but a lesser steed. Yet even for this horse, Salah al-Din’s movements had become a habit. He let the horse move at its own pace, neither too fast, nor too slow. With a slight flicker of the Sultan’s heel, the horse increased his pace, obliging all of us to keep up with him. Sometimes it seemed as though the horse and its rider were one creation, just like the make-believe creatures of which the old Greeks sang in their poetry.

We rode out of the Bab al-Zuweyla and were soon passing through streets thronged with people. They interrupted their labours to bow or salute their ruler, but he did not encourage servility and preferred to speed through the city. He wanted to avoid the supplicants and sycophants from the layer of merchants who dominated most of the streets.

Soon we passed the burnt ruins of the Mansuriya quarter, where the Nubian soldiers of the eunuch Nejeh had made their last stand before being driven from the city. The Sultan had ordered that the quarter should remain demolished, as a grim warning to all those who might contemplate treachery in the future.

Without warning, he reined in his horse. Our entire party consisted today of myself, three court scribes to take down the Sultan’s instructions for transmission to the Kadi al-Fadil, and twenty carefully chosen bodyguards — carefully chosen, that is, by Shadhi, who, if the truth be told, only trusted Kurds or members of the family to guard his Sultan, who now beckoned me to join him. He was laughing.

“It pleases me to see you ride, Ibn Yakub, but I think that Shadhi should give you some lessons. Your good wife will need to rub special ointments tonight to ease your behind. I hope this journey does not impair any of your functions.”

He laughed loudly at his own remark, and I nodded my agreement. He managed a generous smile. Then he surveyed the buildings of the burnt quarter and his mood changed.

“We were lucky to survive this revolt. If they had taken us by surprise, the story might well have been different. This permanent state of uncertainty is the devil’s curse against the Believers. It is almost as if we are destined never to be one against the enemy. None of our philosophers or inscribers of history have been able to answer this question. Let us discuss this problem with our scholars one evening.”

He bent over the saddle to stroke the horse’s neck, an indication that our journey was about to be resumed. Soon we had left the swarming streets and there, at a distance, were the mounds of the Mukattam range. Here builders like bees were constructing the new citadel. Huge stones were being carried by humans and donkeys. Thousands and thousands of workers were engaged in the building.

I wondered whether anyone else observing the scene was reminded of the ancient monuments in Giza. They must have been built by the ancestors of those who were at work on this great fortress.

The man in charge of the work was the Sultan’s chamberlain, the Emir Qara Kush, the only person Salah al-Din trusted to carry out his detailed architectural instructions and to supervise the building during his long absences. The sight of these labours pleased Salah al-Din. Again he touched his horse below the neck and the large creature bent to his will, galloping off at a pace which only his guards could match.

The three court scribes and myself followed at a more dignified speed. The court scribes, Copts whose fathers and grandfathers had served the Fatimid Caliphs for centuries, smiled at me and made ingratiating conversation. Underneath, I could see, they were burnt by jealousy. They resented my daily proximity to their master.

Salah al-Din suppressed a smile as he saw me dismount. My legs were aching as I walked up a ramp to a newly completed tower. Here the Sultan was discussing the brickwork with the Emir Qara Kush. This giant eunuch, with a fair complexion and hair the colour of coal, had once been one of Shirkuh’s mamluks. He had been freed and made an emir by his master. Shirkuh had greatly valued his administrative skills, and it was the advice of Qara Kush to the Caliph of the Fatimids that had secured the position of Vizir for Salah al-Din.

Qara Kush was describing how some of the stones had been brought all the way from the pyramids of Giza. He showed how well they mingled with the local limestone. The Sultan was clearly pleased and turned to me.

“Write this down, scribe. The reason we are constructing this new citadel is to create an impregnable fortress which can resist any Frankish adventure. But if you look at how the walls and towers have been planned, you will notice that we could also withstand a local rebellion with some ease. I have never forgotten how close we were to defeat when the eunuchs and mamluks organised the Nubians to surprise us. Here we can never be surprised.”

As we were talking, Qara Kush pointed down to the dust created by the speed of two horsemen riding in our direction. He was not expecting anyone, and was irritated by this unplanned intrusion. He frowned and instructed two of the Sultan’s guards to await the horsemen at the foot of the citadel. Salah al-Din laughed.

“Qara Kush is so nervous. Do you think our old friends from the mountains have sent someone to dispatch me?”

Qara Kush did not reply. When the horsemen arrived, he waited impatiently for the guards to question them and bring them to him. The Sultan’s light-hearted reference to previous assassination attempts had failed to distract the chamberlain. As the riders approached, we all relaxed. They were the Kadi al-Fadil’s special messengers, trained to ride like lightning and supplied with a special breed of racing horses for this purpose. They were used only in urgent circumstances, and the relief at knowing their identity was coloured by worry at the message they might be carrying.

Finally they arrived at the platform where we were standing. They carried a letter for the Sultan from the Kadi. As Salah al-Din began to read the message his face became animated, and his eye began to dart about like a fish in the Nile. He was clearly pleased. The messengers and the guards were dismissed. He showed us the letter. It read:

A Knight Templar has just arrived in Cairo and asked for refuge. He comes from Amalric’s camp and has much information regarding their movements and plans. The reason for his defection is mysterious, and he refuses to divulge his secrets to anyone in the absence of Your Highness. Judging by his demeanour I am convinced he is genuine, but the Emir Qara Kush, who is the best judge of human character and failings, needs to speak with him before you meet him. I await the Sultan’s instructions. Your humble al-Kadi al-Fadil.

Salah al-Din’s immediate response was to grab Qara Kush and myself by the arms, and to run down the mud-strewn path to the place where the horses were tethered. He was truly excited, behaving like a man possessed by demons. He mounted his horse and began to race back to the palace with his guards, who were barely able to keep up with him.

To my immense delight, the Emir Qara Kush was not an expert horseman, and he permitted me to accompany him and his entourage as we rode back. I had never spoken to him before, and his enormous knowledge of Cairo and the wealth contained in its libraries was impressive. He told me that the task I was performing would be of great benefit to historians, and I was pleased that he, unlike al-Fadil, took my work seriously.

The Sultan was waiting for us when we arrived. He wanted both Qara Kush and myself to be present when he questioned the Frank. He clearly had no desire to delay the proceedings, but the sun was already setting. He ordered us to repair immediately to the palace hammam to cleanse ourselves, and then to return to the audience chamber. Since we were both aware that Salah al-Din disliked the grandiose nature of this chamber, we smiled. It was obvious that on this day he wished the Frankish knight to be impressed by the majesty of his court.

Refreshed by the bath, I made my way slowly back, through rooms where mamluks held torches to illuminate our way, to the audience chamber. Here sat Salah al-Din, dressed unusually in his robes of state with the Sultan’s turban on his head, glistening with rare stones. I bowed and was assigned a place, just below the Sultan’s throne. He was flanked on one side by Qara Kush and on the other by al-Fadil.

Seated in a semicircle on the floor were the most distinguished scholars of the city, including, to my delight, Ibn Maymun. At a signal from Qara Kush, a mamluk left the room. A few minutes later I heard a drumbeat indicating that the foreigner was on his way. We all fell silent. The Frank, preceded by a guard carrying a scimitar, entered and walked straight to the throne. He placed his sword at the feet of the Sultan and bowed low, not raising his head till permission had been granted. Qara Kush indicated that he should sit down.

“The Sultan is pleased to receive you, Bertrand of Toulouse.”

The lips enunciating these words were familiar enough, but the soft-spoken voice had disappeared. The Kadi spoke with a firmness and authority that surprised me. This, I thought to myself, is how he must speak when he is handing down justice and awarding punishments to the guilty.

“You are in the presence of Yusuf ibn Ayyub, Sultan of Misr and the Sword of the Faithful. We are pleased that you speak our language, albeit in a primitive fashion. We are all eager to hear why you are here.”

Bertrand of Toulouse was of medium height, with an olive-coloured skin that made him a few shades darker than our Sultan. He had dark hair and brown eyes, but an ugly scar across his left cheek had left his face badly disfigured, making it temporarily awkward to concentrate on his other features. The wound, probably the mark of a sword, could not have been more than a week old.

Bertrand was about to respond, when the Sultan spoke. His voice, I was pleased to hear, was normal.

“Like the others, we too are anxious to discover the reasons for your presence. But before you proceed, I want to know if, in my absence, you were made welcome. Have you broken bread?”

Bertrand nodded, with a slight bow.

“Then we offer you some salt.”

An attendant proffered a silver plate with salt. Bertrand took a pinch and placed it on his tongue.

“Now you may speak, Bertrand of Toulouse,” said the Sultan, simultaneously signalling that the Frank should be seated.

Bertrand spoke Arabic in a harsh, guttural voice, but the smiles soon disappeared as his impressive command of our language became clear to all present.

“I am grateful to Your Majesty for receiving me so soon after my arrival, and for taking me on trust. I am indeed Bertrand of Toulouse, a member of the Order of the Knights Templar, and for the past five years I have been with my Order in Jerusalem, which you call al-Kuds. We were under the command of our King Amalric, who is as well known to the Sultan as you are to him.

“What you are all wondering is why I have twice risked my life to escape from my kingdom and to enter yours. The first time was by fleeing from my Order under cover of darkness two nights ago. I was nearly captured, and the price of freedom is this wound on my face. The sword which marked me belonged to a knight who was close to the Grand Master himself. The second risk was to be killed by your men, who might not have been patient enough to either ask questions or to wait for my response. Speaking your language, even though I do so imperfectly and with much hesitation, helped me to survive the journey and to reach your court safely.

“Let me begin my story with a confession. In the eyes of my Church, I am a heretic. If heresy is another way of expressing the struggle for the real God, then I am a heretic and proud of the fact.

“I come from a small village near Toulouse, and it was there that I came under the influence of a preacher who denounced our Church and preached a new vision of God. He used to say that churches lacked congregations, that congregations lacked priests, that priests lacked reverence and virtue and, lastly, that Christians lacked Christ. He used to say that there were two Gods, a good God and an evil God, and that there was a permanent struggle between these two powers which were both eternal and equal.

“He used to say that the Holy Trinity of the Christians was a manifestation of evil; the Holy Ghost represented the spirit of evil, the Son was the son of perdition, and the Father was none other than Satan himself. He used to say that there were two Christs. The Christ in the celestial spheres was good, but the Christ on earth was evil. He used to say that Mary Magdalene was the earthly Christ’s concubine, and that John the Baptist was a forerunner of the Anti-Christ. The Devil was Christ’s younger brother and the cross was God’s enemy, a symbol of pain and torture. As such, it was an icon that should be destroyed rather than worshipped.

“Our entire village, some three hundred souls in all, joined this preacher and helped spread the word to neighbouring villages. To their amazement, they discovered that others had been there before them. We soon learnt that the Counts of Toulouse were sympathetic to these ideas, and this knowledge strengthened our village’s resolve. When I was fifteen years old, almost exactly fifteen years ago to this month, we tore down every cross we could find. We either set them on fire or used the wood to fashion tools that could be of use to the village. This single act made us worse than demons and vampires, for these creatures of the dark are supposedly frightened by the cross, whereas we heretics were brazen beyond belief.

“In our sect, there are three stages of becoming a True Believer. We start off as Listeners, imbibing the new Truth and learning the dual art of debate and dissembling in relation to our Christian opponents. The next stage is that of a Believer. Now we have to prove ourselves by winning new adherents to our cause. After we have won fifty new Listeners, we become known as the Perfecti and can participate in the election of a Council of Five, which makes all the important decisions.

“I am a Perfectus. I was asked by the Council to penetrate the Order of Knights Templar, to dissemble and to win them over to our cause. Constantinople had urged the Grand Master to burn the bitter and evil falsehoods of the heretics in the fire of truth, and our Council felt we should be represented inside this Order so as to warn our followers of impending doom.

“Excessive fornication and the consumption of alcohol is not permitted by our Council. They believe that drink and carnality weakens our resolve and makes us vulnerable.

“I was betrayed by a Listener, who was in his cups and, unaware of the presence of the Master’s henchmen, was boasting wildly of our successes. I was not made aware of this till he was in prison suffering torture. Because of our method of organisation, he could only name me and two others.

“I am told the Grand Master was outraged when I was so named. He refused to believe that this could be true. Fortunately I was warned of all this by a Believer in the Grand Master’s entourage. I knew I was being observed and I broke off all contact with our people. After a few days, I was detained and subjected to five hours of continual question by the Grand Master. I denied all knowledge of the Council and expressed my full confidence in the Churches of Rome and Constantinople. I thought I had convinced them, since they released me. They appeared to stop following me and watching my every move.

“There were three other Perfecti in Jerusalem. We met one night and they advised me to leave and seek refuge in Cairo. I woke before sunrise the next morning, and was saddling my horse, when I was challenged by a knight. He had his own suspicions of me. He used a secret word which is only known to our sect. It was clear that he had obtained it by torturing the three Believers. It caught me unprepared and I responded before I could see his face in the dark. He drew his sword. I killed him, but not before he had marked my face. I rode like the wind, Your Majesty. If I had been caught, they would have killed me in the most ugly fashion.

“That is the end of my story, and I am now at the mercy of the great Sultan Salah al-Din, whose generosity is known to all the world.”

While Bertrand of Toulouse had been speaking only three faces had remained impassive. These belonged to the Sultan, Qara Kush and al-Fadil. As for the rest of the company, and here I must include myself, we had been actively exchanging glances. The description of the heresy had seen several hands going to their respective beards. These had been nervously stroked, as if to quell the agitation disturbing their owners’ heads.

“We have listened to you with great interest, Bertrand of Toulouse,” said the Sultan. “Are you prepared to be questioned by our scholars?”

“With great pleasure, Your Highness.”

It was the Kadi who asked the first question, this time in a honeyed voice.

“What the Church regards as your heresy is your opposition to the Holy Trinity and your hostility to icons. Our Prophet, too, did not favour the worship of icons or images. Have you ever studied the Koran? Do you know the message of our Prophet, peace be upon him?”

Bertrand of Toulouse did not flinch.

“One advantage you possess over all others is the impossibility for any person to doubt the existence of your Prophet. He was very real and, therefore, it is not possible to ascribe dual features to him. He lived. He married. He fathered children. He fought. He conquered. He died. His history is known. This magnificent city and all of you are one of the consequences of your Prophet’s remarkable vision.

“Of course I have studied the Koran, and there is much in it with which I agree, but, if I may speak frankly, it appears to me that your religion is too close to earthly pleasures. Because you realised that you could not live by the Book alone, you encouraged the invention of the hadith to help you govern the Empires you had gained. But is it not the case that many of these hadith contradict each other? Who decides what you believe?”

“We have scholars who work on nothing else but the hadith,” replied the Sultan quickly. He did not want his Kadi to dominate the discussion. “As a young man I studied the hadith with great joy and care. I agree with you. They are open to many interpretations. That is why we have the ulema to ascertain the degree of their accuracy. We need them, Bertrand of Toulouse, we need them. Without these traditions, our religion could not be a complete code of existence.”

“Can any religion ever become a complete code of life when, within the ranks of the Believers, there is such disparity in interpretation? The followers of the Fatimid Caliphs, to take the most recent example, do not share your beliefs or those of the Caliph in Baghdad. The same applies to our religion or that of the Jews. He who rules, makes the rules.”

“You truly are a heretic, my friend,” laughed Salah al-Din, indicating that any of those present could speak to Bertrand if they so wished.

An old man, a much-respected scholar from al-Azhar, rose. He spoke in a weak and husky voice, barely above a whisper, but so great was his authority that everyone strained to hear each word.

“With the Sultan’s gracious permission, I would like to explain one fact to our visitor. The greatest fear that haunts each human being, regardless of his religion, is the fear of death. It is a fear which oppresses us all. Every time we bathe and enshroud a corpse, we see in it our own future. In the days of Ignorance, and long before even that, this fear was so strong that many people preferred not to accept death as real, but to see it as a journey to another world. Islam has broken this fear of death. That alone could be counted as one of our great achievements, for without breaking this fear we cannot move forward. We are held back. It was our Prophet who understood the importance of this question before all else. That is why, Bertrand of Toulouse, our soldiers reached the edge of this continent and the heart of yours. That is why nothing can stop this Sultan from taking al-Kuds, your so-called Kingdom of Jerusalem.”

Then Qara Kush spoke.

“With the Sultan’s permission, I would like to ask Bertrand of Toulouse a single question. What in your opinion, O brave knight, is the single most important difference between your beliefs and those of our Prophet?”

There was not a moment’s hesitation on Bertrand’s part.

“Fornication.”

There were several gasps amongst the scholars, but Salah al-Din smiled.

“Explain yourself, Bertrand of Toulouse.”

“Only at Your Majesty’s insistence. Ever since I came to these parts and learnt your language, I have been studying the hadith and also certain commentaries on the Koran. It appears to me that fornication, and the rules under which it should or should not take place, has occupied the Prophet and his followers a great deal. In your Koran, if my memory is correct, the sura entitled ‘The Cow’ overturns the traditional Arab taboo on coitus during fasting.

“Some of the hadith record the Prophet as saying that your Allah had preordained the share of every man’s copulation, which he will do as fate requires. Each indulgence is thus predestined. The old scholar has just explained that your religion has removed the fear of death from the minds of its adherents. Is this not, at least partially, related to your conception of the Paradiso? Your heaven is the most voluptuous of all. Are not your knights who fall while fighting the jihad promised the most delicious pleasures in heaven? Erections which last for eternity and an unlimited number of houris to choose from, while they sip from rivers heavy with wine. Your heaven removes all earthly prohibitions. In these circumstances, only a man who had lost possession of his senses would fear death. All this flows from the self-confidence of your Prophet. He was a man of few doubts. Is it not the case that when your Prophet died, his son-in-law Ali cried out — and here Your Highness will forgive me since I only know the words in Latin—‘O propheta, O propheta, et in morte penis tuus coelum versus erectus est.’”

The Sultan frowned, till the Kadi whispered a translation in his ear.

“The Frank refers to Ali’s remark, as he gazed on the dead body of our Prophet: ‘O prophet, O prophet, even in death your penis is erect and pointing to the heavens.’”

Salah al-Din roared with laughter.

“Our Prophet was made of flesh and blood, Bertrand of Toulouse. His virility was never in doubt. Even his sword was known as al-Fehar, the one that flashes. Our prophet was a complete man. We are all proud of his activities. It was only because we held on to the stirrup of our Prophet that Allah has rewarded our people. Would that we ordinary mortals were as blessed as our Prophet so that even in death he pointed towards heaven. I think, however, that you are wrong. The driving force of our religion is not fornication, but the relation between God and the Believer. If you wish you could say that our way of looking at the world is perhaps too much influenced by merchants and traders. You look surprised. It could be argued that Allah is like a master-merchant and everything in this world is part of his reckoning. All is counted. All is measured. Life is a trade in which there are gains and losses. He who does good earns good, and he who does evil earns evil, even on earth. The Believer provides Allah with a loan; he is in other words paying in advance for a place in our Muslim paradise. At the final reckoning Allah has a book of accounts from which the deeds of men are read and carefully weighed. Each is paid what is his due. This is our religion. It shows the influence of our world. A real world. It speaks a language which is easily comprehensible and that is the reason for its success.

“Enough of theology for one evening. Let us eat and drink. Tomorrow you will inform us of Amalric’s plans, and we shall ask you many searching questions about the towers and battlements of al-Kuds. My emirs, you will discover, are less polite than our scholars.”

Thirteen

Shadhi tests the Cathar hostility to fornication by spying on Bertrand of Toulouse; Jamila recounts how Salah al-Din defied the traditions of the Prophet by spilling his seed on her stomach

SHADHI AND I HAD just finished eating and were relishing the morning in the palace courtyard, bathed in the sunshine of early spring. He had been talking of the military secrets that Bertrand of Toulouse had brought with him and which were now lodged safely in the Sultan’s head. He did not enlighten me as to the nature of this information, except to wink and whisper that al-Kuds was already as good as ours.

The meeting had been confined to the Sultan, six of his most trusted emirs, and Shadhi, who had really taken to the Frankish knight. He had tried to convince him that there was sham and superstition in every religion, and corruption in each of the sects that composed any religion. False prophets and rhetoricians could be bought in the bazaar of Cairo or Damascus. The Frank had refused to accept that the Cathars — the name given to them by the Church — were degenerate in any way.

Shadhi had attempted to test the Cathar hostility to fornication. He sent one of the most beautiful serving-women from the harem, who was also one of the wiliest, to tempt the virtue of the knight. Shadhi had promised her rich rewards if she was successful. Bertrand, to Shadhi’s exasperation, had resisted her charms and had firmly, but nicely, propelled the woman from his chamber. Shadhi’s devious brain was now preparing another trial for the Sultan’s most welcome guest. From a special brothel reserved exclusively for the nobility, a young male prostitute had been borrowed for the night and, since Shadhi had entrusted the master cook with his idea, news of the plan had spread throughout the palace.

Nowhere was tomorrow’s dawn so eagerly anticipated as in the harem, and it was in that direction that Shadhi pushed me after we had digested our meal. In response to a request from the Sultana Jamila, he had obtained the Sultan’s permission for her and Halima to meet me for a short time in a special chamber adjoining the harem. It was there that he led me, muttering and grimacing at the eunuchs, whose numbers increased as we neared the site of the harem.

Halima smiled to acknowledge my presence. It was no ordinary smile. It lit her entire face, causing my heart to quicken, even though the cause of her happiness was not the sight of this tired scribe, but the woman who stood at her side. It was the Sultana Jamila. She was a striking woman. Of that there could now be no doubt. I was observing her with my own eyes. She was taller than the Sultan. The hair on her head matched the blackness of her eyelashes, her thick, arched eyebrows and lustrous eyes. She was dark-skinned, just as Halima had described, but there was something about the way she moved, the way she met my gaze, and the way she spoke, which displayed a sense of confidence and authority not usually associated with the women in the harem — or at least, that is what I thought at the time. I was wrong, of course. The portrait painted by Halima and Jamila of their secluded quarters was to banish the old images from my mind for ever.

Jamila looked at me knowingly and smiled, as if to say: mind yourself, scribe, this young girl has told me all I need to know about you. I bowed to their presence, which made Halima laugh.

“Ibn Yakub,” said Jamila, and though her voice was soft and unbroken, it possessed an easy confidence due, I suppose, to the fact that she was the daughter of one sultan and married to another. “How did Bertrand of Toulouse describe the corpse of our Prophet, peace be upon him? I ask you since you were present on that occasion. You may repeat the words in Latin, a language with which I am familiar.”

I was speechless with embarrassment. It was not the question I had expected. Halima smiled reassuringly, nodding at me to encourage a response. I repeated the words ascribed to Ali by Bertrand in Latin. Jamila translated them for Halima and both women shrieked with laughter.

“Is it also true that the Frank regarded our religion as being too concerned with the details of fornication?”

I shook my head in affirmation.

They laughed again. I could not help observing the demeanour of these two women as they laughed and joked with each other. It was like the happiness of lovers during the first few months of bliss. It was strange to see the strong-willed Halima completely enthralled by this enchantress from the Yemen, who was now speaking to me again.

“Was Salah al-Din amused by Bertrand’s observation?”

“He was, noble lady. He laughed and proclaimed that it was an honour for the Believers to have had such a strong and virile Prophet. A man in every sense of the word. He even mentioned the name of his sword in this regard.”

“I am pleased to hear it,” said Jamila, “for I have said the same to him for many years. Some of our scholars cook our history to make a camel taste like a lamb, which is unhealthy for the development of our intellects. Your Sultan may be well versed in the hadith, but not as well as I am. I remember one occasion, soon after I had become his wife. We were in bed and he suddenly decided to practise al-Azl, by withdrawing at the critical moment and spilling his seed on my stomach. I was slightly surprised, since the main purpose of our encounter had been for me to provide him with a son or even two.

“I told him that al-Azl was contrary to the hadith. At first he was taken aback, but then he threw his head back and laughed and laughed. I have never been able to make him laugh like that again. He thought I had made up the reference to the hadith, but I gave him the reference from the Sahih Muslim and the number. It was 3371. I can still recall it. Salah al-Din refused to believe me.

“He shouted for a messenger and sent him with a note to al-Fadil. Can you imagine, Ibn Yakub, it was not yet light. The stars were still travelling in the night sky. Can you imagine a messenger knocking on the door of our venerable Kadi with an urgent question from the Sultan regarding a particular hadith concerned with al-Azl? What if the Kadi had himself, at that very moment, been engaged in this unlawful practice? Within an hour the messenger was back with an answer. Al-Fadil confirmed the accuracy of my knowledge.

“For the next two years Salah al-Din rode me as if I were his favourite mare. Our seeds intermingled in abundance. I gave him first one son and then another. Then he left me alone. He would come and see me often, as he still does, but it was usually to discuss affairs of the state or poetry or the hadith, but never anything intimate. It was almost as if, in his eyes, the knowledge I possessed had transformed me into his equal. I had become a temporary man.

“Do you know how the Franj refer to al-Azl?”

Knowledge of this sort, alas, was not stored in my head, and I lifted both hands to the heavens in a gesture acknowledging my ignorance. Jamila smiled.

“It is far more poetic than us. The flight of the angels.”

Her laughter was infectious, and I found it difficult to restrain a smile, which pleased them both. It was at that point that I understood how and why Halima had fallen under the spell of this woman, and I forgave them both. The cobwebs had suddenly disappeared from my head. My heart was wiped clean. They looked at me and observed the change, and became aware that they could now trust me to be their friend.

For a while they ignored me and spoke to each other. Jamila asked Halima about a third woman, whose name I had not heard before. She was clearly miserable because Allah had not blessed her with a child.

“She is like an orange tree,” said Halima, “which pleads with the wood-cutter to chop it to pieces because it can no longer stand the sight of its fruitless shadow.”

The two women discussed how to lighten this unfortunate woman’s load. After they had devised a way of easing the pain suffered by their friend, Jamila looked at me.

“Do you think there is life after death, Ibn Yakub?”

Again the Sultana took me unawares. Ibn Maymun and I had often touched on this question, but even on our own we were careful to talk in parables. To question the central tenets of her faith was more than heresy. It bordered on insanity. She looked straight into my eyes with an intense, teasing gaze, as if to dare me to reveal my own doubts.

“O Sultana, you ask questions of which ordinary mortals dare not even think, lest their thoughts accidentally betray them. We are all the People of the Book. We believe in the after-life. For asking a question like this our Rabbis, the Christian Popes and your Caliph in Baghdad would first have your tongue removed and then your life extinguished.”

She refused to accept my caution.

“In my father’s court, O learned scribe, I discussed questions of life and death without any restriction. What makes you so nervous? Our great poet Abu Ala al-Maari questioned everything, including the Koran. He lived to a ripe old age in Aleppo. He never allowed any authority to set limits to the kingdom of reason.

“Ibn Rushd and his friends in Andalus, who have studied, understood and developed Greek philosophy, are also inclined to doubt. Divine revelation in all our great Books is one type of wisdom. It relies on tradition to create a set of rules, a code of conduct, by which we must all live. But there is another kind of wisdom, as the ancient Yunanis taught, and that is wisdom which can be demonstrated to all without recourse to the heavens. That wisdom, my tutor at home once taught me, was called Reason. Faith and reason often clash, do they not Ibn Yakub? I’m glad we agree. Unlike reason, divine truth can never be proved. That is why faith must always be blind, or else it ceases to be faith.

“I will now return to my initial question. Do you agree that after death there is nothing? What you see are men and women, who live and die and who, after death, turn to mud or sand. No long journeys to heaven or hell. Do you agree, Ibn Yakub?”

“I am not sure, Lady. I am not sure. Perhaps the foolishness of God is wiser than men. Surely it gives you some comfort that, if you are wrong and there is a heaven, the seventh heaven, of which your great Prophet spoke, is, surely, the most delightful heaven of them all.”

This time Halima, her eyes flashing, responded angrily.

“For men, Ibn Yakub. For men. Shadhi, if he gets there, will have seven-year erections and a choice of virgins, like apples from a tree, but both our Book and the hadith are silent on the question of what will happen to us women. We can’t be transformed into virgins. Will there be young men available to us, or will we be left to our own company? That may be fine for Jamila and myself, but not for most of our friends in the harem. And what about the eunuchs, Ibn Yakub? What will happen to them?”

The Sultan’s familiar voice startled all of us.

“Why should anything happen to the poor eunuchs? What are you three talking about?”

Jamila summarised her case and my reply. The Sultan’s face softened, and he turned to me.

“Do you not agree, good scribe, that Jamila would be a match for any scholar in Cairo?”

“She would also make a wise ruler, O Commander of the Loyal.”

Jamila laughed.

“One of the problems of our great religion is that we exclude half the population from enriching our communities. Ibn Rushd once remarked that if women were permitted to think and write and work, the lands of the Believers would be the strongest and richest in the world.”

The Sultan became thoughtful.

“There are some who argued this during the time of the Caliph Omar. They told him that our Prophet’s first wife, Khadija, was a trader in her own right and she hired the Prophet to work for her, some time before she wed him. After the Prophet departed, his wife Aisha took up arms and fought, and this was accepted at the time. But there are many hadith which contradict such a vision and…”

“Salah al-Din ibn Ayyub! Don’t start me off on the hadith again.”

He laughed, and then the conversation moved on to a much lighter subject. We began to talk of the fate that awaited Bertrand of Toulouse tonight. Shadhi’s tricks had reached every corner of the palace. Halima and Jamila were as intrigued as the Sultan himself. They too were curious to see if the knight would be ensnared by Shadhi’s latest ruse.

The chamber in which the knight was lodged was one in which the occupant was spied on from two corners of the adjoining room. It had been built by one of the Fatimid Caliphs who enjoyed watching his concubines coupling with their lovers. Even though the unfortunate women were later executed, the sight excited him much more than mounting them himself.

Fourteen

The death of Sultan Nur al-Din and the opportunity of Salah al-Din

I WAS IN THE palace library, absorbed in a study of al-Idrisi’s map of the world. The Sultan had sent me to consult the map, to ascertain whether Toulouse was marked on it. If it was, I was to take it to him immediately.

I had not completed my task when Shadhi walked into the library. There was an evil, triumphant grin on his face. It was obvious he had won the duel of wills with Bertrand. I congratulated him.

“I do not wish to shock you, Ibn Yakub,” he said in solemn tones. “You are a great scholar and scribe, and many of the ways of this world are unknown to you. I will not dwell on the details of the events which took place last night in the bedchamber currently occupied by our knight from al-Kuds. It is sufficient to inform you that he likes young men, but he insists on a violent ritual before he uses them. That poor boy’s body was tested to the extreme last night. He has bruises and whip marks on his tender skin, and our treasury has had to pay him triple the amount we had agreed because of the strange ways of these Knights Templar. Our spies have described what took place and have not spared me any detail. If you like…”

Before the old devil could finish, one of the Sultan’s attendants appeared to summon me to the royal presence without any further delay. I ignored Shadhi’s wink and hurried back to the Sultan’s chamber, having failed to find Toulouse on al-Idrisi’s otherwise superbly detailed map. He was disappointed, but soon settled down to dictation. Shadhi, irritated at my lack of interest in the nighttime activities of Bertrand, had followed me here. One look at the Sultan’s face told him that now was not the moment to dwell on the habits of Bertrand of Toulouse. He settled down in the corner like a faithful old dog. Salah al-Din ignored his presence and began to speak.

Death surprises us in many ways, Ibn Yakub. Of these the battlefield is the least worrying. There, you expect to die. If Allah decides that your time has not yet come, you live on to fight and die another day.

Our great Sultan Nur al-Din became ill during a game of chogan. They say that one of his emirs had cheated him of a hit, and the Sultan lost his temper. His rage was such that he fainted. They carried him to the citadel in Damascus, but he never recovered. His personal physician wanted to bleed him, but the proud old man refused with a disdainful look, saying: “A man of sixty is never bled.” He died a few days later. Our world suffered a heavy blow with his passing. He was truly a great king, and a worthy follower of our Prophet. He had begun the jihad against the Unbelievers and, for this, all our people loved him dearly. Mischief-makers, most of them eunuchs with nothing better to do, would come to me with stories of how Nur al-Din was preparing a big army to take Cairo and reduce me to the status of a vassal, but I ignored such talk, for it was based on rumour.

Our differences — and yes, these existed — were not the result of petty rivalry. He knew a war against me could only benefit the Franj. Where we disagreed was on the nature of the offensive to be launched against the enemy. Nur al-Din was a just and generous king, but he was impatient. I had often told him that the time to strike must be carefully judged. If we were wrong our entire cause would be consigned to the flames. But these were not disputes between enemies, but disagreements within the camp of the Believers.

While he had been alive, I was proud to dwell underneath his giant shadow, but his death transformed the landscape. If Cairo and Damascus were left unlinked, the Franj would, through a mixture of bribery and war, take advantage, isolate one from the other and destroy both. In their place, I certainly would have attempted such a plan. Before I go into battle, be it political or military, fought with words or swords, I always place myself in the enemy’s mind. My good al-Fadil compiles a dossier detailing the activities of the enemy we are preparing to confront. We have reports on his strength or weakness of character and purpose. We have a list of his advisers and kinsmen, we know how they think and of the differences amongst them. With all this information in my own head, I then put myself in my enemy’s place and work out how they would try and outwit us. I’m not correct every time, but often enough to know that this simple method has much to recommend it.

Now think, Ibn Yakub, just think. Nur al-Din is dead. In Damascus, Aleppo and Mosul, those who wish to succeed him are making plans to elbow rivals out of the way. They are expecting me in Damascus for the funeral. But I remain in Cairo. I let them make the first move. Nur al-Din’s son, es-Salih, is only a boy. They are trying to use him to grab the throne. I still remain aloof.

Then a messenger arrives with a letter for me from Imad al-Din, one of Nur al-Din’s most trusted advisers, as he is now mine. The letter appeals to me to protect the young boy from the vultures with greedy eyes who watch the citadel day and night. I send an ambassador to Damascus and pledge my loyalty to Nur al-Din’s son. I also warn the emirs of Damascus that if they make the kingdom unstable, they will have to face the wrath of my sword.

I often ask myself how it has happened that strong rulers usually leave behind weak dynasties. Is it the curse of our faith that Allah has condemned us to a state of permanent instability and chaos? The first Caliphs were not chosen on the hereditary principle, but by a decision of the Companions of the Prophet. The dynasties established by the Umayyads and the Abbasids have led to disasters. Sultans and vizirs nurture the growth of kingdoms for their children, but what if their children are incapable of ruling, as we have seen so many times since the death of our Prophet? I sometimes think we should have a Council of the Wise consisting of men like al-Fadil and Imad al-Din. These wise men should determine the succession. You smile. You think the wise men would, in time, unleash their own dynasties of wise children and grandchildren? Perhaps you are right. Let us continue this discussion some other time. Our friend Shadhi is already fast asleep.

Despite Shadhi’s loud snoring, I resisted this suggestion. I knew that his mind was now totally concentrated on one objective, the reconquest of Jerusalem. The information given him by Bertrand of Toulouse had enhanced his confidence. He now believed that he could overpower Amalric.

I suggested that perhaps we should continue the story of his triumph in Damascus, subduing all his rivals and making himself the most powerful ruler amongst those who swore allegiance to Allah and his Prophet. Soon he would be engaged in new battles. We would have little time, and memories of previous encounters might fade away.

Salah al-Din sighed and nodded in agreement.

“You are too delicate to mention another possibility, Ibn Yakub. I might be killed in battle, and then your story would remain half-finished and untold. Your case has much merit. Let us continue, though there is a danger of which I must warn you. I am now speaking of events which excited a great deal of passion. My enemies spoke of my conquests as acts of personal ambition. I was a lowly mountain Kurd in a hurry. I was only concerned with leaving behind a dynasty and enriching my clan. I say this to you because if ever you feel that I am straying into the land of deceit, you must feel free to question me as you wish. Is that understood?”

I nodded, and he continued.

The most disturbing news from Damascus came one day in the shape of an old soldier. He had left the city of his birth with his family, his herd of camels, and all his belongings, and made his way across the desert to Cairo. It was Shadhi who saw him one day, a supplicant outside the palace. This old man had served with my father and uncle. He was a brave and dependable soldier and had become very attached to my father’s person. Shadhi did not waste time, but brought him in immediately to see me. We found quarters for his family, though he had not come here to ask for favours.

He informed me that the emirs in Damascus had paid a great deal of gold to the Franj to buy their good will. This act of treachery had been multiplied a hundred times over in an exchange of letters in which the Franj had been asked for help against me. Can you imagine, Ibn Yakub? They were so frightened at the thought of losing their own power that they would rather hand their city over to the enemy. The same city where the grief-stricken populace had only recent buried Nur al-Din, who taught us all that the first task was to rid our land of these locusts, who worshipped icons and two pieces of wood stuck together.

I was livid with anger. At that moment I decided that we had to make sure that the Franj never entered Damascus. Fate helped us. Since Nur al-Din’s death, the three great cities — Damascus, Aleppo and Mosul — had become divided. The eunuch who ruled Aleppo kidnapped Nur al-Din’s son and made him a pawn on the chess-board that was once his father’s kingdom. The nobles of Damascus became panic-stricken. They had lost the pawn to their rival. They appealed to Saif al-Din in Mosul, but he was engaged in his own plans and refused to help them.

At that point they turned to me. It was winter. We would have to ride through the night-cold of the desert, never a pleasing prospect. I called my commanders, and we prepared a force of a thousand carefully picked soldiers.

At these critical moments, timing is everything. Even a short delay and victory withers to defeat. We left the very next day and rode as if on our way to heaven. We took a spare horse for every soldier, enabling us to rest the beasts though not ourselves. Often we slept as we rode. Within four days I had reached the gates of Damascus. You see, O trusted scribe, the reason for my speed. Those who had, in desperation, invited me to save them were just as easily capable of changing their mind if another alternative in the shape of the Franj had appeared outside the city walls. I did not want to give them that opportunity.

As we entered the old city I found tears streaming down my face. This was the city of my youth. I went straight to my father’s house. The streets were crowded with people who were cheering our arrival. There were loud acclamations and the nobles, their faces hard as a camel’s behind, bowed before me and kissed my hands. They would have done the same to Amalric, though not in public. Our people would have hidden in their homes if the Franj had ever entered our town. I speak now not simply of the Believers, Ibn Yakub. Your people have always been with us, but even the old Christians of Damascus, who call themselves Copts, were not inclined to welcome the Knights Templar.

It was a joyous day, and many old friends came to see me. Imad al-Din, fearful of the nobles and their self-serving intrigues, had left the city and sought refuge in Baghdad. I sent for him. He is the al-Fadil of Damascus. These two good men are my conscience and my head. If every ruler possessed men like them, our world would be better governed. I left my younger brother, Tughtigin, in charge of Damascus and went to complete the task I had assigned myself, the task of reuniting Nur al-Din’s kingdom.

The winter was getting worse, there were reports of big snowfalls in the highlands. But I was intoxicated by the support of the people of Damascus. I decided not to waste more time. Often our rulers are so busy celebrating one victory, they fail to see that the revelry is costing them their kingdom.

The Sultan stopped speaking suddenly. I stopped writing and looked up at him. Exhaustion had swept his face and he was deep in thought. It was difficult to know what it was that had distracted him. Was it the thought of yet more wars and bloodshed? Or was he perhaps thinking of Shirkuh, whose advice would have been so useful at this stage?

I sat there paralysed, waiting for him to dismiss me, but he had a distant look in his eyes and appeared to have forgotten my presence. I was undecided when I felt Shadhi’s hand on my shoulder. He signalled that I should follow him out of the royal chamber, and both of us crept out quietly, not wishing to disturb Salah al-Din’s reverie. He saw us leaving and a strange, frozen smile crossed his lips. I was concerned for his health. I had never seen him like this before.

When I reached home, I realised that I, too, was debilitated by the day’s work. I had been sitting cross-legged, writing continuously for four hours. My legs and my right arm and hand were in need of care. Rachel heated some oil of almond to massage my fingers. Later, much later, she heated some more to soothe my tired legs and excite what lay, limp and inert, between them.

Fifteen

The causes of Shadhi’s melancholy; the story of his tragic love

“YOU WERE WORRIED LAST evening, Ibn Yakub. You thought Salah al-Din had been taken ill. I have seen that look on his face. It comes when turmoil takes over his mind. Usually this boy is very clear-headed, but he is assailed by doubts. Even when he was very young he could go into a trance, like our Sufis in the desert. He always recovers and usually feels much better. It is as if he has taken a purge.

“Yes, this old fool who you take as an illiterate clown from the mountains knows much more than he reveals, my good friend.”

Shadhi was not his usual ebullient self this morning. He had a sad look in his eyes, which upset me. I had come to feel very close to the old man, who knew his ruler better than anyone else alive. It was clear that the Sultan loved him, but Shadhi, whose familiarity with Salah al-Din puzzled many, including the Kadi, never took advantage of his position. He could have had anything: riches, fiefdoms, concubines, or whatever else had taken his fancy. He was a man of simple tastes. For him happiness lay in close proximity to Salah al-Din, whom he regarded as a son.

I asked him for the cause of his melancholy.

“I am getting older by the day. Soon I will be gone and this boy will have no shoulder on which to shed his tears, no person to tell him that he is being foolish and headstrong. As you know I rarely pray, but today I fingered a few beads and prayed to Allah to give me strength for a few more years so I can see Salah al-Din enter al-Kuds. The fear that this wish might not be granted upset me a little.”

For a while he said nothing, and I was touched by this uncharacteristic silence. His recovery, which was sudden, took me by surprise.

“Salah al-Din will not talk any more of his troubles, when he was subduing the heirs of Zengi and Nur al-Din. I think the memory of those days brings him pain. They were difficult times, but you should not imagine that he was a complete innocent. Hearing him talk to you yesterday one could get the impression that he was surprised by what finally happened. Not true.

“His father, Ayyub, had patiently and prudently prepared him for the day when Nur al-Din would pass away. I recall very well Ayyub warning him that impatience to secure Nur al-Din’s kingdom would be fatal. He had always to act in the dead Sultan’s interests, or that is what he should allow people to feel. He assimilated his old father’s advice and when the time came he acted on it, and acted well. The day when we entered Damascus, and the people of that city wept tears of joy and threw flowers at us, was what decided him that the time was now ripe. He needed to secure these lands and prepare for the great encounter with our enemy.

“It was exactly ten years ago today that he defeated the joint armies of Mosul and Aleppo. We were outnumbered five to one. To buy time, Salah al-Din offered our opponents a compromise, but they imagined that our heads were already in their saddle-bags. They dreamed of showing our Sultan’s head to the people of Damascus. They turned down our offer of truce. Then the Sultan became angry. His face was twisted with contempt for these fools. He spoke to his men, tried and tested veterans from Cairo and Damascus, who had fought many wars against the Franj. He told them that victory today would seal the fate of the Franj. He told them they were to fight against other Believers who were traitors to the cause of the great Nur al-Din. He, Salah al-Din, would take up the black and green colours of the Prophet and cleanse these lands of the barbarians.

“We had taken up a position on the hills known as the Horns of Hamah. Below was the valley watered by the Orontes. Salah al-Din’s voice carried below, as did the acclamation of his soldiers, but the peacocks from Mosul and Aleppo were so sure of success that they took no notice of military tactics. They led their troops through the ravine, and we destroyed them. Many of their soldiers deserted their masters and swelled our ranks. Their defeated leaders pleaded for mercy and Salah al-Din, always mindful of his father’s caution, accepted a truce. It gave him everything he wanted except the actual citadel of Aleppo. That too would belong to him, but later.

“This was no ordinary victory, my good scribe. It made your Sultan the most powerful ruler in the land. It was at this time that he declared himself the Sultan of Misr and Sham. Gold coins were cast in his name and the Caliph in Baghdad sent him the documents which sanctified his new position. He also sent him the robes which he would wear as a Sultan.

“But that was not the end of the story. No, far from it. The wounded pride of the nobles of Aleppo caused them to make one last attempt to rid themselves of this meddlesome Kurd. They sent a message to Sheikh Sinan, the Shiite, who lived in the mountains. The Sheikh was surrounded by a band of men trained in the art of tracking and killing particular individuals. He was a supporter of the Fatimids and had his own good reasons for seeking to dispatch our Sultan.

“The fact that the request came not from the remnants of the Fatimids, but from Sunni nobles, strengthened Sinan’s resolve. Imad al-Din, who I hope you will meet one day soon, informed the Sultan that Sheikh Sinan’s followers were accustomed to smoke a large amount of banj or hashish before they went on their special missions. Only thus intoxicated, and dreaming of other pleasures, could these hashishin kill on the orders of the Sheikh. They made two attempts on the life of the Sultan. On one occasion they overpowered his guards and surrounded his bed. Had an alert soldier not given the alarm, and had not Salah al-Din been wearing his special quilted jacket to protect himself from the cold of the night desert, he would have been dead. Only one dagger touched him before his assailants were taken.

“It was after these assassination attempts that he finally met Sheikh Sinan and agreed a truce. Indeed, on one occasion, when Sinan was threatened by some rival, we even sent soldiers to defend him. He never tried again. All sorts of stories were spread about the truce. Some said that the Sheikh had magical powers and could make himself invisible. Others said that, when surrounded by our soldiers, the Sheikh had the power to defend himself by exerting a mysterious force around himself which protected him against all weapons. These were tales spread by the hashishin to promote myths of their invincibility. But one thing I must tell you, Ibn Yakub. Whether it was the hashish or dreams of paradise, there is no doubt that Sheikh Sinan’s men were extremely efficient and capable of reaching any target. We all sighed with relief, and gave thanks to Allah, after Salah al-Din and Sinan agreed to respect each other.

“A few months later, the Sultan entered Aleppo and was recognised as the Sultan of all the territories over which he ruled. He appointed Nur al-Din’s son, es-Salih, as the governor of Aleppo. He confirmed Salih’s cousin, Saif al-Din, as the ruler of Mosul, and he agreed to keep the peace for six years. I think he took caution too far. He was behaving as his father would have advised, but I thought that he needed more of his uncle Shirkuh’s spirit on this occasion. He should have removed es-Salih and then taken on the dogs of Mosul, men so sly that they would not have hesitated to piss on their own mothers.

“Yes, I told him that, but he smiled, his father’s smile. He had given his word, and that was enough. This Sultan never broke his word, even though his enemies often took advantage of this fact.

“The Franj, for instance, believed, good Christians that they are, that no promises made to infidels were binding on those who had pledged their word. Those arse-fucking icon-worshippers broke treaties whenever it suited them. Our Sultan was too honourable. I think it was his origins. In the mountains, a Kurd’s word, once given, is never taken back. This tradition goes back thousands of years, long before our Prophet, peace be upon him, was brought into this world.

“Amalric, King of Jerusalem, had died and had been succeeded by his fourteen-year-old son Baldwin, a poor boy afflicted with leprosy. Bertrand of Toulouse had given us information about Raymond, the boy’s uncle, the Count of Tripoli. He became the real power in the Kingdom of the Franj. Salah al-Din concluded a two-year peace with Baldwin. He did not want to be outflanked in Misr while he was shoring up Syria.

“The Sultan’s brother, Turan Shah, was left in charge of Damascus, and the Sultan, myself and his bodyguards returned to Cairo. We had been away for two whole years, but there were no problems. The Kadi al-Fadil had administered the state in the Sultan’s absence.

“He had done it so well that Salah al-Din, congratulating him, asked: ‘Al-Fadil, tell me something. Is there a real need for a Sultan? It seems to me that this state runs perfectly well without a ruler!’ The Kadi bowed with pleasure, but reassured the Sultan that without his authority and prestige he, the Kadi, could not have managed anything.

“As for me, Ibn Yakub, I think they were both right. You know something? In the mountains of Armenia, the father of Ayyub and Shirkuh commanded the loyalty of people because they knew he was one of them. He would defend them and their sheep and cattle against raiders from neighbouring villages.

“I know I’m getting very old and I may be simple-minded, but it seems to me that if you can maintain peace and defend your people, what title you give yourself is of no great importance.”

I looked at this old man closely. The wrinkles on his face seemed to have multiplied since I had first met him. He had only eight or nine teeth left in his mouth and was totally deaf in his left ear. Yet in his head lay decades of unsuspected wisdom, truths he had learnt through the rich experience which life had brought him. His tongue was always out of control and respected neither Sultan nor mamluk.

It was this capacity to speak whatever came into his mouth that made him indispensable to Salah al-Din, and before him to Ayyub and Shirkuh. It is often assumed that people in positions of power prefer sycophants and flatterers to those who speak unpleasant truths. This only applies to weak rulers, men incapable of understanding themselves, leave alone the needs of their subjects. Good rulers, strong sultans, need men like Shadhi who fear nothing.

As I observed him slowly chewing nuts in the winter sunshine, I felt a surge of affection for him sweep through my whole being. All of a sudden I wanted to know more about him. I knew his pedigree, but had he ever married? Did he have children? Or was he one of those men who always prefer their own sort to the presence of any female? I had wondered about this in the past, but my interest had waned and I had never questioned the old man. Today, for some reason unconnected with him, my curiosity had been aroused.

“Shadhi,” I said, speaking to him in a soft voice, “was there ever a woman in your life?”

His face, relaxed in the sun, acquired an alertness. The question startled him. He glared at me, a frown casting a giant shadow across his face. For a few minutes there was an oppressive silence. Then he growled:

“Has anyone been telling you stories about me? Who?”

I shook my head.

“Dear, dear friend. Nobody has spoken to me of you except with affection. I asked you a question because I wondered why someone as alive and wise as you are never built a family. If the subject is painful, forgive my intrusion. I will leave you alone.”

He smiled.

“It is painful, scribe. What happened took place seventy years ago, but I still feel the pain, right here in my heart. The past is fragile. It must be handled carefully, like burning coals. I have never spoken about what happened all those years ago to anyone, but you asked me with such affection in your voice that I will tell you my story, even though it is of interest to only me and affects nothing. Shirkuh was the only one who knew. I must warn you, it is not an unusual tale. It is simply that what happened burnt my heart and it never recovered. Are you sure you still want to hear me?”

I nodded and pressed his withered hand.

“I was nineteen years old. Every spring my sap would rise and I would find a village wench on whom to satisfy my lust. I was no different from anyone else, except, of course, for those lads who had difficulty in finding women and went up the mountains in search of sheep and goats. You look shocked, Ibn Yakub. Recover your composure. You asked for my story and it is coming, but in my own fashion. When we were children we used to tell each other that if you fucked a sheep your penis grew thick and fat, but if you went up a goat it became thin and long!

“I see that none of this amuses you, but life in the mountains is very different from Cairo and Damascus. The very function of these big cities is to curb our spontaneity and impose a set of rules on our behaviour. The mountains are free. Near our village there were three mountains. We could just lose ourselves there and lie back and watch the sun set, and permit nature to overpower us.

“One day my real father, your Sultan’s grandfather, raided a passing caravan and brought the plunder home. Part of what he had pillaged were a group of young slaves, three brothers aged eight, ten and twelve, and their seventeen-year-old sister.

“They were Jews from Burgos in Andalus. They had been travelling with their family near Damascus, and had been captured by bounty-hunters. The father, uncle and mother had been killed on the road, their gold taken by the traders. The children were being brought to the market in Basra to be sold.

“The sadness in the girl’s eyes moved me as nothing had done before, or has done since. She had clasped her brothers to her bosom and was awaiting her destiny. They were clothed, fed and put to bed. Our clan adopted them and the boys grew up as Kurds and fought many of our battles. As for the girl, Ibn Yakub, what can I say? I still see her before me: her dark hair which reached her waist, her face as pale as the desert sand, her sad eyes like those of a doe which realises that it is trapped. Yet she could smile, and when she smiled her whole face changed and lit the hearts of all those fortunate enough to be close to her.

“At first I worshipped her from a distance, but then we began to talk and, after a while, we became close friends. We would sit near the stream, near where the lilies with the fragrant scent grew, and tell each other stories. She would often start weeping as she remembered how her parents were murdered by the bandits. I could think of nothing else, Ibn Yakub. I asked her to become my wife, but she would smile and resist. She would say it was too soon to make such important decisions. She would say she needed to be free before she could decide anything. She would say she had to look after her brothers. She would say everything except that she loved me.

“I knew she cared for me, but I was annoyed by her resistance. I often became cold and distant, ignoring her when she came up to me and attempted to talk, ignoring her when she brought me a glass of juice made from apricots. I could see her pleading with her eyes for more time, but my response remained cruel. It was hurt pride on my part, and for us men of the mountains, dear scribe, our pride was the most important thing in the world.

“All my friends were aware that I was losing my head over her. They could see me going crazy with love, like characters we used to sing about on moonlit summer nights when we talked of conquering the world. My friends began to mock me and her. This made me even more determined to hurt her and offend her sensitivities and her feelings.

“How many times have I cursed this sky, this earth, this head, this heart, this ugly, misshapen body of mine, for not having understood that she was a delicate flower that had to be nurtured and protected. My passion frightened her. Soon her delight on seeing me turned to melancholy. As I approached, her face would fill with pain. She had become a bird of sorrow. Even though I was only twenty years old myself, I began to feel that I was fatal for all those who are tender and young.

“All this happened a long time ago, my friend, but have you noticed how my hand trembles as I speak of her? There is a tremor in my heart and I am beginning to lose my strength. I want to sink into the ground and die, for which the time cannot be too far away, Allah willing. You are waiting patiently for me to reach the end, but I am not sure if I can today. Now you look really worried. Let me finish then, Ibn Yakub.

“One evening a group of us young men had been drinking tamr, date wine, and singing the khamriyya and becoming more and more drunk and, in my case, unhappy. It was a really warm summer’s night. The sky was glittering with stars and the dull light of a waning moon was reflected in the water. I walked away from my group to the edge of the stream where she and I used to meet and talk. At first I thought I was imagining her presence. But my eyes had not deceived me. Feeling the heat of the evening, she had discarded her clothes. There she was, naked as the day she was born, bathing in the moonlight. The sight turned my head. I felt my senses taking leave of me, Ibn Yakub. May Allah never forgive me for what I did that night.

“I see from your frightened eyes that you have guessed. Yes, you are right, my friend. I was in the grip of an animal frenzy, though most animals are kinder to each other. I forced her against her will. She did not scream, but I could never forget the look on her face, a mixture of fear and surprise. I left her there by the stream, and made my way back to the village. She never returned. A few days later they found her body. She had drowned herself. You would have thought that an animal like me would have recovered, found other women, married and produced fine sons. Yet perhaps with her death the animal in me also died. My heart certainly did, and I think of it as buried near that little stream in the mountains of Armenia. I had discovered and lost a priceless treasure. I never looked at or touched another woman again. Alcohol, too, was banished from my life. Allah has his own ways of punishing us.”

Usually after one of his stories, Shadhi would wait for my reaction, discuss further details, and answer questions. Often we would share a glass of hot water or milk with crushed almonds, but not today. Today he slowly raised himself to his feet and limped away, probably cursing me inwardly for having compelled him to recall painful memories. He had said that the past was always fragile, and as I saw his back recede as he walked away, I thought of how he symbolised those very words in his own person.

I was stunned by his story. Forcing women was not an uncommon occurrence, but the punishment Shadhi had inflicted on himself was truly exceptional. This old man, to whom I was already greatly attached, now grew further in my estimation.

Sixteen

I meet the great scholar Imad al-Din and marvel at his prodigious memory

AS WAS MY HABIT, I entered the palace library to browse while I awaited my call from the Sultan. To my surprise, the person who came to fetch me today was the great scholar and historian Imad al-Din himself. Even though he was approaching his sixtieth year, there were not many white hairs on his head or in his beard. He was an imposing man, a good measure taller than both the Sultan and myself. One of his books, Kharidat al-kasr wa-djaridat ahl al-asr, an enlightening anthology of contemporary Arab poetry, had just been published, to great acclaim.

Usually he preferred to live in Damascus, but the Sultan had summoned him to Cairo, to help in the final preparations of the new jihad. Imad al-Din was regarded as a great stylist. When he recited poetry or read an essay, his reading was punctuated by appreciative remarks or exclamations. I respected his work greatly, but for myself, I prefer the simplicity of the scriptures. Imad al-Din’s constructions were too flowery, too elaborate, too precious and too lacking in spontaneity, to appeal to my slightly primitive tastes.

As we walked through several chambers, he told me that he had heard much good said about me. He hoped, one day, to have the time to read my transcription of the Sultan’s words.

“I hope you improve our ruler’s words even as you take them down, Ibn Yakub. Salah al-Din, may he reign for ever, does not pay much attention to style. That is your job, my friend. If you need my help, please do not hesitate to ask.”

I acknowledged his kind offer with a smile and a nod. Inwardly I was angry. Imad al-Din was a great scholar. Of this there could be no doubt. Yet what right had he to impose his will on the Sultan’s own very personal project, with which only I and no one else had been entrusted? We had reached the Sultan’s chamber, but only Shadhi was present.

“Please sit and relax,” said the old man as he shrugged his shoulders. “Salah al-Din has been called to the harem. It seems that Jamila has created a crisis of some sort.”

There was an awkward silence. Imad al-Din’s inhibiting presence meant that I would not ask and Shadhi would not volunteer any information regarding Jamila. It was well known that Imad al-Din did not care for women in any way. For him true satisfaction, intellectual and emotional, could only be derived from the company of men.

As if aware that we were both tense, Imad al-Din cleared his throat, which I took as indicating that he required the attention due to a person of his standing. Shadhi, no respecter of persons at the best of times, broke wind loudly and deliberately as he left the room, and I was alone with the great master.

As I racked my brains for a way to open a conversation with this illustrious scholar, I felt embarrassed and intimidated. It was said of Imad al-Din that he only need see or hear something once for him never to forget. If one had told him a story several years ago and, forgetting that fact, began to repeat it in his presence, he would remember the original so perfectly that he would immediately point out the discrepancies between the two versions — to the great embarrassment of the story-teller.

He could recall not only the time of day or night when a particular incident had taken place, but all the circumstances as well. Once the Sultan had asked him how he could remember so much. He explained that his method was first to recall details such as the tree under whose shade the listeners were resting when the story was told, or the boat trip they were taking, the sea-shore and the time of day: then everything would become clear. I had been present during this discussion several months before, but had been unable to write it down. I had become so fascinated by Imad al-Din’s way of talking and his soft, enticing voice that I had forgotten all else.

“With respect, O master, it is said that your intention was not to become a secretary in the Sultan’s chancery, but to concentrate your great powers on writing your own works. Would such an assumption be accurate?”

He looked at me coldly, making me feel like an insignificant insect. I regretted having spoken, but his familiar voice reassured me.

“No. It is not accurate. When I studied the texts and letters formulated by al-Fadil in Cairo, I realised that we could do the same in Damascus. I had thought that this might be a difficult task, but Allah helped me. I threw off all the old ways of composing a letter of state and developed an entirely new style. This, my dear young man, astounded rulers such as the Sultan of Persia and even the Pope in Rome. The late Sultan Nur al-Din, may he rest in peace, was so pleased with my work that he made me the mushrif. I was now in charge of the entire administration of the state. This annoyed many people who felt that I had been promoted above their heads. They tried to make my life difficult.

“I recall one occasion. An envoy had arrived from the Caliph in Baghdad with a letter to Nur al-Din. My small-minded enemies had not invited me to the reception for the envoy. The old Sultan noticed that I was not present. He ordered a halt to the entire proceedings till I had been fetched. The Sultan handed me the letter to read, but al-Qaisarini, who was standing in for the Vizir that day, snatched the letter from my hand. I humoured him, but throughout his reading I corrected his mistakes and guided him whenever he went astray. I remember afterwards, when we were alone, Nur al-Din laughed at what had taken place — and this was a Sultan who rarely found time to appreciate a joke. That day he laughed and complimented me on my diplomatic skills.”

He was about to continue, when our conversation was interrupted by the Sultan’s entry. I stood and bowed, but Salah al-Din pushed Imad al-Din’s shoulders downwards to stop him rising.

“You’ve been educating Ibn Yakub?”

“No sir. Not I. I have simply been correcting a historical misapprehension regarding my own past.”

The Sultan smiled.

“You must not tire your memory, Imad al-Din. Sometimes I feel you memorise too much. I need you to be ready for the wars we are about to fight. It is possible that I might fall. You alone will be able to recall each and every detail of the jihad and make sure that it is diffused amongst the Believers.”

The secretary bowed his head, and the Sultan indicated that he could leave. Once we were alone, he began to speak.

“As you know, I appreciate the Sultana Jamila and her enormous intelligence. Yet sometimes I wonder how such a capable woman can create such a mess. It would appear that she and Halima have separated themselves from most of the other women. Jamila has a group of six or seven women, and she educates them and trains them in her own ways. This creates tension and hostility, since neither Jamila nor Halima bother to conceal their contempt for those who prefer to enjoy the pleasures of life by refusing to exercise their minds at all. They live for pleasure and pleasure alone. They are not concerned either with the jihad or the philosophy of Ibn Rushd. For this Jamila seeks to punish them. I was forced to reprimand her and insist that she does not impose her will on the others. She accepted my injunction in front of the others, but with bad grace. I left immediately afterwards, but have no doubt, Ibn Yakub, she will try and bend both your ears and mine before this week is over. That woman never accepts defeat. I am not in the mood to dictate today. We will speak again tomorrow.

“As you leave, could you please ask Shadhi to send al-Fadil, Imad al-Din, and Qara Kush to my chamber? You look surprised. There are important decisions to be made over the next few days.”

I was despondent at being asked to leave, and for the first time I spoke my mind.

“I will do as Your Grace asks, but it would seem more logical if I, too, could stay. It is I who have been chosen to write the Sultan’s memoirs. I will remain silent and take notes, and the accuracy of these could be checked by the Kadi.”

He looked as amused as he would have if his favourite steed had dislodged him from the saddle.

“There are some things, Ibn Yakub, which are best left untold. Do not imagine that I am unaware of your unease when I ask you to leave before meetings where the highest matters of state are discussed. This is as much for your safety as for our security. All my enemies are aware that you see me every day. They are also aware that you are sent out of the chamber when we plan our tactics for the next phase of the jihad.

“Nothing that happens in this palace is secret. Within a few hours the stories reach the harem, and rumours travel swiftly from there to the city. If it became known that you were part of the innermost councils of the state, your life might be in danger. That is the reason. However, tonight’s meeting is completely unplanned. So tonight you can sit at a distance, observe and take notes, but it will not be al-Fadil who checks them for accuracy but Imad al-Din. He will remember everything.”

I bowed to show my gratitude as I left the chamber. I was pleased that I had found the courage to challenge his decision and, for some unfathomable reason, this tiny victory gave me a gigantic amount of pleasure. Outside I met Shadhi and informed him of the Sultan’s directives. He summoned a messenger to inform the three men that they had to return to the palace without further delay. Then he turned to me.

“And what make you of our great scholar, the noble Imad al-Din?”

“I think highly of him, but perhaps not as highly as he thinks of himself.”

Shadhi laughed.

“That son of a whore, al-Wahrani, has written a new song about him and his lover.”

“Who is his lover?”

“That pretty boy with curly hair. The singer. You know who I mean? I think his name is al-Murtada. Yes, that is his name. Anyway, the song goes like this:

“Our great scholar Imad al-Din knows

that his favourite text is al-Murtada,

but without any clothes.

They fornicate like dogs, each one on all fours,

And drink wine from the navels of slave-girls and whores.”

Even as we were enjoying the joke, Imad al-Din walked past us in animated conversation with the Kadi al-Fadil. The sight of him sobered me immediately, but Shadhi was by now completely out of control. He laughed till the tears ran down his cheeks. I left him in that state as I followed the two men back to the Sultan’s chamber. Behind him I heard the gentle tread of the trusted Qara Kush. I waited for him to catch up, and we walked together to the Sultan’s chamber.

The discussion had clearly been taking place for several days. The main issue to be decided was the Sultan’s departure for Damascus. It was felt that since Cairo and the rest of the country was stable, now was the time for the Sultan to return to Damascus, where there were serious problems which needed attention.

Imad al-Din reported that Salah al-Din’s nephew in charge of Damascus, Farrukh Shah, was not a good administrator. His tastes were lavish, he refused to consider the needs of the jihad as a whole, and made decisions that depleted the funds held by the treasury. Imad al-Din argued strongly for the court to shift from Cairo to Damascus.

Qara Kush resisted the move, but was unconvincing. Unable to give a single serious reason for his argument, he descended to merely singing the praises of the Sultan, arguing that without his serene and noble presence he was fearful that the country might degenerate.

Remarks of this nature irritated the Sultan. He admonished his steward in sharp tones, pointing out that the sole basis for any major decision was the answer to one simple question: would it bring closer the defeat of the enemy and the capture of al-Kuds? He refused to countenance any other criterion.

Then al-Fadil spoke. He explained that if the Sultan’s standard of judgement was to be the only one then the move to Damascus was unavoidable. Al-Kuds would not be taken using Cairo as the centre of operations. At the same time he expressed some worry as to what could happen here in the Sultan’s absence.

Salah al-Din let them speak for a while, before interrupting them with a gesture of the hand.

“I think the arguments for strengthening Damascus and the other cities of Sham are irrefutable. If we are to take al-Kuds, I must be sure that all my cities are in safe hands. We cannot trust either to luck or the hope that the Believers will not betray us. As I never cease telling our people, this has been the curse of our faith. We shall leave exactly ten days from now. You, Ibn Yakub, will come with us to Damascus, together with your wife and daughter, for Allah alone knows how long we shall be away.

“We shall return to Cairo after our tasks, Allah willing, are accomplished, and not before. I am fond of this city. There are good memories to treasure.

“Your job, Qara Kush, is to make sure that, by the time I return, the citadel will be finished. That is where I will stay. As you know, I am not greatly attached to these old palaces.”

Everyone present smiled, but Imad al-Din’s face clouded, and when he spoke there was a trace of anger in his voice.

“That you sleep best in citadels is known to all, O Sultan, but I must plead with you to keep Qara Kush under some control. He is busy selling all the books in the palace libraries. Some of the fools buying them are so ignorant that they purchase according to weight rather than content. I am aware that Qara Kush is contemptuous of learning, but what he has been selling is our heritage. We have the most complete collection on medicine and philosophy in the library of this palace alone and…”

Before he could finish, the Sultan interrupted him.

“Qara Kush! I do not like this. Will you please make sure that Imad al-Din is consulted before any more books are sold.”

Qara Kush nodded to acknowledge the instruction.

“One more thing. Bertrand of Toulouse has expressed a desire to return to his country. He will help us from there, and keep us informed on the movements of the Franj leaders. I want him given a safe-conduct and an escort on a merchant ship. Give him everything he needs. Will you see to this yourself, al-Fadil? I want this knight to return safely to his family.”

The Kadi acknowledged the order, and Salah al-Din clapped his hands. Three attendants, familiar faces to me since they were permanently positioned outside the Sultan’s chamber, entered and prepared the table. They served us a frugal meal, whose contents I had inwardly predicted. As I had suspected it was bread and three varieties of bean stew. No concessions were made to the presence of Imad al-Din, whose tastes in food were well known. His banquets consisted of several courses and always included a new dish that left his guests gasping in astonishment. I watched the face of our greatest living historian. It did not betray a single emotion. Like all of us, he followed the Sultan and dipped his bread in the stew. The Sultan looked at him.

“Does this humble meal meet with your approval, Imad al-Din?”

Answer there was none, but the great man touched his heart to convey his approval and gratitude. It was only as we left the chamber that I heard him whisper to al-Fadil:

“One should only eat with Salah al-Din if afflicted with constipation and an urgent need to move the bowels.”

Seventeen

I arrive home unexpectedly to find Ibn Maymun fornicating with my wife

A CHAMBER HAD BEEN assigned to me at the palace and usually, after a late night, I did not bother to return home. It was well past the midnight hour and, had I not heard al-Fadil grumbling earlier that because of the Sultan’s meeting he had to cut short a consultation with Ibn Maymun, I would have stayed at the palace. Instead I began a brisk walk home. I had not seen Ibn Maymun for a long time, and I wanted him to be present when I told Rachel that we were all moving to Damascus.

As I reached the courtyard inside my house I was surprised to see the lamps still burning. Not wishing to wake either our guest or my family, I crept in quietly. Imagine my surprise when I entered the domed room to see Ibn Maymun lying flat on his back with his robe pulled above his stomach and covering his face while Rachel, my very own Rachel, sat astride him and kept moving up and down as if she were taking a leisurely morning ride on a tame pony. She was stark naked, her breasts moving in rhythm to the rest of her body. I stood paralysed. Anger, shame and fear combined to stun me. I was horrified. Could it be an apparition? A bad dream? Was I still asleep in my palace chamber?

I stood in the darkened corner of the room silently observing the fornication progress. Then I coughed. She saw me first, screamed as if she had caught sight of the devil himself, and ran from the room. I approached our great philosopher, who had just managed to cover his erect penis.

“Peace be upon you, Ibn Maymun. Did Rachel make you welcome? Were you demonstrating a particular section from your Guide to the Perplexed just for her benefit?”

He did not reply, but sat up and hid his face in his hands. Neither of us spoke for a long time. Then his choked voice managed to mutter an apology.

“Forgive me, Ibn Yakub. I beg your forgiveness. It is a lapse for which I deserve to be severely punished. What more can I say?”

“Perhaps,” I asked him in a calm voice, “I should simply cut off your testicles. Honour would then be restored, would it not?”

“None of us are infallible, Ibn Yakub. We are only human. Would you have resisted had Halima invited you into her bed?”

I was startled and angered by his audacity. Before I could control myself, I moved forward, grabbed him by the beard, and slapped his face, first on one side and then the other. He began to weep. I left the room.

Rachel was sitting on the mattress, wrapped in a blanket, as I entered. She was too ashamed to look me in the eye. Anger had dumbed me. I spoke not a word, but removed a blanket and left the room. I entered my daughter’s room and lay down on the floor, beside her mattress. Sleep refused to visit me that night or the next.

Rachel wept for two whole days, pleading with me to forgive her. To my surprise I did so, but I also knew that I did not wish her to go with me to Damascus. I merely informed her that the Sultan had asked me to accompany him and I would be away for an indefinite length of time. She nodded. Then I asked her the question that had been burning my mind since I saw her mount Ibn Maymun.

“Was it the first time? Speak the truth woman!”

She shook her head and began to weep.

“You never forgave me for not giving you a son. Was it my fault that after our daughter was born I could never conceive again? You abandoned me for the Sultan and life in the palace. Ibn Maymun became my only source of consolation. I was lonely. Can’t you understand?”

I was shaken. No reply formed itself on my lips. I was filled with a blind rage and, had I not left the room, would have struck her several blows. I staggered to the kitchen and drank two glassfuls of water in order to calm myself and bring my emotions under control. Then, recalling that this was one of Ibn Maymun’s prescriptions for controlling one’s temper, I smashed the glass on the floor.

For the next week, while I was preparing to leave, I did not speak to her. At first I wanted revenge. I thought of lodging a complaint with the Kadi. I wanted to accuse Rachel of adultery, and Ibn Maymun of being her accomplice. This thought did not stay long in my mind. I considered hiring a few men to murder the guilty couple. Then I calmed down. It is strange how fickle emotions of this sort can be, and how anger, jealousy and revenge can rise and fall within the space of a few moments.

I bade a fond farewell to Maryam, my twelve-year-old daughter, who, if the truth be told, I had neglected for far too long. Surprised by my display of affection, she hugged me in turn and wept copiously. I looked at her closely. She was on her way to becoming a beautiful young woman, just like her mother. The resemblances were stark. I could only hope that in a year or two she would find a suitable husband.

It was my last night in Cairo. I broke my silence. Rachel and I sat up and spoke for half the night. We talked of the past. Of our love for each other. Of the day Maryam was born. Of the laughter that used to resound in the courtyard of our house. Of our friends. As we talked, we became friends again. She admonished me for having put the needs of a sultan before my own work. I acknowledged the justice of her criticisms, but explained how my own horizons had expanded through my life at the palace. She had always accused me of leading far too sedentary an existence. Now I was about to travel. She smiled, and there was a special pleading in her eyes. My heart melted. I promised that once Jerusalem had been taken by the Sultan, I would send for her and Maryam. We parted friends.

To his great irritation, the Sultan’s departure from Cairo became the occasion for a mass display of public emotion. Salah al-Din would have preferred an unannounced departure, but both al-Fadil and Imad al-Din insisted, for reasons of state, that it had to be a public event. Courtiers, poets, scholars and sheikhs, not to mention several waves of the local people, had gathered near the old lake to bid their Sultan farewell. Qara Kush and his men were keeping a path open from the palace for the Sultan and his immediate entourage, which included myself and, of course, Shadhi.

The reason for the excitement was obvious. Everyone was aware that Salah al-Din was going away for a long time. He would not return till he had defeated the Franj outside the gates of Jerusalem. The people wanted their Sultan to succeed, but they were also aware that the expedition was full of risks. The Sultan might perish, as he had almost done a year ago in some preliminary skirmishes with the enemy. On that occasion he had found a camel, clambered on its back, and found his way back to the city with a handful of warriors.

The Cairenes liked their Sultan. They knew that his tastes were modest and, unlike the Caliphs of the Fatimids, Salah al-Din had not taxed the people to accumulate a personal fortune. He rewarded his soldiers handsomely. His administrators had made sure that the country had not been plagued by famines. For all these reasons and many others, the people and their poets and musicians wanted Salah al-Din to think of them when he was away. They wanted him to return.

As we rode down the streets from the palace they were shouting: “Allah is Great,” “Victory to the Commander of the Valiant,” “There is only one Allah and Mohammed is his Prophet,” “Salah al-Din will return victorious.” The Sultan was touched by this reception. We were moving slowly, to give ordinary people the chance to touch the Sultan’s stirrup and bless his endeavours.

As we reached the site of the old lake, the nobles of the court were gathered in all their finery. Salah al-Din quickened the pace. It was clear that he was becoming impatient with the ritual. At the heart of the dried lake, he reined his horse to a stop. Farewells were spoken. On a raised platform, a young, cleanshaven poet rose to declaim some lines. The sight was too much for Shadhi, who belched in anticipation of early relief.

The Sultan’s face betrayed nothing as the following lines were recited:

“May Allah never bring you sorrow

May Allah never disturb the tranquillity of your sleep

May Allah never make your life a cup of bitterness

May Allah never melt your heart with grief

May Allah give you strength to defeat all our enemies

We bid you farewell with heavy hearts

Whose load can only be lightened with your return.”

Not to be outdone, an older man, his grey beard sparkling in the hot sun, took the stage and recited:

“Spring is the season that turns the year

Yusuf Salah al-Din’s greatness is our eternal spring

Sincerity rules his heart

Iron rules his mind.”

At this juncture the Sultan signalled to al-Fadil that it was time for him to leave. He saluted his nobles and kissed al-Fadil on both cheeks. There were tears in many eyes and these, unlike the poetry, were genuine. Just as we were leaving, an old man approached to kiss his hand. He was so aged that he did not have the strength to reach the Sultan’s stirrup. Salah al-Din jumped off the horse and embraced his well-wisher, who whispered something in his ear. I saw the Sultan’s face change. He looked at the old man closely, but his face, now wreathed in smiles, taught Salah al-Din nothing. Shadhi rode up to the Sultan.

“What did the old man say?”

Salah al-Din’s face was downcast.

“He said I should bid the Nile a fond farewell since it was written in the stars that I would never see it again.”

Shadhi snorted, but it was clear that the discordant note had eclipsed the preceding good will. Bad omens displease all rulers, even those who claim not to believe in them. Our departure was abrupt. Salah al-Din turned his horse sharply and we rode out of the city.

Our party numbered three thousand men, most of them soldiers who had fought at the Sultan’s side for many years. These were tried and trusted swordsmen and archers, each of them adept on horseback. I noticed three veterans, who had, till our departure, been attached to the School of Sword-Makers. There they had taught both the art of sword-fighting and the skill required to make a sword. All three were from Damascus, and were pleased to be returning to their families.

Jamila and Halima, together with their retinue, had left Cairo three days ago, though many of the former slave-girls who had produced the Sultan’s children were not accompanying him to Damascus. I wondered what he was thinking. The Sultan spoke little while he rode, a habit inherited from his father rather than his uncle Shirkuh who, according to Shadhi, found it difficult to keep his thoughts to himself regardless of the circumstances.

News of our departure was hardly a secret. The Franj were aware of what was happening and had their soldiers on the borderlands waiting to pounce on us. So to avoid an ambush, Salah al-Din had ordered the Bedouins to plan a route which avoided the Franj. He was not in a mood for either a show or a test of strength. He was a man possessed with only one idea in his head. Everything else had to wait till it had been accomplished.

As in the past, however, local rivalries would not permit him to concentrate his energies on freeing Jerusalem.

Later that evening, as we reached the desert and made camp for the night, Salah al-Din summoned the emirs to his tent. Shadhi and I were left free to admire the stars. The old man was in an affectionate mood, but even so I was surprised by the turn our conversation had taken. After talking about his impending death, he suddenly changed tune.

“I hope you have truly forgiven your wife, Ibn Yakub. I know that in Allah’s scale, adultery is never treated lightly, but in our lives you must understand that what took place between her and Ibn Maymun was not of great importance. I’ve startled you. How do I know? One of the Kadi’s spies keeps a watchful eye on the movements of the great physician, for his own protection, you understand. He appears to have watched him a bit too closely. A report was made to the Kadi, who informed the Sultan in my presence. It was Salah al-Din who decided that you should not be informed. He made me swear an old mountain oath to that effect. He values you greatly and did not want you upset. At one stage we even discussed finding you a new woman.”

I was silent. It was cold comfort that these people knew everything about me. I was not concerned about Shadhi. I might even have told him myself, but the Kadi and the Sultan? Why did they know? What right had they to spy on anyone? I was gripped by anger. Inwardly I cursed Rachel for having betrayed me. Above all, I felt shamed. In their eyes now I was not just a scribe, but also a cuckold. I took my leave of Shadhi and walked for a while. In front of me the desert was like a dark blanket. Above me the stars were laughing in the sky.

And this was just the first day of our journey. There were to be thirty more. I looked back in the direction from whence we had come, but all I could see was the dark and bitter cold of the night desert. I clutched the blanket tightly around my body and covered my head as I bade farewell to Cairo.