The Book of Saladin

Eighteen

I meet the Sultan’s favourite nephews and hear them talk of liberating Jerusalem

IT SEEMED AS IF we had arrived in Damascus only a few hours ago. In reality we had already been here for two weeks, but it had taken that long for me to recover from the torment of the four weeks that preceded our arrival. The journey had proved uneventful for everyone else, but not for me. I was now capable of riding and controlling a horse, but the activity was not greatly pleasurable. My face had been badly burnt by the sun and, had it not been for the ointments carried by our Bedouin scouts, the pain alone would have killed me.

I could only thank my stars for having been born a Jew. If I had become a follower of the Prophet of Islam I, too, would have been compelled like the bulk of the soldiers and emirs to turn towards Mecca and say my prayers five times a day, usually in the heat of the desert sun. The Sultan, whom I had never thought of as a deeply religious man, was, in his role as commander of his troops, very insistent on observing the rituals of his religion. The lack of water for the ablutions posed no problem. Sand became an easy substitute. Shadhi pleaded old age to avoid the mass prayers. One day as he saw the Sultan lead the prayers he whispered: “It is just as well there are no Franj in the vicinity. The sight of three thousand good Believers with their arses in the air might prove too easy a target.”

Leaving aside the physical rigours of the journey, I had been compelled on several evenings to sit in the Sultan’s tent and listen to Imad al-Din’s monotonous voice recite the stories of the Caliphs of Baghdad. This became a torture of the mind for me, since the tales he was repeating had been lifted from works with which I was only too familiar.

To be fair to Imad al-Din, he did not attempt to claim the Muraj al-Dhahab and the Kitab al-Tanbih as his own works. He credited al-Masudi, the author, but it was his own style of recitation which imparted a false sense of authority. Perhaps it was all in my imagination. Perhaps I was so exhausted by the day that having to listen to stories I had already read did not appeal to me greatly at the time.

Two weeks of total rest in this most beautiful of cities revived me completely. The joy of being able to bathe every day, the delight of the food that was served by the kitchens in the citadel, and the respite from the sun was all that I needed.

The Sultan, bless his heart, took a great deal of interest in my recovery. He, too, was pleased to be in Damascus, but for reasons that were different to mine. This had been his home for many years. It was here that he had learnt the arts of war and the delights of a woman’s bedchamber. He felt safe in this city, and his appearance at the great Umayyad Mosque on the previous Friday had demonstrated how much he had grown in stature in the eyes of the ordinary people. Shadhi had told me that he had seen by the Damascenes as a raw youth, given to the pleasures of the wine-cellar and fornication. News of his conquests had reached them from afar, and now they barely recognised their Sultan. He had become an even greater leader than the pious and much-loved Nur al-Din.

I could detect the excitement on the faces of many during the Friday congregation. The white-bearded scholar who had taken the pulpit had called on Allah to give Salah al-Din a long life and help him drive the Franj into the sea. He had referred to the Sultan as the “sword of Islam” to the acclaim of the assembly, which responded with one voice: “There is only one Allah and Mohammed is his Prophet.”

The citizens here seemed to be more deferential, less audacious than their equivalents in Cairo. In my city it was not uncommon to hear criticisms of the Kadi or even the Sultan, and the shadow-players usually spoke for a much larger public. I was reflecting on the differences between the two cities, and the temperament of their inhabitants, when a person unknown to me knocked on the door and entered my room.

From his dress, he appeared to be a retainer, and yet the look on his face expressed a certain familiarity which surprised me. He bowed and introduced himself as Amjad al-Islam. He was tall, very tall, extremely well-fed and cleanshaven. He informed me that he had been in the service of the Sultan since he was ten years old. He claimed that “Uncle” Shadhi had taught him all he knew of this world.

“The Sultan wishes you to dine with him tonight and Uncle Shadhi wishes you a good appetite. He will eat with you tomorrow.”

With these words a self-satisfied and grinning Amjad left my chamber. I smiled at Shadhi’s message. The old man had been in his element during our march from Cairo to Damascus, but he was suffering from tiredness and ill-humour. Since our arrival he had kept to his own quarters. I was delighted to hear that he was well, and looked forward to our meeting. I had already bathed and had thought of writing a detailed account of the desert for my own book, but once again Salah al-Din had interrupted my labours.

He was seated with two men whom I had seen in his company a great deal since our arrival here. From their demeanour they appeared to be emirs, which they certainly were, but they were also the Sultan’s favourite nephews, Farrukh Shah and Taki al-Din. They were brothers, sons of the Sultan’s oldest brother, Shahan Shah, who had died when Salah al-Din was only ten years old. He loved both of them and each competed with the other in audacity on the field of battle. They reminded him of Shirkuh, and in them he had invested a great deal of love and trust.

He introduced me to them in turn, and both stood to embrace me.

“Our future depends on you,” laughed Taki al-Din. “If you write badly of us we will be forgotten, but if you write truthfully the memory of what our clan has achieved will remain till our Maker decides that the time has come to end this world.”

“Tell me, master scribe,” asked his brother, “is there any such thing as absolute truth? Do you report different versions of the same event? Do you consult more than one source? After all, much of what you are writing comes to you from the lips of our esteemed uncle. Naturally he will not talk of those events in which he disappointed himself.”

I looked at the Sultan, who burst out laughing.

“I may not, but Shadhi, as we all know, can always be relied upon to make up for my deficiencies. And now that we are in Damascus, Ibn Yakub has two extra informants in the shape of you devils. Kindly do not forget that he is engaged in writing my memories and these can only be experienced by me.”

This little family exchange made a reply from me redundant. I smiled, as good scribes sometimes do, but remained silent. The arrival of the food provided another diversion. The younger men looked at my face as I observed the variety of dishes being placed before us and burst out laughing. Farrukh Shah exchanged a meaningful look with me.

“I can tell you’re not used to meat at our uncle’s table! He will just eat a bowl of broth tonight followed by fruit. What we have before us is lamb marinated in herbs and freshly grilled. It was our great-uncle Shirkuh’s favourite dish, and today is the day of his birth. We owe it to ourselves to remember him in the fashion he would have appreciated.”

The Sultan frowned at the frivolity.

“Better you eat it on his birthday rather than to mark the day he died. I saw him die and it was a painful sight. Mimic his capacities as a great leader of men and a fighter of tremendous spirit, but avoid his vices. All our great men of medicine have warned against over-indulgence on any front.”

Salah al-Din’s annoyance sobered his nephews. They bowed their heads to acknowledge his warning. The rest of the meal was virtually silent, but after the food had been cleared and mint tea served, I realised that this was not a casual gathering. As he prepared to speak, the Sultan indicated that I should ready my pen.

“What I say about the sons of my dead brother, Taki al-Din and Farrukh Shah, I wish to say in their presence. I feel closer to these two men than anyone else in my family. They are not just my nephews, but also two of my ablest generals.

“My own sons are young, and if anything were to happen to me I would expect Taki al-Din and Farrukh Shah to protect my children from the vultures that will start circling the cities we have made our own. If I die soon, I want Taki al-Din to sit in Cairo and Farrukh Shah to rule Damascus. The other places should be divided amongst my brothers and their children, but Damascus and Cairo are the real jewels of our kingdom. Without them we are reduced to nothing. They are the cities which will enable us to drive out the Franj.

“For almost ninety years, the Franj have been prowling on our lands like wild beasts. Few, if any, now remember a time when they were not here. When they first arrived we were unprepared. We panicked. We betrayed each other for gain. Later we made alliances with the Franj against our own brethren. Sultan Zengi and the great Sultan Nur al-Din understood that the only way to drive out the Franj was to unite ourselves. As is known this unity does not come without the sacrifice of much blood.

“Look at the situation today. The Franj still occupy many towns near the sea as well as al-Kuds. I want to divide our armies into three carefully organised, well-knit instruments under the command of myself and my two brave nephews. I will concentrate on taking either Aleppo or Mosul, though preferably both. That will make us the mightiest power in these our lands. At the same time I want you, Taki al-Din, to strike at the heart of the Franj in Palestine. Let them think that this is part of a big push to take al-Kuds, their beloved Kingdom of Jerusalem. Inflict defeats, but do not delay too long in one place. Strike fear in their hearts. I want them fully preoccupied so that they have no time to even think of helping our enemies in Aleppo and Mosul.

“Farrukh Shah, you will stay here and guard this city and its borders with your life. I have received reports of your extravagant style and your propensity to leave the treasury depleted. I never wish to hear any such complaint again. Your father and grandfather were men of simple tastes. I have learnt that to win the respect of the people and, in particular, our soldiers, one must learn to eat and dress like them. We are the lawgivers, Farrukh Shah. We must observe each law and set an example. I hope I have made myself clear. Never forget that even though we rule, we are still seen as outsiders. It is only now that the Arabs are beginning to accept me as their Sultan. The future of our family depends on how you behave and how you rule. Never forget that a man is what he does.

“If you hear that the Franj are sending exploratory expeditions to test our defences, go out and crush them. We will talk again tomorrow, but make preparations for our departure within a week.

“Our destination must be kept a secret. I do not wish you to even tell your wives where we are headed. If people ask, reply: ‘The Sultan is still making up his mind.’ If, in my absence, which I hope will be brief, Damascus is seriously threatened, inform me without delay. We must never lose this city. Go now and rest. I wish to speak with Ibn Yakub on my own.”

The nephews, chastened by the Sultan’s words, bent and kissed their uncle in turn on both cheeks. He rose to his feet and hugged them both. They shook hands with me and departed.

“I wanted you to come with me, Ibn Yakub, but I am worried by Shadhi’s health. He has always accompanied me on my campaigns, but, as you can see, he is getting older and frailer by the day. Any day now Allah could summon him to heaven. He is my only link with the older generation. All the others have gone. He is, after all, as you know, my grandfather’s son. I have such happy memories of him. He was a great influence on my youth and I have always relied on him a great deal. Allah has blessed me with good and strong advisers, men like al-Fadil and Imad al-Din. No Sultan could ask for more, but even they find it difficult sometimes to resist some of my more irrational decisions.

“Shadhi alone never fears to speak the truth and call me an obstinate ass and talk me out of some foolish notion that had entered my head. Shadhi is not a scholar, but he has a strong instinct for what is right or wrong in the field of politics and of war.

“There are times in our lives, Ibn Yakub, when we are unhappy in love or sad because a dear friend has been killed in a battle or we have lost our favourite steed. At times like this, when we feel we are on the edge of an abyss, harebrained advisers and sycophants can unwittingly push us over the edge. Men like Shadhi never permit that to happen. These are men of great integrity and our world, alas, has too few like them. Shadhi has saved me from myself on more than one occasion. That is why he has meant more to me than even my parents.

“You’re surprised to hear me speak like this, and you’re wondering why I do so, since Shadhi is still with us and recovering from the journey and might outlive us all. I used to think like you, but something very deep inside me is warning me that I will be far away when Shadhi dies. The thought upsets me greatly, Ibn Yakub. I know how much he respects and likes you and for that reason I am not taking you with me. It will make my decision not to take him much easier for him to bear if you are with him. Do you understand?”

I nodded.

“I want him to rest. I have directed Amjad, the eunuch who earlier brought you my message, to make sure that Shadhi never wants for anything while I am away. Amjad answers to me and nobody else.

“Shadhi and Farrukh Shah are not close. Why? Because Shadhi’s tongue is no respecter of persons who, in his opinion, are not behaving as he thinks they ought to, and in the past he has subjected Farrukh Shah, who is not a bad person, to a very severe lashing with his tongue. It was in the presence of other emirs, and his pride suffered a blow. Farrukh complained bitterly to me, but what could I do? Can you imagine me reprimanding Shadhi? The problem is that Farrukh has still not forgotten the insult. I’m sure he will do nothing to hurt Shadhi, but that is besides the point. What the old man needs at this time is friends and a great deal of attention.

“I hope my fears are misplaced. I pray that when Allah brings me back to Damascus, Shadhi will still be here with detailed information on the mistakes I made during the campaign, which Imad al-Din will have reported to both him and you.

“Perhaps what is also worrying me is not just Shadhi’s death, but my own. Till now Allah has been kind to me. I have escaped death on several occasions, but if you lead an army into war as frequently as I do, and my person is the main target of the enemy, then it is only a matter of time before an arrow pierces my heart or a sword cracks my skull. I am feeling a little bit fragile, Ibn Yakub. I want you to know that your family is well looked after in Cairo, and I have left instructions for you to be paid regularly while you are here. After we achieve our objective, and Allah has spared me, I will present you with a tiny fief outside your beloved Jerusalem. If I fall, I have left instructions with al-Fadil and Imad al-Din that you are to be given a village wherever you desire.”

To my surprise I felt tears roll down my cheeks. The Sultan’s generosity was no secret, but I was simply a lowly scribe. I was overwhelmed by his giving thought to my future as well. When I rose to take my leave of him, he rose too and embraced me, whispering in my ear a last command.

“Keep the old man alive.”

Nineteen

Shadhi presides over the circumcision ceremony of Halima’s son; the death of Farrukh Shah

THE SULTAN HAD BEEN gone just over three weeks. It was the height of summer. Damascus had become unbearably hot. Every creature, human or animal, was constantly in search of shade and water. It was on one such day that Amjad the eunuch came rushing to my quarters in the early afternoon and disturbed my sleep. He was smiling as he woke me up to announce that the Sultana Jamila had summoned me. I had not seen either her or Halima since our arrival. I thought of them often, but felt that perhaps the reason for this was the stricter social rules that operated in Damascus, which was less open than Cairo.

Still feeling drowsy, I followed Amjad blindly to the harem. Halima had given birth to Salah al-Din’s son. Naturally I did not see her, but was led to an antechamber where Shadhi, watched by Jamila, was reciting the qalima in the ear of the newborn babe. The infant was carried by a wet-nurse, a slave girl of incredible beauty, who I had not seen before. The child was named Asad al-Din ibn Yusuf. This was the Sultan’s tenth son, and Shadhi’s instinctive ribaldry led him to offer a prayer to Allah to control the Sultan’s seed, lest the weeds outnumber the flowers. Jamila laughed loudly, and whispered her agreement to the old man.

Shadhi was still in excellent spirits three days later, after the circumcision ceremony. He appeared to have recovered completely from his recent fatigue. The local emirs and Farrukh Shah were the new targets of his lacerating wit. It was difficult not to laugh out loud and draw attention. Shadhi’s hatreds were always pure and usually justified, but there were times when I did worry that there were many tale-carriers in the citadel who would like nothing better than to please a master by informing on Shadhi. When I shared my apprehensions with him he chuckled, and refused to take me seriously.

One reason for his anger was the fact that, like me, he was excluded from the innermost councils of the court. This was hard for him to tolerate, given his closeness to his nephew. Both of us felt the absence of the Sultan. It was strange being without him. I was surprised at the intensity of my own feelings. I had been in his service for only five years. How much more aggrieved must Shadhi have felt at being deprived of his traditional place, close to the Sultan in war and in peace. Habits and routines are hard to dislodge from one’s system. Sometimes I found myself wandering thoughtlessly and in a semi-daze to the Sultan’s chamber and then making my way slowly back to my own, almost as if I were a loyal dog left behind by an uncaring master.

In recent years, in very different ways, our lives had revolved so completely around the person of Salah al-Din that it was difficult to accept that he was not present here in the citadel, and that we were not by his side wherever he happened to be.

“It is that peacock on heat, Imad al-Din, who must be writing all the Sultan’s dispatches,” Shadhi muttered one day. “Why don’t you ride out and join Salah al-Din? You can tell him I forced you to leave Damascus. You can also tell him that Allah has restored my health, and I don’t need you by my side waiting for death to strike.”

This was a difficult order. Salah al-Din’s movements were still unclear. Even if one knew where he was, it was perfectly possibly that he would be somewhere completely different by the time one reached him. We had not received news for some weeks. Neither pigeon nor courier had arrived, and Farrukh Shah was slightly concerned. Other reports of Franj activity, not far from Damascus, had been received two days ago. Even as Shadhi and I were talking, an attendant summoned us to Farrukh Shah’s presence. He had returned earlier that day from a skirmish with a small group of Franj knights about half an hour away from Damascus.

Farrukh Shah was not the most intelligent of rulers, but his generosity and courage were well known. Imad al-Din’s complaints regarding his extravagance were not exaggerated, but they underplayed the fact that little of the money was spent on himself. He rewarded loyalty, and in this he was not unlike his uncle, except that Salah al-Din’s austere tastes and habits were so well known that even the poorest of the poor never believed that he spent much on himself. Some rulers are motivated by artistic pursuits, others are addicted to hedonism, others still to the pursuit of riches as an end in themselves. The Sultan was only concerned with the well-being of others.

It was a moonlit sky as we crossed the ramparts to the audience chamber. We had been excluded from it ever since the departure of Salah al-Din. The emirs were already gathered as we entered. I bowed to Farrukh Shah, who looked exhausted, as if he hadn’t slept for many days. Shadhi glared at the Sultan’s nephew, who ignored the old man completely, but he came and welcomed me with a display of real warmth.

“I’m glad you could come, Ibn Yakub. A letter has just arrived from my uncle, and we are instructed that you and old man Shadhi are to be invited when it is read to the council.”

I bowed again to thank him. Shadhi sniffed loudly and swallowed his phlegm. One of the younger court scribes, a pretty, fair-skinned boy with golden hair and curled eyelashes, probably no more than eighteen years of age, had been selected to read the letter.

“Look at this shameless hussy,” whispered Shadhi, looking at the scribe. “He’s probably just walked here from Farrukh Shah’s bed, and he’s still busy making eyes at him.”

I frowned at my old friend, hoping to control his bitterness, but he grinned at me defiantly.

The boy spoke in a cracked voice.

“Castrated,” muttered Shadhi.

“Silence!” shouted Farrukh Shah. “Silence when a letter from our Sultan Salah al-Din ibn Ayyub is being read to the court.”

The scribe began to speak, at first with a certain nervousness, but then, as Imad al-Din’s prose gathered its own momentum, with much greater confidence.

“This letter is addressed to my dear nephew Farrukh Shah and all our loyal emirs of Damascus. We are outside Aleppo and desirous, as ever, of avoiding the unpleasant sight of Believer killing Believer, I have offered the emirs an honourable truce, provided we occupy the citadel. I am not sure that they possess the intelligence to appreciate our generosity.

“One of them rode out to meet us yesterday. He was full of flowery words and grand flourishes, hoping to flatter me into withdrawal, offering me untold treasures and swearing eternal loyalty to us on the Koran. ‘We are your friends, O great Sultan, and we will be at your side on that day which is about to come, the day when you take al-Kuds and drive the Franj out of our lands.’

“These fine words made no impact on me, since only three days previously our spies had reported that the nobles of Aleppo had sent urgent messages to the Franj and the hashishin in the mountains, offering them money if they could keep me out of the city.

“I replied to him as follows: ‘You claim to be my friend. For me friendship is a sacred trust, Acred, but tell me something: who are your enemies? Name your real enemies and I will name your friends. For me friendship means, above all, common animosities. Do you agree?’

“The fool nodded. At this point I showed him a copy of the letter his master had sent to the Franj. He began to sweat and tremble, but I contained my anger. Shadhi, bless his heart, would have advised sending this rogue’s severed head back to Aleppo, and I was greatly tempted, but I rose above my anger. Anger is never a good emotion when one is determining a higher strategy. We sent the Emir back to Aleppo with a severe warning that, if they persisted in their defiance, then I would have no alternative but to take their city by storm. I warned them not to imagine that, in these circumstances, all their citizens would rush to defend them.

“We wanted to send you a dispatch after the armies of Mosul, backed by their allies, decided to meet us on the plain of Harzim, just below Mardin, but we waited for them in vain. They may have advanced like men, but they vanished like women. We were tempted to chase them, but instead I decided to isolate them completely from the neighbouring towns.

“Two days ago we took the city of al-Amadiyah, without too much resistance, though too much time was taken by our soldiers in piercing the massive black basalt walls. This was a pleasurable victory because of the surprising treasures contained in the city. We have, as a result of this victory, succeeded in capturing many weapons, enough to create two new armies. Both al-Fadil, who was here for the siege, and Imad al-Din, were interested only in the library, which contained a million volumes. These were loaded on seventy camels and are, even as I write, making their way to Damascus. Ibn Yakub should be placed in charge of ensuring that they are placed safely in our library till Imad al-Din returns. They include three copies of the Koran which date to the time of the Caliph Omar.

“The Franj will not be able to resist their offer, and that is the main reason for this letter. The aim of the Franj will be to prevent me from assembling a large army. I think they will attempt a diversion in both Damascus and Cairo. If my instincts are justified then you need to forestall such a move by taking the offensive.

“You have done well, Farrukh Shah. I have detailed reports of your recent victories, but we need Aleppo and Mosul under our control if the Franj are to be dislodged from our world and returned over the sea to their own.

“Tomorrow we march back to Aleppo. The mountain air has done us all much good and has dispelled our tiredness. The soldiers know that the sun in the plains will be like the fires of Hell, but our Heaven will be Aleppo. It will take us fifteen days to reach it and, Allah willing, we shall take the city this time. Only then will I return to Dimask to make our final preparations for the jihad. Be on your guard against surprise attacks by the Franj.”

The chamberlain indicated that the meeting was over, and as Shadhi and I rose to leave the chamber, we bowed in the direction of Farrukh Shah. But there was something wrong, and suddenly his attendants, too, realised that he had fainted. The room was cleared, and the physicians summoned. It is to the credit of all the emirs present that there was no sense of fear or panic, of the kind which usually accompanies the illness of a ruler. Perhaps this was due to the fact that Farrukh Shah was not a Sultan, but acting on his behalf.

Shadhi was dismissive, refusing to take the illness seriously.

“He probably had too much to drink or extended himself too far when fondling that foolish boy who read Salah al-Din’s letter. Go to bed, Ibn Yakub.”

I did go to bed, but I was too worried to sleep, so I got up again, put on my robe and walked outside. The moon had set and the stars had changed places. I walked slowly in the direction of Farrukh Shah’s bedchamber, only to be greeted by his favourite attendant who was weeping like a child, loudly and uncontrollably. I feared the worst, but he was still alive, though still in a swoon.

The next morning, Farrukh Shah’s condition weakened. He never recovered. Even as the Sultan was marching towards Aleppo, loud screams and wailing rent the citadel in Damascus, announcing to all of us that his nephew had breathed his last.

We buried him the next day, with all the honours due to his person. It was not just a gathering of nobles. Thousands of ordinary people, including several hundred vagrants, came to offer prayers at the side of his grave. This was the clearest indication to me that perhaps Shadhi’s hostility to the dead man had been misplaced.

Twenty

Halima abandons Jamila and the latter is heartbroken

IN THE ABSENCE OF the Sultan my daily routine had been transformed. I would spend most of the morning in the library, studying any manuscript I could find which related to my own work. Here in Damascus there was a private collection in the possession of a great scholar, Ibrahim ibn Suleiman, now nearly ninety years of age. I had first heard of him and his library from someone whose memory even now brings me pain. My only image of him is that of an animal satisfying his lust on my wife’s body. I shall not dwell on him again, or so I have hoped.

Ibrahim was the oldest Rabbi in the city. I used to see him nearly every day as I made my way to the synagogue, behind which his library was situated. On most days he could be found there. Old age had not yet affected his mental faculties. On the few occasions when I needed to ask him for some advice, he revealed the splendours of his mind, making me feel somewhat sad and inadequate. He had heard a great deal of the intellectual prowess of the man I have no desire to mention again, and one day he sat me down and wanted to know everything I could tell him about Ibn Maymun.

The spell is broken. The accursed name has again darkened these pages. And yet…And yet, I could not deny Ibrahim ibn Suleiman the information for which he yearned with all the eagerness of an eighteen-year-old scholar.

So, against my will, and to please this great and generous old man, I talked of Ibn Maymun and of the work on which he was engaged. I mentioned why he was writing The Guide to the Perplexed, and, as I spoke, the wrinkled map that was Ibrahim’s face was suddenly wreathed in a smile so pure that I was shaken by the change. This was the face of true wisdom.

“I will the happy now, Ibn Yakub. Another has done what I wanted to, but could never achieve. I will write to Ibn Maymun, and give you the letter. You can use your position as the Sultan’s favoured scribe to have it sent to Cairo immediately. I will also enclose with the letter some of my own work on the subject which he might find of some use. How well do you know him?”

How well did I know him? The question echoed and re-echoed in my mind. A deep pain, which I thought I had transcended, gripped my insides once again, as the memory of that awful night burst like a thunderstorm that drowned me in the moment. I did not realise that tears were pouring down my face. Ibrahim wiped them with his hands and hugged me.

“He brought you grief?”

I nodded.

“You may tell me if you wish, even though I may not be able to help.”

And so my heart poured out its long-repressed agony to this patriarch in his robes. He sat listening, as Musa must once have listened to the troubles of his children. When I had finished, I realised that the pain had disappeared. This time I felt it had gone forever. It would never return.

The comfort Ibrahim offered was written on his face. His alert, intelligent eyes did not flicker. He understood. He did not need to say anything. I understood. In the scale of suffering that our people had undergone, my personal experience was a grain of sand. Nothing less. Nothing more. All this had been suggested by his presence alone. As if through a miracle my head had suddenly cleared. The residual pain had disappeared. My inner balance was restored. Everything could be seen through a different, centuries-old perspective. I wanted to laugh out loud, but restrained myself. He noted the change.

“Your face has cleared, Ibn Yakub. The lines on your forehead have evaporated. I hope the dark clouds inside your head have once again given way to the sun.

I nodded my head. He smiled.

As I made my way back to the citadel, the sun was at its zenith, piercing the black muslin robe that I wore. I was beginning to sweat and feel uncomfortable. The minute I had reached my destination, I headed straight for the baths. I lay in the cold water for a long time. Slowly the heat and discomfort in my body gave way to a cool calm. I dried myself and returned to my chamber fully restored. I drank some water and lay down to rest. My dreams were very clear, as they usually are during the afternoon sleep. Because one is sleeping lightly, the memory is clearer. I was dreaming of the domed room in Cairo, and I saw my wife and daughter sitting in front of a vessel containing water, which they were pouring over each other. How the dream would have developed, I do not know. I felt myself being shaken out of my slumber, and raised my eyelids to see the grinning face of Amjad the eunuch.

“The Sultana wishes to see you now, Ibn Yakub.”

I sat up in bed and glared angrily at him, but he remained unaffected.

“Which Sultana?” I asked.

He refused to reply, as was often his wont, merely indicating with an arrogant gesture that I should follow him. In some ways he reminded me of the eunuch Ilmas in Cairo, who had come to a bad end.

It was Jamila who awaited me in the antechamber which led to the harem. She dismissed Amjad with a flicker of an eye. She was not her usual ebullient self; her languid eyes were unhappy. She had been crying, and had clearly not slept well for many a night. What could have upset this woman whose piercing intelligence and strength of character had dazzled the Sultan himself? She stared at me for a long time without speaking.

“The Sultana appears distracted. Can a humble scribe help in any way?”

“Your old friend Halima has betrayed my trust, Ibn Yakub. In her I thought I had found a worthy friend. She shared my criticisms of the way we lived. For many months, as you know, we were inseparable. We lost count of the days we spent together. She learnt to appreciate Andalusian philosophy and the satirical poetry of our wits in Cairo and Damascus. We used to laugh at the same things. Even our animosities were matched. For fear of offending your delicate sensitivities, I will not describe our nights together, but believe me, Ibn Yakub, when I say that they move me still. We played together like the flute and the lyre. Need I say more? When, looking at me, she used to smile, her face flowed like a freshwater spring, radiating goodness and tempting one to bend down and drink its refreshing waters. When she smiled it was as though the world smiled with her.

“Since the birth of her son, something has transformed her completely. She behaves in a strange fashion. She shuns my company. She listens to the ravings of superstitious old witches whose only task is to frighten us into submission. Amjad tells me that some of the old maids in the harem have filled her head with nonsense of every sort. He says that they told her that the Sultan favoured her son over my boys; that her son could become Sultan one day, but only if she broke away from me. They told her that I was a malign influence, that I had led her astray, away from the true path decreed by Allah and his Prophet. They filled her ears with falsehoods about my past. All this Amjad told me, and his sources are always accurate.

“Halima has begun to believe that the world is full of demons. The other day I heard her anxiously asking a maid whether the udar ever attacked children. Do you know what the udar is supposed to be, Ibn Yakub? It is a creature the Bedouin invented centuries ago to frighten away their rivals in the desert.

“The udar is supposedly a monster who rapes men and leaves them to roast in the desert, but only after he has made sure that worms have built nests in their anuses! If an uneducated person believed in all this rubbish I would simply laugh, but I have spent months teaching the finer points of philosophy to Halima. I thought she understood. Instead she now thinks that the udar is real and Ibn Rushd and Ibn Sina are false. It is as if her brain has been eclipsed by a dark cloud, which refuses to be blown away.

“When I try and speak with her she looks at me with fear-filled eyes, as if I was a demon or a witch. She refuses to let me pick up her child. She will not let me touch her. Three nights ago she told me that everything we had done together was evil, sinful and repulsive. She said that Allah would punish us by throwing us to the mercy of djinns and other demons. I wanted to scream at her, to pull her hair, to shake her roughly till she saw sense again, but I contained myself, trying instead to understand what had happened to her.

“Only once, when I surprised her alone in the bath, did she seem like her old self. She was on her own and I, too, slipped off my clothes and entered the bath beside her. Neither of us said a word. I took a piece of cloth and began to gently massage her tender, slender shoulders. It must have stirred some memories.

“For the first time in months, she turned round to look at me. Then she smiled. Her teeth were gleaming like polished ivory and her face lit up again. It was the old Halima. My heart melted away and I stroked her head, before lowering my arms and rubbing her breasts.

“Then it was as if she had been struck by a thunderbolt. Her entire demeanour changed. Her face grew stern. She glared at me with anger, removed herself from the bath and fled. She screamed for her attendants, who rushed to her side with towels. I sat in the bath, Ibn Yakub, and watched silently as my tears increased the volume of the water.

“Now I am broken-hearted and distressed beyond reason. Yes, beyond reason, and that hurts me for I feel that I, too, am being dragged away from calm, rational, elevated thoughts, and from a love whose purity is deep.

“She was my closest friend. We talked about everything, including Salah al-Din’s weaknesses in the bedchamber. Now that I am estranged from Halima there is nobody with whom I can discuss matters that are close to my heart. I thought of you, because you were once her friend. She spoke well of you and told me that you were a good listener. To find an intelligent listener these days is not easy, especially if you happen to be married to the Sultan.

“How do you explain Halima’s evolution? Surely, Ibn Yakub, it could not simply be the outcome of childbirth. I have provided Salah al-Din with two sturdy boys, with no such effects. How is it that she can live in a world totally composed of fantasy?”

I was shaken by Jamila’s story. It was difficult to believe that Halima, a free spirit if ever there was one, a woman who the Sultan once described to me as being strong-willed as a pedigree horse, could be the frightened, pathetic creature of Jamila’s description. A thought flashed through my head. Perhaps Halima had decided to end her unnatural relationship with the older woman, and the only way she could do so was by rejecting not just Jamila, but everything associated with her, everything she had taught and everything she stood for in this world. If that were the case, however, surely Halima would not need to descend so low as to believe in monsters and evil spirits. Or again, was she putting on an act to convince Jamila that everything was over, and that she Halima had changed for ever? Aloud I said:

“I was deep in thought, Sultana, trying to fathom the mysteries of the change you have described. To me it appears unreal, as if Halima were in a trance. I do not think it has much to do with child-bearing, but it could be that meddlesome women, jealous of her friendship with you, have sought to poison her ears.”

“That was tried in Cairo as well, Ibn Yakub, but she scattered the troublemakers with words so rude that they must have scorched their ears. So why should she be more vulnerable in Damascus? I wrote a great deal for her. Stories, poems, letters to express my passion. In return I received but one little piece of paper a few weeks ago. It contained these words: ‘I am what I am. I wish you another, who is better than me. I no longer deal in happiness like a trader in a caravan. I love only Allah and I follow the way of his Prophet.’

“Does this make any sense to you at all, Ibn Yakub? Nor to me. It is like being stabbed in the heart and hearing her voice say ‘Die!’

“I have a request to make of you. Will you please speak to Halima, and see for yourself whether or not I am mistaken? Perhaps where I have failed, you might succeed. The Sultan does not object to either Halima or myself meeting with you as often as we like. This is a well-known fact, there would be nothing secretive about such a meeting. If you have no objections, I will arrange it. Amjad will fetch you at the agreed time.”

Before I could agree to her proposal, she swept out of the chamber. It was not a request, but an instruction.

For a week or more I walked about in a daze. It was almost as if I had been infected by Jamila’s sadness. Her words had left a deep mark on me, yet I could not believe that Halima’s transformation could have been as profound as she had suggested.

I waited impatiently for Amjad the eunuch, and one morning he came to fetch me. His smile always irritated me, but I noticed that he could not help himself. It was a sign of nervousness on his part. I followed him eagerly through a long corridor to the same antechamber where I had met Jamila several days ago.

Halima was already seated on a large cushion draped with brocades. She saw me and managed a weak smile. I was stunned by her appearance. Her face was pale and the life seemed to have gone out of her eyes, which appeared hollow. Her voice was subdued.

“You wished to see me, Ibn Yakub.”

I nodded in silence.

“Why?”

“I wanted to congratulate you on the birth of your son and to inquire as to your own thoughts and preoccupations. If I may be so bold, can I ask why you appear so changed? Was the birth difficult?”

“Yes,” she replied in a voice so soft that I had to strain to hear her words. “It was very difficult. They put a special stone in my hand to ease the pain, and wound a snake-skin round my hips to speed up the birth. You ask whether I have changed, Ibn Yakub. I have. My son was born healthy only because of three spells that were written by a man of medicine. These involved a renunciation of my entire past and especially my relations with Jamila. The birth changed me completely. Even if the spells had not been cast, I would have wanted to thank Allah for giving me a son by not deviating from the path he has determined for us through our Prophet, may he rest in peace.

“It was not easy for me. As you know, Jamila and I used to spend all our time together. We used to joke, laugh and blaspheme in the same breath. If I were to tell the Kadi some of the things she used to say about our Prophet, peace be upon him, the Sultan himself would not be able to save her neck.

“Everything she taught me was false. She wanted me to doubt the word of Allah. She said that the wisdom contained in the writings of al-Maari, Ibn Rushd and Ibn Sina far exceeded that contained in our Holy Book. Allah forgive me for listening to such dangerous rubbish. I have repented, Ibn Yakub. I am no longer a sinner. I pray five times a day, and Allah will forgive me and protect my son. As for Jamila, I wish we did not have to stay in the same quarters. Her presence is a constant reminder of my sinful past. I know this will shock you, but I wish she were dead.”

All this had been uttered in a listless voice devoid of passion. Even her last sentence was spoken in a melancholy whisper. The change in Halima went very deep. I could see that now, and it upset me greatly. I had been wrong to doubt Jamila. This was not just a case of Halima deciding to break her friendship. She had turned her entire life upside-down. I made one last attempt.

“Lady Halima, if someone else had told me that you had undergone such a complete change I would have laughed in their face. Surely you must accept that not everything the Sultana Jamila taught you was evil. Did she not teach you to appreciate poetry? Are the songs that I heard you sing in Cairo defiled because she taught them?”

For a moment her face softened and I caught a brief glimpse of the Halima I had once known. But her features quickly hardened again.

“Her influence on me was evil. I thought she loved me, but all she wanted was possession. She wanted me to belong to her and to nobody else. I must belong to myself, Ibn Yakub. Surely you can understand my desire to become myself again.”

“You forget that I knew you before you met Jamila. Have you forgotten Messud? Can you not remember the way you spoke to the Sultan when the Kadi brought you to the palace in Cairo? It is true that you had not then been subjected to Andalusian philosophy, or to the erotic poetry of Wallada, but your mind was ready for a leap. Jamila, too, noticed that and helped to show you a new world.”

“Jamila played on me as if I were a lute.”

This was a travesty of the truth, and I felt constrained to defend the motives of the Sultana.

“Even though I resented her power over you, she played well. The music that the two of you made together was the envy of the palace. The eunuchs talked about you all over the city. They talked of two queens who cared for nothing but the truth. They described how your eyes were like a furnace when you denounced those unfortunates who believed in djinns and other imaginary creatures. Your fame spread everywhere. That was a kind of freedom, Halima. I say that to you as a friend.”

“You talk like a fool, scribe. True freedom lies in the commands of Allah and his Prophet alone. Why should we be so arrogant and assume that we alone, a tiny minority, speak the truth, while a majority of Believers who refuse to doubt are, by virtue of this refusal, prisoners of prejudice? Let me tell you something. I now know that Jamila’s blasphemies were like a breeze from Hell. You look shocked, Ibn Yakub. I should not be so surprised. How could a Jew ever understand the ways of our Prophet?”

I looked at her face. She averted her gaze. Everything between her and me ended at the moment. She had fallen for the honeyed words of false prophets and the bitterness of those who make a living by casting spells.

I rose, gave her an exaggerated bow and left the chamber. I was angry. Halima was a lost soul. Now I understood Jamila’s despair. It was not simply the sorrow of a forsaken and rejected lover. Jamila was sad not just because of the gulf that had now opened up between them, but because, together with their entire relationship, the knowledge and understanding of the world that she had so patiently imparted to her friend had also been rejected. Something terrible had happened. Both Jamila and myself had recognised the change. Halima’s thirst for understanding had disappeared. Birds were no longer singing. Flowers died.

I reflected on that conversation for several days. Her words swirled through my mind continuously and, in my head, I argued with her over and over again, to no avail. Halima was a ship that had sunk to the bottom. I reported my distress to Jamila, and a bond that had been lacking in the past grew between us, a closeness brought about by a common sense of loss, a bereavement for a friend in whom wisdom had petrified. She was surprisingly philosophical.

“I have been thinking a great deal on this matter, Ibn Yakub. I have come to the conclusion that the loss of a close friend, with whom one shared everything and in whom one had complete trust, is a far greater blow than being deprived of physical contact. Even as I say this to you, I ask myself whether I really believe this or whether by telling you I am trying to convince myself that the love between friends is of greater value than erotic love. There are times, increasingly few, when I believe the exact opposite. Times when it seems that my mind is on fire, and the flames must spread to my body. Times when I would sacrifice friendship for just one last passionate embrace.

“You see, Ibn Yakub, how even someone like me, strong and sure of myself, can be afflicted by love. It is a terrible disease which, as our poets never cease to tell us, can drive us insane. I know that you, too, were once in love with her. Is that why a veil of sadness covers your face as well?”

It was not the memory of Halima, who I pictured at her strongest, defiant in her love for Messud, her eyes blazing with passion, as she confessed her adultery to the Sultan in the presence of the Kadi, that had come over me. I felt troubled by the sight of Jamila, who was anxiously awaiting my reply to her question.

“It is seeing you in such a dejected state that makes me unhappy, O Sultana. My own passion for Halima did not last long. It was a childish desire for something unattainable, not uncommon in men of my age. It faded many months ago. What I do ask myself is why you remain unhappy. Anger, bitterness, desire for a cruel revenge, all this I could understand, even though it would be unworthy of you. But it does not behove a woman of your intellect to mourn for someone whose transformation is so complete that it makes one question one’s earlier judgements and ask whether this was always the real Halima. Was what you and I once saw simply a mask, designed above all to please you, not unlike those deployed by the shadow-puppeteers in Cairo?

“I also wonder whether what you really miss is the love and friendship, or something else. Perhaps what truly upsets you is that you have lost something that you regarded as a possession. Halima was always precious, but she had rough edges. In smoothing those down, and giving her a vision of a world much larger than the palace or even the city, an exciting world of ideas where nothing was forbidden, you brought out the best in her. All those who saw you together, including the Sultan, marvelled at the close affinity that marked your friendship. In other words she became your proudest possession, and possessions are not permitted to run away. Could it be this that has really upset you?”

Her eyes flashed fire, transcending the misery, and I saw the old Jamila once again.

“Listen to me scribe. Neither you nor that toothless old dog, Shadhi, nor those wretched eunuchs who report to him, have any idea of what it was like between Halima and me. It was not a one-sided friendship. I learnt a great deal from her, about other worlds and about the way people less privileged than me lived, but even that is unimportant.

“You and your beloved Sultan live in a male world. You simply cannot understand our world. The harem is like a desert. Nothing much can take root here. Women compete with each other for a night with the Sultan. Sometimes they ease the pain of their frustrations by finding eunuchs who will crawl into their rooms at night and fondle them. The lack of a penis does not always impair the capacity of the eunuch to provide pleasure.

“In these conditions it is impossible for any woman to have a serious friendship with a man. My father was very exceptional in this regard. After my mother’s death he became a true friend with whom I could discuss a great deal. As you know full well, I’m fond of Salah al-Din. I know that he takes me seriously. I’m not simply a mound of flesh on which he occasionally fornicates. He recognises the existence of my mind. Despite this, I could not in honesty pretend that ours is a profound relationship. How could it be in these times and in these conditions? With Halima I enjoyed something that was complete on every level. It has nothing to do with possession. After all, we are all possessions of the Sultan.

“You see, Ibn Yakub, I still think that she will return one day. Not to me, but to her senses. That will be sufficient. My hope is that one day she will teach other women what I have taught her, so that our time together will not have been wasted. Now I want nothing more from her. Nothing more! Her heart no longer responds to my voice. Everything is over. She is dead to me and for me. I will grieve alone. Sooner or later, solitude brings its own calming wisdom. My serenity will return and I will be happy again. Do you understand?”

I nodded, and a small, sad smile appeared on her face as she left the chamber slowly, with measured steps, almost as if she did not wish to return to the site of her pain.

I thought of Jamila a great deal after that meeting. If our world had been different, we could have become close friends, and it would have been me who benefited from the experience. She, more than any other woman I have met, exemplified Ibn Rushd’s complaint to the effect that the world of those who believed in Allah and his Prophet was disabled by the fact that half its people, namely the women, were excluded from functioning in the field of commerce or the affairs of state.

When one is cut off from what is happening in the world beyond the citadel, then events like the transformation of Halima acquire an importance that is undeserved. The minute the couriers, their clothes and faces coloured by a red dust, arrived with dispatches informing us that Aleppo had fallen without a battle, I recovered completely. Everything fell into place. The first courier who brought the good news was embraced by everyone. The fool who had resisted the Sultan had been forced by the populace to flee and return to Shinshar, the city of his birth.

Outside Aleppo, the soldiers who had guarded the city rode past the Sultan with their heads lowered in tribute. The people of Aleppo had loved Nur al-Din, and remained loyal to his successors, but they knew that in Salah al-Din they had found a conqueror who would both defend them and their city and also refuse to let anything stand in the way of the jihad.

The fall of Aleppo sent a wave of excitement through Damascus. There were celebrations on the streets. The taverns in all quarters of the city were packed with young men determined to drink their fill. It was as if our whole world had changed with the news. People felt this in their bones. Our Sultan was now the most powerful ruler in the land.

The next day my joy was circumscribed by the news that an inimitable voice had fallen silent. Ibrahim had died peacefully in his sleep. Our friendship was new, but I wept for him as one does for a father. Even the most hardened faces were wet the next day at his funeral. He had left me a small collection of books from his private library. They were accompanied by a note. I did not read it till later that evening in the privacy of my own chamber.

“The service of great kings may carry its own rewards, but the service of truth goes unrewarded and is, for that very reason, worth far more.”

Twenty-One

Jamila leaves Damascus and, hoping to regain her serenity, returns to her father’s palace; Salah al-Din falls ill and I hasten to his side

TWO DAYS LATER, AMJAD the eunuch brought me a letter from Jamila. He was neither grinning nor eager to offer information. He simply placed the letter in my hands and left the chamber.

I was startled by the beauty of her handwriting. I had never seen such exquisitely crafted letters except in the calligraphy of the great masters of the art. Whoever had taught her to write like this must have been a master or the descendant of one. As I write these lines I have the letter in front of me. Even as I transcribe her words I can once again hear her clear voice the way I heard it that day when Halima first introduced me to her. Her voice echoes in my ears, and her strong features appear in my mind’s eye.

Good friend, Ibn Yakub,

This is to let you know that I am leaving Damascus for a few months, perhaps longer. I am returning for a while to my father, who is now nearly eighty years of age and has not been well for some time. I wish to see him before he dies, and the Sultan, bless his heart, has never placed any impediments against my desire to travel.

Once many years ago I spent some time in Baghdad. That was a visit to improve my mind. I went to listen to the teachings of a great philosopher and poet. It was he who taught me the importance of reason. I can still see him stroking his white beard as he made me learn the following exchange between our Prophet and Mu’adh ibn-Jabal, the Kadi of al-Yaman.

Prophet: How wilt thou decide when a question arises?

Mu’adh: According to the Book of Allah.

Prophet: And if thou findest naught therein?

Mu’adh: According to the sunnah of the messenger of Allah.

Prophet: And if thou findest naught therein?

Mu’adh: Then shall I apply my own reasoning.

When I returned, I reminded Salah al-Din of this and he began to use it a great deal, especially when he was dealing with the theologians of the Fatimid Caliphs in Cairo. I felt then that I had achieved something, and that journey always stayed with me.

Now I leave in order to restore my state of mind. I have suffered a terrible blow, and I am convinced that in Dhamar I will not be troubled by the memories of Cairo and Damascus.

I want to smell once again the fragrance of the blossoms in the unique garden created by my grandfather, surrounded by the most beautiful wall that I have ever seen, a wall out of which grow the most lovely plants and flowers. I always used to think that heaven would be like our garden. Here I used to spend many hours in the silence among the trees, watching the birds coming down from the wall to drink water from a stream that had been contrived to create the impression that it was natural.

It was here that dreams were formed. I used to sit there in the shade for hours and dream, wondering what the world must be like outside Dhamar. Merchants would talk of Baghdad and Cairo and Damascus, of Basra and Calicut, and the strange and wonderful things that happened in these cities, and I would rush to my father and insist that I be allowed to become a merchant when I grew up so that I could go as far as China.

When I was fourteen, I often rode with my father. Sometimes we would go and watch the sea. How calming it is to watch the gentle waves and admire the work of nature. My father, too, used to pull up his horse next to mine, leaving our retinue of attendants way behind. Most of them were frightened of the water, which they believed was inhabited by djinns in the shape of giant fish, who ate humans. I remember galloping in the sand and then riding my horse through the shallow water, which splashed me as well.

My father would look at the sea and say: “Here, everything will outlast us and those who come after us. This same breeze will be felt by people several hundred years from now and they will marvel at nature just as we do. This, my child, is the voice of eternity.”

I did not fully understand what he meant till much later. Then I realised how lucky I was to have a father not given to believing that the world would end before his children grew old. Many people genuinely believed that Allah would bring the world to an end, and that the angels would open their ledgers and read out an account of our lives. My father was very different.

I was sad to leave my home and my friends, but I had no choice in the matter. Nor did Salah al-Din. It was an alliance deemed necessary by his father and mine, and blessed by the great Sultan Nur al-Din, may he rest in peace. I liked Salah al-Din’s company, but I never enjoyed the pleasures of union. I bore him two sons and after that he never troubled me again. We became friends, and I discouraged him from spending the night with me. This is only my personal experience, and perhaps I would have reacted to any other man in the same way. Perhaps my body was never intended to be defiled by a man. Pure love and happiness I found only with Halima, but you know that old story well.

When Nur al-Din’s widow, Ismat, married Salah al-Din, she was for many months in a state of total disbelief. I think after the ascetic Nur al-Din, who probably mounted her out of duty, she found Salah al-Din as frisky as an untamed horse. I remember the day she told me that she had never realised that coupling could actually give her pleasure.

I say this so that you do not judge your Sultan’s performance in this field solely on the basis of my experience. That would be unfair to him. Ismat’s version is much more reliable, and borne out by the reports of many others in the harem. Halima, like me, was an exceptional case. For her the memory of Messud was so strong that she was quite open. She admitted to me that when the Sultan first took her she shut her eyes and imagined it was Messud, simply to ease the burden.

Perhaps I will not stay long in Dhamar. Perhaps it is futile to search for a lost past or imagine that one can cure the pain of the present by reliving one’s childhood and youth. There are aspects of life in Dhamar which displease me. The constant glorification of the old way of life of the desert tribes leaves me cold. The exaggerated stories of Bedouin triumphs against nature and their human enemies leave me completely unmoved. My father, too, never encouraged any of this. Yet it exists and the courtiers indulge themselves by writing bad poetry in praise of the unwearied pace of pure-bred camels, or a Bedouin encampment being surrounded by wolves and hyenas, or hunger and drought and the delights of camel milk.

If any of this goes on for too long, I will return soon to Damascus cured forever. But there are people I want to see. My mother’s sister who brought me up after my mother’s death and who became a close friend. She would confess all her worries and secrets. In return, I would tell her of my worries. She came once to visit me in Cairo, but I was so enamoured of Halima in those days that I had no time for my poor aunt. She went back unhappy, thinking, no doubt, that I had become arrogant and inconsiderate. Now I wish I had taken her into my confidence and explained the state of my mind at the time.

It is not good to be trapped by one’s emotions, Ibn Yakub. Do you not agree? And yet it is difficult to break free of them. From that point of view my return to Dhamar will be helpful, and I will return to Damascus restored and my old self again. Then we shall sit, you and I, and discuss philosophy and the history which we are living through every day. If Salah al-Din embarks on another adventure while I am away, tell him that Jamila insisted that he leave you behind. Peace be upon you.

I had barely had time to reflect on Jamila’s letter when Shadhi limped into the room. I hid the letter from him simply to avoid answering any lewd questions, but he cackled.

“Amjad the eunuch has already alerted me to the contents of her letter. It is not of great interest. So she’s going. Perhaps she has another woman in Dhamar. Salah al-Din will probably be relieved, since her harsh tongue always frightened him a little. I have displeased you?”

Before I could reply, the chamberlain who had crept in on us unnoticed spoke in his booming voice.

“I bring sad news, Ibn Yakub. I’ve come to tell you to pack your belongings and your pen and inks and writing books. The Sultan was on his way back, but was taken ill in a village two days’ distance from here. It is not good. He has summoned both of us. We leave in a few hours.”

Shadhi began to weep, insisting that he, too, would accompany us to the village where the Sultan lay ill, but he looked so frail that we had to refuse the request. I promised to keep him informed as I hurried away to pack my belongings. I had now become accustomed to riding a horse, but the thought did not give me great pleasure.

We rode out of Damascus in the hush of the twilight, when all was quiet save the noise of the cicadas. Our party consisted of twelve riders, eight of whom were soldiers sent for our protection. The other two, apart from the chamberlain and myself, were retainers who carried the food for our journey.

What worried me was the failure of the Sultan’s physicians to have him carried to Damascus, where he would be in greater comfort and other physicians could attend on him. The only possible reason for this was that he was too ill to be moved. I was also puzzled as to why he had sent for me, since Imad al-Din had been with him throughout this last campaign. If he wanted to dictate a testament, the great scholar would have been better qualified than me to take down his master’s last wishes.

It was late in the night when we stopped to make camp in a tiny oasis. I was too tired to eat or converse with the chamberlain, whose great loyalty to the Sultan was not matched by his intelligence. In fact it was painful listening to him, since his only interests were horses and brothels, neither of which held any attraction for me.

Earlier on the journey he had described a strange Damascene brothel, to the delight of the soldiers. Here, according to the chamberlain, prostitutes were tied with chains and whipped by their customers before being freed and inflicting the same pain on them. This alone provided immense gratification to all concerned. I looked at the chamberlain closely. His ugly smile confirmed the question forming in my mind. He had been there himself. I made a mental note to question Shadhi as to the suitability of the chamberlain on my return.

We woke early, well before sunrise, and resumed our journey. To my surprise we reached the village when the sun was at its zenith. I had assumed that we would be riding for at least another six hours, but two of the soldiers were from this village and had brought us here along a much shorter route.

Our arrival had been eagerly awaited, and we were taken immediately to a small house. Here the Sultan lay, covered in white muslin sheets, with two attendants keeping the flies away from his face. His eyes were shut, but I was startled at how thin his face had become. His voice was weak.

“I know what you’re thinking, Ibn Yakub, but the worst is over. Your journey was unnecessary. I am feeling much better again, and tomorrow I will ride back with you. Imad al-Din is in Aleppo and when I summoned you I thought I would not live long. I wanted to set out my exact plans for the jihad so that my successor could carry through what Allah in his infinite Mercy had decided was now beyond me. Fortunately the Almighty changed his mind and I am still alive. We buried four emirs in this village only a week ago. I think I have survived simply by dint of sucking the juice out of the lemons which hang from the tree outside. I cannot think of any other reason, for I was as ill as those who died. Do you think the lemon has curative qualities? My physician thinks I am cured because he bled me, but he bled the emirs who died. Write to Ibn Maymun and ask him for his opinion. And from now on I must always have lemons wherever I go.”

The Sultan smiled as he sat up in the bed. His eyes looked clear. He had survived. I had taken all this talk of lemon juice to be nothing more than delirium, brought about by the fever, but now I wondered whether it could all be true.

He wanted to know what was going on in Dimask and questioned me in great detail, appearing irritated when I could not answer all his questions. I tried to explain that in his absence I was not present at the meetings of the council, and therefore my knowledge was limited to what had been reported to me directly. This increased his annoyance, and he summoned the chamberlain to demand why, despite his express instructions to the contrary, I had been excluded from meetings where important decisions of state were taken.

The chamberlain had no excuse and bowed his head in a shamed silence. The boastful frequenter of special brothels had suddenly lost his tongue. The Sultan dismissed him with an angry gesture.

The next day, when the sun was beginning to set, we began our return journey to Damascus. The size of our party had increased a hundredfold. When we camped for the night, the Sultan sent for me and questioned me first about the state of Shadhi’s health. When I had reassured him that all he was now suffering from was the rigours of old age, he asked after Halima and Jamila. I was taken aback. Should I simply mutter a few half-truths about both of them being in good health, to face his wrath when he subsequently discovered my deception, or should I confess all that I knew?

Unfortunately, he was more alert than I had expected and noticed my slight hesitation. He spoke in a stern voice as his eyes, shining in the light of ten candles, fixed on mine.

“The truth, Ibn Yakub. The truth.”

I told him.

Twenty-Two

The Sultan declares his undying hatred for Reynald of Châtillon; the death of Shadhi

SALAH AL-DIN WAS NOT a vindictive or cruel man. He did not harbour grudges. He usually counselled against vengeance. I heard him say once that to act purely out of revenge was always dangerous, like drinking an elixir which becomes a habit. It was impolitic and did not differentiate Believers from the barbarians. He expressed these views often, though quietly, but when his commanders or emirs defied his advice and could not control their baser emotions, he never punished them. Instead he would sigh and shake his head in bewilderment, as if to indicate that the ultimate arbiter was not the Sultan, but Allah and his angels.

There was, however, even in Salah al-Din’s case, one remarkable exception. There was a Franj knight, by the name of Reynald of Châtillon, and the time has come to write of this abomination, for we are now not so far from the last battles of the Sultan against the Franj, and we will soon meet this wretch in person.

The Sultan’s hatred for Reynald was pure. It was unsullied by any feelings of forgiveness, generosity, kindness or even arrogance, which might have led to regarding this man as a worm beneath the contempt of Sultans. Reynald was a poisonous snake whose head must be crushed with a rock. I had myself heard Salah al-Din in open council swearing before Allah that, if the opportunity ever arose, he would decapitate Reynald with his own sword. Remarks of this sort always pleased his emirs, who felt much closer to their ruler when he expressed emotions akin to their own. The fact was that ever since the Franj had first arrived and stunned our world with their barbaric customs and habits, our side too had become infected, imbibing some of the worst of the traditional practices of the Franj.

It was the Franj who, over a hundred years ago, during a siege, had roasted their prisoners on an open fire and eaten them to assuage their hunger. The news had travelled to every city, and a sense of shock and shame had engulfed our world. This we had never known before. Yet only thirty years ago, the great Shirkuh had punished one of his emirs for permitting the roasting of three Franj captives and tasting their flesh. The ulema had soon been prevailed upon to acknowledge the practice and denounce it as a sin against the Prophet and the hadith.

The argument that finally settled the issue was a view expressed by the Kadi of Aleppo, who had stated after Friday prayers that eating Franj flesh was repugnant to Believers, since the Franj consumed large quantities of pig-flesh. This meant that their own flesh was polluted. Curiously enough this statement had a much greater effect in curbing the practice than all the pious references to the hadith and the convenient discovery of new traditions just when they were needed.

I had never been told of the reasons that lay behind the Sultan’s revulsion for Reynald. It was something that was just accepted, like the landscape. One day I ventured into the library of Imad al-Din and stayed waiting for the great man to arrive. His first reaction on seeing me was to frown, but his face changed rapidly as he donned a mask exuding good will.

“I am sorry to intrude in this fashion, Master, but I wondered if you could spare me a tiny portion of your precious time?”

He smiled with his lips, but his eyes remained hard.

“How could I refuse any request from the Sultan’s personal scribe? I am at your service, Ibn Yakub.”

“You honour me, sir. I will not take up too much of your time. Could you perhaps enlighten this ignorant scribe on the reasons for the Sultan’s burning hatred for Reynald of Châtillon?”

Imad al-Din laughed, a deep, throaty chuckle which was completely genuine. He was delighted at my ignorance and only too pleased to enhance my knowledge on this as on any other subject.

“Good friend, Ibn Yakub, you have begun to understand the ways of our Sultan, but even I, who have been with him much longer than you, am sometimes surprised at the way he arrives at a decision. For me, the method is all-important, but for him it is always instinct, instinct, instinct. If my method and his instinct coincide then all is well, but there are occasions when the two are opposed. Then his instinct triumphs and, as a loyal counsellor, I bow before his will.

“How should we deal with the Franj in the course of the jihad? This is a subject on which we have never disagreed. There were some hot-headed fools for whom the jihad meant a state of permanent war with the Franj, but Salah al-Din was never sympathetic to such a view. He understood that the enemy, like us, was usually divided. Just as our belief in Allah and his Prophet never stopped us from cutting each other’s throats, so, in the same fashion, the Franj, despite their worship of idols and their loyalty to their Pope, were rarely able to rise above petty disputes with each other.

“The Sultan now rules over Cairo, Damascus, Aleppo and Mosul. From the Nile to the Euphrates there is one authority, except where the Franj rule. No other ruler is as powerful as he is, yet despite our strength, he agreed a truce with Amalric’s boy, Baldwin the Leper, who rules in al-Kuds. Baldwin may have been weak in body, but his mind was strong. He knew that the Sultan kept his word and the peace was helpful to him as well. The result of the truce was that our caravans travelled freely between Cairo and Damascus, often stopping at Franj villages to sell their wares.

“Four months ago, as you know, the poor leper-King died, insisting that his six-year-old son be placed on the throne as Baldwin the Fifth. Our spies send us weekly reports from that city which, Allah willing, will soon belong to us again.

“The Sultan is well informed. He knows that there are two major factions within the Franj in al-Kuds. One of these is led by the Count of Tripoli, Raymond ibn Raymond al-Sanjili, descended from Saint-Gilles. To look at him he could be an emir from Damascus. His complexion is much darker than the Sultan’s. He has a nose like a hawk and he is fluent in our language.

“The Sultan is very fond of him and would like him to win the struggle for power. Were you aware that in order to help him we freed many knights from Tripoli who we had captured at different times over the last few years? That is a measure of the seriousness with which the Sultan regards the outcome of the factional struggle in that city. A battle which is taking place even as I speak with you, Ibn Yakub.

“Now I come to the question which you asked me earlier. Reynald of Châtillon! A more bloodthirsty monster was never born, not even in the world of the Franj. He was captured by Nur al-Din, and spent twelve years in the prisons of Aleppo. He was only released after Nur al-Din’s death. The Franj paid a large ransom to obtain his freedom. Better instead that his head had rolled in the sand.

“He is a man who enjoys killing for its own sake. He takes special delight in killing your people, Ibn Yakub. He believes that Isa was sold to Pilate by the Jews. We come second in his hatred. I am told that he specialises in disembowelling all Jewish prisoners and feeding their insides to his dogs. I say all this so that you can appreciate that, even if he had not directly offended the Sultan, he would still be a figure who inspired hatred. But he did upset Salah al-Din by breaking the terms of the truce that had been agreed with Baldwin the Leper.

“Two years ago he attacked a merchant caravan on its way to our holy city of Mecca. All the merchants as well as those travelling with them were brutally dispatched. Mercy, in Reynald’s eyes, was a vice. A sign of weakness. Among those who lost their lives that day was Samar, four score years of age and desperate to see Mecca before she died. Instead what she saw was the grim visage of the Franj. She was the Sultan’s last surviving aunt, his father’s younger sister.

“I drafted a very strong letter on his behalf to Baldwin the Leper. We asked him to punish and control his wild vassal. Baldwin confessed his powerlessness. As if this was not enough, Reynald led a raid on Mecca itself and desecrated our Holy Shrine. His horses defecated in the mosque. News of this outrage stunned Believers throughout the world. A very rude message arrived from Granada and other cities in Andalus to the Caliph in Baghdad, offering help in the shape of gold and men to aid the capture of the Franj beast. Prayers were offered in every mosque in the land, demanding retribution in the shape of Reynald’s severed head.

“The Sultan sent an urgent dispatch to his brother al-Adil in Cairo. It contained one sentence: the criminals must be punished. He did as he was asked, and most of the criminals were captured and taken to Mecca and publicly beheaded. An exemplary punishment for those who dared violate our holy places, and a warning to those who attempted such a sacrilege again. Alas, Reynald, one of the most accursed and wicked among the Franj, had escaped us again.

“To my surprise the Sultan smiled when this fact was reported to him. ‘Allah is saving the devil for me, Imad al-Din. I will kill him with my own hands.’

“Does that answer your question, Ibn Yakub?”

“More thoroughly than it could ever have been answered by anyone else in the whole kingdom, O learned master.”

He was pleased by the flattery, but not enough to prolong my audience and so, after thanking him again, I took my leave. As I reached the door, his voice arrested me.

“I have just prepared an order for the gratuity you are now due from the Treasury and which will be paid to you regularly till you die. The Sultan instructed me to prepare it many weeks ago, before he fell ill, but it was in the midst of war, and I was so busy taking down the names and details of the prisoners we had captured, that your case escaped my mind. Forgive my neglect.

“There is another surprise awaiting you today. I think it will please you, and that, too, is the result of an order issued directly by the Sultan. If you see the chamberlain on your way out, he will provide you with the details. Your welfare concerns the Sultan. He must be pleased with you.”

Was there a slight touch of envy in the way he spoke those last words, or was it just my imagination? I had little time to think of Imad al-Din and his sensitivities, for the chamberlain’s news stunned me into such speechlessness that I had to sit down and drink some water. The Sultan’s motives were pure, but I wish he had consulted me in advance.

My wife and daughter, together with all our possessions and my library, had been transported from Cairo to Damascus. A small house, not far from the citadel, had been provided for our use, and a retainer was leading me in its direction. I walked in a daze, like those who have inhaled more banj than their bodies can contain. The retainer from the citadel left me just outside the house. The door was open and the courtyard glistened in the afternoon sun.

It was Maryam who saw me first from a window and rushed down to hug me. I had not seen her for nearly four years. Tears wet my beard as I held her close to me and then pushed her gently away so I could see how she had changed. She had matured, but not beyond recognition. For what I saw before me was a beautiful young woman of sixteen, her eyes the colour of honey. Her pitch-black hair nearly touched the ground. I had seen this before.

She was the exact image of her mother Rachel when I had first espied her walking with her friends to fetch water from the well. As I drank in the sight, I felt a touch on my shoulder, which burnt me. I turned to embrace Rachel. She had aged. Her face was lined and there were streaks of grey in her hair. My heart missed a beat, but all the poison had gone and I kissed her eyes. It was wise of the Sultan not to have asked me before sending for them. I might have refused and suffered a great deal as a consequence.

It would be strange living in a house again. I had become accustomed to the luxury of the citadel, where all my elementary needs had been satisfied. The permanent proximity to power had stimulated me. Yet I was not displeased with the opening of a new phase in my life. Maryam would be married soon. Rachel and I would be alone again as we had been for four years, before Maryam was born. In those days we were so desperate for children that we fornicated at every possible opportunity. All that labour had produced only Maryam. A son was denied me. What would we do after Maryam had left home?

It was strange that this question arose in my mind so soon after Rachel’s arrival, but I was distracted by a messenger from the citadel. I was to return immediately. Rachel smiled patiently.

“It will be just as it was in Cairo. Go, but do not stay long. It is our first night together for many years, and last night in the desert caravan I saw the most beautiful crescent moon.”

I did not return home that night. I had been summoned to Shadhi’s bedside. The old man lay dying. He smiled weakly as I entered his chamber.

“Where is my Salah al-Din? Why is my boy not with me in these last hours?”

I held his hand and stroked it gently.

“The Sultan is fighting the Franj, my good friend Shadhi. Please don’t leave us yet. Just a few more months.”

“Allah has finally summoned me, but listen to me now. Just listen. When al-Kuds falls and you enter the gates next to my boy, think of me, Ibn Yakub. Imagine I am riding next to the Sultan, whispering encouragement in his ear just as I did when he fought his first battle. It was not granted to me to see my boy’s victory, but I am sure it will come. As sure as I am that I will not be there by his side. His name will live forever. Who will remember Shadhi?”

“He will,” I whispered, the tears cascading down my cheeks. “And I will. We shall never forget you.”

He did not reply. His hand went cold in mine. My throat was tight with fear. Shadhi had gone. This old man in whose company I had spent countless hours, who had enriched my life immeasurably, was dead.

I remembered our first meeting. I had been a bit frightened of him, not knowing how to respond to his disregard for authority. Yet even on that day, at the end of our first conversation, I was praying for a second one. I had realised that he was an invaluable source for the secret history of Salah al-Din and the House of Ayyub.

Shadhi was no longer with us, but he would live inside me. There could be no permanent separation. I tried to peer into the future. His voice, his laughter, his mocking tones, his spirit often clouded by arrogance, his refusal to tolerate fools or pompous religious scholars, his bawdy jokes and the tragic story of his own love. How could I ever forget him? I would hear his voice as long as I lived. Memories of him would guide me as I completed the chronicles of the Sultan Salah al-Din and his times.

We buried him early the next morning. The Sultan’s oldest son, al-Afdal, led the mourners, who had been restricted to the Sultan’s immediate family. Amjad the eunuch and I were the only outsiders. Amjad had looked after Shadhi, tended his needs during the last few months. He, too, had fallen under his spell and was sobbing uncontrollably. As we comforted each other, I felt close to him for the first time.

I had not slept all night. After the funeral prayers were over I went home. I thanked my stars for having my wife and daughter in Damascus. It would ease the pain of Shadhi’s loss.

Rachel knew what Shadhi had meant to me. I had talked of him often enough during the first weeks of my employment in Cairo. She knew that he had been my only true friend in the Sultan’s entourage. Words were unnecessary. I fell asleep weeping in her lap.

Twenty-Three

A traitor is executed; Usamah entertains the Sultan with lofty thoughts and lewd tales

TEN DAYS AFTER SHADHI’S death, Salah al-Din returned to Damascus. A courier had informed him of the event, and since receiving the news he had, uncharacteristically, not spoken to anyone after giving the orders to lift the siege and return home. He insisted on being completely alone when he stopped to pray at Shadhi’s grave before entering the citadel.

I was summoned to his chamber in the afternoon. To my amazement he hugged me and wept. When he had recovered his composure he spoke, but in a voice heavy with emotion and barely audible.

“One night during the siege the sky grew dark and it began to rain. As we covered our heads with blankets, several soldiers approached me holding a tall, dark man captive. The prisoner, who was groaning, had insisted on pleading his case before me. My men had little alternative but to agree to his request, since my battle orders are very firm on this question. Any prisoner condemned to death has the right to appeal directly to the Sultan. I asked them why they were intent on killing him. A short soldier, one of my best archers, replied: ‘Commander of the Brave, this man is a Believer. Yet he betrayed us to the enemy. If it were not for him we would have taken Reynald’s castle.’

“I looked at the prisoner, who stared down at the earth. The rain and the wind had stopped, but the evening was still black. No stars had appeared in the sky. I looked at his bloody, bearded face and became angry.

“‘You are an apostate, wretch. You betrayed the jihad, you betrayed your fellow-Believers to this devil, this butcher who has killed our men, women and children without mercy. You dare appeal to me for your life. By your actions you have forfeited my grace.’

“He remained silent. Once again I asked him to explain himself. He refused to speak. As the executioner was preparing the sword to decapitate him, the traitor whispered in my face: ‘At the exact moment that your swordsman removes my head from my body, someone very dear to you will also die.’

“I was enraged and walked away, refusing to dignify his death with my presence. I am told, Ibn Yakub, that Shadhi died that same evening, leaving us alone to count the empty days that lie ahead. He was more than a father to me. Long years ago he never left my side during a battle. It was as if I possessed two pairs of eyes. He guarded me like a lion. He was friend, adviser, mentor, someone who never shied from telling me the truth, regardless of whether or not it gave offence. Now he has fallen victim to death’s cruel arrow. Men like him are rare and irreplaceable. I wish we could bring him back to life with our tears.

“How had that blasphemer, punished before the eyes of Allah, known that Shadhi, too, would die? It was as we were riding back to Damascus that one of the soldiers told me that the prisoner we had executed had turned to treachery because Reynald had raped his wife before his eyes and had threatened to invite a hundred others to do the same before he killed her. Naturally I was sad on hearing this tale, but I did not regret the punishment. During a war, good scribe, we have to be prepared for every sacrifice. And yet I respect him for not recounting his wife’s ordeal himself. Reynald, too, will be punished. I have taken an oath before Allah.

“Death has become a garland round my neck.

“I want to be distracted tonight, scribe. Send for Usamah and let him entertain us or, at the very least, stimulate our brains. A session. Let us have a session tonight after sunset. I do not wish to sleep. Let us remember Shadhi by doing something that always pleased him. He loved testing his wit against that of Usamah. Is the man in Damascus or has he deserted us for the delights of Baghdad? He’s here? Good. Send a messenger, but please eat with him on your own. I am not feeling in a mood to watch him devouring meat like a wild beast. You look relieved.”

I smiled as I bowed myself out of the royal chamber. Not sharing the Sultan’s meal was indeed a relief. I dispatched the chamberlain to fetch Usamah ibn Munqidh as the Sultan had directed, but I wondered whether the old man might not be too tired for a sudden exertion. Usamah was born not long after the Franj first came to these lands. He was ninety years of age, but as well preserved and as solid as ebony. He showed no trace of infirmity, though his back was bent and he walked with a slight stoop. He spoke in a deep, strong voice. I had last seen him in Cairo in the company of Shadhi.

He had been in his cups while we had sipped an infusion of herbs, pretending to keep him company. Usamah had consumed a whole flask of wine, all the while smoking a pipe filled with banj. Despite the stimulation he had not taken leave of his senses and regaled us for most of the night with anecdotes relating to his Franj friends, who were numerous. They often invited him to stay with them and Usamah would return with a sackful of strange and wonderful stories.

That night in Cairo he had discussed the Franj’s filthy habit of not shaving their pubic hair. He described a scene in the bath when his Franj host had called in his wife to observe Usamah’s clean-shaven groin. The couple had marvelled at the sight, and there and then summoned a barber to shave off their unwanted hair. “Did not the sight of a naked woman, having the hair below her belly removed, excite you, my Prince?” Shadhi had asked. The question appeared to have puzzled him. He puffed on his pipe, looked straight at Shadhi and replied: “No, it didn’t. Her husband was far more attractive!”

Shadhi and I had roared with laughter till we saw his surprise at our mirth. Usamah was in total earnest.

Usamah was a nobleman with an ancient lineage. His father was the Prince of Shayzar, and so the son was brought up as a gentleman and a warrior. He had travelled widely and was in Cairo when Salah al-Din became Sultan. The two had become friends from that time onwards, but all of Salah al-Din’s attempts to draw on Usamah’s age and experience to acquire an understanding of Franj military tactics ended in failure.

The Sultan was genuinely perplexed, till one day Usamah confessed that he had never fought in a single battle, and that all his training had come to nought. He was, he said to the Sultan, a traveller and a nobleman, and he liked to observe the habits and customs of different peoples. He had been taking notes for thirty years and was working on a book of memories of his life.

Later that evening I was still recalling the past, when Usamah arrived and greeted me with a wink. I had been waiting to eat with him, but he had already taken his evening meal. I gave up mine and we walked slowly to the Sultan’s audience chamber later that evening. His stoop had become more pronounced, but otherwise he had changed little over the last few years. He acknowledged Imad al-Din’s presence with a frown — the two men had always disliked each other — and bowed to Salah al-Din, who rose to his feet and embraced him.

“I am sad that Shadhi died before me,” he told the Sultan. “At the very least he should have waited so that we could go together.”

“Let us imagine he is still with us,” replied Salah al-Din. “Imagine him sitting in that corner, listening to every word you utter with a critical smile. Tonight I really need your stories, Usamah ibn Munqidh, but no tragedy, no romance, only laughter.”

“The Sultan’s instructions are difficult, for there is never a romance that is not preceded by laughter, and why is a tragedy a tragedy? Because it stops laughter. So with great respect I must inform the Sultan that his desires cannot be fulfilled. If you insist simply on laughter then this tongue will fall silent.”

It was a useful opening move by the old magician. The Sultan raised his hands to the heavens and laughed.

“The Sultan can only propose. Ibn Munqidh must dispose as he chooses.”

“Good,” said the old storyteller, and began without further ado.

“Some years ago I was invited to stay with a Franj nobleman, who lived in a small citadel near Afqah, not far from the river of Ibrahim. The citadel had been constructed on the top of a small hill, overlooking the river. The hillside was a cedar forest and the whole prospect afforded me great pleasure. For the first few days I admired the view and relished the tranquillity. The wine was of good quality and the hashish even better. What more could I want?”

“If Shadhi were here,” muttered the Sultan, “he would have replied: ‘A pretty young man!’”

Usamah ignored the remark and continued.

“On the third day my host informed me that his twenty-year-old son was seriously ill and asked me to take a look at him. I had met this boy once before and had taken a strong dislike to him. As the only son he was greatly overindulged by his parents. He used his position as the son and heir of the Lord of Afqah to have his way with any wench who caught his eye. Several months ago he had killed two peasant boys who attempted to protect the honour of their twelve-year-old sister. To say that he was loathed by his father’s tenants would be an understatement. Perhaps some of the stories about him that travelled from village to village were exaggerated during the journey. Perhaps not. It is difficult for me to say.

“Yet I could not turn down the request of my friend to look at the boy. I was not a trained physician, but I had studied all the medical formularies and my closest friends had been celebrated practitioners. After their deaths I was often consulted on medical matters and surprised myself by my own knowledge and prescriptions, which were often successful. My reputation had grown.

“I ordered the sheets to be removed and inspected the bare body of this boy. There were abscesses in both legs, which had spread and could kill him within a few weeks unless drastic measures were taken. It was too late for poultices and a severe diet. I told the father that the only way of saving the boy was to sever both legs from the thighs. My friend wept. His wife’s anguished screams softened even the hardest heart present in the boy’s chamber.

“Finally the father gave his approval, and I supervised the removal of the legs. The boy, not unnaturally, fainted. I knew from past experience that once he returned to awareness he would not realise his legs had been removed. This is an illusion which remains for a few days after an organ has been cut off. His father told me to ask the poor boy what his greatest wish was in this world, and he would do all in his power to make sure it was granted. We waited for him to recover. We waited for over an hour. When he opened his eyes, he smiled because the old pain had gone. I whispered in his ear: ‘Tell me, son, what would you like the most in this world?’ He smiled, and a chilling, lecherous grin disfigured his face. I bent down so he could whisper back in my ear. ‘Grandad,’ he said mockingly, and I was surprised that even in this state his voice was marked by viciousness. ‘What I really want more than anything else is a penis that is larger than my leg!’

“‘You have it, my boy,’ I replied, slightly ashamed at my own pleasure. ‘You have it.’”

At first, the Sultan looked at Usamah in horror. Then he began to laugh. I could see that the story was not yet finished. Usamah’s body movements indicated that a few embellishments, last-minute treats, still awaited us, but the Sultan’s laughter became uncontrollable and began to take on a character of its own. He would stop. Usamah would make as if to continue, but the Sultan would be overcome by a new fit of laughter. I had caught the infection and joined him, discarding a time-honoured court ritual. At this juncture, Usamah, deciding that his isolation was now complete and that his story was destined to remain unfinished, decided to forgo the ending and joined in the merriment.

The Sultan, having recovered his composure, smiled.

“What a marvellous storyteller you are, Usamah ibn Munqidh! Even Shadhi, may he rest in peace, would not have been able to resist a laugh. I understand now that humour only amuses when it is twinned to something else. Have you anything else for us this evening?”

The Sultan’s praise pleased Usamah. The lines on his face multiplied as he smiled to show his pleasure. The old man took a deep breath and his eyes became distant as he recalled another episode from his long life.

“Many years ago, some time before you were born, O Sultan, I found myself one evening in a tavern in the Christian quarter of Damascus where only lofty subjects were discussed on the day of the Christian Sabbath. I was nineteen or twenty years of age. All I wanted was to enjoy a flask of wine and think again of a Christian girl who had been occupying my mind for several months.

“I had come to this quarter on that particular day for one reason alone. I wanted to catch sight of her coming out of church with her family. We would exchange glances, but that was not the sole reason for my journey to this quarter. If the scarf was white it was bad news, and meant we could not meet later that day.

“If, however, she was wearing a coloured headscarf it was a sign that we would meet later that evening, at the house of one of her married friends. There we might hold hands in tender silence. Any attempt by me to stroke her face or kiss her lips had been firmly rebuffed. Last week she had taken me by surprise, by responding warmly to my lukewarm effort to go beyond holding hands. She had not merely kissed me, but guided my hand to feel her warm and trembling breasts. Having set me on fire, she had refused to put out the flames, leaving me frustrated and in a state of considerable despair.

“‘One citadel at a time, Usamah. Why are you so impatient?’ Having whispered these words in my ear she had fled, leaving me alone to cool myself. It was this change in her attitude that had given this particular day its importance. I was dreaming of conquering the citadel that lay hidden under that perfumed forest of hair between her legs.

“She emerged from the church, wearing a coloured scarf. We exchanged smiles and I walked away, surprised at my own self-control. I wanted to jump up and down and shout to all the other people on the street that exquisite raptures awaited me that afternoon. Happy is the one who has experienced the torments, tempests and passions of everyday life, for only he can truly enjoy the fragile and tender delights of love.

“I waited for her at the house of her friend, but she did not arrive. After two hours a servant-boy came with a letter addressed to her friend. She had made the mistake of confiding her growing love for me to her older sister, who, overcome by jealousy, had informed their mother. She was worried that her parents would now hasten her marriage to the son of a local merchant. She pleaded with me not to act rashly, but to await a message from her.

“I was desolate. I wandered the streets like a lost soul and wandered into the tavern of lofty thoughts with only one thought, namely to drown my sorrows. To my amazement they were not serving wine that day. The innkeeper informed me that they never served wine in his establishment on the Sabbath. I found this odd, since alcohol had always been part of their pagan church ritual, symbolising as it did, the blood of Isa.

“I protested and was informed in a cold voice that the prohibition had nothing to do with religion. It was simply the day designated for lofty thoughts. I was welcome to repair to a neighbouring tavern. I looked around and realised that the clientele, too, was unusual. There were over fifty people, mainly men, but a dozen women. Most of them were old. I think, leaving me aside, the youngest person present must have been forty years of age.

“The arrogance of these people attracted me to them while simultaneously distracting me from my more immediate concerns. I asked whether I could participate in their discussion and was answered by a few affirmative nods of the head, mainly from the women present. The others looked at me with cold indifference, almost as if I were a stray dog desperate for a bone.

“It became a matter of pride. I decided to stay, to melt their coldness and pierce the cloud of aloofness that surrounded them like a halo. From their expressions I could see that they saw me as a shallow youth with nothing to teach them. They were probably correct, but it annoyed me and I became desperate to prove them wrong. This whole business had begun to distract me from the blow I had suffered earlier that afternoon, and for that I was immensely grateful.

“I took my seat on the floor. The subject for that evening’s discussion seemed relevant enough to my problems: ‘The escape from anxiety.’ The speaker was Ibn Zayd, a traveller and a historian from Valencia in Andalus.

“I should have known. Only the Andalusians were capable of dissecting the meanings of concepts and words that we took for granted. The distance from Mecca had given their minds a freedom greatly envied by our own scholars.

“The Sultan may frown, but what I say is acknowledged by all our scholars. Even our great Imad al-Din, who disapproves of my habits and way of life, would confirm this well-known fact. It is true we have had our share of sceptics, and one was even executed on the orders of the Sultan, but not on the scale of Andalus. We can discuss scepticism another day.

“With the Sultan’s permission, I will continue the sad story of my youth. Ibn Zayd must have been in his late forties. Only a few grey hairs were visible in his raven-black beard. He spoke our language with an Andalusian lilt, but despite the strangeness of his accent, his voice was like that of the singer-boatmen of the Nile, both soft and deep at the same time.

“He began by informing us that the talk he was about to give us was not original, but based on the Philosophy of Character and Conduct, by Ibn Hazm, in front of whom even the greatest intellect is abashed. He, Ibn Zayd, had his own criticisms of the master-work, but without it nothing could have been possible.

“He spoke of how Ibn Hazm wrote that all human beings are guided by one aim. The desire to escape anxiety. This applied equally to rich and poor, to Sultan and mamluk, to scholars and illiterates, to women and eunuchs, to those who crave sensuality and dark delights as well as ascetics. They all seek freedom from worry. Few follow the same path in achieving this aim, but the wish to escape from anxiety has been the common purpose of humanity since it appeared on this earth.

“He then took out from his little bag a book with a gilded cover, but which must have been read many times, for it was faded. Ibn Yakub and Imad al-Din will understand that nothing affords a book greater delight than being passed from hand to hand. This was one such book, the Philosophy of Ibn Hazm. He had marked a passage which he now read to us in his quaint Arabic.

“Subsequently I, too, obtained a copy of the book and read that passage many times, with the result that, like passages from our own divine Book, it is now imprinted on my mind:

“‘Those who crave riches seek them only in order to drive the fear of poverty out of their spirits; others seek for glory to free themselves from the fear of being scorned; some seek sensual delights to escape the pain of privations; some seek knowledge to cast out the uncertainty of ignorance; others delight in hearing news and conversation because they seek by these means to dispel the sorrow of solitude and isolation. In brief, man eats, drinks, marries, watches, plays, lives under a roof, rides, walks, or remains still with the sole aim of driving out their contraries and, in general, all other anxieties. Yet each of these actions is in turn an inescapable hotbed of new anxieties.’

“That is all I can recall today, though some years ago I could recite the entire passage. Our traveller from Andalus developed Ibn Hazm’s argument further, and the more we heard the more entranced we became. Before this I had never been exposed to philosophy, and suddenly I could see why the theologians regarded it as pure poison.

“It soon became obvious that Ibn Zayd’s criticisms of Ibn Hazm’s philosophy would never come to light, for the simple reason that he had none. He worshipped the works of Ibn Hazm but thought it prudent to dissociate himself from them, just in case the Kadi had sent a few spies to report on the meeting. The essence of Ibn Hazm’s philosophy lay in his belief that man could, through his own actions alone, rid himself of all anxieties. He did not need any help.”

“Heresy! Blasphemy!” shouted the Sultan. “Where is Allah and his Prophet in this philosophy?”

“Exactly so, my Sultan,” replied Usamah. “That is what the theologians asked as they burnt Ibn Hazm’s books outside the mosques. But that was many years ago, before the Franj polluted our soil. Our knowledge is much more advanced now, and I am sure our great scholars like Imad al-Din would prove Ibn Hazm wrong in the space of a few minutes.”

Imad al-Din glowed with anger, and stared at Usamah with undisguised hatred. He did not speak.

“What was the point of this story, Usamah?” asked the Sultan. “Did you finally get the Christian girl?”

The old man chuckled. He had put the choicest morsels of Arab philosophy before the Sultan, and all he wanted was the story of the girl.

“I did not get the girl, Commander of the Ingenious, but the ending of that day in the tavern of lofty thoughts took me by surprise, as it will you if I have permission to finish.”

The Sultan nodded his approval.

“At the conclusion of the meeting I asked several questions, partially because the Andalusian had aroused my genuine interest, and partially to show the others present that I was not an ignorant fool intent simply on hedonism. It would be too wearisome to recount my own triumph and, unlike Imad al-Din, I rarely make notes of all my encounters. But let it be said that my remarks made a deep impression on Ibn Zayd. He became more and more animated and soon we repaired to a tavern which served a brew more potent than lofty thoughts. We talked throughout the night. We were both in a state of modest inebriety. At this stage he extended his hand and clasped my penis. The expression on my face surprised him.

“‘You seem anxious, my young friend. Do we not agree that anxiety should be expelled from our spirit?’

“I replied: ‘My anxiety will only be dispelled if you ungrasp my penis immediately.’ He did not persist, but began to weep.

“Out of pity I guided him out of the Christian quarter and back into ours. There I left him, happily occupied in that male brothel which is frequented by many from the citadel. Do you remember the street where it is situated, Imad al-Din? My memory escapes me again. The price of old age.”

Once again Imad al-Din did not reply, but once again the Sultan began to laugh as he congratulated Usamah.

“I think the moral of your story is how easily even men with the most lofty thoughts can degenerate into a debased sensuality. Am I correct, Usamah ibn Munqidh?”

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

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

Twenty-Four

The Caliph’s letter and the Sultan’s reply, mediated by Imad al-Din’s diplomacy and intelligence; Jamila’s discourse on love

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

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

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

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

“I suppose you know what the letter contains?”

Imad al-Din nodded.

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

The Sultan’s face grew dark.

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

We nodded, and dipped our pens in the ink.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I shook my head respectfully.

“Blasphemy. Cursed philosophy. Scepticism.”

Jamila smiled.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She was touched by my concern.

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

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

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

She interrupted me.

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

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

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

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

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

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

She, too, knew my story.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Twenty-Five

I dream of Shadhi; the Sultan plans his war

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

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

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

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

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

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

He smiled and went on his way. It was strange how he rarely took offence. During my first few months in Damascus I had been rude to him for no other reason except that I disliked his facial expressions. Yet Shadhi had liked him, and Jamila trusted him completely. It was this combination that had changed my own attitude.

Rachel was wide awake when I returned to our bedchamber. She was sitting up in bed drinking water. Her nakedness stirred me, and watching her breasts sway as she moved made me laugh. I told her of my dream. She saw the lust in my eyes and, throwing off the sheet that covered the rest of her body, she smiled and extended her arms, offering me an embrace and possibly something more.

“The Sultan is waiting,” I began apologetically, but she interrupted me.

“I can see that for myself,” she replied as she jumped out of bed and put her hand between my legs. “The Sultan is erect and ready to mount for battle.”

Reader, I succumbed.

I ran most of the way to the citadel. The city was still asleep, though the muezzins were clearing their throats as they prepared to call the faithful to prayer. Here and there a dog stood outside a front gate and barked at me as I hurried to the Sultan.

“You are late today, Ibn Yakub,” said the Sultan, but without any note of displeasure. “Your wife’s embrace kept you from us?”

I bowed low before him in silent apology. He accepted it with a smile and indicated with a gesture that he wished me to be seated just below him.

My eyes had been so completely fixed on the Sultan that when I now observed the room I was taken aback by those who were present. This was no ordinary gathering. Apart from the Kadi al-Fadil and Imad al-Din, all the emirs were present who commanded different segments of the Sultan’s armies. No, not all. Taki al-Din and Keukburi were absent. The Sultan had referred to them as his “two arms” without whom he was powerless. It was his way of stating publicly that he trusted both men with his life.

As far as Taki al-Din was concerned this was no surprise. He was Salah al-Din’s favourite nephew and he treated him as he himself had once been treated by his own uncle Shirkuh. In fact, Taki al-Din’s presence caused the Sultan to shed the instinctive caution he had inherited from Ayyub, his father. He had once told me that in times of crisis there was a battle for his soul between Ayyub and Shirkuh, and it was pure luck as to which of them won. Taki al-Din reminded him of his own youth, and in some ways he wished that this nephew rather than al-Afdal, his own son, could succeed him. This he had confessed, not to me but to old Shadhi, who had eagerly passed on the information. On this question he agreed enthusiastically with Salah al-Din.

Emir Keukburi was a different matter altogether. There had been a time, only three or four years ago, when Salah al-Din had provoked widespread incredulity and ordered his arrest. It was the time when he was consolidating his empire to prepare for the day that had now arrived. It had taken the Sultan three days, with the help of Keukburi and his men, to ferry his troops across the Euphrates. He had then marched on to Harran. There, he had spent a morning playing chogan with his host. When the game was over, the Sultan’s bodyguards had placed the Emir Keukburi under arrest. Pigeons carried the news to Cairo and Damascus.

The Kadi al-Fadil was on one of his tours of inspection around Cairo. He was stunned by the news and immediately wrote a powerful and moving plea to Salah al-Din. He has given me a copy of the letter for my book. It read as follows:

Most Gracious and Generous Sultan:

A letter from Imad al-Din informs me that you are angry with Keukburi and have had him arrested. I remember well the heat and dust of Harran, which affects us all, and I have little doubt that your kindness and generosity will once again prevail over your anger. I know you have Imad al-Din by your side, but if you feel that my presence, too, might be useful or desirable, I will banish my dislike of Harran. I will make way by mule, endure the wretched heat without a tent, and be at your side very soon. I am disturbed and slightly confused by what I hear. I think the Sultan has made an error of judgement.

Emir Keukburi regards you as a father. He has always been loyal and has proved himself by persuading his brother to back you against the Lords of Mosul. He was an example to all who wished to serve your cause. The intimacy you have shown him has undoubtedly gone to his head. He is like a young pup who, when stroked too often by his master, sometimes bites him. Yet the bite expresses an overflowing affection rather than anger. I would be prepared to offer my own head to the executioner’s blade if Keukburi ever betrays our interests. He is young, ambitious, and wants to prove himself in battle by your side.

Imad al-Din writes that you were retaliating because Keukburi had promised 50,000 dinars to the Treasury the day you reached Harran, and then reneged on his pledge, claiming that it had been made by an envoy who had not consulted him. Since the money is for the jihad, I know how angry this must have made you, but your generosity is the source of all the pure, sweet water that flows in our lands. Forgive him and I can assure you that he will have learnt his lesson.

Your humble servant, al-Fadil.

Keukburi was pardoned and never offended the Sultan again. But the cause was not simply the confusion over the payment of 50,000 dinars. The Sultan told me that the matter had been far more serious. Keukburi had been the intermediary between his brother, the Emir of Irbil, and the Sultan. In return for his loyalty, Keukburi had negotiated extra lands for his brother. Once the Sultan was in complete control of the region, Keukburi had suggested that the lands given to his brother should be transferred to his own estate. The proposal had enraged Salah al-Din, for whom family loyalty was a critical test of a person’s character. He had contemptuously rejected the suggestion and begun to doubt Keukburi’s loyalty to himself.

These facts were not divulged to al-Fadil by Imad al-Din for the simple reason that the great scholar had become infatuated with the Emir of Harran. He was, if the truth be told, a strikingly handsome specimen, though not inclined to the pleasures favoured by our worthy bibliophile.

After a few months, Keukburi was pardoned. He was never to fall out of step with Salah al-Din again. He learnt, as al-Fadil had so wisely predicted, that there were some things in this world more precious to the Sultan than all the wealth of China and India. These included keeping one’s word to both friend and foe. On this he could never be challenged, let alone be convinced of an alternative course of action.

Keukburi had earned back his Sultan’s trust, and now, even as we gathered in this assembly, he and Taki al-Din were camped in the valley of Galilee, patiently awaiting Salah al-Din’s arrival. Only then could they finalise their plans.

I realised that I had been invited, for the first time, to observe a council of war. The Sultan had clearly been speaking for some time. The interruption of my late arrival over, he continued to persuade them with a mixture of guile and flattery.

“Our desires are always disappointed by reality. That, as good Imad al-Din will tell you, is a fact of life. There are few of us who can say that everything they wished has come to pass. My enemies, of which there are not a few, say to the Caliph: ‘Salah al-Din prefers to attack us and forget the infidels.’ They say that all I am interested in is establishing my own family in power and amassing wealth. What they accuse me of is what they do themselves. It is much easier, I suppose, to burden me with their guilt. Yet before this year is over, these tongues will be silenced forever.

“I know that some of you are reluctant to attack the Franj at this particular time. Perhaps you are correct to be apprehensive, but those who delay too long, those who only go halfway, usually end up digging their own graves.

“Let me speak plainly. We do not have more time. Allah alone knows how much longer I have in this world. As I look at you, I see men who have fought so many battles that nature has prematurely aged them. I see grey hairs in all your beards. None of us has a great deal of time.

“Our spies report that the Franj have between twelve and fifteen thousand knights and twenty thousand soldiers on foot to defend their Kingdom of Jerusalem. We must prepare an army which will destroy their backbone. An army of Believers that will scale the walls of al-Kuds and ensure that the familiar and reassuring cry, ‘Allah is Great’, is heard once again in that great city.

“This time we must cut them so deep that they leave our lands and never return. Our army is the only army that can achieve this aim. Not because Allah has given us more brains or more strength, but because we alone pursue such an end. It is our determination that will give strength to those who fight under our banners. Soon we will wipe out the stain of our defeat at the hands of these barbarians for ever. I am not given to proud boasts, for they have been the downfall of Believers. Yet I am burning with confidence.

“Our soldiers from Misr and Sham alone could defeat the enemy, but everyone now wants to be on our side. The Emirs of Mosul, Sinjar, Irbil and Harran all want to be represented in our army. The Kurds in the mountains beyond the Tigris are promising us a band of warriors. In the past, they often resented the successes of my father and my uncle Shirkuh. Now they have pledged themselves to join in the battle for al-Kuds or to die in the attempt. Their messenger came yesterday and told me that they will only fight by our side if they are allowed to be the first to take the city. Strange, is it not, Imad al-Din, how the smell of success travels so far and so fast?”

The great scholar, whose eyes had been shut for most of the Sultan’s speech was clearly not asleep.

“It is not simply the scent of victory in their nostrils that sends them to us, O Commander of the Victorious. They feel in their bones that our history is about to be refashioned. They want to tell their children and their grandchildren that they fought with Salah al-Din on the day that is about to happen.”

Salah al-Din, usually deaf to coarse flattery, was not displeased by Imad al-Din’s remarks.

“Tomorrow I leave Damascus to join the army, gathering for our last big effort. We will all leave at different times and by separate routes, just in case the Franj have prepared an ambush. If something happens to me before or during the battle, I do not wish you to waste any time in mourning. Finish the work that Allah has given us, and never let the enemy think that the death of one single person could disorganise our force. Now leave, and may Allah give you the strength we need for victory. There is only one Allah and Mohammed is his Prophet.”

The emirs dispersed, but not before each of them had come forward to embrace the Sultan and kiss his cheeks. With the ritual over, the Sultan turned to the Kadi al-Fadil, and to Imad al-Din and myself.

“I want all of you to be at my side. Imad al-Din to compose letters demanding total surrender, al-Fadil to ensure that I make no mistakes in dealing with our own emirs, and Ibn Yakub to inscribe everything on parchment. Whatever Allah has decreed for us, be it victory or defeat, our children and their children will never be able to forget what we sacrificed for their future.”

This was the first occasion on which the Sultan had mentioned me in the same breath as al-Fadil and Imad al-Din. To write that I was flattered would be a terrible understatement. He recognised my worth, that alone was sufficient to make me feel I was in heaven. I could not wait to rush home and tell Rachel, but my pace slowed as I realised that this would be another long parting.

Before I could leave the citadel, the light-haired figure of Amjad the eunuch appeared before me. I groaned. He laughed.

“This time the call is from the Sultana Jamila. She requires your presence. Follow me, if you please.”

I never regretted a conversation with Jamila, which usually improved my knowledge of our world and my understanding of human emotions. But on this day, bursting with news of my little triumph, I wanted to share my joy with Rachel. It would have mitigated the sorrow of parting, but I was nothing more than a scribe and I obeyed orders. So, like a faithful dog, I followed Amjad the eunuch to the special chamber where the Sultana met male visitors. Her face was glowing with pleasure, and she smiled as I entered. The smile melted my heart and I felt guilty at having wished to avoid her. This was only the second occasion since her return from the lands in the South, and it confirmed me in my opinion that she was now fully recovered.

“Welcome, Ibn Yakub, and congratulations. I am told that you are to be one of the three wise men who will accompany the Sultan and observe the mother of all battles. And I will be the only woman, wise or otherwise.”

She saw the look on my face, and began to laugh.

“He resisted and resisted, but I won. I have your Sultan’s permission. I will have my own tent, and my special guard of eunuchs under the leadership of Amjad, and a number of well-trained mamluks.

“Keukburi must not know till we arrive. You know he is married to my younger sister. If she knew she would move the stars in an attempt to share my tent. But Salah al-Din forbade me to tell anyone except you, for when you are not busy writing we shall keep each other company. I have much to relate, but we can talk during the journey. We leave tomorrow and it is nearly midday. You must have time with your wife and daughter.”

I thanked her and was about to take my leave, when she began to speak again. She had something else to tell me. I settled down on the cushion at her feet.

“I met Halima last night. We ate together. She has permission to take her son to Cairo, where she will await the Sultan’s pleasure. I was surprised when she sent me a message asking for a meeting, but it did not disturb my calm. What was it you once told me that your old friend Ibn Maymun had written on emotions?”

Hearing the mention of Ibn Maymun took me aback, but I, too, remained calm.

“I think what he wrote was to the effect that emotions of the soul affect the functioning of the body and produce significant and wide-ranging changes in the state of our health. Unless emotions that cause upset and disorders are smoothed out, we remain ill at ease with ourselves and all those who come into contact with us.”

She laughed again.

“Your Ibn Maymun is a truly great philosopher. He pierces the inner depths of our hearts and souls. You can tell him that he is correct. I feel well again. The emotions that tormented my soul have disappeared forever.

“When I met Halima I was not sure how I would react. I did not know what to expect from her or myself. In the event it was like meeting a stranger. She left me cold, Ibn Yakub. She apologised to me at length for having maligned me to her retainers and friends, the lowest of the low in the harem. She wanted us to be friends again and, with a pitiful smile, she tried to reach my heart by saying that the demons had finally abandoned her mind and she was her old self again.

“I had no desire to be cruel or flaunt my indifference, so I smiled and told her I understood, but we could not recreate what had been lost. She looked sad and her eyes filled with tears, but with my hard heart I felt nothing. The place which she had once filled in my life had become occupied by other things, including the works of the great al-Farabi. So, I wished her well, and hoped she would find good friends in Cairo and bring up her son to be a decent, educated human being. With these words I left her. Do you think I was overly harsh, Ibn Yakub? No dissembling. Speak plainly.”

I thought for a moment and spoke the truth.

“It is difficult for me since I knew both of you at the peak of your happiness. I saw how you were with her and she with you. I envied both of you. And then when she became ill in her mind, it was not simply you that she rejected. I too was discarded, for I reminded her of the satanic past. In your place I would have done exactly the same, O Sultana, but I am not and never was in your place. If she asked me, I would resume my friendship with her. She needs friends.”

“You are a good man, scribe. Now go to your wife and make your farewells. We leave at dawn tomorrow.”

I was not thinking of Halima and Jamila as I walked back from the citadel to our house. My head could not rid itself of Ibn Maymun. Jamila’s reference to him had not hurt at the time, but now it reopened old wounds. My bitter anger was no longer directed at Rachel, but against her greatly venerated seducer. If I had seen him on the street, I would have picked up a stone and burst open his head. The violent character of this thought upset me greatly, yet it also calmed me as I reached the outer courtyard of our house.

Rachel greeted me with news. Our daughter had become engaged to the son of the cantor in the synagogue. The father I knew well, an intelligent and well-read man. As for the son, Rachel informed me that he was a bookbinder by trade.

“Does he read what he binds?”

“Ask your daughter!”

One look at Maryam’s face was enough to tell me all I needed to know. The child was clearly very happy with her mother’s choice. My question became redundant. It was a strange sensation. Soon this girl around whom we had built our lives would leave our house and enter that of another man. How would it affect relations between Rachel and me? Would we painlessly grow old together, or would we grow apart? I could not think too much because they were insisting that I go and meet the boy. I had not yet told them my own news, but given my departure it was necessary that I inspect the young man who was to take my daughter away. It was with difficulty that I prevented Rachel from accompanying me.

The cantor embraced me as I entered the synagogue. He took me to his home, where his daughter made us some tea. The mother had died some years ago and the eldest girl was in charge of the household. News of my arrival must have travelled fast. We had barely drunk our tea when the young man in question burst into the house and stood motionless before me. I rose and embraced him. Goodness appeared to be written on his face. My instincts told me he was a good boy, yet Shadhi’s warnings resounded in my ear. “The nicer they seem the more brutal they are…” But the old man had been talking of the Franj, and this was the son of a friend.

Later, back at home, I gave my approval of the match. When the excitement finally subsided, I told Rachel that I was leaving the next day, on the express instructions of the Sultan. She took the news well. Mother and daughter both hugged me when I insisted that the wedding must go ahead as soon as possible. They should not wait for my return.

That night in bed, Rachel whispered in my ear.

“Can you imagine a grandson, my husband? I could never give you a boy, but our Maryam will, and soon, I’m sure.”

With imaginary grandsons on the way, I understood why news of my departure to a war in which I might be killed had not caused greater sorrow. I understood, but it would be a lie if I said that I was not a little hurt.