The Book of Saladin

Twenty-Six

The Sultan pitches camp and soldiers begin to assemble from every quarter of his empire

THE JOURNEY ITSELF WAS uneventful. It took us two days to reach Ashtara, nothing compared to the agonies I suffered when we made the journey from Cairo to Damascus. It was, however, unbearably hot. Once we had abandoned the green fields and rivers outside Damascus, the trees became fewer and fewer. My mood began to get correspondingly worse. The disconcerting thing about the desert is that no birds sing to greet the dawn. Morning comes suddenly, and before one has time to wake fully and stretch, the sun is already beginning to hurt.

The Sultan had decreed that we should pitch camp at Ashtara, a small city surrounded by large plains. Here mock-battles could be fought and we would be blessed with an unlimited supply of water — always a crucial consideration, but a hundred times more so in times of conflict. For the next twenty-five days, we prepared for the battles that lay ahead.

Soldiers, archers and swordsmen began to assemble from all corners of the empire. Slowly our encampment grew and grew until the entire town was overwhelmed by the great city of tents that had sprung up in its midst. A hundred cooks, assisted by three hundred helpers, prepared food for the army. The Sultan insisted that everyone should eat the same meal. He told his emirs and secretaries that this simple rule recalled the earliest days of their faith. It was necessary to show both friend and enemy that, in a jihad, all were equal in the eyes of Allah.

To the great amusement of the emirs, Imad al-Din found it difficult to conceal his chagrin. He muttered under his breath that the early days of their religion were long past, now it should be just as important to let the Franj observe the richness and variety of the Damascus cuisine. The Sultan’s frown ended the frivolity. Imad al-Din’s tastes were very special and could only be satisfied by the cooks in two establishments in Damascus. For most other people the camp was well stocked with everything. There were several dozen cooks, each of whom had thirty cooking pots under his command. One of these pots could hold nine sheep-heads. In addition special baths had been dug in the ground and lined with clay. The Sultan knew that the stomach and hygiene of an army were crucial in maintaining its morale.

The camp routine was established from the first day, and newcomers were initiated from the moment of arrival. Trumpets and a roll of drums, punctuated by the cry of the muezzin, woke the whole camp at sunrise. This was the only call for collective prayers, except for Christians and Jews, who were exempted, though they had to rise at the same time. This was followed by a substantial breakfast, whose function was to keep the soldier strong till the evening meal. A short recreation followed, utilised mainly for purposes of defecation. Rows and rows of men went outside the town to empty their bowels in ditches dug for the purpose and covered with sand every second day to moderate the stench. A second drumroll summoned the men to carefully organised bouts of sword-fighting, archery and horse-riding. The foot-soldiers had to run for two hours every day.

Not a day passed without some excitement. The colours of the Caliph arrived, to be received by the Sultan amidst general acclaim and shouts of “Allah is great”. This did not stop al-Fadil whispering comments to Imad al-Din, loud enough to reach my ears:

“At least he has sent the Abbasid banners, but he will be sick with fear if our Sultan takes al-Kuds. That will make Salah al-Din the most powerful ruler in Islam.”

“Yes,” chuckled the great man of letters, “and his astrologers are already telling him to beware of him who prays first at the Dome on the Rock, for he will come to Baghdad and be greeted as the real Caliph.”

That the Caliph was jealous of our Sultan was hardly a secret. Every merchant travelling from Baghdad to Damascus came replete with court gossip, much of it exaggerated, but some of it confirmed by other sources, namely the spies of Imad al-Din, who sent him regular reports from the first city of the faith. What was surprising was the contempt with which the two men closest to the Sultan regarded the Caliph.

We had been at Ashtara for barely a week and it already felt like home. The reason for this was not the comfort of our surroundings but the general feeling of solidarity which suffused the atmosphere. Even the Kadi al-Fadil admitted that he had never experienced anything like it during previous campaigns. Soldiers spoke to emirs as virtual equals without threatening the discipline of the army. The emirs, for their part, and under the explicit orders of the Sultan, made a point of eating the evening meal with their men, dipping bread in the same bowl and tearing meat off the same bone.

It was in this spirit that one morning the colours of the Kurds were seen in the distance. A messenger rushed to inform the Sultan, who was out riding with Taki al-Din and Keukburi. I, on my poor horse, was trying to keep up with them. The three men were discussing whether their traditional tactics of charge and retreat, which owed a great deal to the Parthians, and were ideal for small formations of highly trained and skilled horsemen, could be applied with such a large army as was being assembled at Ashtara.

At this crucial juncture, the messenger announced the arrival of the Kurdish warriors. The three generals burst out laughing, for the indiscipline of the Kurds was well-known. Shirkuh was the only leader who had succeeded in taming their wilder instincts. Most of them had, till now, refused to fight under Salah al-Din. They claimed that he lacked his uncle’s audacity and his father’s cunning. This was why their arrival was greeted with joy by the Sultan, and we rode back ferociously to the camp.

The Kurds had arrived and cheered the Sultan’s arrival in their own language. Their leaders came forward and kissed Salah al-Din fiercely on both cheeks. He turned to me with a tear in his eye. I went close up to him and he whispered in my ear.

“I wish Shadhi were here to witness this day. Many of them remember him well.”

That night the spirit of fermented apricots dominated the camp. Even the Sultan was observed taking a sip from a flask covered in leather worn shiny with use. Then the Kurds began to sing. It was a strange mixture of lover’s laments, combined with chants of hope and love. An older warrior, who had imbibed too much potent apricot water, interrupted everyone with a lewd song. He sang of the woman he wanted, that she might have a vagina that burned like a furnace. Before he could continue, his sons took him aside, and we did not see him again till the next day.

The evening ended with a Kurdish war-dance which entailed several pairs of fighters leaping over the camp-fire with unsheathed swords and fierce expressions, and the carefully orchestrated clash of swords.

As I was walking back to my tent, I saw the Emir Keukburi and Amjad the eunuch in animated conversation with a man of medium height who I did not recognise. He was clearly a nobleman, probably from Baghdad. He was wearing the colours of the Caliph, and a black silk turban which matched his flowing beard. Even in the starlight a precious stone the colour of blood, set in the centre of the turban, shone splendidly. I bowed to the party, and Amjad introduced me to the stranger. It was Ibn Said from Aleppo, who had lost his power of speech as a child and could only communicate with gestures.

“What did you think of the Kurds, Ibn Yakub?” asked Keukburi.

“They provide the Sultan’s army with much-needed colour,” was my polite reply, but the mute from Aleppo began to gesticulate wildly. Amjad the eunuch nodded sagely and translated Ibn Said’s hand movements for our benefit.

“Ibn Said wants you to know that the Kurds are only good for stripping a city clean. They are the vultures of our faith and should be used sparingly.”

Keukburi frowned.

“I am sure Ibn Said is aware that the Sultan himself is a Kurd and, for that reason, I cannot accept the insult lightly.”

Once again the stranger began his hand movements, which included touching the stone in his turban. Amjad watched every movement like a hawk, nodding all the while.

“Ibn Said says that he is only too well aware of the Sultan’s origins. He says that all precious stones are rough before they have been shaped and polished. The Sultan is such a precious stone, but the men from the mountains still require a lot of work.”

Keukburi smiled and was about to comment when Taki al-Din hailed him and took him away from us. They were both invited to sip tea with the Sultan. As they left I, too, began to move, when suddenly the mute Ibn Said began to speak.

“I knew I had deceived Keukburi, Ibn Yakub, but I thought your powers of observation were sharper.”

The voice was familiar, but the face…and then Amjad was laughing and I knew that the beard and turban were a disguise. Underneath lay the familiar features of the Sultana Jamila.

We all laughed and I was invited to the tent of “Ibn Said” to sip some coffee with her and Amjad the eunuch. Jamila could not live without her coffee, and the beans were sent regularly by her father and, lately, her sister in Harran. It was certainly the most delicious coffee in Damascus, and she was probably right in claiming that it was the best in Arabia and, therefore, the world.

We sat outside her tent savouring the aroma and watching the stars. None of us felt much like speaking. I had noticed this on previous days as well. Soldiers and emirs often sat quietly, deep in thought, before they went to sleep.

What were they thinking? What thoughts were crossing their minds? Were they, like me and Jamila and Amjad, thinking of the battles that lay ahead? Victory or defeat? Both were possible. The feeling of deep solidarity that existed in all these men when they marched together was undeniable. That solidarity was created by the knowledge that if they succeeded in driving the Franj out of al-Kuds, this army of which they were a part would be remembered throughout history.

This solidarity gave them a collective identity when they thought only of victory, but these soldiers were also individual human beings. They had mothers and fathers, and brothers and sisters and wives, and sons and daughters. Would they see their loved ones again? True this was a jihad, and that meant they would go straight to heaven without any accounting by the angels. But what if people close to them failed to win entry to heaven? What then? It was thoughts of this sort that dominated their minds as they savoured the night sky before closing their eyes. I know this because I spoke to many of them and heard their stories.

“If we lose,” said Jamila, “and Salah al-Din is killed, I will take my sons and return to my father’s home. I do not wish to sit in Damascus and watch more wars whose only aim is to determine who succeeds him. I suppose pessimism is natural on the eve of a war. My instinct, however, says the opposite. I feel strongly that he will win this war. Let us retire for the night, Ibn Yakub, and careful you do not betray my secret.”

I bade goodnight to the bearded Jamila, but the Sultan clearly had other plans for me. Just as I was walking to my tent, one of his bodyguards waylaid me with instructions to attend to the Sultan without delay. I rushed to my tent to collect my pen and ink and sheafs of paper.

The Sultan’s tent was surprisingly modest. It was only slightly bigger than mine, and the bed in the corner was no different to that on which I slept. The only sign of rank was a large silk carpet which covered the sand and on which he sat, leaning against a pile of cushions. Next to him were the Emir Keukburi and Taki al-Din. The Sultan was in a light mood. He looked at me and winked.

“Who is this Ibn Said from Aleppo who insults my Kurdish warriors?”

“A man of no importance, Commander of the Victorious.”

“I hope you are right. Keukburi is convinced that he is a spy of some sort.”

“Spies,” I replied, “are usually keen to ingratiate themselves with the enemy. They flatter shamelessly the better to deceive. The stranger from Aleppo is one of nature’s sceptics, with a whip for a tongue and a brain so sharp that it could slice a camel in two.”

The Sultan laughed.

“You have just described the Sultana Jamila.”

Everyone laughed at this sally, and Keukburi, unaware that he was the butt of the joke, louder than most, to show that he really appreciated the dig at his sister-in-law.

Before Keukburi’s ignorance as to the real identity of Ibn Said could be further exploited, the tent flap opened and the Sultan’s oldest son, al-Afdal, all of seventeen years, walked in and bowed to his father, acknowledging the rest of us with a patronising smile. He had grown since I last saw him over a year ago. His beard was neatly trimmed and his whole demeanour suggested a person of authority. I remembered him and his brothers as small boys being taught to ride in Cairo. I had seen this boy being taught how to fight with a sword on horseback and on foot.

Assuming that father and son wished to be alone, Taki al-Din, Keukburi and myself rose to leave. The Sultan permitted the other two to leave, but waved me to stay seated. After the two men had departed, he allowed his son to sit down.

The boy had fought his first battle several weeks ago and had sent his father a glowing account, comparing his first war to the deflowering of a virgin, an analogy that had greatly displeased Imad al-Din. He had muttered rudely that, whatever else he might become, al-Afdal could never be a prose stylist. Salah al-Din was a loving but stern father. Since the arrival of his son, his mood had changed. His face had taken on a severity which did not augur well for the young prince, who realising this just as I did, frowned at my presence. I smiled at him sweetly and he turned his face away, not looking his father in the eyes.

“Look at me Afdal! We are about to fight a battle in which I might die. Our spies tell us that the Franj King, Guy, has offered a large reward to the knight who lances me in the heart.”

The boy was moved to tears.

“I will be at your side always. They will have to kill me first.”

The Sultan smiled, but his face did not lighten as he continued.

“Listen to me, boy. You are still young. Understand one thing. In the field of battle, respect must be earned. I was given a chance by my uncle Shirkuh to prove myself early in life, just like you, except that I exercised no power whatsoever till much later. Shirkuh never believed in inherited authority.

“I was grateful to him, even though at the time I felt like a man who does not know how to swim but is thrown into a river. He has to learn how to swim and reach the other side at the same time. You think because you are the son of the Sultan that the soldiers and the emirs will respect you. They may want you to believe that, but you would be a fool to do so. Once you have fought by their side, eaten sand and tasted blood, then they might begin to see you as their equal. After you have fought with them several times, they might begin to respect you. The right to give orders does not win respect.

“Imad al-Din and al-Fadil have educated you well. I am aware that you are well acquainted with the history of all the great wars we have fought since the days of our Prophet, may he rest in peace, but that knowledge, important though it is, will not come to your aid in the battlefield. In wars, experience is a much better teacher.

“What you learn from books you can just as easily forget, unless you are blessed with the memory of Imad al-Din. What you experience yourself stays with you till you die.

“I summoned you because it has come to my attention that some weeks ago you challenged the authority of your cousin and my brother’s son, Taki al-Din, in front of the emirs, ordering him to carry out an instruction contrary to what he had already decided. He was disciplined, and did as you asked. In his place my uncle Shirkuh and I would have slapped your neatly bearded face. Fortunately your orders did not lead to disaster, otherwise I would have had to reprimand you in public.

“I want to be clear on one point. Taki al-Din is my right arm. I trust his judgement. I trust him with my life. If, in the course of the battle, Allah decides that my time has come, Taki al-Din is the only emir genuinely respected by the soldiers, who could still lead our side to victory. I am leaving orders to that effect. You can learn a great deal by observing your cousin and staying by his side, but that is a decision for you alone. Tomorrow morning I want you to go to him, apologise for what you did, and kiss his cheeks. Is that plain? Now go to bed.”

The Sultan’s chosen heir was in chastened mood as he bowed to both of us and left the tent.

“Do you think I was too harsh, Ibn Yakub?”

“Not having a son myself, O Sultan, I am not the right person to comment on relationships between a father and his son, but as a leader of men, what you said was totally justified. He was hurt, but mainly because of my presence. He would have taken it better without me, but a young prince who aspires to be a good ruler must learn to make his own way in this harsh world.”

“I could not have put it better myself, scribe. I wanted you to be present so that you could inscribe it and it will remain part of our family history. If he turns out to be a good Sultan he will appreciate these words, for he might need to use them to his own son. Leave me now. I think I will spend the night exploring the mind of Ibn Said. I shall send for our sceptic from Aleppo to warm my bed and stimulate my brain.”

I looked at him in surprise. There was a twinkle in his eye, but how would Jamila receive the news of the intended exploration? She had not shared the Sultan’s bed for many years, and the look on his face made it clear that this was what he had in mind.

Twenty-Seven

The story of Amjad the eunuch and how he managed to copulate despite his disability

ASHTARA, THREE DAYS’ JOURNEY south of Damascus, lies on a plateau that crowns a large hill. We had been there for almost a month. The Sultan was delighted with the progress being made by the soldiers. While there would always be differences between the units gathered under his command, he now felt that they understood how he wanted to fight the war. Much time had been spent explaining the meaning of different signs and sounds. Each unit assigned a member to watch the Sultan’s tent. For troops at a distance, the ability to understand what the shifting banners signified was as much a matter of life and death as a correct interpretation of the drumroll was for soldiers in closer proximity to the Sultan. All this took time to explain to the emirs and nobles in command of the different units and squadrons of Salah al-Din’s armies.

One day after morning prayers, he breakfasted in his tent with only Taki al-Din and myself in attendance. He looked his nephew in the eye, saying with a laugh: “The dust that rises when my army marches to al-Kuds will eclipse the sun!”

This was the only time that I saw him excited by the prospect of war. He had embarked on the conflict at this particular moment, not because military strength favoured him, but for reasons of state. He had behind him the most united army of Believers ever raised to defeat the infidel. There were Jews and Christians as well, but their numbers were small. Many of them were simply waiting for an opportune moment to convert to the faith of the Prophet of Islam. Not the Copts, however. Their strong beliefs and implacable hostility to Rome and to Constantinople made them Salah al-Din’s natural allies.

I was walking away from the Sultan’s tent when Amjad the eunuch took me by the arm and whispered: “Ibn Said, the mute, desires your attendance.”

I followed him without a word. I had still not become used to Jamila’s new identity. Only when her eyes twinkled did I recognise the woman behind the disguise. That and her voice, which could only be heard in the secrecy of her tent.

“Salah al-Din tells me that he shocked you, confessing the desire for me that was filling his loins a few nights ago. True?”

I could never get used to this woman. She invariably took me by surprise. Amjad the eunuch laughed at my discomfiture. How in heaven’s name could I reply?

“The truth, Ibn Yakub. As always, the truth!”

“I was not shocked by the Sultan’s announcement that he wished you to share his bed again. That was normal for him. You are very beautiful and…”

She became impatient.

“And I’m the only woman in the camp. Yes, yes, I am aware of this fact, but what was it that shocked you, master scribe?”

“It was the thought of how degrading it might be for you if you were compelled to submit to the desires of a man.”

She smiled and stroked her false beard.

“I thought as much, and it was noble of you to feel a sense of shock at my predicament. As you can see, I survived the experience. I am used to your Sultan. I could not have submitted my body to any other man — or, for that matter, a eunuch.”

Amjad the eunuch flinched as if he had been touched by fire. He appeared upset by her remark. Realising this, she stroked his head and whispered an apology, immediately putting him on the defensive.

“Trying to persuade Amjad to talk about his past is like pulling a tooth from the mouth of a crocodile.”

The eunuch smiled, pleased with her attention. She continued to press him.

“Who knows whether any of us will live or the over the next few weeks? Today you must tell us your story, Amjad. We have the advantage of the scribe’s presence. Ibn Yakub will write it all in his little book, and you will be immortalised for the future. What say you to this, my red-haired friend?”

It was now for the first time that I observed Amjad’s features. The reddishness of his hair was emphasised by the whiteness of his skin. His eyes were grey. He was much taller than me, and I am taller than the Sultan. I had never been interested in him as a person, but his closeness to Shadhi and Jamila mirrored my own affections. I too appealed to him directly.

“Amjad,” I said. “Shadhi often spoke with me about you. He had a high regard for your intelligence and yet, despite this, we know little of each other. Who are you? When did you come to Damascus, and how did you end up in the citadel as a retainer of the Sultan?”

His eyes became melancholic and he sighed, before speaking in his soft, unbroken voice.

“The reason I have resisted the Sultana’s previous injunctions to speak of myself is because I know very little of my past. I am a saqalabi, that much is clear from my appearance, and I am a eunuch, which almost reduces me to the level of a caged animal.

“As you are both no doubt aware, people like me come in different shapes and sizes. There are some eunuchs whose entire penis has been removed. This variety is popular amongst those kings and sultans who watch their women like tigers, ready to pounce on them at the first signs of betrayal. They imagine that a eunuch whose organ has been completely removed can, for that reason, be trusted completely. Strange how the degree of trust for some nobles and emirs is dependent on the degree to which a eunuch has been mutilated. If they really wanted to avoid all physical contact between a eunuch and a woman they would have to eliminate more than a poor penis. Fingers, toes and the wonderfully agile tongue would also need to be removed. But I have long given up studying the inconsistencies of emirs and sultans.

“There are others like me, who are simply castrated and sold to churches. We are taught to sing in praise of Isa, and in our spare time we gratify the carnal desires of priests and bishops. Fate favoured me. I did not undergo any such ordeal. I was castrated when I was four or five years old, bought by Jewish merchants in the lands of the Bulgars, and sold in the market in Andalus. Here I was bought by another trader, who believed in Allah and the Prophet, and brought me to Damascus. All this I was told by the family to whom I was sold at the age of seven.

“As the Sultana is aware, our faith expressly forbids the castration of boys or men. So the only way in which the demand for eunuchs can be met by our sultans and emirs is through buying them from churches or freeing them from the tyranny of the priests, after a city has fallen to the followers of the Prophet. Then we become faithful and willing converts to Allah, because we have never been treated better or permitted so much influence and power.

“The Sultana understands well that intelligence resides not in the penis, but in the brain of a man. To regard eunuchs as powerless purely on the basis of their emasculation is foolish, as many rulers, the late Sultan Zengi amongst them, have discovered to their cost.

“I know of at least three different cabals of eunuchs in the citadel alone. They are loyal to the Sultan, yet after he dies they will take different sides in the struggle for the succession. I belong to none of them and, for that reason, am both trusted and mistrusted by all. It is a happy position because they tell me what I wish to know, but keep secret their plots. That also pleases me. If I was aware of any plan to kill al-Afdal, I would inform the chamberlain without hesitation.

“You, wise and good Ibn Yakub, asked of my childhood memories. Alas, I have no recollection of my parents or when and why they sold me. Perhaps they were poor peasants and needed money. There are several eunuchs in Damascus who have told me stories of how they were castrated by their own parents, and sold to merchants acting on behalf of the Patriarch of Constantinople.

“I have no memory of the voyage from the land of the Bulgars to Andalus, or from those parts to Damascus. I was sold by the trader who had bought me in Andalus to the merchant, Daniyal ibn Yusuf. His family treated me kindly. I was taught how to read and write as if I was their own child. They clothed me and made sure I was well fed. I always knew I was different from the rest of the family because I did not sleep in the house. I lodged in the quarters allocated to the cook. They were always hot and dominated by an offensive odour, which emanated from the body and clothes of the cook. He never mistreated or abused me and, since he was a good cook, I forgave him the unpleasant smell.

“By the time I was sixteen, the master commented that I had a natural ability with figures and he took me out of the house. Every morning I would accompany him to his work in the suk, where he owned two shops. The first sold expensive cloths and rugs: satins and brocades from Samarkand, silk from China, muslin and shawls from India, and Persian rugs.

“The neighbouring shop sold only swords, and these, too, were of the highest quality. The master told me that one of the swords of the Sultan Salah al-Din had been bought from his shop, though later Shadhi told me that this could not have been the case. All the Sultan’s weapons were specially made to measure by craftsmen attached to the armouries established for this purpose in Cairo and Damascus.

“What is undoubtedly true is that the cloth shop was visited one day by the Sultana Ismat, may she rest in peace, and her retinue. I am talking now of the time when she was married to the great Nur al-Din and not to our Sultan. I was in the shop that day, and she was impressed by the way I spoke to the ladies who waited on her. I refused to haggle and stuck firmly to the price that had been fixed by my master. I had no idea who these grand ladies were or from whence they came.

“The Sultana laughed at my impudence and within a week she had me transferred to the citadel. When she discovered I was a eunuch, she was overjoyed. I was attached to the harem as her special messenger to the world outside. After Nur al-Din’s death, she married our Sultan. The rest you know. I am sorry that my life has been so uneventful.”

I could now see why Amjad was so highly valued by those who trusted his discretion. He knew many of the darker secrets of life in the citadel, but had refused to divulge them. Perhaps it was my presence that inhibited him. Perhaps he did not wish to speak out of turn while Jamila was present, for then she might think that if he could talk about others in front of her he could easily do the same about her to others, and trust would be destroyed.

That same day, following the evening meal, I resisted all attempts to make me join the various games with which the soldiers amused themselves. I was not in a mood to enjoy the company of my fellow men. Morbid thoughts had begun to crowd my mind. I returned to my tent and began to meditate on the stage my life had reached. Might it not be prematurely cut short in the weeks and months ahead?

The tent itself began to feel oppressive and, anxious to rid my head of cobwebs, I decided to walk out into the night, to regain my inner calm by breathing the cold night air and watching the movement of the stars.

I had sat down on a little mound and was thinking of Rachel, when a hand tapped my shoulder. I had thought I was alone and the touch sent a shock-wave of fright through my body. In times like this, one thought of Franj spies, but the voice was familiar.

“My heartfelt apologies for frightening you, Ibn Yakub. I, too, found the camp very restricting tonight and decided to follow you here. I should have made my presence known earlier, but I felt you needed to be alone for a while.”

It was Amjad. Relief dissipated the anger I had felt at being followed in this sly fashion. He had done so for a purpose.

“I could feel that you did not fully trust the account of my life that I gave you and the Sultana this morning.”

I reassured him that this was not the case. I had no reason to doubt his veracity. My dissatisfaction, for it was nothing more, had arisen because I felt instinctively that he knew a great deal more than he had cared to divulge. Jamila had felt this more strongly than myself, and had been irritated by what she characterised as Amjad’s refusal to take sides on any issue. The eunuch smiled when I informed him of her annoyance.

“I know why she was angry. In the past I have told her everything. What used to interest both her and the Lady Halima was my inability to enjoy the delights of the bedchamber.

“One day their intense questioning led to an insistence on both their parts that I bare what remained of my genitals so that they could examine them closely. I was reluctant, but their pressure became relentless. Ultimately I acceded to their outrageous demand. Their inspection did not last long, but they used the fact to blackmail me. Unless I kept them informed of all the activities in which the other ladies in the harem were engaged, they would tell the Sultan that I had shown them the remains of my penis. It was Halima who half-threatened me in this fashion. Jamila saw the fear on my face and immediately sought to reassure me that it was a joke and instructed me to forget everything that had taken place.

“Nonetheless I was regularly questioned by Halima about the other women, and I had to feed her with the odd crumb of information. Often I made something up for her amusement. All was well as long as Halima and Jamila remained close friends. Serious trouble only erupted when their relationship had come to an end. Halima told some of her new friends what I had said about them, and one evening five of them, watched by Halima who had incited them in the first place, surrounded me, and proceeded to whip me on my bare back. I still bear the marks of that humiliation.

“Two people helped me greatly after that ordeal. When I told him what I had suffered, Shadhi became so angry that he wanted to tell the Sultan. I had to use all my wiles to stop him, but I think he sent a message to Halima warning her that if she carried on in this fashion she would be spending the rest of her days in a tiny hut in a remote village.

“Jamila, too, was genuinely shocked and upset. As a result we became close friends and, in her presence, I pledged in the name of Allah and our Holy Prophet that I would never tell tales again.

“Till a few weeks ago Jamila helped me honour this pledge. Then suddenly one evening, and without any warning, she began to question me about Halima. I kept quiet and shook my head. My silence upset her and we did not speak again till this morning. Presumably she thought that in your presence my tongue might loosen. I am aware of what she wishes to know and I understand her motives, but I am bound by a vow before Allah. I had no alternative but to disappoint her.”

Listening to him that night under the stars I could understand how Shadhi and Jamila had been seduced by the soft voice of this eunuch. Now he had me under his spell. I was intrigued by his teasing references to Halima. What could he know? What did he know?

“I too am dismayed by your story, Amjad. I can see why Shadhi wanted to tell Salah al-Din. It would have ended the matter immediately. I fully respect your vow not to tell tales, and I have no desire that you breach your oath. Yet surely what Jamila wished to know was the truth about Halima. Your pledge concerned inventions and lies. Am I not correct?”

He did not reply for some time, and suddenly the majestic silence of the desert night became oppressive. I was about to rephrase and repeat my question, when he began to speak again.

“You are correct, as usual, Ibn Yakub, but what Jamila wanted to know involved my own person. If I had told her the whole truth it would have killed her regard for me, which means a great deal. In fact, I treasure it more than anything else in this world. The sad truth is that one night, when I was fast asleep, Halima entered my bedchamber. She removed the gown that covered her nakedness, lay down beside me, and began to stroke my body and fondle that which she and Jamila had once, long ago, inspected from a distance.

“In the name of Allah, I swear to you, Ibn Yakub, that for quite some time I thought I was dreaming. It was only when she mounted me and began to move up and down on this little dateless palm-tree between my legs, that I realised it was all real, but by then, even if I had wished, it was too late to resist or complain. Even the strongest doubts can be drowned by pleasure. After it was over she left. We had not managed to exchange a single word. I felt like an animal. Perhaps she felt the same disgust that overcame me, but perhaps not.

“She returned several times, and we coupled in silence. It ended as it had begun. Abruptly. Afterwards we used to avert our eyes whenever we saw each other, but she avoided me and, as I later heard, used to mouth obscenities at my expense to her new friends. One of them, who later fell out with her, told me that Halima had confessed to all of them that mounting me was the only way she could rid herself of the spectre of Jamila which she encountered everywhere.

“Nothing remains secret in the harem. I am convinced she was followed and malicious tongues informed Jamila, who, not unnaturally, wanted a confirmation or denial from my own lips. I could not oblige her, Ibn Yakub. It would hurt her a great deal and demean our friendship. For me, one afternoon spent in conversation with Jamila is worth all my nights with Halima. They are not even delights I could measure on the same scale. Jamila’s intellect affects me like an aphrodisiac. When she laughs with me the sun shines on my heart. She is the one I truly love, and I would happily the at her command. Now you know it all. My guilty secret is out at last.”

I was stunned by Amjad’s confession. Where I had failed, a eunuch had succeeded. I looked at the stars, silently praying for the heavens to fall. I wanted to smother all memories.

That night I was awakened by a dream. I was being castrated by a woman whose face was disfigured by an ugly leer. It was Halima.

Twenty-Eight

Divisions within the Franj are brought to our notice

TWO OF OUR SPIES within the Franj camp, both merchants of the Coptic persuasion, had informed Taki al-Din of developments within the Kingdom of Jerusalem. It was being torn asunder by a furious battle between the two principal knights of King Guy. Count Raymond of Tripoli was advising the King to be cautious and defensive, which meant staying in Jerusalem and not marching out to fall straight into the trap being prepared by Salah al-Din. The King himself was more inclined to the view championed by Reynald of Châtillon. This knight had smelt blood. He questioned the integrity of Count Raymond, accusing him of being a friend of Salah al-Din and a false Christian. Reynald believed that the balance of strength favoured the Franj. He argued that their knights and foot-soldiers could outmanoeuvre and outflank the Sultan’s armies.

At one stage the two men had almost come to blows. They would have fought each other there and then had not the King grabbed a wooden cross and put his own person between them. He had compelled the two knights to swear an oath that they would cease quarrelling and fight together to defeat the Saracen infidels.

Taki al-Din questioned the two spies in detail. He asked them about the exact size of Guy’s army, the amount of supplies they would need to survive outside their city, the names of the men who would command the Templars and Hospitallers, and the length of time it would take us to receive information about the exact whereabouts of the Franj army, if, that is, they were foolish enough to abandon the Holy City and come out to meet the Sultan on his own ground. The merchants looked at each other and laughed. It was the older one who spoke.

“The Emir need not worry on that count. My own brother is responsible for maintaining the supplies needed by Guy and Reynald. He will inform us the moment he has the necessary information. The pigeons are prepared.”

Taki al-Din smiled.

“My uncle always complimented me on being a good judge of character. You have never supplied me with false information or disappointed the trust I have placed in you. For this the Sultan will reward you generously. Your tent is prepared. You have had a long journey. Please rest and recover your strength till the evening meal.”

Two days later the news we had been waiting for reached us. Reynald of Châtillon had won the battle for Guy’s ear. The Franj were even now preparing to march out of the Holy City, to fight on our terrain. The Sultan’s face lit up when he heard the news. He insisted that it be checked and double-checked. We had to wait another day before confirmation arrived from another source. Only then did Salah al-Din order a review of all his troops to be held the next morning, six miles north of Ashtara at Tell Tasil, situated on the main road to the valley of the Jordan river.

“I want to stand on a mound and observe the whole army, Ibn Yakub,” he said. “‘Radishes come like men, in different shapes and sizes,’ our friend Shadhi used to say. Apart from my own squadrons, most of these men are new. They are radishes from fields I have not ploughed. Let us see how they compare to our variety.”

News that the Franj had moved out of the Holy City to give us battle swept through the entire camp within half-an-hour. News of this nature can never be kept secret for long. The effect was a complete change in the mood of the men. If they had, till now, been relaxed and slightly over-confident, the information that they might now be engaged in real combat within a few days made them nervous, somewhat edgy, and yes, even fearful.

The Sultan was well aware of how fluctuating morale can dampen the ardour of even the best army on the eve of battle. He ordered the camp to be dismantled. I had never seen him like this before. He appeared to be everywhere at the same time. One minute I could see him and his emirs rushing to inspect the storage and alert the supply-masters of the decision. With their gowns flying in the wind, they looked from a distance like giant ravens. They gave orders for the camels, supply mules and wagons to be made ready, for tent-pegs to be loosened that night, to be rolled and packed at the crack of dawn. The next minute the Sultan himself, to my amazement, clambered up on a newly constructed siege tower to test its solidity. I was alarmed at the needless risk, but young al-Afdal, who stood by my side watching his father, laughed away my worries.

“We are used to him behaving like this before a battle. He insists on taking risks. He says it inspires confidence in the men. If the Sultan can die then so can they.”

“And will he let you risk your life, my young prince?”

The neatly bearded face changed colour.

“No. He says I have to stay alive in case he falls. So my task in the battle is to convey his orders, and to stand by his tent and his banner at all times. I went to my cousin Taki and asked to fight by his side, but he too has his orders. It is not fair. I have already fought in two battles, but this will be the most important.”

“Patience, Ibn Yusuf. Your time, too, will come. You, too, will live without misfortune. You will govern and judge and raise your sons as you have been raised. The Sultan acts in your best interests. A sapling has to be protected from hot winds so that it too can grow and bear fruit.”

The heir to the Sultanate became petulant.

“Ibn Yakub, please don’t try and act like Shadhi. There was only one of him.”

With these haughty words, the young man left me to my own devices, though not for long. Amjad the eunuch, uncharacteristically long-faced, whispered in my ear that Ibn Said, the mute, was awaiting my presence. As we walked to her tent, Amjad warned me that the Sultana was in a foul mood and he would leave me alone with her. The reasons for Jamila’s ill-humour soon became clear.

“Salah al-Din has ordered that I am not to be permitted to march with the army. He says the danger is too great and my presence is unjustifiable. I explained to him patiently that he was talking like a man whose brains had been replaced by the anus of a camel. This annoyed him greatly, and he pushed me aside. He has even instructed Amjad to prepare my return to Damascus. So while all of you are marching to take al-Kuds, the eunuchs and one woman will be heading towards Damascus.

“I am warning you in advance, Ibn Yakub. I will not obey him this time. Amjad, poor fool, is frightened out of his wits. He dare not disobey Salah al-Din. I’ve told him I am quite capable of looking after myself. I ride better than most of you, and I have often shot at the mark with an arrow. What is your opinion?”

She was in a rage, and I followed Ibn Maymun’s advice in these situations and offered her some water. She sipped slowly from a glass, which calmed her a little.

“Sultana, I feel honoured and privileged to be your friend, but I beg of you not to resist the Sultan’s will on this occasion. He has enough to think about without worrying about your safety. I know it is not in your nature to accept orders blindly. Your first response is always to resist his command, but I know how much he loves you and how seriously he always considers your advice. I have often heard him say that you, not he, are in possession of a powerful brain. Indulge him just this once.”

She smiled.

“So, you can be sly as well. That is a revelation. I am prepared to accept your advice provided you answer one question truthfully. Do we have a deal?”

I was so taken aback by this odd request that, without further thought, I eagerly nodded my agreement.

“When Amjad walked with you into the desert night a few days ago, did he tell you how many times he let Halima fuck him?”

I had been led neatly into a giant trap. She had taken me by surprise, and she did not need me to utter a single word. My guilt-ridden features told her all she wished to know.

“Amjad!” I heard her shout. “You disgusting whore. They should have cut it all off when they had the chance. Come here!”

I thought this might be an opportune moment to slip out of her tent unobserved.

Early next morning, in the light of a rosy hue which is the desert dawn, we rode out to Tell Tasil. Spirits were high, but the odd note of laughter, a shade too loud and over-enthusiastic, testified to the nervousness felt by some of the emirs, for it was they who laughed in this fashion. It did not take us long to reach Tell Tasil. Usually, Salah al-Din reviewed his army when stationed on a mound, and always on horseback. This time he broke with tradition. He instructed the foot-soldiers to push a siege tower to where he stood. He invited me to climb up with him, but the look on my face made him laugh and withdraw the invitation. Instead he took al-Afdal up with him. I stood at the base of the large wooden construction which would usually be deployed to scale the walls of enemy citadels.

Once he was in position, he raised his arm. The trumpeters blared out their message, and a drumroll began the proceedings. Then, preceded by the black banners of the Abbasid Caliphs and by the Sultan’s own standard, Taki al-Din and Keukburi, looking fierce in their armour and with swords raised, led the troops past the tower. It was a remarkable sight. The 10,000 horsemen were followed by archers on camels, and then by the long line of foot-soldiers.

Even the Kurdish fighters had managed to curb their unruly instincts. They rode past the Sultan in exemplary formation. It took over an hour for everyone to march past, and the dust became a thick cloud. Salah al-Din looked pleased as he came down from the tower. For once he was deeply affected by the sight of what we had witnessed. The experience seemed to have dispelled his customary caution.

“With this army, Allah permitting, I can defeat anyone. Within a month, Ibn Yakub, your synagogue, in what you call Jerusalem, and our mosque, in what for us will always be al-Kuds, will be filled once again. Of this I have no doubt.”

That same day, a Friday, the day usually favoured by the Sultan to launch a jihad, we marched in the direction of the Lake of Galilee. We reached al-Ukhuwana just after sunset. Here we set up camp for the night.

Twenty-Nine

The eve of the battle

THE SULTAN HAD RECEIVED word from his advance scouts that the Franj were assembling their knights and soldiers at Saffuriya. Some of his emirs wanted to draw them out a bit further, but Salah al-Din shook his head.

“Let them stay there for the moment. You shall cross the river and wait for them on the hills, near Kafar Sebt. They will come running when I take Teveriya. They will be enraged, and anger on this terrain can be fatal. Once you receive news that Allah has rewarded us with a shining victory, you will move through this area and place guards near every well, stream and river. Then, wait where you are with your lances poised like the claws of a lion. Taki al-Din will come with me. Keukburi will command the army here. Remember that the lands of the Franj are covered in forests. The shade is never far away. Allah will show them the strength of the sun. Let them bake inside their mail till they cannot bear its touch.”

The emirs could not conceal their admiration. They sighed with delight and began to hum praises in his honour.

“Those who place their hopes in you are never disappointed. You are the only one who protects all his subjects against the Franj. In you we have…”

The Sultan silenced them with an irritated gesture.

News spread quickly that the Sultan had decided to take Teveriya, the city that the Romans called Tiberias. There was no shortage of volunteers to take this Franj stronghold. Situated on the southern tip of the Lake of Galilee, it had been left alone in the past because of the truce agreed between Salah al-Din and Count Raymond of Tripoli. Now that Raymond had joined the Franj forces in Saffuriya, we were free to take the city.

The eagerness of the men to fight was motivated not so much by the greater cause, the need to combat error and defend truth, the desire to crush the infidel and to strengthen the Believers, as by the hope of a quick victory. They hoped above all that some of the riches of this perishable world might fall into their hands. Salah al-Din did not accept volunteers. He picked his own tried and tested soldiers.

“They are the burning coals of our faith. With them I will take Teveriya by surprise.”

While he marched to take the old Roman fortress, Keukburi crossed the river. After a few hours he set up camp, ten miles to the east of the Franj encampment, on a small plateau, south of a village which bore the name of Hattin. To my considerable annoyance, I had been instructed by the Sultan to stay with the main army. I can only assume that he did not want any unnecessary baggage and wished to limit his strike force to seasoned warriors. I could appreciate the logic, but it did not deaden my disappointment.

The decision to camp here had been taken two days earlier following reports received from the advance scouts. They spoke of two large streams bubbling with cool fresh water and surrounded by fruit and olive orchards. We arrived here with the sun at the zenith. The heat had exhausted man and animal alike. Sweat poured off the Emir Keukburi’s face and merged with the lather of his steed.

As soon as we had reached the site, Keukburi stripped bare, drinking some water before entering the stream. He shut his eyes as the water travelled over his body. We watched, desperate to follow his example, but whereas the Sultan would have gestured to the whole army to join him, his favoured commander maintained his reserve. After a long time, or so it seemed on that day, he put his head under the water and then quickly re-emerged and clambered up the bank. Two retainers draped his body in white cloth and dried him from head to foot. He retired to his tent, which had been pitched in the fragrant shade of orange trees.

The minute he disappeared from sight there was a muffled cry of relief. We did not wait for permission. Everyone headed towards the water, to soothe their parched throats, to lie in the path of the flowing stream, and to recover from the rigours of the journey. A fair proportion of the new soldiers had not yet lived to mark their sixteenth or seventeenth year. It was reassuring to observe their carefree frolicking. Sounds of laughter mingled with the comforting noise of the water.

The more experienced veterans of the jihad bathed silently, keeping their thoughts to themselves, trying, no doubt, to avoid too many thoughts of the future. Many were not yet thirty years of age, but they had seen enough horrors to last them in this life, and beyond. Some had seen the destitute inhabitants of town and village, ruined and driven out of their homes by the Franj knights. They had experienced battles whose final memory was the bodies of their companions piled high upon each other before the mass burial. They had seen a close friend struck down by an arrow, his liver torn in two. Many had lost brothers and cousins and uncles. Others had witnessed sons crying for their fathers and fathers weeping for their sons.

Having bathed and dried myself, I was sitting in the shade of an olive grove thinking stray thoughts. My daughter was expecting a child. Would it be a boy? Jamila must be safe in the citadel in Damascus. Had she become embittered with Amjad the eunuch, and how was she punishing him? As always, Shadhi occupied my mind, and we were about to commence an imaginary discussion when a retainer coughed politely. My master demanded my presence.

Before separating from us earlier that afternoon Salah al-Din had given his soldiers a brief period to prepare themselves for the journey. As he drank water and half-heartedly chewed some dried dates, he appeared thoughtful. I also detected a touch of sadness in his eyes. He had told me on previous occasions that after Shadhi’s death a loneliness would often grip his soul, a loneliness that remained even when he was in the company of men who stimulated his mind. I knew this mood.

“What does Allah have in store for us, Ibn Yakub? Battles are rarely won by the superiority of arms or men. It is the motivation, a sense of belief in being engaged in Allah’s mission, that is decisive. Do you think the soldiers realise the importance of the next few weeks?”

I nodded.

“Commander of the Victorious, let me tell you what Shadhi would have told you. He always wanted to be with you on this day. He knew it would come, and what you would ask, and this was his reply: ‘I know our soldiers,’ he said. ‘They understand only too well what it means to retake al-Kuds. They are prepared to die for this cause.’ I have listened to them talking to each other, and Shadhi would not wish me to change a word.”

The Sultan smiled and stroked his beard.

“That is the impression that I, too, have gained. Let us hope that their belief in the righteousness of our cause will be sufficient. Let us pray that the cruelties of fate and random misfortunes do not unite to aid the Unbelievers. Tell Keukburi to make sure that the men are fed well tonight.”

There had been no need to pass on this message to the Emir Keukburi. Unlike his commander, he loved eating. He was capable after a single mouthful, or so it was faithfully reported, of discerning every herb and spice that had been used to flavour the meat. He had already instructed the cooks, and just before sunset the scent of cooked meat wafted through the camp, inflaming our appetites. Even the Sultan, whose aversion to meat was well-known, remarked on the unusual fragrance of the aroma.

The cooks had prepared a beef sikbaj, a stew much favoured by the boatmen on the Euphrates. It was sweet and sour, cooked with fresh herbs soaked in vinegar and honey. Its effects were soporific. Even the Kurds with their addiction to grilled meat were forced to admit that the sikbaj they ate that night had been prepared in heaven.

A drumroll awoke us next morning. The exhaustion had disappeared and the soldiers seemed relaxed. Keukburi, to the great relief of most of the men, did not insist on morning prayers. He wanted to join the Sultan in Tiberias. He refused to wait for the supplies to be loaded, and left the camp with a thousand horsemen and myself in attendance.

We had been riding for under half an hour when a cloud of dust moving towards us made everyone tense. Keukburi sent two of his scouts to ride out, to ascertain the number and strength and the banners of the approaching horsemen. If they were Franj knights, we would have to give battle and send out another scout to inform Salah al-Din. We waited, but the scouts did not return. The dust moved steadily in our direction.

Keukburi and three of the emirs who rode at his side conferred with each other, and divided our force into three wedges. Suddenly we heard loud cries of “Allah o Akbar”. Everyone smiled and began to breathe again. Those approaching were friends. Then our scouts galloped back, to inform the Emir that Salah al-Din had taken Tiberias and was riding back to join us.

Keukburi roared with delight, and we rode forward to meet the conqueror of the city that had just fallen. The dust subsided. Keukburi jumped off his horse and rushed to the Sultan to kiss his robe. Salah al-Din, moved by the gesture, dismounted and embraced the young Emir with a fierce tenderness. The triumphant chants of the Believers rent the air around the two men.

“They will come now to try and retake their city, and they will take the shortest route, the road that leads from Acre straight through the plain of Hattin. The virtue we must preach to ourselves today is patience. Even my uncle Shirkuh with his monumental impatience would, were he alive today, agree with me. Let us return to the camp and find a pleasant place from where we can observe Guy with his Templars and Hospitallers. The sky is clear, the sun burns like a furnace, and we control the water.”

Thirty

The battle of Hattin

SALAH AL-DIN KNEW THAT the noble Raymond of Tripoli would try to devise an alternative, more defensive plan. His wife was in the citadel of the captured city. Raymond would be aware that Salah al-Din had yet to confront the Franj when they were in a strong and entrenched position. The Sultan was depending on the rashness and stupidity of the Franj leaders. He was confident that the blind mistrust and hatred of the Count of Tripoli felt by Guy and Reynald of Châtillon would lead them to ignore any plan that Raymond might suggest.

On the third day of July, a Friday, the scouts who had been watching the movements of the Franj rode back to our camp in great excitement. Keukburi accompanied them to the entrance of the Sultan’s tent. He was resting, and I was teaching one of his guards the basic moves of chess. Here, underneath the lemon trees, we all waited for him to finish his rest.

The faces of the two scouts were lined with dust. Their eyes were dark with lack of sleep. Their posture suggested that the news they carried was important. They were under strict orders from Taki al-Din to speak directly with Salah al-Din. It was I who suggested that the Sultan might be happy to be disturbed, and Keukburi entered his tent. Salah al-Din walked out bare-chested, a cloth round his waist.

The scouts whispered their message in his ear. It confirmed his predictions. A much-relieved Sultan allowed his emotions to show. He roared with delight.

“Allah o Akbar! They have abandoned the water and are in the grip of Satan. This time I have them.”

Trumpets and drumrolls alerted emir and soldier alike. The speed with which our army made ready for war was a sign of the high morale and discipline that had been achieved during the weeks of training at Ashtara. The fall of Teveriya had a feverish effect on those who had stayed behind. The Sultan, fully dressed in his armour, his green turban in place, and his sword strapped on by attentive retainers, was giving his final orders to Taki al-Din and Keukburi. The two men bowed and withdrew after kissing his cheeks.

Like beasts awaiting their prey, the Sultan’s archers prowled anxiously on the ridge. Their impatience for the kill made them simultaneously nervous and eager. Despite my best efforts to remain calm I could not control my excitement. I broke bread that day with the great Imad al-Din. He was hard at work writing his account of the battle that was about to begin. As he left the tent to relieve himself I read and copied his opening paragraph: “The vast sea of his army surrounded the lake. The ship-like tents rode at anchor and the soldiers flooded in, wave upon wave. A second sky of dust spread out in which swords and iron-tipped lances rose like stars.” He wrote with such ease, the words flowing from his pen quicker than the ink that gave them shape. It did make me wonder, once again, why the Sultan had chosen me and not him to compose this work.

At midday, we caught our first sight of the enemy. The sun was reflecting on the heavy armour of the Franj knights, and the flashes pierced the dust.

As the Franj moved towards the ridge, the Sultan gave the signal. Taki al-Din and Keukburi took their squadrons on a flanking manoeuvre that should not have surprised the Franj. They surrounded the enemy, cut them off from their water supply, and blocked all possible retreats. The Sultan continued to hold the ridge.

I had remained on the ridge next to al-Afdal, near the Sultan’s tent, far from the fighting. Salah al-Din would ride away to observe the battle from different positions, listen to first-hand reports, and then return to his banner where we stood. Then he would send out new instructions. His eyes shone like lamps and his face was free of worry. He was clearly satisfied, yet his caution never deserted him, not for a moment. I had occasion to observe him closely that day.

He was not an interfering commander. He had planned the battle carefully, and provided his orders were carried out he saw no reason to intervene. Throughout the day messengers on horseback, their faces full of dust, would come to him with information and return with orders. One of the most important victories in the annals of Islam was a surprisingly calm affair.

The sight of our dead and wounded soldiers touched me deeply. It upset me that neither the Sultan nor the Emir — nor, for that matter, the men themselves — seemed to show much sympathy for those who had been lost that day. It is strange how, even after one day of war, it is difficult to remember what normal life was like before the battle and all its afflictions.

As the Franj knights slumped and fell, the only emotion I felt was one of relief. By temperament, I am not a vengeful person, but as I saw the sand darkened by the blood of the Franj I recalled the accounts of what they had done to my people in Jerusalem and other towns. I offered a silent prayer pleading with the Almighty to hasten the victory of our Sultan. Not that he needed my prayers that day. His tactics had worked well and, though none of us realised it at the time, it won him the battle of Hattin. Unlike the Franj, we lost few men on that first day. We could have followed them, and finished the job by the evening, but the signal given by al-Afdal from outside the Sultan’s tent was to let them retreat. They had nowhere to go. Every exit had been sealed. Every well was under our control. The supplies on which the Franj had been relying had been diverted, and some of them were already being unloaded at our camp.

The Franj had thought that, as in the past, their knights would charge and break through the encirclement, opening up a path for their entire army to retreat. But they underestimated the size of our army. What they wanted to do had become impossible.

That night, as both sides made camp, neither was aware that the battle was over. On our side, the Sultan conferred anxiously with the emirs. He wanted the names of the skirmishers from each squadron. He demonstrated his own prodigious memory by naming the archers he wanted in position the next day. He had carefully watched the new archers at Ashtara and noted the names of those who hit the mark most often. They were given 400 loads of arrows. The Sultan watched the supplies being distributed and addressed his favourite archer by name.

“Tell your men, Nizam al-Din, that, despite the temptation, they must never waste arrows by aiming at the knights of the Franj. Their armour cannot be pierced. But mark the horse, and aim well, so that the beast falls. A Franj knight without his horse is like an archer without a bow. Useless. Once you get the horses, Taki al-Din and our horsemen will ride like a wave and decapitate these infidels as they stagger nervously to their feet. Is that clear?”

The reply came from all the archers who had been straining their ears to catch the Sultan’s words.

“There is only one Allah, and he is Allah, and Mohammed is his Prophet.”

“I agree,” muttered the Sultan, “but I don’t want Him to welcome too many of you into Heaven too soon. This war is not over.”

Before the battle began again, the Sultan gave firm instructions to his emirs regarding Raymond of Tripoli.

“He is a good man, who was once our friend. Even though he has been compelled by the worshippers of icons to fight against us, I harbour no ill-will against him. He must not be killed. I want him taken alive. If that is not possible, let him escape. We shall find him again.”

It was our skirmishers who began the fight, testing the intentions of the enemy. The Sultan, flanked by Taki al-Din and Keukburi, waited awhile before committing his army to battle. The Franj charged the skirmishers and we suffered some losses, but Salah al-Din signalled to another group of mamluks to join the skirmishing. This time the Franj knights retreated. Imad al-Din, who was with me that day, laughed at the sight.

“The lions have been transformed into hedgehogs,” he said, but a look from the Sultan silenced him. Shadhi had taught Salah al-Din that celebrating a victory before it had been won always brought bad luck.

Salah-al-Din ordered his two wings to begin their outflanking operation and his trusted archers moved into position at the same time. Now, at his signal, their bows quivered and their arrows rained on the Franj, unhorsing many knights. A further signal was given and the scrub was set alight, enhancing the miseries of the Franj. The flames were almost invisible in the bright light. The terrified knights and their horses surged to and fro, feeling they could not remain still, wanting to do something, but they confronted an impossible situation. The smell of scorched flesh, human and animal, began to waft in our direction with the breeze of the late afternoon. Those Franj knights who rode through the fire and charged desperately up the wadis found the Sultan’s archers waiting for them. Some collapsed from sheer exhaustion. Others were burnt alive. The Sultan received the news without emotion. Only once did he speak to me directly, and that was to remark that some of the finest-pedigreed horses of Arabia had perished and this was a cause for regret.

I heard with my own two ears the desperate cries of the Franj soldiers. Crazed by thirst and burnt by the sun, they pleaded for water, praying to their God and then to Allah, much to the disgust of their knights who belonged to the Orders of the Templars and the Hospitallers.

I could see one of their commanders, that impure and infantile adventurer, Reynald of Châtillon, of whom I have already written. He had a frightening scar across his face, a permanent reminder of the skills of one of our unknown swordsmen. Reynald was riding on his sweaty black steed, which snorted arrogantly just like its master. He pulled his horse to an abrupt halt. The roar of the soldiers began to die down. A messenger rushed to the commander. Reynald dismounted and the man whispered something in his ear. Then I lost sight of him completely. Suddenly, and before our very eyes, the Franj lost their formation and appeared without aim or direction.

They moved instinctively towards the lake of Tiberias, but our soldiers barred their way. Hundreds of Franj soldiers gave themselves up to the Sultan, falling on their knees and chanting “Allah o Akbar”. They converted on the spot to the religion of the Prophet, and were given food and water.

Thousands of these soldiers climbed to the top of a small hill, effectively deserting their King. They refused orders to come down. They were thirsty and could not fight without water. Most of them were killed by being hurled over the rocks by their own side. Some were taken prisoner by us. It was clear to everyone that the Franj had been defeated.

Salah al-Din received news of these victories with an impassive face. He was watching the tents which surrounded the symbolic Cross of the Franj. These housed the King and his immediate bodyguard, and had not shifted throughout the battle.

As we watched, young al-Afdal began to jump up and down, shouting: “Now we have beaten them.” He was quickly silenced when a Franj charge drove our soldiers back, causing a frown to occupy the Sultan’s forehead for the first time during this battle.

“Be silent boy!” he told his son. “We shall not defeat them until that tent falls.”

Even as he pointed to the tent of King Guy, we saw it fall. We saw our soldiers capture the “True Cross”. Now Salah al-Din embraced his son and kissed him on the forehead.

“Allah be praised! Now we have beaten them, my son.”

He ordered the victory drumroll, and cries of joy erupted on the hills and plains around the village of Hattin. Taki al-Din and Keukburi came riding up, their arms filled with Franj banners. They threw them at the Sultan’s feet and leapt off their horses, their eyes filled with tears of joy and relief. They kissed Salah al-Din’s hands, and he lifted them both to their feet. With his arms round their shoulders, he thanked them for what they had achieved. Then Taki al-Din spoke to him.

“I allowed Count Raymond to escape, O Commander of the Victorious, just as you had instructed, even though my archers were straining to unhorse him.”

“You did well, Taki al-Din.”

Now it was Keukburi’s turn.

“Commander of the Victorious, we have captured most of their knights. Their so-called King Guy and his brother, Humphrey of Toron, Joscelin of Courtenay and Reynald of Châtillon are among our prisoners. Guy wishes to speak with you.”

The Sultan was moved. He nodded appreciatively.

“Pitch my tent in the heart of the field where this battle was won. Place our banners in front of the tent. I will see Guy and whoever he chooses to accompany him in that tent. Imad al-Din! I want an exact tally of how many men we have lost and how many were wounded.”

The great scholar nodded sagely.

“It will not take too much time today, O great Sultan. Compared to the Franj whose heads cover the ground like a plague of melons, our casualties are light. We have lost Emir Anwar al-Din. I saw him go down when the Franj charged us just before their final collapse.”

“He was a good soldier. Bathe his body and send it back to Damascus. None of our men should be buried in Hattin, unless they belonged to this region.”

“Who would have thought,” continued Imad al-Din in a more reflective mood, “that the success of your military tactics would transform Hattin, this little insignificant village, into a name that will resound throughout history?”

“Allah decided the fate of the Franj,” was the Sultan’s modest reply.

Imad al-Din smiled but, uncharacteristically, remained silent.

In the distance, we observed the Sultan’s tent established on the plain below. He spurred his horse and our whole party — al-Afdal and a hundred guards, with Imad al-Din and myself bringing up the rear — galloped past corpses already beginning to rot in the sun and stray arms and legs to the place where the tent had been pitched.

Such was the feeling of euphoria that had gripped us all that the only thought to cross my mind was that the wild beasts would be having a feast tonight.

Imad al-Din as his chief secretary and I, the humble chronicler of his life, sat on either side of his chair. He told a guard to inform Keukburi that he was now ready receive the “King of Jerusalem”. And so it happened. Guy, accompanied by Reynald of Châtillon, was brought in by Keukburi, who spoke now with a formality which surprised me.

“Here, Commander of the Victorious, is the self-styled King of Jerusalem and his knight, Reynald of Châtillon. The third man is their interpreter. He has just decided to become a Believer. I await your orders.”

“I thank you, Emir Keukburi,” replied the Sultan. “You may give their King some water.”

Offering Guy hospitality was the first indication that he would not be beheaded on the spot. Guy drank eagerly from the cup, which contained cooled water. He passed the cup to Reynald, who also took a sip, but the Sultan’s face became livid with anger. He looked at the interpreter.

“Tell this King,” he said in a voice filled with contempt and disgust, “that it was he, not I, who offered this wretch a drink.”

Guy began to tremble with fright and bowed his head to acknowledge the truth of Salah al-Din’s words. Then the Sultan rose and looked into Reynald’s blue and ice-cold eyes.

“You dared to commit sacrilege against our Holy City of Mecca. You further compounded your crimes by attacking unarmed caravans and by your treachery. Twice I swore before Allah that I would kill you with my own hands, and now the time has come to redeem my pledge.”

Reynald’s eyes flickered, but he did not plead for mercy. The Sultan drew his sword, and drove it straight through the prisoner’s heart.

“May Allah speed your soul to Hell, Reynald of Châtillon.”

Reynald collapsed on the ground, but he was not yet dead. The Sultan’s guards dragged him outside and, with two blows from their swords, they removed his head from his shoulders.

In the tent there were wrinkled noses as a terrible stench arose. The Franj King, frightened by the fate of his knight, had soiled his clothes.

“We do not murder kings, Guy of Jerusalem,” said the Sultan. “That man was an animal. He transgressed all codes of honour. He had to die, but you must live. Go now and clean yourself. We will provide you with new robes. I am sending you and your knights to be shown to the people of Damascus. I will set up camp outside al-Kuds tonight, and tomorrow what your people once took by force will be returned to the People of the Book. We shall sit where you sat. Yet unlike you we shall dispense justice and avoid tasting the elixir of revenge. We shall repair the injuries that you did to our mosques and to the synagogues of the Jews, and we shall not desecrate your churches. Under our rule, al-Kuds will begin to flourish again. Take the prisoner away, Keukburi, but treat him well.”

Thus it was that Guy and his chief nobles left for Damascus. Even as they were being led away, they could see three hundred knights of the two military orders of the Hospital and the Temple being led to their execution.

They must die, the Sultan had decreed, for if we let them live they will only take arms against us once again. It was the deadly logic of a conflict that had long poisoned our world. All I could think of was the moment we would enter Jerusalem.

Thirty-One

The Sultan thinks of Zubayda, the nightingale of Damascus

SALAH AL-DIN PERMITTED ONLY a modest celebration on the night of our great victory. Couriers were dispatched to Baghdad and Cairo, carrying news of the battle that had been won. The count of the Franj dead had revealed that they had lost 15,000 men. Imad al-Din confirmed the figure, and wrote that the prisoners numbered 3,000 nobles, knights and soldiers.

The letter to the Sultan’s brother al-Adil in Cairo also carried a command. He was to bring the army of Egypt to Palestine, where it was needed to complete the jihad.

The Sultan was happy, but, as always, he permitted nothing to overwhelm his caution. He told Taki al-Din that Hattin was not a decisive victory. A lot more needed to be accomplished, and he warned against overestimating our strength.

He was worried that the Franj would regroup and rally outside the walls of Jerusalem, and he embarked on a careful plan. A great sweep along the coast would destroy every Franj garrison. Then the Holy City would fall into his lap like a ripe plum from a tree that is gently shaken.

The soldiers were drunk with victory. They cheered when the Sultan rode through their ranks and told them of his new plans. They dreamed of the treasure that was waiting to be taken.

Only Imad al-Din and myself, exhausted by the encounters of the last few days, were desperate for the Sultan to grant us leave. We had both spoken of returning to Damascus — we would rejoin the swollen army once it marched in the direction of Jerusalem — but the Sultan was not inclined on this occasion to indulge our wishes.

“Taken together,” he told us, “you are both sincere, learned, eloquent and generous men. You, Ibn Yakub, are cheerful and without arrogance and false pride. Imad al-Din is cheerful and easygoing. On account of these merits I need you both by my side.”

He wanted Imad al-Din to write letters of state, and he wished me to observe and note his every move. Earlier he had promised me that every night after the battle he would dictate his impressions of the day. In the event, this proved impossible, for he spent hours engaged in discussions with his emirs before bathing and retiring to bed.

Four days after our victory at Hattin, the Sultan’s armies stood outside the walls of Acre, a wealthy citadel held by the Franj ever since they had first polluted these shores. He was sure that the city would surrender, but he gave them but a single night in which to make up their mind. From their ramparts the Franj saw the size of the army and sent envoys to negotiate a surrender. Salah al-Din was not a vindictive man. His terms were not ungenerous, and they were accepted on the spot by the envoys.

When the Sultan entered the town, the city appeared lifeless. Imad al-Din commented that it was always the same when new conquerors entered a town. The people, overcome by fear of reprisals, normally stayed at home. Yet there could have been another reason. That day the sun was unrelenting, and those of us who rode through the gates of Acre felt its pitiless heat and sweated like animals.

It was a Friday. The Sultan, his son al-Afdal riding proudly by his side, rode with his emirs to the citadel. As he dismounted, Salah al-Din looked towards the heavens and cupped his hands. While we stood silent, he recited the following verses from the Koran:

You give power to whom You please,

and You strip power from whom You please;

You exalt whom You will,

and You humble whom You will.

In Your hand lies all that is good;

You have power over all things.

Afterwards they bathed and changed their clothing. Then with smiling eyes and dust-free complexions they celebrated the fall of the city, offering prayers to Allah in the old mosque. The Franj had used it, for a very long time, as a Christian church.

After the Friday prayers, the Sultan embraced his emirs and returned to the citadel. He had called a meeting of his council for later that evening, and al-Afdal was sent to ensure that everyone attended. He wanted to remind everyone that this war was not yet over. Alone with Imad al-Din and myself, he dictated a letter to the Caliph, informing him of the victory at Acre. Then, without warning, his whole face softened and his mood changed.

“Do you know what I would really like to do tonight?”

We smiled politely, waiting for him to continue.

“Listen to a singing girl, sitting cross-legged and playing the four-stringed lute.”

Imad al-Din laughed.

“Could it be that the mind of the Commander of the Victorious has recalled the delights and merits of Zubayda?”

The Sultan’s face paled slightly at the mention of the name, but he nodded.

“She still resides in Damascus. She is not as young as we all once were, but I am told that her voice has not changed much. If the Sultan will permit, I will make some inquiries in this city to ascertain…”

“No, Imad al-Din!” interrupted the Sultan. “I spoke in a moment of weakness. This is a city of merchants. Nightingales could not survive here. Do you really believe that there could ever be another Zubayda? Go now both of you and get some rest. I require your presence at the Council and, as a special favour to Imad al-Din, I will not oblige you to eat with me beforehand.”

I had not known the Sultan in such a relaxed mood since our early days in Cairo. Since his return to Damascus he had usually been tense and preoccupied with matters of state.

Later, as the great master of prose and I were being scrubbed by attendants in the bath, I questioned him about Zubayda. He was surprised that Shadhi had never mentioned the object of Salah al-Din’s youthful passions. As we were being dried in the chamber adjoining the baths, he provided me with an account that, once again, revealed his startling capacity for recollection.

“It was the love of a sixteen-year-old boy for a thing of great beauty. You smile, Ibn Yakub, and I know what is passing through your mind. You are thinking how can I, of all people, appreciate beauty in a woman. Am I wrong? You smile again, which confirms my instincts. I understand your doubts. It is true that the sight, even of your unwieldy body, excites me more than that of any woman, but Zubayda was exquisite because of her deep, throaty, voice. It touched the souls of all who heard her sing. Truly, my friend, she was unrivalled in perfection.

“I have no idea of her lineage. It was rumoured that she was the child of a slave woman who had been captured in battle. Zubayda herself never once talked about her past. She did not speak much in company, though al-Fadil, who was also charmed by her, told me once that her conversation sparkled when she was in the presence of just one or two people at the most. That privilege was denied me.

“I was present, however, when young Salah al-Din, his spirit clouded by arrogance, saw her the first time, in the presence of his father Ayyub and his uncle Shirkuh. Of course, Shadhi, too, in those days, was everywhere. It was in the house of a merchant, a man desperate to please Ayyub. He had, for that reason, obtained the services of Zubayda. This was the first time we had heard her sing. Salah al-Din was captivated at once. One could almost see his heart inflamed, by a passion so pure that it could burn everything.

“Zubayda had not yet reached her thirtieth year. Her complexion was fair, her hair was dark, and her large eyes shone like two lamps from heaven. Her teeth when she smiled put pearls to shame. She was slightly built, and if I may say so, she reminded me of a beautiful boy I had once loved in Baghdad. At times her eyes would move away from us, as if she were in a dreamlike trance. Her face then reminded me of a soft moon-entangled cloud. I wish she had been a boy, Ibn Yakub, but I must not digress.

“She was dressed that night in a silk robe, the colour of the sky. It was richly patterned with a variety of birds. The nightingales were embroidered in gold thread. Her head was covered by a long black scarf, with a circular red motif. A silver bracelet hung loosely on each of her wrists. All this one forgot when she played the lute and her voice accompanied the music. It was heaven, my friend. Pure heaven.

“Salah al-Din had to be taken home that night by force. His uncle Shirkuh offered to buy Zubayda for him, but the very thought that she could be bought offended his love. His face paled as he walked away, the blood pulsing in his veins, the ever-protective Shadhi by his side. From that night on, he never missed an opportunity to hear her sing. He sent her presents. He declared his love for her. She would smile with sad eyes, gently stroke his head, and whisper that women like her were not meant to grace the beds of young princes. He began to write poetry underneath the thick, forking pear tree in the courtyard of Ayyub’s house. He would send her couplets, one of which later came to my attention. He spoke of her as more beautiful than the full moon in heaven’s vaults because her beauty survived the dawn. The quality of the poems, as you can imagine, was indifferent, but there was no doubt that they were deeply felt.

“Zubayda was touched by the boy’s love, but she had her own life to live, a life which, of necessity, excluded Salah al-Din. He refused to understand what she was trying to tell him. He could not accept that he was being spurned and rejected. Believe me, Ibn Yakub, when I tell you that things got so bad that this sober, cautious Sultan threatened to take his own life unless he could marry her. His uncle Shirkuh settled the affair by taking him away to Cairo. The rest is known to you. Salah al-Din became a Sultan. Zubayda remained a courtesan.”

Aware of Salah al-Din’s strong will and his obstinacy, I expressed surprise that he had let the singer go so easily. He had obviously left her with regret, but surely he could have returned to her in rapture, and even married her at a later stage. The fact that she was a courtesan would not have bothered him a great deal. Everyone knew, after all, that usually it was the courtesans that made the most faithful wives.

What puzzled me was why Shadhi had never even referred to this tale. Not once. Either the great scholar was exaggerating a youthful obsession or there was another reason, which was still hidden from me. I pressed the Sultan of Memory further, and insisted on being told the whole truth.

Imad al-Din sighed.

“Alas, my friend, she was the keep of his father Ayyub. When Shirkuh made Salah al-Din aware of this terrible fact, something died in the young man. I am firmly of the opinion that after learning of this he diverted all his energies towards warcraft. When I am turned down by a lover all my efforts become concentrated on the books I am preparing for publication. For Salah al-Din it was sword-fighting and riding. It was as if the love he wished, but was not permitted to bestow on Zubayda, was transferred to horses. You may smile, Ibn Yakub, but my observation was not designed to provoke levity on your part.

“Zubayda’s rejection pierced his young heart like a knife. It took him a long time to recover. The consequence was, as you are no doubt aware, that he married much later in life than most men of his position. Once the children began to arrive he became as active as his favourite steed. He took one concubine after another, and produced more sons than his father and uncle put together.

“Despite the growth of his families, nobody was permitted to mention Zubayda’s name in his presence. Her memory was banished. Perhaps that is why Shadhi never told you. He realised it was a painful subject.

“Today I took a big risk. I just knew Salah al-Din was thinking about her. He wanted to share his triumph with her, to tell her: ‘Look at this man, Zubayda. He has achieved much more than his father.’ I felt this instinctively and that is why I took the liberty of mentioning her name. I was truly surprised when the Sultan responded in the way he did. He might have sent me out of the room. I think the pain has finally disappeared. We shall see if he sends for her when we return to Damascus.”

I was now overcome by a burning desire to cast my eyes on Zubayda, to listen to her voice and to hear her play on the four-stringed lute. I determined to see her on my return to Damascus. Perhaps she might add to the story. Perhaps it had meant little to her in the first place. Could it be that Salah al-Din, so cautious in war, had been equally cautious in love? I could not let the matter rest. Imad al-Din had told me all he knew, but I felt that there was something more to the story. I would uncover the truth. If Zubayda was not forthcoming, I would question Jamila. She was the only living person who could exhaust the Sultan with her questions till he told her what she wanted to know.

Shadhi, the only person who might have told me the real story, had betrayed me. As I made ready to attend the Council of War, Shadhi entered my head and we had an imaginary argument.

Thirty-Two

The last council of war

EVEN THOUGH IMAD AL-DIN had confided in me that the Sultan regarded the council of war as the most important gathering of this jihad, I was inclined to disbelieve him. I assumed that Imad al-Din was revealing this to me simply to heighten his own importance as the Sultan’s trusted adviser. On this occasion I was wrong.

I had thought that the council of war would be a mere formality, a victory celebration during the course of which the Sultan would announce our departure for Jerusalem. There are some thoughts that one just has to laugh away. This was one of them.

As I entered the crowded chamber where the emirs were gathered, I detected uncertainty and tension. From the back of the chamber I could see the Sultan at a distance, engaged in a conversation with al-Afdal, Imad al-Din and Taki al-Din. The latter appeared to be speaking, with the others nodding vigorously. The emirs made way for me to go through to the Sultan, but they did so as one does for a favoured pet of the ruler. There was no sign of affection or encouragement on their faces. Even Keukburi appeared to be upset.

It was not till I reached the platform where the Sultan was seated that I understood why the emirs were angry. What was being finalised by Salah al-Din and his closest family members was the division of the spoils, always a delicate moment after a city has been captured.

Salah al-Din’s own inclinations were hardly a secret to the emirs. He would have ordered some of the money to be kept for the jihad and the rest shared out equally amongst all those Believers who had marched into the city. But his son reminded him of another tradition followed by rulers during a holy war. Leaving everything to their sons.

Under great pressure, the Sultan had presented the town and all its estates to al-Afdal. The sugar refinery was a gift to Taki al-Din, and the great man of letters had been given a large house. Al-Afdal had already announced all this to the emirs, which was a mistake. They would have grumbled, but accepted the information with considerably more grace, if the Sultan himself had addressed them. Imad al-Din was hostile to the whole idea, and suggested that everything should be put into the war chest to fund the wars that were still to be fought.

“Have no doubt, O Sultan,” he whispered to Salah al-Din, “the Franj will send for help across the water and more knights will arrive. We will need money if they launch their third ‘Crusade’!”

Salah al-Din expressed agreement but shrugged his shoulders in resignation. Then he rose to speak to his emirs. For a moment, the silence was only broken by the cicadas outside.

“I know what some of you are thinking. You are wondering why I am delaying the march to al-Kuds. Let me explain. I do not ever want al-Kuds to fall to the infidels again. If we took it tomorrow — and we might do so without too much trouble, with Allah’s help, since the Franj have lost their best knights in Hattin — that would be a crude mistake. Think, and you will understand what I’m saying. The Franj still occupy the coastal towns. It is in these towns and harbours that the ships will arrive from their distant homes, with more knights, more weapons, more crosses, more alcohol. They will all gather together with the infidels still here and lay siege to al-Kuds. It is simple.

“For that reason we will divide our forces and take all the towns on the coast. As you know I am never happy when our army is divided and when emirs divide to lead squadrons in different battles. But that is what we are going to do before we reach al-Kuds. I want to shake the tree so hard that every orange lies on the ground, except one. That one we will pluck as if it were a rare and precious flower. Let us clear the coast of these infidels.

“For me, Tyre is even more important than al-Kuds. If we take the harbour in that town, we will have the Franj by the throat for ever. The knights who come over the water will feel our fire while still on their ships. You want to know my plan? It is very simple. Listen carefully, for here it is. Ascalon. Jaffa. Saida. Beirut. Jubail, Tartus, Jabala, Latakia, Tyre and then al-Kuds.

“If the Franj were our only enemy, with Allah’s help we would have driven them out of these lands years ago. We have three enemies apart from the Franj. Time, distance and those Believers who prefer to remain in their towers, observing the battle from afar. Like hyenas in their lair, they are too frightened to come out and watch the tigers fight each other. It is these Believers who have heaped shame, cowardice and disgrace on the name of our Prophet, peace be upon him. Let them know that we will win and that they will be disgraced and despised in the eyes of all Believers. Allah will help us conquer them all.”

The Sultan’s words surprised the emirs. They were smiling and nodding as he spoke, and once he finished they chanted in one voice:

“There is only one Allah and He is Allah and Mohammed is His Prophet.”

Keukburi was the first to speak.

“Commander of the Victorious, I am sure I speak for everyone present here when I say that truly you are favoured by Allah. I, too, had felt that we should not delay laying siege to al-Kuds. You have convinced me that I was wrong and that impatience is never a useful guide during a war.

“With your permission I would like to ask you one question.”

The Sultan nodded his agreement.

“The only way we can conquer the coast rapidly is by dividing our forces, but…”

“I know your worries, Keukburi, and I share them. I am always fearful when I dispatch my family or my close companions on expeditions where they are on their own, but this time we truly have no alternative. Speed is essential. I want our soldiers to cover the coast like ants. You, much-trusted Keukburi, must clear the road from Teveriya to here in Acre. Take every village and town, starting with Nazareth where Isa was born. Take the Templars’ castle at al-Fula. Hissam al-Din will take Sebaste and Nablus. Badr al-Din, you will move south and take Haifa, Arsuf and Kaisariya. Taki al-Din will march on Tibnin and Tyre, and I will take Beirut and Saida. Imad al-Din has worked hard and will give each of you an estimate of the resistance you are likely to meet in each of these towns. I think Nablus, where Believers outnumber the Franj by one hundred to one, is the only place where they might surrender. The Franj know of our successes, and elsewhere they might prefer to prolong their agony. In such cases give no quarter. Where they wish to negotiate a surrender, you must be generous, for it is not just Franj lives that are at risk. Allah be with you. We leave tomorrow.”

On the following day, Salah al-Din, attired in a robe of honour and with a necklace of black and white pearls around his neck, made his way out of the city in a great procession. He was accompanied by all his emirs, who had come to say farewell before their own departures. The Sultan had selected his swordsmen, lancers and archers. They were men who had fought with him for several years. Imad al-Din and I rode by his side. Outside the gates of Acre we paused so that the Sultan could exchange a few last words with the emirs. Taki al-Din and Keukburi rode up to him, dismounted and kissed his robe. His expression became tender at the sight of these two young men, who had grown up before his eyes and who he trusted as much as he trusted himself. He smiled and told them to be on their way.

“We shall meet the next time outside the gates of al-Kuds.”

Then his son, young al-Afdal, dressed in full armour and preening himself as seventeen-year-old boys are wont to do, came galloping on a coal-black steed. He had some difficulty in reining in the horse, and that amused his father, who suppressed a smile. Al-Afdal leapt off the beast and kissed his father’s robe in an exaggerated fashion.

“Allah guide you to rule this city well, al-Afdal,” said his father. “One day you and I will make the pilgrimage to Mecca together, but only after we have al-Kuds. Now go back to your city, but remember, we are all mortal, and rule only because the people let us rule. Avoid greed and never display ostentation. Rulers who behave thus only betray their own insecurity. I have placed my hopes in you, al-Afdal, and my biggest hope is that you will never disappoint me.”

With these words the Sultan raised his right arm, and our army marched away from Acre.

Thirty-Three

Salah al-Din is hailed as the great Conqueror, but he decides not to take Tyre, despite Imad al-Din’s advice to the contrary

WE MARCHED IN COMFORT. The Sultan did not wish to tire his soldiers without cause. Villages and towns fell without a struggle and he added them to his conquests, which began to appear like a garland of pearls. Everywhere the inhabitants, be they Believers or Christians, or indeed of my own faith, would gather to stare at him with inquisitive eyes. Often children were brought to him so that he could bless them with a touch on their tiny heads. The Believers rejoiced, but there was no gloating. I have noticed how common it is for the populace to hurl curses at those who have been defeated, and to sing songs of praise in honour of the victors. This is a rule of war. It is the way in which the people defend themselves against uncertainties.

Yet in each village and town there are always those whose triumph rings false. In exhibiting their loyalty to the new conqueror, they defile the name of the old ruler, make tasteless jokes, and offend his reputation, like carrion to stray dogs. These are usually those very people who never offered resistance to the Franj, but, in the wake of their defeat, have become loud-mouthed avengers, creating new identities for themselves.

One would boast of how he found an isolated Franj knight near a stream and decapitated him so that the water ran red. Another would rival this tale with one even taller. He would speak of how, one night, he had caught a Franj knight violating the honour of a maiden, naturally a Believer, and driven his sword through the heart of the offender and then removed his testicles and fed them to the dogs.

After a few experiences of this nature, the Sultan ordered that any who lied about their exploits would be publicly whipped. Word spread that this Sultan did not look kindly on liars, and the number of boasters dwindled. Salah al-Din was angered by the sight of worthless braggarts climbing on the corpses of those who, whatever their faults, had at least fallen in battle.

As we approached Tyre, there was dissension in our ranks. Imad al-Din was of the opinion that the city should be taken immediately, despite its fortifications and although it would offer stiff resistance. He was backed by most of the emirs. They argued that since the Sultan himself had convinced them that the capture of Tyre was more important even than Jerusalem, it did not make sense to delay the attack.

I well remember that evening as we set up camp in the midst of orange groves and wild flowers. Their scent overpowers me even as I recall that night. There were dark clouds in the sky as Salah al-Din walked up and down the camp. He spoke to nobody. Occasionally he would pluck an orange from the tree, peel the skin, and consume the fruit. The sound of distant thunder distracted him. As he looked up, the rain began to fall.

He had been on his own for over an hour, while the emirs and Imad al-Din waited outside his tent. Now they all rushed in to take shelter.

What was he thinking? He looked at their faces for a long time. He knew what they were thinking. Then he walked purposefully to the door of his tent and peered outside. It was still raining. He came back in and informed them that he had decided, on this occasion, to bypass Tyre. We would march to Saida, and later move on to Beirut. Tyre would have to wait till our return journey to Jerusalem.

The disappointment was plain on every face, but nobody questioned the Sultan’s judgement. Even Imad al-Din, who was normally outspoken in the extreme, was silent. He told me later that though he knew the decision was wrong, he did not feel that he possessed the degree of military competence necessary to challenge the Sultan. The Sultan’s resolve had little to do with the needs of the jihad. It was an atypical act of pure sentimentality.

“I know they think I am wrong, Ibn Yakub,” he confessed that night, soon after we had dined on his favourite bean stew. “The fact is that my old friend Raymond of Tripoli hides in the citadel in Tyre. I let him escape at Hattin. His pride will not let him surrender, and I still do not wish to kill him. Fate has conspired to make us enemies, but, for my part, I still feel close to him. Friendship is a sacred trust. My father and uncle taught me that when I was still a boy, and I have never forgotten. Now my head tells me I am wrong, but my heart will not permit a breach of trust. Do you understand? Or have you, too, like Imad al-Din, become so completely absorbed by our victories that trust and friendship have become empty words that no longer matter to you? It is always the same. We who do the fighting understand its limitations better than you who stay in your tents and scribble.”

I took the opportunity he had so kindly provided to differentiate my opinions from those of Imad al-Din, but I told him that it was not just the great scholar who was upset. The emirs, and some of the soldiers as well, felt it was a mistake not to take Tyre. At this he became quietly thoughtful again, dispensing with my services for the rest of the evening.

There was a gentle breeze as I walked out of his tent into the night. The rain had stopped. The clouds had cleared and a carpet of stars hung in the sky. Suddenly, all my senses were assailed by a mixture of scents in that orange grove. Wild flowers. Jasmine. Oranges. Herbs. The wet earth. Each exuded its own special fragrance, but it was the combination that was overwhelming. I decided to go for a walk, but Imad al-Din would not permit me to enjoy the solitude. His retainer had been waiting for me to leave the Sultan’s tent, and informed me that his master anxiously awaited my presence. What choice does a humble scribe have in the face of such powerful pressure? I gave up my walk and followed the retainer to Imad al-Din’s tent. He was in a tetchy mood. Wars and the rough life of a camp did not suit the great man. He missed his comforts, his boys, his wine, his food and his Damascus. He growled as I appeared.

“Well?”

I feigned puzzlement at the question.

“Why in Allah’s name has Salah al-Din decided to ignore Tyre? It is a very foolish decision!”

I smiled and shrugged my shoulders.

“I am only his scribe, master. He does not confide in me.”

“You are a sly, lying son of a…”

I begged him not to complete the sentence.

“When, long years ago in Cairo, the Sultan decided to employ me, he made it clear that everything said to me was confidential. He also kept me out of the meetings of his war council because he feared that the Franj might kidnap me and torture me to learn the secrets of his war plans. I have no idea as to the military reasons for not taking Tyre.”

Imad al-Din stood up, lifted his right leg, and passed wind very loudly.

“You have become a bit too clever for your own good. There is no military reason. It is sentiment that dictates this decision. His friend, Raymond of Tripoli, is in Tyre. We all know. If Raymond was his lover, I would still be critical of his decision, but my disapproval would be veiled with understanding. Friendship has no place in the midst of a jihad where the very future of our faith is at stake. His instincts misled him. His decision was misguided. The great Nur al-Din would never have tolerated such nonsense!”

“Perhaps what you say is correct,” I replied. “Yet surely the fact is that the devout Sultan Nur al-Din, despite all his longing to do so, could not take Jerusalem. Our Sultan will not fail.”

“I hope so,” said Imad al-Din, “and I pray that what you say will happen, but I am not so sure. There are no certainties in history.”

Two days later, Saida surrendered and we marched into the city. For the moment, the question of Tyre seemed forgotten. The Sultan was pleased that no lives had been lost. He wanted to leave a small force in the city, and then to march on towards Beirut the same afternoon. But he was prevailed upon by the nobles to grace their town, if only for a single night.

Salah al-Din had been reluctant to accept the invitation — he disliked these empty formalities — but Imad al-Din was horrified at any such thought. He bent down and whispered in the Sultan’s ear. To turn down the offer would be offensive in the extreme. As in other matters of diplomacy, the Sultan sulked at the advice, but finally agreed. Everyone sighed with relief. The soldiers were hot and tired, and Saida was a seductive town.

The Sultan and his emirs, and Imad al-Din and myself, were taken to rest at the citadel. From there we could see the soldiers running to the edge of the water, removing their clothes and immersing themselves in the cool waves of the sea. The baths provided in the citadel were lukewarm and cramped by contrast.

That evening, while the Sultan retired early, Imad al-Din and I dined as guests of the notables of Saida. It was a magnificent feast. I had not eaten so many different varieties of fish since we left Cairo. The fish from the Nile, though cooked in different ways, tended to be from the same family. That night in Saida, the diversity of the sea was displayed in all its splendour. These dishes were not alone. The ever-full flasks of wine were served by beautiful young women who made no attempt to conceal their charms. Of course they left Imad al-Din unmoved, but they had a turbulent impact on the three emirs from Damascus. Soon they were dreaming of the enjoyment to come, and the night that lay ahead. I, too, would have liked to share in their pleasure, but the great scholar had no time for frivolities of this nature. Once the meal was over and we had sipped hot water flavoured with the essence of orange blossom, he rose, thanked our hosts and insisted that I accompany him to his chamber.

“I am sorry to disturb your evening, Ibn Yakub. I could see the lust in your eyes as you looked at those serving wenches, but I need to discuss something important with you tonight. In fact, I need your help. I am worried about Salah al-Din.”

I had always assumed that Imad al-Din regarded me as nothing more than a lowly Jewish scribe who had somehow insinuated his way into the closed circle of the Sultan. In the past his tone was usually sarcastic or condescending. What could have brought about this change in him? I was puzzled, but also flattered by being treated as an equal.

“Why are you worried about the Sultan?”

“His health concerns me. He suffers from colic and Allah could take him from us any day. If he delays too long in taking al-Kuds, the prize might elude us forever. Once he dies, most of the emirs will be at each other’s throats. The common enemy will be forgotten. This is the curse of my religion, Ibn Yakub. It is as if Allah, having guided us during the life of the Prophet, is now punishing us for our greed. I have told the Sultan, and al-Fadil has backed me strongly on this, that after we take Beirut he must not waste any more time on the coast. He must take al-Kuds. I want you to give the same advice.”

I was stunned. Was he suggesting that I was the third member of the trinity?

“No time for modesty, Ibn Yakub. We know the Sultan values your advice greatly. Do not let us down.”

Two days later we were camped in sight of the walls of Beirut, overlooking the sea. It was a humid day and the weather affected the Sultan. He was irritable and impatient. Imad al-Din, too, was ill. He reported severe pains in the stomach, followed by nausea. Marwan, the Sultan’s physician, put him on a diet. He was treated with herb infusions and vegetables. Meat was denied him and his condition began to improve. But on the second day after the treatment the pains returned. Marwan suggested to the Sultan that the sick man be sent to Damascus. There his symptoms could be observed at leisure and properly treated. Marwan himself was a specialist in treating flesh wounds.

Salah al-Din, always more concerned about the health of his close friends than his own state, ordered a squadron to carry the ailing secretary to Damascus. Imad al-Din protested weakly, but I could see that he was delighted. As I bade him farewell he winked at me.

“Solitude, Ibn Yakub. I yearn for solitude. The jihad is necessary, but my work suffers. It is not easy to contemplate our past when the present appears so uncertain and death stalks us in the shape of the Franj. My absence will annoy the Sultan, but try your best.”

I nodded and muttered a few sympathetic noises about seeing him soon, fully recovered, in Damascus. Yet as he was borne away in a litter, the voice of Shadhi echoed in my head.

“Doesn’t like life in a war camp, does he? Needs solitude, does he? I’m surprised. That arse-lender and taker has been through so many young soldiers that I’ve lost count. His illness is over-indulgence, nothing more.”

The Sultan had assumed that Beirut, like its coastal counterparts, would surrender happily and peacefully, but a messenger we had dispatched returned with bad news. The Franj were determined to fight.

Salah al-Din sighed.

“I had hoped that we would see no more corpses till we reached the ramparts of al-Kuds. Why do these fools want to fight, Ibn Yakub?”

Imad al-Din or al-Fadil would have had a ready reply to this question, but I was so used to listening to him and recording his thoughts that I rarely ventured my own opinion unless he pressed me. He frowned.

“Well? Have you no explanation?”

I smiled weakly and shook my head.

His voice rose.

“These fools imagine that if they put up a brief resistance against me, and sacrifice a few of their knights, they will be rewarded by their leaders. They want to show that they did not surrender easily. Send them a reply from me, Ibn Yakub. Tell them that unless they surrender immediately they shall suffer the wrath of Allah. We shall rain fire upon them and destroy their city. Tell them that their impertinence does not incline us to offer generous terms.”

I bowed and retired to my tent. There I began to compose the Sultan’s letter. I was honoured to have replaced Imad al-Din, but I was not sure whether to imitate the master’s style or to develop my own. Imad al-Din had become so adept at writing the Sultan’s letters that when Salah al-Din read them he was convinced that they had actually been written by him. He would, rather uncharacteristically, delight in the flattery that often followed the receipt of such a missive. Only al-Adil, his younger brother, dared tease him. Several months ago, after the evening meal, al-Adil asked Imad al-Din what he thought of the letter the Sultan had that very day dispatched to Raymond of Tripoli. The scholar thought for a moment and replied:

“It is not one of the Sultan’s finer compositions.”

While Salah al-Din looked surprised, al-Adil retorted: “Come now, Imad al-Din, modesty does not suit you.”

I spent the whole night composing the terms of surrender. The document was short enough, but I rewrote it several times until I was convinced it was perfect. The Sultan saw it after the morning prayers and frowned.

“Too flowery. Too pedantic. Takes too long to get to the conditions we are offering them. Seal it and dispatch now.”

I was hurt by his criticisms, but I knew they contained more than a grain of truth. I realised that I should not have attempted to copy Imad al-Din’s style. Further reflections on this matter were however to be rudely interrupted by the approach of a messenger from the enemy. Our generous terms were rejected. The Franj nobles refused to surrender Beirut.

The Sultan’s anger lit up the entire army. He ordered an immediate attack on the city, and siege towers began to be pushed forward, closer to the walls of Beirut. I was riding next to him, the first time that he had granted me this privilege, but I learnt little of what was passing through his mind. He was silent. Our tactics were tried and tested. The emirs in charge of the squadrons knew perfectly well what had to be done. Once again the defenders surprised us. Instead of staying inside the city and attempting to repel our advance from within, the Franj opened the gates and came out to fight us in front of the outworks. They were fearful of our sappers and wanted to prevent the mining at all costs.

Salah al-Din did not need to engage in the battle himself. His emirs inflicted heavy casualties and drove the defenders back behind their walls. This development had a disastrous effect on the morale of the populace. They thought that we had entered the town. This led to a crazed rush for the harbour and the safety of the sea. In the town itself, looting and general confusion reigned.

The Franj leaders, divided till now between the tigers, who wanted a brawl, and the sheep, who wished to surrender, realised that the sheep had been wise all along. Their messengers arrived, accepting the terms of surrender that I had drafted some days ago. The Sultan could have punished them for wasting our time, but he smiled benignly and accepted the city.

“Well, Ibn Yakub, it seems that the Franj were less critical of your document than me.”

We rode into yet another conquered city, but the population here was largely sullen and silent. They were angry at the unnecessary deaths and the damage which was, in reality, the fault of their own leaders. But they preferred to burden us with the blame.

The town crier could be heard in the streets proclaiming the disaster.

“The great Sultan Yusuf Salah al-Din ibn Ayyub has entered our city. Listen now to the terms of surrender…!”

That evening, after he had bathed and rested, the Sultan and I stood on the ramparts of the citadel, watching the waves beat on the rocks below. The sun was about to set. His eyes looked at the horizon. The majesty of the sea had calmed him and he was deep in thought. For what seemed then to be a long time neither of us spoke. Then he turned to me with a strange, faraway look in his eyes.

“Do you know something, Ibn Yakub? If Allah permits the conquest of this coast, and once we have regained al-Kuds, I shall divide our empire. I shall leave it to my brothers and sons. I shall then visit Mecca for the pilgrimage, and take my leave of Allah.

“Then I shall prepare to cross this turbulent sea, whose calm, Ibn Yakub, is deceptive. I will go to the lands where the Franj live, and I will pursue these scoundrels till all of them acknowledge Allah and his Prophet. I will do this even if I die in the attempt. It is important, because others will then pick up my sword and finish what I could not achieve. Unless we strike at the roots of the Franj, they will continue to eat our flesh, like locusts that darken the sky and devour our crops.”

Thirty-Four

Halima dies in Cairo: ugly rumours hold Jamila responsible

THE SULTAN HAD NOT rested in Beirut. Once the Franj were disarmed, he nominated one of his emirs and several hand-picked squadrons to control the city. The rest of us rode on to Damascus with only the stars as our guide. We entered the city as dawn broke. I bade farewell to Salah al-Din as he rode up the incline to the citadel, and made my way home.

Rachel was not in our room. For a moment my heart began to race as I recalled that fateful day in Cairo, but our retainer, rubbing his sleep-filled eyes, set my mind at rest. She was with our daughter, and had not been expecting me back for many months.

I dispatched him to fetch Rachel, while I washed myself from the well in the courtyard. I was exhausted by the all-night ride. Even though I was now used to the horse, I could never fully relax like the Sultan. My backside was sore and my thighs were stiff with pain. The water helped. I went inside and lay on our bed.

It was midday when a small child’s gurgle near my face startled me. I sat up to see the smiling faces of my wife and daughter. The boy was big and healthy, but he screamed when I lifted him to my face and kissed his cheeks. Rachel rescued him as I first hugged his mother and then her mother, who whispered in my ear: “This child is our reward for years of pain and trouble. You are alive and well. God be praised.”

“Perhaps, but the Sultan’s victories helped a little to keep me alive.”

We laughed. Then she spoke again.

“Maryam and I were thinking it would be nice to visit our house in Cairo and spend the winter there this year. Her husband would come as well. He has many friends in Cairo and has never seen the city. We were waiting for your permission.”

“You have my permission, of course. I only wish I could accompany all of you, but we leave in a few days for Jerusalem. The Sultan will not delay any longer. He will pray at the al-Aqsa mosque before the month is over, and I shall visit the site of the old synagogue. Afterwards, if he releases me for a few months, I will join you all in Cairo.”

Rachel smiled. She had always thought, because of what I had said a long time ago, that because of my unhappy associations with the domed room, I never wished to set foot in that house again. But there is a limit to jealousy. If I had forgiven Rachel, and even forgotten the scale of Ibn Maymun’s betrayal, how could I still bear a grudge against the house? The fault lay not within the stones that formed those walls, but in ourselves. Later that afternoon, when we were alone, I said all this to Rachel and much more. Serenity had returned. We lay entwined in each other’s arms and felt that the past had finally been buried.

Alas, there was sad news awaiting me when I arrived at the citadel that same evening. Amjad the eunuch had been impatiently awaiting my arrival and he rushed and hugged me warmly. It was when he moved away that I noticed the wetness on my cheeks.

“Halima died in Cairo a few days ago. The Sultan was mildly upset. He has asked Ibn Maymun to conduct an investigation and send us a report before the week is over.”

The news stunned me. Halima had never known a day’s illness in all the time I had known her. What could have struck her down? Images of her fluttered through my mind in rapid succession. I saw her face pale and motionless beneath the shroud. I wept.

“How did Jamila react to the news?”

Amjad remained silent.

I repeated the question.

“I broke the news to her. She looked straight into my eyes, but remained completely calm. Completely. Her face showed no emotion. Nothing. Perhaps she was wearing a mask to hide her pain. Perhaps.”

The news of Halima’s truncated life had stolen all my powers of concentration. I sat through the meeting of the council of war in a daze. The Sultan’s soft voice, Imad al-Din and al-Fadil’s impassioned interventions, the sense of excitement and expectation that radiated from every emir, were like background noises as far as I was concerned. I was desperate to see Jamila, to condole, to share common memories of Halima, to weep, to find out what she really felt at the death of someone who had meant so much to her and whose life she had greatly affected.

For the first time since I had been employed by the Sultan I did not fulfil the duties that kind ruler had assigned to me. Reader, I did not take any notes of that crucial meeting which decided the fate of Jerusalem. On that subject my notebook is a blank.

Later, I reconstructed that evening with the aid of Imad al-Din, but, as was his wont, he assigned the decisive role to himself and claimed that till he had spoken, the Sultan had been indecisive. I know for a fact that this was not the case, and for that reason I dismissed the great scholar’s testimony as self-serving and unworthy of him. What did become clear in the weeks that followed was that there had been unanimity amongst all those who had comprised the council on that fateful night. They would take Jerusalem.

My mind was still tormented by the death in Cairo. I had asked to see Jamila, but it was not until two days later that she agreed to my request. An unusually sad and silent Amjad came to my house to fetch me.

She was waiting for me in the usual antechamber, the room where I had often met Halima. For a moment Jamila’s features faded and mixed with those of the dead woman, but I clasped my hands so firmly together that they hurt. I was back in the present. I looked at her face and recalled Amjad’s description. There was not a trace of sadness in her eyes.

“It was you who wished to see me, Ibn Yakub.”

My only reply was to weep. I thought I saw her eyes flicker, but she recovered rapidly. She looked at me with a strange gaze.

“Sultana, I came to express my sorrow at her death. I know that your parting was grief-stricken, but…”

She interrupted me with an angry flash of her eyes.

“We parted without recriminations. She wished us to be friends. That was not possible, but we agreed to banish enmity and bitterness. You think I’m cold and unfeeling?”

I sighed.

“There are times when grief is useless, Ibn Yakub. Her death is painful. Her face appears to me, but is soon washed away. Hearts can turn to stone. Let me surprise you, Ibn Yakub. News of her death moved me in a strange way. It helped me discover an inner happiness. I thought you would be shocked, but it is the truth. I feel at ease with myself again. A painful chapter is now definitively over. All that remains are memories. Some of them are happy, most are sad. So you see, my friend, now I have a choice. What I think of her depends on me alone, on my mood, and that, I assure you, is a great relief. Ever since Halima and I parted, I found it difficult to write. Now I have started writing again, and one day I will let you read my manuscript.”

Her callousness startled me. How could she be so indifferent to Halima’s fate? She saw the question on my face and her eyes narrowed.

“I know what you are thinking, Ibn Yakub. You see me as a heartless creature, a woman without pity. You forget that, for me, Halima died a long time ago. I wept a great deal for her, and the pain of separation hurt me for many months. Sleep used to avoid my path completely. All that disappeared some time ago. When Amjad the eunuch, with streaming eyes, came to tell me of her death, I felt nothing. Do you understand?”

She looked into my eyes and smiled.

“I understand, Sultana, but for me what is real is the fact that she is no more. She is buried underneath the earth. We will never hear her laugh again. Surely this is different from the death imposed by your brain on your heart.”

I had aroused her anger.

“No! Imposed by my heart on the brain. The last news of her that I received from Cairo revealed that she had once again abandoned the embraces of men. She had found a younger woman, closer to her own age than mine, and, or so my informants wrote, the two of them had become inseparable. A wave of jealousy and anger passed through me, but that was all. Nothing more. For me she was finished for ever. Dead. I am told that she was poisoned on the orders of her last male lover, a poor, deluded mamluk. He will suffer even more if Salah al-Din ever discovers the truth…”

Jamila’s information turned out to be accurate. Ibn Maymun had performed an autopsy and his conclusion suggested a large dose of poison. Everyone pointed their finger in the direction of the mamluk, who pleaded his innocence, but he was executed on the orders of the Kadi. Only Amjad the eunuch was unconvinced.

“She was poisoned, Ibn Yakub. The poor woman was poisoned, but who gave the order? We will never know the truth. That poor mamluk was just like me, used by her to satisfy her physical needs. Nothing more. If she had been poisoned in Damascus they might have executed me! So I feel some sympathy with the poor man. In my heart I feel that Jamila dispatched the poison together with the instructions.”

“Enough of this loose talk, Amjad! Your thought is worse than the poison that killed Halima. Expel it from your wicked heart before it kills you.”

The eunuch’s face paled.

“I have not confided my suspicions in any other living person. I needed to share them with you, but your advice is wise. If I do not quell these thoughts, I myself will perish. Rest assured, Ibn Yakub, I will quell them. No strain of martyrdom pollutes my blood.”

Try as I might I could not banish Amjad’s words from my own thoughts. That embittered eunuch had planted a poisonous seed in my mind as well. Could it be true? Could Jamila have ordered the poisoning of her detached ex-lover? The very idea seemed outrageous. After a few hours of agony I came to the conclusion that Jamila was innocent. Grief had poisoned Amjad beyond redemption.

I was interrupted by the familiar tones of Imad al-Din.

“You look preoccupied, scribe. I was hoping you would join me this evening in visiting the rooms of the purest Damascene nightingale. Remember? Zubayda? The woman who conquered Salah al-Din’s heart when he was a mere boy, but refused to offer him her body?”

“How could I forget her?” was my reply. “You have caught me at an inopportune moment. I was mourning the tragic death of the Sultana Halima.”

Imad al-Din’s face became grave.

“There are ugly rumours floating on the Nile. Al-Fadil tells me that the mamluk who was executed for the crime insisted on speaking to him alone. When he agreed the condemned whispered in al-Fadil’s ear: ‘I administered the poison, but it was sent me by the Sultana Jamila, and she has pledged to look after my family.’ Naturally, al-Fadil has not told the Sultan or anyone else apart from me. I tell you only because both women were close to you.

“Love has the capacity to drive us all mad. Jealousy is its most savage child. What Jamila did is unforgivable, unthinkable, and yet, if I am to be honest with you, I am not shocked by the news. To understand Jamila one has to have suffered the loss of a lover. Alas, you are a cold-water fish, Ibn Yakub. You never will. Come with me to hear the nightingale sing. Zubayda will make you forget everything.”

I agreed to accompany him, but it was an oppressive evening and I begged his leave to return home so that I could bathe and change my clothing. Since Zubayda’s house was not far from where I lived, he agreed to collect me within the hour. The cool of the night was yet to come and the lack of a breeze made me sweat profusely as I walked home. I told Rachel the story of Halima’s death without naming the royal poisoner. I stripped in the courtyard and poured bucketfuls of fresh, cold water from the well on my head. Then Rachel brought me a towel.

I was distracted. There was only one person I wished to see that night. Jamila. I wanted to confront her with the accusations of Amjad and al-Fadil and Imad al-Din. I wanted to shout them in her face and observe her reaction. I wanted the truth, but I did not want to lose Jamila’s friendship. I wanted her to spit in the face of those who spread such vile slanders. I wanted her to proclaim her innocence to me. After I was dressed I wrote a quick note and dispatched it to her, asking for an audience the next day.

Imad al-Din’s retainer knocked on the door. I offered the great man some tea, but he touched his left cheek and shook his head. I had not noticed the swelling earlier that evening, but he appeared to be in pain.

“It is a bad tooth, Ibn Yakub,” he groaned. “I have been sucking cloves to numb the pain, but it will have to be removed tomorrow. To tell you the truth I am not in a mood for anything tonight except the solitude of my bedchamber. Yet Zubayda has not sung for many years. It is an experience you will never forget, something you will tell your grandchildren.”

The town crier preceded us on the narrow streets, often clearing a path through hordes of families and noisy children desperate for some air.

“Make way, make way for the great Imad al-Din, counsellor to the Sultan Yusuf Salah al-Din ibn Ayyub.”

We saw familiar faces outside Zubayda’s house. The Sultan’s personal guards were on duty, swords raised as we approached, but lowered as they recognised us. The Nubian mute, who had been with the Sultan as long as me, grinned at our arrival and hastened to unfasten the door that led to the courtyard. It was to be an outdoor occasion. The courtyard was lit by lamps and the floor covered in rugs and cushions. There were no more than fifteen people present — among them, to my amazement, the Sultana Jamila. She smiled pleasantly to acknowledge my arrival. My heart quickened its pace.

We bowed to the Sultan, who smiled and indicated we should sit by his side. He introduced us to Zubayda. She was approaching her seventieth year, but her face radiated an attraction that surprised me. Her white hair shone in the darkness and illuminated her face. She had not washed it with henna to disguise her age. Her complexion was dark, not unlike that of Jamila, who I was trying to forget that evening and whose presence had shaken me.

Zubayda’s eyes were large and lively, without a trace of sadness or regret. She had lived a rich life, that much was obvious, but had it been a life devoid of pain? Is any life completely without pain? She had been watching me observe her and suddenly she smiled. Her teeth, to my amazement, were as white as snow. How in Allah’s name had she managed to preserve their youth?

It was as if she had heard all my questions.

“Salah al-Din has mentioned you to me, Ibn Yakub.” Her voice was throaty and rich. “I know what you are thinking. Understand that my soul is quiet and tranquil. I want nothing. I regret nothing. I hope that death, when it comes, will be swift, like Salah al-Din’s sword when it strikes the Franj.”

“Umm Zubayda,” the Sultan’s voice was softer than usual. “We have come to hear you sing.”

There were two musicians present, waiting patiently, fingering their lutes. She looked at them and put a finger to her lips. She wanted to sing tonight without any accompaniment. There was an expectant hush and then she sang. Listening to her was like entering heaven. Her voice was truly inimitable. I have not heard one like it before or since. It was a song she had written herself, and though it was simple and short, it took half an hour to complete, as each line was repeated several times, with musical variations.

ZUBAYDA’S LOVE SONG

On a warm night we drank some wine.

A soft breeze caressed my burning face.

He took me to the balcony and showed me the moon

And tried to make me believe he loved another.

I laughed. I wept.

I didn’t believe him.

“You poor fool,” I said, “you are young, you confuse reality with dreams.”

He smiled. He left me.

A single salty tear wet my face and I knew

The confusion was all mine.

Yes, mine.

Mine. Mine. Mine. Mine. Mine.

Zubayda did not sing again that night. The musicians entertained us while we ate the food that had been carefully prepared in her kitchen. The Sultan was abstemious, but Imad al-Din’s toothache did not appear to prevent him enjoying the four different varieties of meat that were laid before us.

After dinner there was more music, during the course of which Jamila prepared to depart. She asked me to accompany the litter in which she would be carried back to the citadel. The Sultan nodded his permission and I took my leave of the great singer, who invited me to visit her again so that she could tell me her story.

Jamila did not wait for me to speak.

“So you have heard all the evil talk?”

“Is it true, Sultana?”

“You know full well that my love is as pure as my hate. Jealousy is a poison that has to be removed in order to free more space in our heads for lofty reflections. That is all I will ever say on this subject.”

I walked along in silence as the litter-bearers readjusted their burden slightly so as to ease their climb up the incline that led to the citadel. She dismissed me with a brutal laugh.

“You may return to your wife, Ibn Yakub. Enjoy her embrace, for tomorrow you leave for al-Kuds, and who knows what Allah has in store for all of you?”

Rachel, who has the most tranquil of temperaments, appeared nervous and tense when I reached our home.

“The Franj will make the Sultan pay a heavy price before they will give up Jerusalem,” she said. “I fear that you might be part of that price. I have a terrible premonition that I will never see you again.”

I comforted her fears. I told her of how Salah al-Din always made sure that I was kept away from any real danger. I mocked her superstitions. I tried to make her laugh, but failed miserably. It seemed as if nothing could dispel her worries. I wanted to love her, but she was reluctant, and so we lay mute in each other’s arms till I fell asleep.

A retainer from the citadel woke me just before the break of dawn. Rachel had not slept at all. She sat up in bed and watched me dress. Then, as I took my leave of her, she almost suffocated me in a tight embrace and would not release me. Gently, I prised her hands away and kissed her eyes. “After the victory in Jerusalem I shall come to our house in Cairo so that we can celebrate together,” I whispered in her ear. “I will write often.” She did not reply.

Thirty-Five

From the outskirts of Jerusalem I write an excited letter to my good wife in Cairo

MY VERY DEAR WIFE, It is strange to think of you back in that old house with so many memories, most of them happy. I am sending this letter with the courier who is carrying royal dispatches from al-Adil to the palace, so you will get it sooner than if I used the caravans.

It is almost a month since you left, and this is the first opportunity that I have had to sit and write to you. We are living in tents within sight of the walls of Jerusalem. It is a strange sensation to be so close to the Holy City. The Sultan has offered them terms, but some of the fools want to die holding their infernal crosses.

You have by now probably heard from our friends in the palace why it has all taken so long. When we marched away from Damascus, the Sultan was overcome by one of his usual fits of indecision. Jerusalem could wait till he had cleared the coast. Once again he tried to take Tyre, but the resistance was strong. The emirs were now determined to take the city regardless of our casualties. They felt it had become a symbol of Franj resistance and should be erased from the map. Salah al-Din was annoyed that it had already taken up too much of his time. He decided to march away and we laid siege to Ascalon.

The Franj held out for nearly fourteen days, but the Sultan brought their King Guy from Damascus and offered to release him if they surrendered. They gave Guy authority to deal on their behalf, and he promptly agreed terms with the Sultan. We did not lose many men. The day we took the city turned cold all of a sudden when the sun’s face was completely hidden. That very day a delegation of nobles from Jerusalem arrived in Ascalon. The Sultan offered them very good terms if they surrendered the Holy City, and they promised to recommend such an offer to the knights. When they got back, the Patriarch scolded them severely. The Church does not wish to surrender the city where Jesus was crucified without a battle.

The Sultan did not allow his spirits to lower when he heard the news. He is in a cheerful mood again, despite the setback at Tyre. The presence of al-Adil, who has remained his favourite brother since they were boys, is part of the reason. For the rest, Salah al-Din is now convinced that he will be in Jerusalem before the new moon, which gives him seventeen days to be precise.

On hearing that the Patriarch and knights such as Balian of Ibelin were now preparing to take up arms against him, the Sultan ordered all our soldiers in the region to march behind him and put up our tents just outside Jerusalem. He wants this to be a show of strength, but is prepared for a clash of arms if that is the only way. Yesterday we moved our tents to the eastern edge of the city. The Franj thought we were leaving altogether and waved ironic farewells from the ramparts, which amused al-Adil greatly. Instead we have our siege towers in place, just above the valley they call the Kidron. Here the walls seem less strong.

From where I am composing these lines I can see the Sultan’s banners fluttering in the breeze on Mount Olivet. Our men worked all night to make sure the barbican was mined.

Ten thousand of our soldiers have now made it impossible for the Franj to use two of their most important gates. Our archers are stationed directly underneath the ramparts waiting for their orders. The Kadi al-Fadil described their arrows as “toothpicks to the teeth of the battlements”. It is an accurate description, acknowledged as such even by Imad al-Din, who, incidentally, was hoping that al-Fadil would stay in Cairo so that he would be the only serious chronicler of the victory.

As you know, my dearest Rachel, they do not even deign to consider your husband as a rival. For them I am just a pen-pusher who caught the Sultan’s eye at an opportune moment. That is Imad al-Din’s public attitude to me. In private he often tells me stories which he hopes I will attribute to him, thus ensuring that he is mentioned in the “great book of Salah al-Din”. The Kadi al-Fadil is more subtle, more careful, but his main concern lies in his own work. He barely thinks of me in serious terms, but is always helpful when I need to check a fact or two with him.

Yesterday the Sultan was visited by Balian of Ibelin. His life had been spared at Hattin and he had pledged never to bear arms against the Sultan as long as he lived. Now he told us that the Patriarch had absolved him of his oath.

“And your God,” inquired the Sultan, “will He forgive you just as easily?”

Balian remained silent and averted his eyes. Then he threatened Salah al-Din. If our soldiers did not withdraw, the Franj would first kill their own women and children and then set fire to the al-Aqsa mosque before demolishing the sacred Rock. After this they would kill the several thousand Believers in the city and then march out into the plain with swords raised to die in battle against the infidels.

The Sultan smiled. He had vowed to take this city by force, but he offered the Franj a generous deal. All the Christians would be permitted to leave provided they paid a ransom to the treasury. The Christian poor would be set free with money from the King’s treasure which was kept by the Hospitallers. Salah al-Din gave them forty days to find the ransom money.

“When you Franj first took this city, Balian, you slaughtered the Jews and Believers as if they were cattle. We could do the same to you, but blind revenge is a dangerous elixir. So we will let your people leave in peace. This is my last offer to your leaders. Turn it down and I will burn down these ramparts and show no mercy. The choice is yours.”

Today it is Friday, the Holy Day of Islam. It is the second of October, but the twenty-seventh of Rajab in the Muslim calendar. On this day their Prophet dreamt his famous dream and visited this city in his sleep. And on this day, as even the least religious of them has been telling himself and others since daybreak, the Franj capitulated and signed the terms of surrender. As news of this spread there was a loud cry of “Allah o Akbar” and the amazing sight of thousands and thousands of men, falling to their knees in the dust and prostrating themselves in the direction of Mecca, to give thanks to Allah.

Then there was silence, a silence born of disbelief. We looked at each other in astonishment, wondering whether this had really happened or was it all a dream? After ninety years, Jerusalem, or al-Kuds, belongs to us again. All of us!

In exactly one hour the Sultan will ride into the city and I, my dearest Rachel, will be at his side. My thoughts at this moment are of you and our little family, but I am also thinking of my old friend Shadhi. This was a day he longed to see, and I know that his ghost will be riding just behind Salah al-Din, whispering in his ear as only he could: “Look straight ahead. You are a ruler. Don’t lower your eyes. Remember, you are the Sultan who has taken back our al-Kuds, not the Caliph in Baghdad. Even as we march the so-called Caliph will be drowning himself in pleasure.”

Shadhi would have said all that and I will think it, but I do not have the authority to say all this to the Sultan. Imad al-Din is on his way to Damascus and al-Fadil is not here. What will they advise him after he has taken the city?

I am alone with him and the responsibility is awesome. What am I to say if he seeks my advice? It is at times like these that I feel the most vulnerable and realise that, perhaps, I am nothing but a hired scribe.

I kiss your cheeks and hope to see you soon. Kiss our daughter and grandson. I am delighted to hear that another one is on the way. Perhaps you should come to Jerusalem. I think I will be here for some time.

Your husband,

Ibn Yakub.

Thirty-Six

Salah al-Din takes Jerusalem; Imad al-Din eyes a beautiful Copt translator; Jamila makes her peace with Halima’s memory

WE RODE INTO THE Holy City through the Bab al-Daud. The Sultan did not need Shadhi to tell him his head should be raised high. He rode straight to the Mosque, heavy with the stench of the Franj and their beasts. It was here the Hospitallers and Templars had stabled their steeds. Salah al-Din refused to wait till the holy precinct was cleansed. He jumped off his horse and, surrounded by his emirs, offered prayers of thanks to Allah. Then they began to clean the mosque.

As we rode back through the streets the Sultan was moved by the pathetic sight of Christians groaning and weeping. There were women pulling at their hair, old men kissing walls, frightened children clutching their mothers and grandmothers. He pulled up his horse and sent a messenger to fetch the Franj knight Balian.

While we were waiting the Sultan looked up and smiled. His flag was being raised on the citadel and the exultant chants and cheers of our soldiers momentarily drowned the noise of the distraught Christians. I thought again of Shadhi and so did Salah al-Din. He turned to me with a tear in his eye.

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

We were interrupted by the presence of Balian.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I shrugged my shoulders. I had no idea.

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

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

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

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

The Sultan began to laugh at the memory.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yusuf Ibn Ayyub.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I woke late the next morning to find the heat of the sun burning my face. I had not slept well. Jamila’s words of the previous night were passing through my mind in a loop. Her callousness towards Halima had angered me greatly, but now, despite all my misgivings, I found myself admiring her fortitude and honesty. She was truly a woman who, unlike her esteemed and much-loved husband, did not believe in taking prisoners.

There were times when I wished that, just for a few months, a good djinn would transform this Sultana into the Sultan.

Thirty-Seven

The Kadi of Aleppo preaches in the mosque; the Sultan receives a letter from Bertrand of Toulouse; my family are burnt to death in a Franj raid in Cairo

TEN DAYS LATER, WE were all gathered in the great mosque of al-Aqsa. It had been thoroughly cleaned and the polished stones were shining with the glitter of paradise. All the emirs and kadis from the empire of Salah al-Din were present, as were his son al-Afdal, his nephew Taki al-Din and his favourite commander, the Emir Keukburi.

The pulpit, which had been constructed for this purpose on the orders of the late Sultan Nur al-Din, had arrived from Damascus.

The Kadi of Aleppo, dressed in black robes and wearing a green turban, climbed the steps hesitantly, and as he clutched the pulpit to steady himself those of us sitting near the front could see his hands trembling. He knew that the words he spoke this day would be remembered for a long time to come. He was also aware that the Sultan’s patience was notoriously short and he did not look kindly on extended sermons. The Kadi spoke in sonorous tones and began, as befitted such an occasion, with a brief history of the successes achieved by the followers of the Prophet in a short space of time.

“We begin in the Name of Allah the Merciful, the Beneficent, and his Prophet who showed us the true path. Our Sultan Yusuf Salah al-Din ibn Ayyub has brought the crescent back to this Holy City. He is the upholder of the true faith, the vanquisher of those who worship a Cross and graven images. You have revived the Empire of the Commander of the Faithful in Baghdad. Let us pray to Allah that angels may always surround your banners and preserve you for the future of our Faith. May Allah save you and your children for all time to come.

“Here it was that Omar, whose memory we revere, first planted the colours of our faith, not long after the passing away of the Prophet, may he rest in peace. Here it was then, that this great mosque was built. All of you who have fought for this day are blessed forever. You have rekindled the spirit of Badr. You have been as steadfast as Abu Bakr, fearless and generous like Omar. You remind us of the fierceness of Uthman and Ali. The first four Caliphs, watching you from heaven, are smiling today. All those who fought for this city will enter paradise.

“Soon afterwards our armies carried the Holy Koran on their swords across the deserts of Africa and to the mountains of Andalus and the lands of the Franj. It was from here that our message was taken to the lands of the fire-worshippers. The people of Persia, once we had shared our knowledge of the true path decreed by Allah, were the first to convert to our cause. As the Sultan has heard many times, one reason why Persia fell into our hands like a ripe apricot is that the poorest of the poor, those who were downtrodden and exploited by degenerate priests, were amazed at the sight of our great generals sharing food from the same vessel as the ordinary soldiers. They saw for themselves that, before the eyes of Allah, we were all equal.

“We reached the great Indian river Indus and here, too, the poor flocked behind our banners. Even as we speak our traders bear our message to the south of India, the islands of Java and onward to China. I ask you all, is it not a sign from Allah that he enabled us to reach all the corners of the world in such a short time?

“That is why it is all the more disgraceful that the Franj have been permitted to occupy our coast and this Holy City for so long without fear of punishment. Yusuf Salah al-Din ibn Ayyub, it is thanks to you and your persistence, your courage, your willingness to sacrifice your own life, which is precious to Believers everywhere, that we are praying at al-Aqsa once again. We pray to Allah to prolong your life and your rule over these lands. In one hand you carry a sharp sword. In the other a shining torch…”

The sermon lasted a whole hour. It was not a memorable speech in itself, but the majesty of the occasion held everyone. After he had finished, a common prayer of thanks to Allah was offered by the congregation. Then the Kadi of Aleppo stepped down and was embraced and kissed by the Sultan and soon after by the Kadi al-Fadil and Imad al-Din. Al-Fadil was in a joyous mood. When the Sultan asked him what he had thought of the sermon, the reply was poetic.

“O Commander of the Victorious, listening to the sermon the heavens wept tears of joy and the stars abandoned their positions in the firmament not to shoot on the wicked, but to celebrate together.”

Imad al-Din, who later confessed that he had found the sermon tedious and uninspired in the extreme, now applauded al-Fadil and smiled warmly in the direction of the Kadi of Aleppo.

That same evening the Sultan called a council of war. Taki al-Din, Keukburi, al-Afdal, Imad al-Din, al-Fadil and myself were the only people present. The Sultan was in a generous and self-deprecatory mood.

“Let us first thank Imad al-Din, who always stressed the importance of taking this city. You were correct, as you often are, old friend. Keukburi it was who insisted that we do not lift the siege of Tyre. You too were correct. I want the army to take Tyre without further delay. Let them rest. Let them celebrate, but then we take Tyre. A letter arrived this morning from Bertrand of Toulouse. Remember him? The knight whose life we saved from the wrath of the Templars and who returned safely to his home thanks to our merchants. Imad al-Din will read the letter now. I know that we would all have preferred the presence of that beautiful Copt, who translates the Latin into our language with such grace that even those of us who do not swim on the same shores as Imad al-Din could not but admire his beauty. Alas, he is away, old teacher. It is only appropriate that you take his place.”

If Imad al-Din was surprised at the Sultan’s indelicacy he managed to conceal his feelings admirably. Everyone else exchanged knowing smiles. It was common knowledge that Imad al-Din was besotted with Tarik ibn Isa and had been pursuing him like a wolf on the fourteenth night of the moon. Imad al-Din read the letter from Bertrand of Toulouse to himself.

“If the Sultan and the emirs will forgive me, I will summarise its contents. Unlike the Copt I am a faltering translator. Our friend in Toulouse writes that they are preparing a massive army to retake Jerusalem. He says that their Pope has already called on the Kings of England, France and Germany to unite their armies and save the honour of the Worshippers of the Cross. He writes that of the three Kings, two have feeble heads full of imperial vapours. One alone is to be feared, for he is like an animal. He refers to Richard of England, whom he describes in the letter as a bad son, an even worse husband who cannot satisfy his wife nor any other woman but has a fondness for young men, a selfish ruler and a vicious and evil man, but not lacking in courage. He does not know when they will set sail, but thinks it could be after a year or more, since funds must be collected. He advises that we use this time to capture every port so that the ships from their lands are destroyed while still at sea. He further advises the Sultan to prepare a fleet that will give battle on water. He feels it is our weakness that we have never taken sea-war as seriously as we do the battles on the land. He signs himself the Sultan’s most humble servant and follower and prays for the day when our armies will cross the water and take the Pope prisoner. He informs us that one of the knights accompanying Richard, a certain Robert of St Albans, is a secret heretic, that is, a true believer, and will be useful to our cause.”

The Sultan smiled.

“I think we should ask our friend to return to our side. He is an astute thinker. This letter makes the capture of Tyre our most important objective. Are we agreed? Have you noted all this down, Ibn Yakub?”

I nodded.

The next afternoon, as I was preparing to accompany John of Jerusalem to the site of the old Temple, where others of our faith who had returned to Jerusalem were gathering to offer prayers of thanksgiving for the return of the city to the Sultan, a retainer surprised me by his insistence that Salah al-Din was awaiting my presence. I was surprised, since he had explicitly given me his blessing to participate in the ceremony. Nonetheless I followed the retainer to the royal chamber.

He was sitting on his bed, his face lined with worry. He must have been informed before everyone else. As I entered he rose from his bed and, to my amazement, embraced me and kissed my cheeks. His eyes had filled with tears. I knew that something terrible must have happened to my Rachel.

“We received a dispatch from Cairo, Ibn Yakub. The news is bad and you must be brave. A small party of Franj knights, enraged by the loss of this city and drunk on anger, rode into Cairo and raided the quarter where your people live. They burnt some houses and killed old men, before the alarm was given and our soldiers captured all of them. They were all executed the next morning. Your house, my friend, was one of them. Nobody survived. I have instructed al-Fadil to make arrangements for you to be taken to Cairo tomorrow morning. You may stay there as long as you wish.”

I bowed and took my leave of him. I returned to my quarters. For over an hour I couldn’t weep. I sat on the floor and stared at the wall. A calamity had been inflicted on me. Anguish dumbed me. Neither words nor tears could express the pain that had gripped all of me. I thought of Rachel and Maryam, her child clasped close to her bosom, all three sleeping peacefully as the barbarians set our house on fire.

It was as I began to pack my clothes that I found myself weeping loudly. I thought of all the things I had thought, but not said to Rachel. She had died not knowing the depths of my unspoken love for her. And my little Maryam, who I had wanted to live without misfortune and raise her children in peace with her husband.

I did not sleep, but went outside and walked on the battlements, watching the eternal movement of the stars and shedding silent tears. I felt bitter and angry. I wanted revenge. I wanted to roast Franj knights on a slow fire and laugh loudly at their death agony.

As we left early next morning I heard the oriole’s mournful song and my face was wet again. I have no recollection of that journey from Jerusalem to Cairo. I know not how many times we stopped or where we slept. All I remember is the kind face of the Sultan’s courier, who offered me a skin flask containing water which I drank and also used to wash the dust off my face. I remember also that at some stage during that pain-filled expedition I suddenly wanted to return to the Sultan. I felt there was no point in raking over the embers of the tragedy. I wanted to forget. I did not wish to see the charred remains of that old house with the domed room. It was too late.

Ibn Maymun was waiting for me at the ruins of the house. We embraced each other and wept. No words were spoken. Grief had melted old animosities and resentments. He took me to his house. For many months I lived in a daze. I lost all sense of time. I had no idea what was taking place in the world outside. Later I began to accompany the great physician to Cairo. He would attend to his patients in the palace. I would revisit old friends in the library, books I had read when I first became the Sultan’s scribe. Sometimes the books would stir painful memories and Rachel would occupy my mind. Fresh tears would dissolve my concentration.

Ibn Maymun treated me as a friend and a very special patient. He fed me on fresh fish from the Nile, grilled on charcoal and served on a bed of brown rice. He made me drink herbal concoctions every night which soothed my shattered nerves and helped me to sleep. There were days when I did not speak a word to anyone. I used to walk to the stream near Ibn Maymun’s house and sit on a stone, watching the young boys with their strings trying to catch fish. I always left when they laughed too loudly. I found their mirth disturbing.

I was lost to the world. All sense of time had disappeared. I lived from day to day, expecting nothing and giving nothing. As I write these lines I have no recollection of what I did every day apart from reading books in Ibn Maymun’s large library and becoming fascinated by the treatises on medicine. I read Galen and Ibn Sina many times and always discovered hidden meanings in their work. If I failed to comprehend the meaning of what these masters had written I would consult Ibn Maymun, who would compliment me on my learning and suggest that I become a physician and help him in his work.

Many months passed. I lost touch with the world of the Sultan. I did not know what was happening on the field of war and I no longer cared.

One day Ibn Maymun informed me that a new party of Franj had landed on the coast and were determined to take back Jerusalem. His eyes filled with tears.

“They must never be allowed to take that city away from us again, Ibn Yakub. Never.”

Perhaps it was the urgency in my friend’s voice that revived my interest in the world. Perhaps my recovery was complete in any event. Whatever the cause, I felt myself again. The sense of loss was still present in me, but the pain had gone. I sent a letter to Imad al-Din, asking him whether I could rejoin the Sultan.

Four weeks later, as spring came to Cairo like a burst of soft laughter, a messenger arrived from Dimask. The Sultan ordered me to return to his side without further delay. I was sitting in the courtyard enjoying the sun, underneath a gnarled tree with twisted twigs. It remained the same through all the seasons and I had become greatly attached to it because it reminded me of myself. I, too, did not feel the delights of spring.

I bade Ibn Maymun farewell. It was an emotional parting. We, who had once been so close, were together again. A small slice of happiness had been recovered from the heart of the tragedy that had befallen me. We agreed never to lose contact again. I had no real desire to carry on inscribing the story of Salah al-Din’s life, but Ibn Maymun was panicked by such a thought. He advised me to carry on and, “if it helps you, Ibn Yakub, write everything to me. I will keep your letters safe here, next to these notebooks with which you have entrusted me.”