The Book of Saladin

Thirty-Eight

The Sultan welcomes my return; Richard of England threatens Tyre; Imad al-Din is sick with love

DEAR FRIEND,

I WISH you were here so that we could speak with each other instead of relying on the courier service, which is not always reliable. As you know I was nervous at the thought of returning to Damascus, but everyone made me welcome. Some of the emirs went so far as to say that they regarded my return as an omen of good luck, for whenever I had been with the Sultan he had never lost a battle.

Everything has changed. Fortunes fluctuate like the price of diamonds in the Cairo market. When I left his side, nearly two years ago, the Sultan had conquered every pinnacle. His eyes were bright, the sun had given colour to his cheeks and his voice was relaxed and happy. Success dispels tiredness. When I saw him this morning he was clearly pleased to see me, and he rose and kissed my cheeks, but the sight of him surprised me. His eyes had shrunk, he had lost weight and he looked very pale. He observed my surprise.

“I have been ill, scribe. The war against these wretched infidels has begun to exhaust me, but I could cope with them. It is not simply the enemy that worries me. It is our own side. Ours is an emotional and impulsive faith. Victory in battle affects Believers in the same way as banj. They will fight without pause to repeat our success, but if, for some reason, it eludes us, if patience and skill are required rather than simple bravery, then our men begin to lose their urge. Dissensions arise and some fool of an emir thinks: ‘Perhaps this Salah al-Din is not as invincible as we had thought. Perhaps I should save my own skin and that of my men’, and thinking these ignoble thoughts he deserts the field of war. Or another few emirs, demoralised by our lack of success, will think to themselves that during the last six months they and their men have not enjoyed the spoils of war. They imagine that it is my brothers, sons and nephews who are benefiting and so they pick a quarrel and go back to Aleppo. It is a wearying business, Ibn Yakub.

“I have to fight on two fronts all the time. That is why I did not take Tyre all those months ago, when you were still at my side. I thought the men would not be able to sustain a long siege. It turned out that I was wrong. I overestimated the size of the Franj presence in the city, but if I had been confident of my own soldiers I would have taken the risk. The result, my friend, is a mess. The Franj kings are arriving from across the water with more soldiers and more gold. They never give up, do they? Welcome back to your home, Ibn Yakub. I have missed your presence. Al-Fadil left for Cairo this morning and Imad al-Din has not been to see me for a week. He claims he has a toothache, but my spies tell me that what aches is his heart. Remember Shadhi? He always used to refer to Imad al-Din as the swallower of a donkey’s penis!”

He laughed loudly at the memory, and I joined him, pleased that my return had lightened his mood.

Later that afternoon, I did call on Imad al-Din, who received me graciously. The Sultan’s informants had been correct. The great master was undergoing the pain associated with spurned love. He complained bitterly that the treasury had not paid his salary for many months and it was for that reason that he had decided not to visit the Sultan.

I was surprised, but when I pressed further he decided to confess the true reason for his state. He inflicted his troubles on me. There is nothing more tedious, Ibn Maymun, than listening to a grown man droning on about his shattered heart as if he was fifteen years old and had just discovered heartbreak. Since I had gone to see him it was difficult to bring my visit to an end.

You will, I’m sure, recall a certain Copt translator I once mentioned to you, by the name of Tarik ibn Isa. The one who caught our great scholar’s lewd eye in Jerusalem, soon after we entered the city. The Sultan was pleased by the boy’s abilities and, on Imad al-Din’s advice, the Copt became part of Salah al-Din’s retinue. That is how Tarik came to Damascus. Here Imad al-Din, desperate to vent his lust on the youth, pursued him without shame. He wrote couplets in his honour, he hired minstrels to sing quatrains outside his window on moonlit nights, he even threatened to have the boy dismissed from the Sultan’s service unless he was willing to serve all the needs of Imad al-Din. Now this youth has disappeared, to the consternation of the entire court, and the great man is inconsolable.

This is not, of course, how the Sultan’s most learned secretary views the emotional landscape. He tells his story differently and let your wisdom, Ibn Maymun, be the judge.

Speaking in those sonorous tones I have come to know so well, and which were pleasing to my ears solely because I had not heard them for so long, he told me:

“What I simply could not understand, Ibn Yakub, was the obstinate resistance of this shallow youth. You raise your eyebrows? I know what you’re thinking. Perhaps this boy was not attracted to men. I thought so, but you would be wrong to make that assumption. I had him followed and discovered that he was in love with a man not much younger than myself, but with this important difference.

“Tarik’s lover was a heretic, a blasphemer, a sceptic. He came from Aleppo, but preached his evil in this our purest of cities. He claimed to be descended from Ibn Awjal. You know our faith well, Ibn Yakub. You have heard of Ibn Awjal? No? I must say you surprise me.

“He lived in Kufa, a hundred years after the death of the Prophet. He had converted to our faith from yours, but he was desperate to be famous. He wanted to be a big man. So he published four thousand hadith and was regarded as a scholar, but these hadith were completely false. He had invented each and every one, and put blasphemous and erotic language into the mouth of our Prophet. It is said that one of his hadith claimed that the Prophet had stated that any woman who permitted a man to see her in a state of undress, even by accident, was obliged to give herself to that man, and if she refused the man had a right to take her against her will. May Allah burn that son-of-a-whore in hell forever. There were others of this sort, even worse. In one of them Ibn Awjal claimed prophetic lineage for the remark: ‘Fornicate with your camel by all means, but never on the open road.’ Another hadith claimed that provided the Angel Gabriel ratified the deed, a Believer could satisfy his carnal desires in any way he wished. On another occasion he wrote that the Prophet had told his son-in-law Ali to bare his arse before no person and claimed that two words were missing from the original hadith. These crazed imaginings could not be left unpunished. To abuse our Prophet in such a way was unacceptable. Ibn Awjal was arrested by the Kadi of Kufa. He admitted manufacturing the hadith. Justice was swift. He was executed immediately after the trial.

“Tarik’s lover claimed descent from Ibn Awjal and began to tell his followers that many of the hadith published by his blaspheming forebear were genuine. When I heard this news I refused to believe my informant, who had insinuated his way into the intimate circles of this heretic. I informed the Kadi, who had all of them arrested, except Tarik. Unlike his more courageous ancestor, this pig of a sceptic denied all knowledge of what had been stated by my informant in the court. He had the audacity to claim that I had forged false evidence to put him out of the way for reasons best known to myself. The Kadi showed no mercy. The Sultan gave his approval. He was executed. That same day Tarik disappeared for ever. Nobody has sighted him, but there are rumours that he took his own life and some say his body was seen floating down the river.

“They tell me that your friend, Jamila, was enraged when she heard of the execution. She stormed into Salah al-Din’s chamber and lashed him with her fiery tongue. That woman is never ambiguous or discreet, is she? She sent me a letter denouncing me as an evil fornicator and lecher and suggesting that this city would be cleaner if I were castrated. These are the real reasons for my gloom, Ibn Yakub, though it would be false if I denied to you that the Treasury seems to have forgotten my existence and this fact has caused me considerable irritation.”

I was in a reflective mood as I left Imad al-Din’s dwelling. I was walking back slowly to my own house and dreading the silence that would greet me as I entered the courtyard. This house is suffused with memories of Rachel, and I think I should remove my belongings from here and shift to the citadel. I was formulating a letter along these lines in my head to dispatch to the steward when I was approached by the familiar figure of the Nubian mute, who handed me a note from the Sultana Jamila demanding my presence. Nothing had changed in the city. I smiled weakly and followed the mute back to the citadel. It is strange, is it not, Ibn Maymun, how one can return to a place after a long absence and find that all the old routines are still in place? The Sultan fights his wars, Imad al-Din sulks in his house and the Sultana summons me for a conversation.

She greeted me like a valued friend. For the first time she touched me. She stroked my head and expressed her sorrow at the loss of my family. Then she whispered in my ear: “We have both lost loved ones. This draws us closer to each other. You must not leave us again. The Sultan and I both need you now.”

Unsurprisingly, she had heard of my visit to Imad al-Din. Nothing escapes her. Even the most trivial conversation involving the Sultan or those close to him is reported to her. This makes her one of the best-informed people in the kingdom. Her authority is such that few deny her the information she craves.

Jamila wanted a detailed account of our conversation. I was about to speak when I realised she was not alone. Seated on a stool behind her was a young woman of striking beauty, whose face, with its sad expressive eyes, was strangely familiar. The young woman was dressed in a yellow silk gown and a matching scarf covered her head. She wore kohl to enhance the beauty of her eyes — not that anything about her needed enhancing. Surprised by the presence of this attractive stranger, I looked inquiringly at Jamila.

“This is Zainab. She is my scribe. She takes down my words so rapidly that my thoughts have to race to keep up with her. Her speed puts you to shame, Ibn Yakub. Now speak. What did that old charlatan tell you?”

I recounted my conversation with Imad al-Din, during the course of which the two women exchanged looks on a number of occasions. Then Jamila spoke with anger in her voice, though her language surprised me.

“Shadhi was not wrong about that swallower of a donkey’s penis! Everything he has told you is a lie. He had an innocent man executed, a man whose only crime was that of being a sceptic, but then so am I, so is Imad al-Din, and even you have been known to express heretical thoughts. Only simpletons refuse to doubt anything. A world without doubt could never move forward. When Salah al-Din was young, he too was a sceptic. It surprises you? Why do you think he never made the pilgrimage to Mecca? Now he is desperate to appease his Maker, but when he had the chance he refused. Imad al-Din ordered the execution because he was jealous. An old man who could not bear the thought of being rejected and went looking for a sacrificial goat. It disgusts me, and I told your Sultan to have his secretary castrated. No boy in Damascus is safe when the sap rises in that old trunk.”

She paused at this point to laugh and looked at Zainab for approval, but there were tears in the younger woman’s eyes, and this made Jamila angry once again.

“Look closely at Zainab, scribe. Imagine her in a man’s gown translating a letter in Latin to the Sultan.”

I was stunned. Now I knew where I had seen a similar face. In Jerusalem! This must be Tarik ibn Isa’s twin sister.

“Not his sister, fool. This is ‘Tarik ibn Isa’. Zainab’s father, an old Copt scholar, educated her as though she were a boy. They lived in Jerusalem, but prayed for deliverance. The Franj knights did not much care for the Copts, who they regarded as bad Christians and heretics. When Salah al-Din’s steward put out the call for a translator, Zainab’s father dressed her as a man and sent her to the court. The rest you know. Let Imad al-Din think that he caused the death of Tarik ibn Isa. Let him suffer for the rest of his life. We are thinking of disguising Zainab as a ghost and sending her outside Imad al-Din’s bedchamber. Do you think it might kill him?”

I looked at Zainab. She had recovered her composure and was pleased that her story had astonished me. I could also see from Jamila’s eyes that she had now found a replacement for the lost Halima.

Contrary to what is said, Ibn Maymun, the fickleness of a woman’s heart is something we can never match.

My warmest greetings to your family.

Your old friend,

Ibn Yakub.

Thirty-Nine

The Franj plague returns to Acre and Salah al-Din is depressed; he confides his innermost doubts to me

I ENVY YOU, DEAR friend Ibn Maymun. I envy your beautiful home near Cairo. I envy your peace of mind and I wish I had never left the sanctuary that you so kindly provided me in my hour of need.

I am at fault. I have not written to you for many months, but I have been moving all the time in the wake of our Sultan. How everything has changed once again. The fortunes of this war are forever fluctuating. I am writing to you from Acre, which is under siege by the Franj, whose decision to attack the city took us all by surprise. Salah al-Din was two days away, but returned with his soldiers, who were vastly outnumbered by the Franj.

Such is the power of our Sultan that the very news of his approach startled the enemy. They did not put up a fight, but instead withdrew to their camp. We sent some of our soldiers back into Acre and messengers were sent for help. Taki al-Din left his watch outside Antioch and joined us, as did Keukburi. As you know, these are the two emirs who the Sultan would trust with his life, and their arrival cheered his spirits.

The response from other quarters was limited. The in-fighting amongst the rulers of Hamadan and Sinjar and some other towns has meant that their aims no longer harmonise with those of Salah al-Din.

When the Franj finally joined battle the results were not clear. It was neither victory nor defeat for both sides. Our position grows steadily weaker and the Franj grow daily more audacious, but the final victory may belong to our side. The situation as I write is as follows. Picture the Franj trying to besiege Acre and take us by surprise. Now shut your eyes and imagine how our Salah al-Din came up quietly behind the Franj and transformed the besiegers into the besieged. In Imad al-Din’s immortal words, “After being like the brow around the eye, they have now become like the eye surrounded by the eyebrow.” His imagery is powerful, but I think it is designed to conceal the despair that he really feels. We began this year with the Sultan acknowledged as the supreme master of Palestine. Now, once again, we are fighting for our survival, and the Sultan sometimes wishes that he had never left Cairo.

He never pauses for a rest. He usually sleeps no more than two or three hours every night. I wish you were here so that you could advise him on how to preserve his health. Looking at him these days, he is like a candle, which still displays a piercing flame, but which is slowly burning itself out. He is over fifty years old, but he leads his soldiers into battle as if he were twenty, his sword raised and without a care in the world. And yet I know that he is extremely worried about the state of his army. It is beginning to affect his spiritual and physical health. He has not slept at all for the last three days. His face is pale, his eyes, normally alert and lively, are listless. I feel he needs someone with whom he can share all his troubled thoughts. As always I wish Shadhi was here, but even Imad al-Din or your great Kadi al-Fadil would be a useful presence. You might mention my worries to al-Fadil if this letter ever reaches you. I am not a good substitute for any of these three men, and yet I am the only one here who knows him and has been close to him for over ten years. Is it really ten years ago that you recommended me to him, Ibn Maymun? Time is cruel.

He talks to me a great deal these days, and sometimes I get the feeling that he wants me to stop being a scribe. He looks into my eyes, demanding a reply that would comfort him and ease his fears, but as you know well, I have no real knowledge of matters military and my understanding of the emirs of Damascus and their rivalries is, alas, limited. I have never realised my own shortcomings as I have on this particular trip, When Salah al-Din has needed me, I could offer him nothing.

I remember you explaining to me a long time ago that when minds are agitated, all we can offer our friends is to sit quietly and listen to their tales of woe. People in such a state rarely follow anyone’s advice and can even become resentful if one says something that they do not wish to hear. You said all this in relation to love, but the emotion that is plaguing our Sultan is indecision in the face of the enemy. He thinks of two or three alternatives but cannot determine which to follow.

I sit and listen to his sad voice. Yesterday I was summoned to his tent when the full moon was at its zenith. I had been fast asleep, but as I walked to his tent, the cool air refreshed my brain. These were the exact words spoken to me by the Sultan.

Hardly a night goes by, Ibn Yakub, without my feeling that Allah is beckoning me. I am not long for this life, scribe. I have spent fifty years in this world, which is a blessing from Allah. A strange thing happens to a man after he reaches fifty. He stops thinking about the future and spends more and more time thinking about the past. He smiles at the good memories and cringes all over again at the foolishnesses of which he was guilty.

These last few weeks I have been thinking a great deal of my father Ayyub. In the course of his life my noble father, may he be happy in Heaven, never had occasion to fall on his knees in order to gratify a ruler. He always held his head high. He disliked hearing his virtues praised and he was deaf to the coarse flattery that is part of everyday life in the citadel. It always gave him pleasure to oblige others.

He was a generous man. Shadhi must have told you all this, but he had a real weakness for maidservants. You look surprised, Ibn Yakub. Do I take it that this fact was kept from you by the ever-indiscreet Shadhi? Allah protect me! I’m amazed. It wasn’t much of a secret. Whenever a new maidservant approached my father used to feel the sap rise in him, and he never wasted his seed. Once my mother reproached him for this and he hurled a hadith at her head, according to which, if it is to be believed, “the share of a man to copulate has been predestined and he will have to do it under all circumstances.” My mother, who was a plain-speaking woman, after a few sentences of the choicest Kurdish abuses which I will not repeat, then asked him how it had come about that men could find a hadith to justify everything they did to women, but the opposite was never the case. Why am I talking about him in this fashion? I had called you in to discuss more urgent matters, but your presence always reminds me of old Shadhi, and I find myself talking with you as I used to with him, in a way I could never do with al-Fadil or Imad al-Din, and not even my own brothers.

Most of my emirs and soldiers imagine I have the solution to all our problems, but we know better. A ruler may be strong or weak, but he is always lonely. Even the last Fatimid Caliph in Cairo, surrounded by eunuchs and addicted to the banj which kept him remote from reality, even he once wept in my presence and confessed how the lack of even a single true friend had brought him more grief than anything else, including the loss of real power.

I have been lucky. I have had good friends and advisers, but this war has being going on for far too long. I do not deny my mistakes. We should have taken Tyre after al-Kuds. It was a grave error on my part to move down the coast, but that was not an insurmountable problem. I am beginning to think there is something that goes deep in all those amongst us who believe in Allah and his Prophet. It is almost as if this creed is so strongly rooted in us that we do not feel an obligation to believe in anything else. How else can one explain the degeneration that has taken place in Baghdad? Not even the Commander of the Faithful himself would dare compare himself to the first four Caliphs.

Our faith, which in the early days inspired us to build an empire which spanned sea and desert and existed on three continents, now appears to have descended to a grand gesture. We love extremes. When, against all odds, Allah gives us a dramatic victory, we rejoice like children who have won a game of eight-stones. For the next few months we live off our victory. Allah is praised and all is well.

After a defeat we descend low into the very heart of gloom. What we do not understand is that there are no victories without defeats. Every great conqueror in history has suffered setbacks. We are incapable of consistency. After only a few reverses our morale suffers, our spirit is weakened and our discipline disappears. Was this written in our stars? Will we never change? Has the cruelty of fate designated us to a permanent instability? How will we reply to Gabriel on the Day of Judgement when he asks: “O Followers of the great Prophet Mohammed, why, when you were needed the most, did you not help each other in the face of your enemies?”

Our emirs are easily demoralised and discouraged. Easy victories are fine, but when the will of Allah is frustrated by the infidels then our emirs panic, and when this state of mind is observed by the men who fight under their command, they too become despondent and say to each other: “Our emir is missing his wine and women. I, too, am missing my family. We haven’t received any treasure for many months. Perhaps tonight, when the camp is asleep, we should return to our villages.”

It is not easy to maintain the morale of a large army at a level where it is permanently in a state of readiness. The Franj have an advantage over us. Their soldiers come across the water. They cannot run away as easily as we can. All this teaches me is that men fight for a cause that is greater than their own self-interest only when they are genuinely convinced that what they are fighting for will benefit each and all.

When I was a young boy in Baalbek and the sun was shining from a clear blue sky, I would often go out with my brothers to play near the river. Suddenly large black clouds would cover the sky like a blanket, and before we could run back a ripe thunderstorm had already erupted, frightening us with flashes of lightning. It is only when my soldiers are like that thunderstorm that I can behave like lightning. That is what they do not understand and what the emirs, with a few exceptions, are incapable of teaching them. The result is what you see around you. An army in disarray. Our good friend Imad al-Din is now overcome by fear and worry. He writes to inform us that, like the plague, the Franj are out of our control. As long as the sea continues to supply them and our lands continue to give them comfort they will conquer everything. Our great scholar shows his confidence in my abilities by jumping on his horse and fleeing to the safety of Damascus and suggests that I follow him soon. I suppose he prefers to be congratulated on his safety rather than being posthumously praised for his martyrdom. Alas, this is a road specially maintained for the scholars of our realm. It is not a route along which I could travel.

I have written his words down exactly as he spoke them, and they will give you some indication as to the state of his mind. I am concerned that if his health collapses, so will our cause, and the Franj might then retake Jerusalem and burn our people as they did the first time.

I hope this letter finds you in good health and that your esteemed family have managed to survive the Cairo summer.

Your humble pupil,

Ibn Yakub.

Forty

The fall of Acre; Imad al-Din’s story of Richard the Lion-Arse; the death of Taki al-Din

MY DEAR AND MOST esteemed friend,

There are many reasons why I have not written you for several months. I have been travelling a great deal from one camp to another, following the Sultan like a trusted dog and happy in my position. In the old days, before the fire that consumed my family, there were occasions when I resented being summoned to the royal presence without even a moment’s notice. Now I feel he really needs me. Perhaps this is pure fantasy, but I know that I certainly need him. At his side, I am distracted from the past. My mind has to be clear to understand the events that take place every day.

There are times when writing to you reminds me of the old house in the Jewish quarter of Cairo, and then I weep. This is especially true on cold nights like tonight when I am sitting in a tent, huddled in a blanket, roasting my hands gently on a fire. Memories take over of the winter nights in Cairo all those years ago. That was one reason for the delay. There was another. I was not sure whether you had received my previous communications or not, and I had no time to make inquiries because of the calamity. We have all been in deep mourning for the loss of Acre.

I was therefore delighted to receive your message via the courier to the Sultan and am pleased that my previous letters have reached you safely. I am also touched by your concern for my health, but on that score there is no cause for worry. It is the Sultan’s state of mind that bothers me. This man can ride for fifty days on horseback with only three-hour rests every night and inspire all his men, but I fear he will drop dead one day and leave us orphans to grieve on our own.

I understand your irritation regarding Imad al-Din, but you are not completely accurate in your estimate of him. As we have had occasion to discuss before, he has many bad habits. His spirit is clouded by arrogance and his body movements are sometimes offensive, especially his habit of raising his left buttock slightly when he passes wind, but this defect is counterbalanced by his many noble qualities which transcend all his weaknesses. He is a man with a romantic spirit. The timbre of his soul is gentle. Enough of him for the moment. I shall return to this subject later.

The magnitude of the disaster that befell us at Acre cannot be underestimated. Philip of France and Richard of England finally took the city. We had no ships to resist their galleys and Salah al-Din’s attempts to divert their attention by a surprise attack on their encampments failed in their purpose. The large armoury in Acre contained all the arms from the coast as well as others from Damascus and Aleppo. The emirs in the citadel sent the Sultan several messages pleading for help and informing him that if they were not relieved they would have no alternative but to ask the Franj for quarter.

The sequence of events was as follows. As the situation deteriorated, three of the leading emirs fled the city under cover of darkness in a small boat. Their cowardly act became known only in the morning and caused a further decline in the morale of the soldiers. Sensing defeat, the commander Qara Kush, whom you know much better than I from his days in Cairo, asked to see the Sultans of England and France to negotiate a surrender and the withdrawal of all our soldiers. Philip was prepared to accept the terms demanded by Qara Kush, but Richard wished to humiliate our army and refused. Salah al-Din sent a message forbidding surrender, but even though our army had received reinforcements we could not break the siege. Qara Kush surrendered without the Sultan’s authority, but Richard insisted on extremely tough terms. Qara Kush felt he had no alternative but to accept the offer.

It was the greatest reverse ever suffered by Salah al-Din. He had not been defeated for fourteen years and now he wept like a child. They were tears of anger, of despair and frustration. He felt that with stronger leadership inside the city it need not have fallen. He reproached himself. He railed against the babble of futile counsel and cursed the cowardly emirs. He pledged that he would never give up the struggle to test the spirit and the faith of the Believers. He spoke of the light temporarily hidden by a cloud and he swore in the name of Allah that the stars would once again shine before the break of dawn. It was difficult not to be moved by his tears or the words that accompanied them.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

In the desert alone, I

count the burnt-out lamps of our youths.

How many have been claimed by these execution-grounds?

How many more will die?

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

But every morning at sunrise

I will remember them all in my prayers.

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

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

Darkness rules.

Desolation reigns.

Can we illuminate the path again?

Your friend,

Ibn Yakub

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

Forty-One

The Lion-Arse returns to England and the Sultan retires to Damascus

GOOD FRIEND, IBN MAYMUN,

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Yesterday, after his afternoon rest and on a pure whim, he sent for Imad al-Din. The great man did not arrive till much later, long after we had finished our evening meal. He apologised for this, claiming that he had only been informed of the Sultan’s message half-an-hour ago. Salah al-Din smiled and did not challenge the falsehood. It is known everywhere that Imad al-Din avoids eating with the Sultan, because of the latter’s frugal taste in food.

“What did you eat tonight, Imad al-Din, and where?” asked the Sultan without a smile.

The secretary was shaken by this unexpected question. His drooping eyelids lifted and his entire posture became alert.

“It was a modest repast, O Commander of the Brave. A little grilled lamb, followed by one of my own recipes, quails cooked in curds from sheep’s milk and flavoured with salt and garlic. That’s all.”

We laughed, and he joined in. Then after an exchange of pleasantries the Sultan announced his wish to make the pilgrimage to Mecca and asked Imad al-Din to make the necessary plans. The secretary frowned.

“I would not recommend it at the moment. The Caliph is already envious of you. He knows the people love you. He will regard your visit to Mecca as an indirect challenge to his authority in Baghdad.”

“That is the talk of the insane, Imad al-Din,” the Sultan interrupted his chief adviser on protocol. “It is the duty of a Believer to visit Mecca once a year.”

“I am aware of this, Sultan,” replied the secretary, “but the Caliph might inquire why you have chosen this time for your first visit. He might even listen to evil tongues which gossip that you were once a sceptic and, as such, attached little importance to the rituals of our faith.”

“Do as I say, Imad al-Din,” came the stern reply. “I will visit Mecca before this year is out. Inform the Caliph of our intention and inquire politely whether we should stop and pay our respects to him on our way.”

Once this question was settled, Imad al-Din made as if to take his leave, but the Sultan indicated that he should stay.

“It is not often we have the pleasure of your presence these days, Imad al-Din. Tell me, have you found a new lover?”

It was not like Salah al-Din to be so intimate, and the secretary was surprised and a little flattered by the familiarity shown by his sovereign. He parried the question with a joke which amused neither the Sultan nor me. Frustrated by Imad al-Din’s excessive desire for secrecy, Salah al-Din became serious.

“I know you have studied the Christian faith closely, Imad al-Din. Is it not the case that the early Christians from whom the Copts claim their descent viewed icons and images with the same repugnance as ourselves? Here I include Ibn Yakub and the followers of Musa, whose faith, like ours, is built on a rejection of image-worship. How did it happen that the later Christians abandoned their early beliefs and began to worship icons? If it happened to them, could it not happen to us?”

For a moment Imad al-Din was buried deep in his own thoughts as he stroked his beard. Once he had composed a reply in his head, he began to speak slowly as if he were instructing a pupil.

“The early Christians were indeed deeply offended by the worship of images. They were, in the main, descended from the people of Musa and, as such, they carried within them many of the old Jewish precepts. They were also hostile to the Greeks. In fact some of the early Christians used to mock the pagans by arguing that if statues and images were capable of thought and feeling the only person they would love would be he who had created them.

“The change came three hundred years later when the pagans had been decisively defeated. The luminaries of the Church thought that images of Isa and the saints and relics such as the Cross could act as a bridge between them and a sceptical multitude which recalled the past with affection and whose memory was still infused with the more delightful aspects of pagan rituals. If the followers of Pythagoras could only be won over by images of Isa nailed to the cross, then the bishops were prepared to tolerate this departure from their own past.

“Reminded by newly converted pagans that their faith lacked an Athena, a Diana, a Venus, they set the minds of their new flock to rest by elevating Isa’s mother, Mary, into one of the most popular images of their religion. The figure of a mother was necessary for them, as they ruled over countries where goddesses had been worshipped for centuries. Our Prophet, may he rest in peace, was aware of this problem, but resisted the lures of Satan in this regard.

“The Sultan asks if we will go the same way. I think not. The purity of our faith is so closely tied to the worship of Allah and Allah alone, that to worship the image of anyone would not simply be profane, it would seriously challenge the authority of the Commander of the Faithful. After all, if power resided in a relic or an image, why bother to accept the power of a human being? I know what you’re thinking, O Commander of the Intelligent. The Pope in Rome? I thought as much, but as the years pass their faith will witness schisms and a challenge to the Pope’s authority. That is the logic of worshipping images.

“If we were to go in that direction our faith, unlike that of the Christians, would not be able to withstand the strain. It would collapse.”

The Sultan stroked his beard thoughtfully, but was unconvinced by Imad al-Din’s logic.

“The power of their Pope or our Caliph may well be challenged, Imad al-Din. That much I grant you, but where I disagree is your assumption that all this flows from the worship of images and icons. You have not proved your case, but the subject interests me nonetheless. Speak with the chamberlain and let us have a conference of scholars next week to discuss this matter further. I will detain you no longer. I am sure that somewhere in the heart of Damascus a beautiful young creature is waiting patiently for you to enter his bed.”

The secretary did not reply, but permitted himself a smile and kissed the Sultan’s cloak before he departed. It was not late, but Salah al-Din was tired. Two attendants, laden with sheets, soaps and oils, came to accompany him to the bath. He looked at me with a weak smile.

“Jamila will be angry I have kept you so long today. She is desperate to speak with you. Like me she has grown to value your friendship. Your presence reassures her. Better spend the day with her tomorrow.”

I bowed as he left, resting his arms on the shoulders of the attendants. Both of them were holding lamps in their right hands and as he walked out positioned delicately between them, the soft light shone on his face. For a moment it appeared as a light from another world. From paradise. He talks sometimes of the unexpected gifts bestowed on him by kind Fate and speaks of himself as a mere instrument of Allah. He is only too well aware of his mortality. He is not well, Ibn Maymun, and this makes me sad.

The next day I followed the Sultan’s instructions and went to pay my respects to the Sultana Jamila. She received me alone and bade me welcome in the most affectionate fashion. She handed me a manuscript, and as I leafed through its pages I began to tremble for her and for myself. Both of us could be beheaded: she for writing the offending pages and I for reading them dispassionately and not reporting her to the Kadi. Her work contained blasphemies so flagrant that even the Sultan would have found it difficult to protect her from the wrath of the sheikhs. I will discuss these with you when we meet again, Ibn Maymun. I am fearful of confiding them in a letter which will be carried by a messenger. It is perfectly possibly that our letters are opened, read by prying eyes, their contents reported to al-Fadil and Imad al-Din and then resealed and dispatched.

I pleaded with Jamila to burn the manuscript.

“The paper might burn, scribe,” she retorted with fire in her eyes, “but my thoughts will never leave me. What you do not understand is that something terrible has happened to me and I want to go south forever. I can no longer smile. The wind has burnt my lips. I wish to die where I was born. Till that day arrives I will continue to transfer my thoughts to paper. I have no intention of destroying this manuscript. It will be left in a safe place, and it will be read by those who understand my quest for truth.”

Even though I could read the answer in her eyes, I asked the nature of the calamity that had befallen her. She had grown tired of the beautiful Copt girl. Her surfeited heart had felt sudden disgust. She offered no reason and I asked for none. She was searching for Halima and had not found her in the Copt. Would the search continue when she returned south, or had she resigned herself to a life of scholarship? I was about to ask her, when she startled me with an unexpected offer.

“Your life too, Ibn Yakub, has been affected by misfortune. You have won respect and praise from everyone, but you and I are like beggars. We have nothing. It is true I have two strong sons, but they are far away and they will die fighting, defending some citadel in this cursed war. I doubt that they will even provide me with grandchildren to help my old age. I foresee an empty life after the Sultan goes, and so do you. Why not accompany me to the South? The library in my father’s palace has many rare manuscripts, including some from Andalusian sceptics. You will never be short of reading matter. What do you say, scribe? You need time to think?”

I nodded, while expressing my gratitude to her for thinking of me so kindly. The truth is, Ibn Maymun, that I would much rather return to Cairo, find a small room somewhere and be close to you.

Your loyal friend,

Ibn Yakub.

Forty-Two

Farewell to the Sultan

DEAR FRIEND,

THERE IS a winter mist over the citadel as I write these lines, but it is as nothing compared with the dark clouds that have covered our hearts for the last seven days. He, who was accustomed to war, now rests in peace, in the shadow of the Great Mosque.

My own future is uncertain. The Sultan’s son, al-Afdal, has succeeded him and wants me to stay here as his scribe. Jamila is preparing to depart for the South and wishes me to accompany her. I think I will plead ill-health and return to Cairo to recover my thoughts and reflect for some time on the life of this man, whose departure has left us all in darkness.

His health, as I wrote you before, had not been good. During our last weeks in Jerusalem he would sigh and complain of lack of sleep, but insist on fasting, which his physicians warned him was unnecessary. The fast would weaken him further and I would often see him, his head hanging wearily as he stared at the ground.

But the return to Damascus had revived him, and his death was all the worse for being so unexpected. For the last month he had spent much time with his brother al-Adil and his sons. His health appeared to have recovered. He ate well and there was colour in his cheeks again. Much laughter was heard as they rode out of the city to enjoy the hunt.

Once we were sitting in the garden and his oldest boy, al-Afdal, came to pay his respects. The Sultan, who had been talking to me of his love for his dead nephew, Taki al-Din, fell silent as al-Afdal came and kissed his father’s hands. The Sultan looked at him sternly.

“I am leaving all of you an empire that stretches from the Tigris to the Nile. Never forget that our successes were based on the support we received from our people. If you become isolated from them, you won’t last long.”

On another occasion I heard him plead with al-Adil to safeguard the interests of his sons. He knew, as did his brother, that amongst the mountain clans there is no particular regard for heredity. The clan chooses the strongest from within its ranks to lead it and defend its interests. The Sultan’s younger brother, al-Adil, bore a strong resemblance to their uncle Shirkuh and his character and appetites, too, were not unlike his uncle’s. Salah al-Din knew, as did his brother, that if his retainers and soldiers were given the choice they would choose al-Adil to be their Sultan. He pleaded with al-Adil to protect Afdal, Aziz and Zahir against all conspiracies. The younger brother bent and kissed the Sultan’s cheeks, muttering: “Why are you in such low spirits? Allah will take me away long before you. He needs you to clear the infidels off our shores.”

When al-Adil spoke those words I agreed with him. The Sultan was in high spirits and reminded me of those early days in Cairo when he was learning the art of statecraft. But the Sultan must have had a foreboding.

Early one morning he ordered me to be woken up and join him. Having failed to visit Mecca he wanted to go and greet the returning pilgrims outside the city walls. I think he truly regretted his own inability to make the pilgrimage. During his youth it had been an act of defiance, but as he grew older he felt it as a loss. However, the war against the Franj had occupied him for two score years, and of late he was simply too exhausted to make the journey. Imad al-Din had prevented him by utilising the Caliph’s rivalry as a motive, but in reality the secretary had confessed to me that he feared the Sultan would not survive the journey. His physicians confirmed that this was indeed the reason why they had forbidden the exertion. He accepted all this with bad grace, and his desire to greet the returning pilgrims was by way of making up for his own failure.

As we rode it began to rain. The downpour had struck without warning and it was cold winter rain, which froze our faces. I saw him shiver and realised that he had come without his quilted jacket. I took my cloak and attempted to put it round his shoulders, but he laughed and threw it back at me. It amused him that I, who he regarded as a weakling, was trying to shield him from the weather.

The rain fell with such force that the road became divided by wild streams and virtually impassable. The horses began to slither in the mud, but he continued to ride and we continued to follow him. I can see him now, his clothes and his beard splattered with mud as he caught sight of the rain-soaked pilgrims and greeted them.

When we returned the rain had stopped and the sky had cleared. The people of Damascus, in all their finery, came out on to the streets to cheer the Sultan and welcome the caravan from Mecca. We avoided the crowds and took a small path back to the drawbridge.

Late that night he was possessed by a raging fever. I doubt whether a physician even of your skill would have been able to save him, Ibn Maymun. The fever grew worse and the Sultan was barely conscious. He saw his sons and al-Adil every day. I never left his side, thinking he might recover to dictate his last testament, but on the tenth day he fell asleep and never woke again. He had just passed his fifty-fifth birthday.

The city wept for three whole days. No instructions had been sent, but the shutters remained drawn over the shops and the streets were deserted. I have never seen such mass grief so openly displayed. The whole city was present as we accompanied his body to its last resting place, walking in absolute silence. His physician Abd al-Latif, himself an old man, whispered in my ear that he could recall no other instance where the death of a Sultan had so genuinely tormented the hearts of the people.

Imad al-Din, his face disfigured by pain and tears pouring down his cheeks, prayed aloud: “Ya Allah, accept this soul and open to him the gates of Paradise, and thus give him his last victory for which he always hoped.”

When we returned to the citadel all was silent. It seemed as if emirs and retainers alike could not even bear to listen to the sound of their own voices. The Sultan’s son, al-Afdal, came and embraced me, but no words were exchanged.

That same evening I suffered an attack of nausea and was sick. I was shivering. My body seemed to be on fire. I consumed three flasks of water and then I fell asleep.

When I woke the next morning, the sickness had gone, but I felt weak and overcome by a foreboding of disaster. I sat up in my bed and realised that the disaster had already occurred. The Sultan was dead.

My task is complete. There is nothing more to write.

Peace be upon you, till we meet,

Your loyal friend,

Ibn Yakub

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