by Giles Milton
The wily Sir John—always able to keep his critics on their toes— neatly sidesteps these problems. Because he was a close personal friend of the Sultan, he says, he was able to acquire a special permit which allowed him to travel unhindered wherever and whenever he wished.
'T had letters," he writes, "under the great seal of the Sultan, in which he strictly commanded his subjects to let me see all the places I wanted, and show me the relics and the holy places as I wished; and they were to conduct me from city to city if there were need . . . and obey my requests in all reasonable matters unless they were against the royal dignity of the Sultan or against their law."
I was instantly suspicious of these "letters," for they were too convenient for words. They would allow Sir John to write about everywhere in Syria—even the remotest of places—without any of his readers being able to challenge him on how he was able to travel there.
I turned to the other books written by medieval pilgrims. None of them mentioned these permits, and none of them had felt it necessary to get letters from the Sultan. But then, most had been travelling in less troubled times when the crusaders had opened up the pilgrim trail and the road to Jerusalem was less dangerous. No sooner had I dismissed Mandeville's story as fiction, however, than I unearthed a little-known account that seemed to vindicate it entirely. An Anglo-Irish friar travelling in the same year as him had also found it necessary to ask the Sultan for a permit, and he, like Mandeville, was so struck by the usefulness of this "visa" that he wrote about it at length: "He [the Sultan's interpreter] gave us a patent letter bearing the Sultan's seal . . . drawn with a reed and ink, which the Sultan himself draws with his own hand and never commits to another to draw. And hence it is that all the admirals and all the rest bow themselves partly out of respect for him . . . while all the time uttering glorious praises, honours, and reverences on the Sultan."
My chauffeur-driven Mercedes sloshed through the drab suburbs of Damascus. It had been raining for hours and the streets were awash
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with filthy water. In places it had grown so deep that it slopped against shop doors.
My arrival in Damascus had not gone according to plan, for even before my brief encounter with the two chauffeurs I'd found myself with a problem. As I stood in the arrivals lounge waiting patiently for my luggage to appear, I watched the carousel churn out every conceivable rucksack and suitcase except my own. When I asked at Baggage Inquiries what had happened to my luggage, the man threw up his hands: "It could be in London," he said. "It could be in Bombay. It could be in Oman. Who knows, it might even have gone to Riyadh."
"Well, let's just hope it has good weather," I said with weary irony.
"Oh yes, Riyadh is always . . ." He stopped in mid-sentence and looked at me as if I was mad. When I asked him to fax London, he wearily shook his head. "We have no fax machines in Syria," he said. "But just be patient. You worry too much. Your baggage will arrive . . . if God in His merciful wisdom wills it."
I hoped that God would will it. If not, I was in for a cold and miserable time in Syria.
The outskirts of Damascus are shoulder to shoulder with garages and bicycle repair shops, yet despite the cold weather, groups of mechanics in greasy overalls stood in doorways drinking tea. Hanging from every lamppost was a picture of President Assad—pale-faced, moustached, and looking like an early-evening chat show host. But his was not the only face on display: the capital was adorned with banner-sized portraits of someone whose good looks, dark glasses, and unshaven face bore a striking resemblance to George Michael.
"Who is this George Michael?" asked my irritable driver. "This is not your George Michael . . . this is Basil, the son of the President of Syria. Or rather, it was."
"Was?"
"Yes, he is dead. Basil was killed in a car crash. But we still like to remember him." He paused for a second, then asked: "Who is George Michael?"
We had soon left the outskirts behind and were passing through the city's medieval centre. There was the flash of a crenellated battlement, a blur of neon, and the fading smell of kebab before we were
The Riddle and the Knight
whisked on to a flyover that carried us high above the city, leaving the puddles and lakes far below us. We passed the Army Museum, with its gardens adorned with tanks and wreckage from the 1973 war, and a few minutes later, we had arrived at our goal—the Damascus Meridien.
I didn't normally stay in such luxury, but I was writing a travel article for The Mail on Sunday and had been offered two complimentary nights by a PR agency in London. Unfortunately, I didn't have quite the right clothes. All my luggage had been lost—right down to my toothbrush—and I was dressed in filthy travelling clothes. Heads turned for all the wrong reasons as I walked into the glittering hotel lobby.
"You are welcome in Damascus," said a voice behind me. I spun around to be greeted by a man dressed in a slick dinner jacket, dress shirt, and bow tie. "Mr. Ali," he added as he held out his hand. "Sales director of the Meridien."
He led me up to a private lounge for a drink, and soon we were joined by the managing director and the financial director who arrived on a breeze of cologne. All were in their fifties and dressed in dinner suits. In the Arab world, where sharp dressing is de rigeur for businessmen, they seemed bemused to behold an unsightly and unshaven British journalist.
"So you write about Syria?" said the managing director.
"Syria," said the financial director, "is a beautiful country. She is one of the most beautiful countries in the world."
The sales director agreed. "She is more beautiful than a woman," he said. "I think you will adore her."
All three men nodded in agreement and stroked their moustaches. "And what, sir, do you wish to see in Syria?" asked the MD.
"Palmyra?" suggested the FD.
"Crac de Chevalier?" said SD.
I explained that I was following the route of a medieval knight, and they glanced at each other, then smiled at me politely.
"How interesting," said MD.
"Very interesting," said FD.
"Tm sure he, too, found Syria a beautiful country," added SD.
The financial director handed me a complimentary fruit cocktail adorned with an umbrella. "Whatever you want, Mr. Milton, you only
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have to ask." The others smiled as they stared at my steel-capped boots. I wished they would sit down, but instead they remained standing in a semicircle in front of me. When I moved to pick up my drink, the umbrella collided with my nose and the maraschino cherry plopped onto the floor. Everyone saw the disaster happen and all eyes looked down at the carpet. Was it under the desk? Had it rolled under my chair?
"There it is/' said FD at length. It was squashed between the heavy tread of my boots.
By the time Mandeville set off on his travels, Damascus had long been eclipsed by its more powerful neighbours. To the north lay Constantinople and the Byzantine Empire, while to the south was Cairo, capital of the powerful Mameluke dynasty. These Mamelukes had achieved huge successes on the battlefield, expelling the last crusaders from Syria.
Yet Damascus had a history that more than matched its neighbouring cities: six centuries before Sir John wrote his book, it had been the centre of a formidable Islamic empire that stretched from the Bay of Biscay to the banks of the Indus, from the Aral Sea to the cataracts of the Nile—a greater area of land, even, than the Roman Empire.
Ruled by the brilliant and cultivated Umayyad dynasty, it had controlled the great caravan routes from the east, and the wealth that poured into Damascus allowed its rulers to lavish money on palaces, mosques, and religious schools. It was a city of such legendary beauty that the Prophet Mohammed hesitated to visit it because, he said, he wished to enter paradise but once.
Although this empire had long since crumbled by Sir John's day, Damascus in the 1330s, governed by a capable bureaucrat sent from Egypt, was undergoing something of a renaissance. Tengiz—a man whose love of building was mat
ched only by his wealth—set about beautifying his provincial capital. By the time Sir John claims to have visited the city, its streets must have been alive with the clatter and banging of building work. These were the buildings I wanted to find, and I turned to Sir John to see what he had written about them. Unfortunately, he scarcely mentions either builders or buildings, preferring instead to write about the local fruit: "In Damascus there are many wells," he writes. "There are also many fair gardens, giving great plenty of fruit.
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Nowhere else is a city like it for gardens of fruit. There is a very large population in that city and it is well walled, with a double rampart."
And that was it. A walled city filled with gardens, and populated by prodigious eaters of fruit. I flicked back through his book to see how he had travelled to Damascus, but that was equally vague. He offers a number of routes, most of which started from Constantinople. The first was to take a boat to Cyprus, to Syria, and from there travel overland to Damascus. Another possibility was to go overland across Cappadocia and reach Damascus by way of Antioch. Finally—and rather vaguely— he suggests passing through Syria and into Palestine by travelling along the banks of the River Jordan.
But what route did he himself take? And in what year did he arrive? As ever, he didn't say.
A freezing wind swept through Damascus. My linen jacket provided inadequate protection against the winter chill. On my first morning, I headed to the souk to buy some new clothes, since God, in His merciful wisdom, had not willed my luggage to arrive. Underpants seemed in great supply—voluminous Y-fronts that would have fitted an elephant—but pullovers were not to be found, so I wandered deeper and deeper into the souks in search of them.
Like all the great medieval cities of the Arab world, Damascus's old quarter is surrounded by a high defensive rampart. Until the beginning of this century, the city was still contained within these fortifications, but now they mark only a tiny island in the midst of an ever-growing metropolis. Damascus's historic heart has been turned into a giant roundabout surrounded by a never-ending circuit of tarmac. The city's Los Angeles-style road network ensures that it is almost impossible to go anywhere on foot. Those wishing to visit the historic old town must cross at least two dual carriageways and a main artery road before landing up safely inside the city walls. Woe betide anyone caught in the middle of the road, for drivers delight in using pedestrians as target practice while simultaneously playing television theme tunes on their horns. I survived three roads, two green lights, and a roundabout before finding myself washed up safe and sound inside one of the city's ten gates.
The western end of the famous Souk al Tawil—known to all as
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Straight Street—is narrow and lined with stalls selling spices, cloth, and decorative copper plates. But as I walked along this street, I noticed a gradual change in the atmosphere. The noises began to change, and the spice stalls were replaced by shops with window displays and fancy lighting. Once you have passed the ruined Roman archway, this change becomes even more apparent: not only do the alleys widen and buildings become smarter, but the people are better dressed too. There is a very good reason for this: the Roman arch marks the end of the Muslim part of the city and the gateway to the wealthier Christian quarter. Ever since the city was conquered by Islam, this area of little more than one square kilometre has been home to thousands of Christians— all belonging to different churches with a bewildering array of beliefs.
But it was neither patriarchs nor churches that I was after. Having given up on finding a pullover, I was looking for Damascus's greatest building, the Umayyad Mosque, for there was something of a confusion in Sir John's book that needed clearing up. According to several sources, this was the final resting place of one of the most important relics in Christendom—the head of St. John the Baptist. The earliest tales recount how Herod sent the head to Damascus so that the Romans would believe that the execution had taken place. But the popular tradition records that on the day Damascus fell to the Muslim armies, John the Baptist's blood bubbled up from beneath the old Byzantine church. Horrified onlookers tore up the floor and unearthed the head, still covered in skin and hair, prompting the Caliph of the time to mark the spot with a column. Because of this, the mosque became an important shrine and was frequently praised for its beauty, as the medieval Muslim traveller Ibn Battuta testifies: "The Umayyad Mosque is the most magnificent mosque in the world, the finest in construction and noblest in beauty, grace and perfection; it is matchless and unequalled." He adds, "Damascus surpasses all other cities in beauty, and no description, however full, can do justice to its charms . . . the variety and expenditure of the religious endowments are beyond computation ... and the people vie with each other in building mosques, religious houses, colleges and mausoleums."
Despite the Arab historians' fascination with the building, Sir John doesn't even mention it in his Travels. This was strange, for if the Umayyad Mosque really was the site of St. John the Baptist's burial, it
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Mailapur, India: "[The worshipper] stands in front of the idol with a sharp drawn knife in his hand, and with that knife he cuts off a piece of his flesh."
Sumatra: ". . . the men and women go completely naked and they are not ashamed to go show themselves as God made them."
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Sumatra: "Merchants sell their children . . . those that are plump they eat; those that are not plump they feed up and fatten."
Indo-China: "The king . . . has castles made and tied on the elephants."
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Indo-China: "... when their friends are seriously ill, they hang them on trees, so they can be chewed and eaten by birds."
Nicobar Islands: "Men and women of that isle have heads like dogs, and they are called Cynocephales."
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Sri Lanka: "There are also wild geese with two heads . . ."
Andaman Islands: "... there is a race of great stature, like giants . . . they have one eye only, in the middle of their foreheads."
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would be unthinkable that he should pass through the city without visiting the shrine of one of Christianity's most revered saints.
From the outside, the building looks like a fortress, and is constructed from giant and roughly chiselled blocks of stone. But this rugged exterior shields a fragile and delicately adorned inner courtyard, which was converted from a church into a mosque by the great Caliph al-Wahd in 715 A.D.. The decoration of the mosque was so costly that it was said to have deprived the state of seven years' revenue, and its greatest wonder was its mosaics, an unrivalled masterpiece created by the finest Byzantine craftsmen loaned by the Emperor of Constantinople. Even under a drab grey sky, their vibrant colours and patterns still hint at their former splendour. Here the eye could lose itself among a fantastical world of towers and columns, palaces and pavilions, all surrounded by luxuriant palm fronds, orchards, and groves. The plants seem Oriental, while the buildings, depicted icono-graphically, belong to the Byzantine tradition. These mosaics were the last flourishing of Byzantine art in Syria. After this, the imperial craftsmen packed up their tools and left.
The shrine of St. John the Baptist is inside the mosque, covered by an iron-and-glass protective screen which stops the devout from touching the reliquary. The tomb looks neglected: a single plastic rose gathers dust, and even the pile of money that visiting pilgrims have pushed through cracks in the glass lies untouched. The skull itself—if it exists—is contained within the reliquary, which is draped in green cloth decorated with Arabic calligraphy. As I stood there, a constant stream of pilgrims approached the tomb hoping for intercession from the miracle-working relics.
Two Muslims suddenly came up to me and made cutting motions to their throats. "Yahia," said one as he slashed his throat again. "For you it is John the Baptist, but we call him Yahia."
He stuck his hand deep into his pocket and ha
nded me a fistful of warm, squashed, and sticky marshmallows. They came complete with a generous coating of fluff from the inner lining of his jacket pocket. "There are other heads too," he said. "The head of Hussein is over there," he pointed to the far side of the courtyard, "except that some say his head is really in Medina. Then, of course, there's his sister's
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head. She was called Zeinab, and her head is in the suburbs of Damascus. And as well as all those heads . . ."
I stopped him. "I'm interested in this particular head/' I said, pointing at the reliquary. He nodded gravely. "This is a very interesting head. You see, we worship it and you worship it. To us, Yahia—John the Baptist—is a forerunner of Jesus Christ. He is a prophet in our religion as well as yours." He paused and then added thoughtfully: "This, I think, is good."
What the Mufti of Cyprus had told me about the shared heritage of Christianity and Islam was true, and the Umayyad Mosque was the tangible expression of these common roots. Here, Muslim and Christian alike would fall on their knees before the funerary cask of Yahia or John the Baptist.
I still didn't understand why Sir John hadn't visited these relics, for he always discusses miracle-working bones and icons with enthusiasm. When I turned to the accounts of other medieval pilgrims, I noticed they, too, had a similar lack of interest in the shrine of St. John the Baptist. Ludolph von Suchem only mentions the building in passing, while Burchard of Mount Sion ignores it completely. Why had so many pilgrims overlooked one of Christendom's greatest shrines?
The Travels, perhaps, holds the key to this mystery. The tradition in which a caliph found John the Baptist's head in Damascus is not as straightforward as it first appears, for the more I read about the shrine, the more heads of St. John the Baptist there seemed to be. And it wasn't just heads—I soon had legs, arms, and every part of his anatomy popping up in the most unexpected of places.