The Islam Quintet

by Tariq Ali

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  But it was Damascus that made me a man.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  He interrupted me fiercely.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  FIVE

  Ibn Maymun’s wisdom and his prescriptions

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  The sage nodded his head.

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

  Ibn Maymun retired to bed after our short exchange.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  “Why?”

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

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

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

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

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