The Islam Quintet

by Tariq Ali

  I was about to challenge this assertion, but the look on his face made it clear that he was not prepared to answer any more questions on the medical treatment he was preparing to rejuvenate our Kadi.

  Instead he began to talk of the Kadi’s skills as an administrator, his sense of justice, his ability to challenge even the Sultan’s decisions and, above everything else, the quality of the advice he offered his ruler.

  As we left my house to walk towards the palace, Ibn Maymun took me completely by surprise.

  “Answer me truthfully, Ibn Yakub. Has your heart abandoned Rachel?”

  I shook my head in vigorous denial. Yet my heart had begun to beat a little bit faster, as if to rebut me. My mind was confused, and I could not speak. He continued to interrogate me.

  “Are you sure that the warm, luxuriant braids of a new addition to the Sultan’s household have not bewitched you?”

  I shook my head again. How could he possibly know about Halima? I had kept my thoughts to myself. I wasn’t even sure of my own feelings. How in heaven’s name had Ibn Maymun reached this conclusion? For a moment I was too shaken to speak. When I regained my composure, I asked him to explain himself. At first, he shrugged his shoulders and did not reply. I insisted.

  “In the course of my work, I have had the opportunity of listening to the problems of many households. What Rachel tells me is not new. It is an old story. She asked me to pray for her. I declined. I told her that to know and to sleep is better than to pray and be ignorant.”

  “Neither of us slept last night. My conscience is clean. My soul is free of guilt.”

  “And your heart?”

  “It dreams. You understand that well. Is not a world without dreams worse than hell?”

  “Talk to her, Ibn Yakub. Talk to Rachel. Share your dreams. Destiny has never permitted our people the taste of too much honey.”

  We parted.

  SIX

  Salah al-Din’s boyhood memories of Damascus; Shadhi’s account of the Sultan’s first taste of carnal knowledge

  I WAS TOLD TO follow the attendant to the Sultan’s bedchamber. He was resting, but sat up on my arrival, leaning against cushions of every shape and description. He gave me a weak smile. His chest was heavy. His throat was sore. I offered to return when he was feeling better, but he shook his head vigorously, insisting that the day must not be wasted.

  “Life is short, Ibn Yakub. In times of war Allah can withdraw any of his ghazis from this world.”

  I watched in silence as the attendants prepared his medicine. Ginger had been boiled in water, till the mixture went dark. Salah al-Din sniffed the concoction and turned his face away. The second attendant sweetened the ginger-water with generous amounts of honey. This time the patient scowled, but sipped the mixture slowly. He signalled for the jug to be left behind. The attendants bowed and retired. Even as they left, Shadhi entered the room and felt the Sultan’s forehead.

  “No fever. Good. Make sure you drink the last drop. A word for you, Ibn Yakub. Limit your presence. He should rest his tongue today.”

  He left without waiting for the Sultan’s response, which was a curse and a smile. He spoke in a hoarse whisper.

  I am missing the old city today. Whenever I feel unwell, I am reminded of my tiny room in Damascus. We used to live in a house, not far from the citadel in the western part of the city. As I was lying in bed one day, possessed by a fever which seemed to have been inspired by Satan himself, Shadhi entered my room—just as he did a few moments ago—and felt my forehead. Then he whispered in my ear: “Ibn Ayyub, recover your strength. Recover your strength.”

  It was his special way of informing me that our family had suffered a loss. I was not in a fit state to understand his message, and I remember having bad dreams that night. By the next morning, the fever had run its course. That same day my father entered my room, to tell me that my grandmother had passed away. I wept loudly and my wrenching sobs must have moved him. It was the only time in my life that my father held me in his arms, and stroked my head with tenderness.

  He spoke soothing words. Allah, in his infinite mercy, he told me, had permitted her a long life. She had left this world without regrets. Her last words to her son concerned me. She had, according to my father, scolded him for paying too little attention to me and my future. As he told me all this, he was gently feeling this amulet which you can see resting on my chest.

  It was first hung around this neck by my grandmother. Every year she would remove it and lengthen the string, muttering invocations to some unknown gods—I never heard her calling Allah in these special prayers—to make me strong. It is my lucky charm. I cherish it because of her, but it has also become a part of me. Before I join each and every battle, I hold it in my fist and rub it gently across my heart before praying silently to Allah for our success.

  It was in Damascus that I became a man. For the first few months I used to yearn for the freedom of Baalbek. Damascus was a city full of dangers. Not a day went by when we did not receive news of someone important or someone close to someone important being assassinated.

  My father’s instincts had, as usual, served him well. The atabeg of Damascus had placed him in charge of the citadel. My father was responsible for the defence of the town. His sudden rise to power had made him enemies. The local notables, many of whom claimed descent from the first Believers in Allah and his Prophet, were openly hostile and regarded all of us with contempt. For them my father and my uncle Shirkuh were nothing but Kurdish adventurers, clever opportunists who sold their services and their souls to the highest bidder. It is difficult to deny that their disdain concealed an element of truth.

  At the time of our arrival, Damascus was governed by the atabeg Muin al-Din Unur. It was he who, tiring of the growing factionalism amongst his commanders, had asked my father to reorganise the defences of the city. Unur was an enemy of the Sultan Zengi and his son, Nur al-Din. My uncle Shirkuh was a military commander working directly under Nur al-Din. If I had been a Turcoman loyal to Unur and his master, Abak, I, too would have been more than a little nervous. After all, it was hardly a secret that ours was a close-knit clan. My father and his brother, far from being enemies, were as close to each other as the handle to the sword. Unur, however, trusted my father. On his deathbed, or so we were told, he advised the Sultan Abak to retain my father’s services.

  Abak was not totally convinced. He was a weak man, much given to wine and women, and easily swayed by unscrupulous advisers. Though in this case, I must confess, their worries were not without foundation. If Nur al-Din attacked Damascus, would my father take up arms against an army led by his brother Shirkuh? This was the question that bothered them day and night.

  My father was adept at wearing a mask. He was a great courtier, in the sense that he listened attentively and said very little. When Abak apprised him of what was being said, my father smiled and told him: “Perhaps they are right to suspect my loyalty. You are the sole judge. To this day I have never spoken an untruth. If my presence worries you, I will leave with my family tomorrow. Just speak the command.”

  The supreme ruler of Damascus chose to retain my father’s services. It was a mistake that cost him his throne, but it united the Believers and brought closer the day when we would reclaim our lands from the Franj.

  I know what you’re thinking, Ibn Yakub. You’re wondering what would have happened if we had been expelled from Damascus. I have little doubt that the end result would have been the same, but only after the spilling of much blood. My father’s actions were not solely determined by the needs of his family. Those wars in which Believer fought against Believer were truly repugnant to him.

  The effect of all these rivalries was to limit our freedom. We were not permitted to ride alone. We were barred from exploring the city after dark. We were warned never to enter the wine-cellars. My father threatened to flog us in public if we violated this last injunction.

  It was the forced company which drove me to playing chogan. Given that
my brother al-Adil and I had several guards, we decided to make use of them. Every day we would ride out of the Bab-al-Djabiya at sunrise. First the soldiers would perform their duty and teach us the art of swordsmanship. Then, after a short rest and some refreshments, we were shown how to fight on horseback. At the end of our training session, we entertained ourselves by teaching the soldiers how to play chogan.

  It is a strange fact, is it not, Ibn Yakub, that the more one exerts oneself, the less tired one gets? After riding for two hours, I could easily ride the whole day. Yet on days when it was not possible to leave the house, I felt listless and exhausted, just like today. My physicians praise Allah and tell me that it is all to do with how the blood flows through the body, but do they really know?

  The Sultan fell silent. Assuming that he was deep in thought, I made some small corrections to the text, but when, quill poised, I looked up at him to resume our work, his eye was firmly closed. He was fast asleep.

  I have not previously drawn attention to the fact that Salah al-Din ibn Ayyub was possessed of only one working eye. He had not yet told me of how he lost the other, and Ibn Maymun had warned me that this was an extremely touchy subject. Under no circumstances should I raise it myself. Being a disciplined scribe, I had cast all curiosity out of my mind. To tell the truth, I had become used to his infirmity, and rarely gave it much thought. Yet seeing him like this, fast asleep, with his bad eye wide open, created the impression that he was half-awake, an All-Seeing Sultan.

  It gave me a strange sensation. I wanted to know how and when he had lost his eye. Was it a childhood accident? If so, who had been responsible? How did it affect his bearing in war? My mind was flooded by questions.

  How long I would have sat there, gazing on the sleeping Sultan, I do not know. A gentle tap on my shoulder alerted me to the presence of the ubiquitous Shadhi. He placed a finger on his lip to demand silence, and indicated that I follow him out of the chamber.

  As we sat in the courtyard, enjoying the winter sun, dipping bread in labineh and munching radishes and onions, I asked Shadhi about the eye. He smiled, but did not reply. I persisted.

  “Salah al-Din will tell you himself. It is the one subject we never discuss.”

  “Why not?”

  No reply was forthcoming from the old man. Instead he wiped the yoghurt off his drooping moustache and belched. Perhaps, I thought to myself, he is in a bad mood. Something has upset him. But I was wrong. It was only the forbidden subject of the missing eye that had silenced him.

  He asked me whether Ayyub and his family had reached Dimask in the chronicles I was transcribing. I nodded.

  “Then,” he said with a lascivious smile, “the Sultan has told you of his youthful escapades?”

  “Not yet.”

  “Not yet, not yet!” he mimicked me and roared with laughter. “He will never tell you. The memory of great men is always faulty. They forget their past so easily, but fortunately for you, my good scribe, Shadhi is still alive. Let us first eat some lamb, and then I will tell you tales of Damascus which our great Sultan will never remember again.”

  After we had finished our meal, the old man began to speak.

  “I won’t bore you with stories of our first visits to the Umayyad mosque, where the great Caliphs preached the Friday sermon and where long ago the congregation trembled in silent rage as Muawiya held up the bloodstained shirt of the murdered Caliph Uthman. I will leave all that to the Sultan.”

  Shadhi laughed loudly, as if what he had just told me was an almighty joke. He was given to laughing a great deal at his own remarks, something to which I was now accustomed, yet it never failed to irritate me. Outwardly I smiled and nodded politely, to neutralise the intense gaze to which I was subjected following such outbursts. After drinking another cup of buttermilk, and noisily wiping the residue off his lips and moustache, he began again to tell his story.

  “It was a hot summer afternoon. Everybody was resting. Your Sultan was fourteen years of age, perhaps not quite fourteen. Taking advantage of the hot weather, he defied his father’s instructions and went to the stables. He found his favourite horse, mounted it bare-backed, and left the city all on his own. It was foolish of him to imagine that he could leave the gates without being recognised. Dangerous, too, since his father had enemies in the city. But who can restrain the wildness of youth?

  “The guards stationed at the gate were intrigued. They knew that the children of Ayyub were not usually seen out on their own. One of them rushed to the house and reported his departure immediately. Ayyub was woken up and informed of what had taken place. Curiously, he appeared pleased rather than angered by his son’s disobedience. I saw him smile.

  “He asked me to ride after Salah al-Din, but without any trace of panic. My instructions were to follow him, to observe where he went, but to keep a careful distance. In other words I was to be a spy. Naturally, I did as I was asked.

  “It was not difficult to pick up his trail. Just outside the Bab al-Djabiya, as you will see when the Sultan takes you with him, there is a very large maidan, bisected by a river. When you stand on the ramparts of the citadel, the light of the setting sun can play strange tricks with your eyes. The maidan becomes a giant green carpet made from the finest silks. It was here that Salah al-Din and his brothers played chogan. It was here that they raced horses and learnt to wield the sword and the bow and arrow. The river is surrounded by a large grove of poplar trees.

  “In the distance I could see him galloping ahead, his head uncovered and without any protection. I saw him rein in his horse and dismount. I did the same and tied my horse to a tree. Then I walked towards the boy, making sure he did not see me. Soon I had found a suitable position behind some bushes, and there I could observe him quite clearly without being seen in return. You’re getting impatient with this old fool, Ibn Yakub, but I’m almost there.

  “Salah al-Din had taken off his clothes and jumped into the river. He was swimming first with the flow and then against it. I laughed to myself. What a strange boy. Why had he not told us that all he wanted was a swim? Some guards would have come and kept watch till he had finished. End of story.

  “I was about to walk to the bank and hail him, when suddenly I saw a woman who must also have been watching him walk towards where he had left his clothes. She picked them up and folded them. Then she sat and waited for him to finish. He swam to the shore and said something to her. I couldn’t hear the words since, on glimpsing the woman, I had once again taken my distance. She was laughing and shaking her head. He was insisting. Suddenly she jumped up, discarded her clothes and jumped in with him.

  “She was a mature woman, Ibn Yakub, at least twice the age of the boy. The rest you can imagine. When they had finished their swim, they dried themselves in the sun, and then that sorceress mounted our boy and taught him what it was like to be a man. Allah be praised, Ibn Yakub, but they were shameless. There underneath the clear blue sky, under the gaze of Allah in his heaven, they were behaving like animals.

  “I waited patiently, making a mental note of everything as I had been ordered to do by the master. She left first. She just seemed to disappear. He lay there for a few moments and then dressed himself. At this stage, as you can imagine, I was tempted to declare my presence. This would have been my revenge for that episode in Baalbek, but I had my orders. I rode back to the city, not waiting for young Salah al-Din to regain his composure. Back at the house, I reassured his father that all was well.

  “Ayyub, may he rest in peace, wanted to know everything. Happily, I was in a position to supply him with each and every detail. I have given you a very short version, O learned scribe, but at that time it was all fresh in my mind.

  “Ayyub, to my great surprise, clapped his hands and exploded with laughter. Perhaps he was relieved that it was a wench, rather than one of his soldiers or a young mare! His severe face returned as he threatened me with a terrible fate if even a word of what had transpired ever found its way to Salah al-Din.

  “
It was difficult for me to remain silent. I had always felt close to the boy and, in different circumstances, this tongue of mine would have defied the instructions. But there was something in Ayyub’s tone that warned me against disregarding his injunction. Despite the strong temptation, I obeyed him.”

  “You mean,” I asked, “that to this day the Sultan is unaware of what happened? Can this be possible?”

  Shadhi grinned, and picked his nose.

  “I waited for the right moment. I told him on his wedding night. He was in a cheerful mood, and he laughed, but I should have known him better. A month later, when I thought he had forgotten the whole business, he asked me for an explanation. His face was stern. I told him. He expressed surprise that neither of his parents had ever raised the matter with him. I shrugged my shoulders. That was hardly my responsibility.”

  SEVEN

  The Spring Festival in Cairo; an erotic shadow-play in the Turcoman quarter

  WEEKS PASSED. IT WAS no longer winter, yet the spring had not yet begun. I had still received no word from Halima, and the intoxication was beginning to lose its effect. On Ibn Maymun’s advice, I had stopped tormenting my own heart by yearning for her. I had not seen him now for many days. At home, Rachel had recovered her good spirits. Our lives had adjusted to a new routine.

  In the palace, the Sultan was busy with his most trusted family members, discussing his strategy for liberating al-Kuds. This was the only time I was denied entrance to his council chamber. The deliberations in which he was engaged were not intended for ordinary ears. These were truly confidential talks. An indiscretion or a thoughtless boast, the Sultan always used to say, could cost our side an entire army and set back our cause for decades. Yet it would be dishonest of me to pretend that I was not upset. I thought of myself as someone in the total trust of his ruler. The Sultan must have noticed this, for he tried to soothe my hurt pride.

  “Ibn Yakub, what you are writing is known to me, the Kadi and three other people. If I were to permit you to attend our military council, everyone would know who you are and this would be dangerous. One of my brothers or nephews might think that you hold the secret to my succession. They might torture or kill you, and then forge documents claiming whatever they wish people to believe. Do you understand?”