by Tariq Ali
“I told him that al-Azl was contrary to the hadith. At first he was taken aback, but then he threw his head back and laughed and laughed. I have never been able to make him laugh like that again. He thought I had made up the reference to the hadith, but I gave him the reference from the Sahih Muslim and the number. It was 3371. I can still recall it. Salah al-Din refused to believe me.
“He shouted for a messenger and sent him with a note to al-Fadil. Can you imagine, Ibn Yakub, it was not yet light. The stars were still travelling in the night sky. Can you imagine a messenger knocking on the door of our venerable Kadi with an urgent question from the Sultan regarding a particular hadith concerned with al-Azl? What if the Kadi had himself, at that very moment, been engaged in this unlawful practice? Within an hour the messenger was back with an answer. Al-Fadil confirmed the accuracy of my knowledge.
“For the next two years Salah al-Din rode me as if I were his favourite mare. Our seeds intermingled in abundance. I gave him first one son and then another. Then he left me alone. He would come and see me often, as he still does, but it was usually to discuss affairs of the state or poetry or the hadith, but never anything intimate. It was almost as if, in his eyes, the knowledge I possessed had transformed me into his equal. I had become a temporary man.
“Do you know how the Franj refer to al-Azl?”
Knowledge of this sort, alas, was not stored in my head, and I lifted both hands to the heavens in a gesture acknowledging my ignorance. Jamila smiled.
“It is far more poetic than us. The flight of the angels.”
Her laughter was infectious, and I found it difficult to restrain a smile, which pleased them both. It was at that point that I understood how and why Halima had fallen under the spell of this woman, and I forgave them both. The cobwebs had suddenly disappeared from my head. My heart was wiped clean. They looked at me and observed the change, and became aware that they could now trust me to be their friend.
For a while they ignored me and spoke to each other. Jamila asked Halima about a third woman, whose name I had not heard before. She was clearly miserable because Allah had not blessed her with a child.
“She is like an orange tree,” said Halima, “which pleads with the wood-cutter to chop it to pieces because it can no longer stand the sight of its fruitless shadow.”
The two women discussed how to lighten this unfortunate woman’s load. After they had devised a way of easing the pain suffered by their friend, Jamila looked at me.
“Do you think there is life after death, Ibn Yakub?”
Again the Sultana took me unawares. Ibn Maymun and I had often touched on this question, but even on our own we were careful to talk in parables. To question the central tenets of her faith was more than heresy. It bordered on insanity. She looked straight into my eyes with an intense, teasing gaze, as if to dare me to reveal my own doubts.
“O Sultana, you ask questions of which ordinary mortals dare not even think, lest their thoughts accidentally betray them. We are all the People of the Book. We believe in the after-life. For asking a question like this our Rabbis, the Christian Popes and your Caliph in Baghdad would first have your tongue removed and then your life extinguished.”
She refused to accept my caution.
“In my father’s court, O learned scribe, I discussed questions of life and death without any restriction. What makes you so nervous? Our great poet Abu Ala al-Maari questioned everything, including the Koran. He lived to a ripe old age in Aleppo. He never allowed any authority to set limits to the kingdom of reason.
“Ibn Rushd and his friends in Andalus, who have studied, understood and developed Greek philosophy, are also inclined to doubt. Divine revelation in all our great Books is one type of wisdom. It relies on tradition to create a set of rules, a code of conduct, by which we must all live. But there is another kind of wisdom, as the ancient Yunanis taught, and that is wisdom which can be demonstrated to all without recourse to the heavens. That wisdom, my tutor at home once taught me, was called Reason. Faith and reason often clash, do they not Ibn Yakub? I’m glad we agree. Unlike reason, divine truth can never be proved. That is why faith must always be blind, or else it ceases to be faith.
“I will now return to my initial question. Do you agree that after death there is nothing? What you see are men and women, who live and die and who, after death, turn to mud or sand. No long journeys to heaven or hell. Do you agree, Ibn Yakub?”
“I am not sure, Lady. I am not sure. Perhaps the foolishness of God is wiser than men. Surely it gives you some comfort that, if you are wrong and there is a heaven, the seventh heaven, of which your great Prophet spoke, is, surely, the most delightful heaven of them all.”
This time Halima, her eyes flashing, responded angrily.
“For men, Ibn Yakub. For men. Shadhi, if he gets there, will have seven-year erections and a choice of virgins, like apples from a tree, but both our Book and the hadith are silent on the question of what will happen to us women. We can’t be transformed into virgins. Will there be young men available to us, or will we be left to our own company? That may be fine for Jamila and myself, but not for most of our friends in the harem. And what about the eunuchs, Ibn Yakub? What will happen to them?”
The Sultan’s familiar voice startled all of us.
“Why should anything happen to the poor eunuchs? What are you three talking about?”
Jamila summarised her case and my reply. The Sultan’s face softened, and he turned to me.
“Do you not agree, good scribe, that Jamila would be a match for any scholar in Cairo?”
“She would also make a wise ruler, O Commander of the Loyal.”
Jamila laughed.
“One of the problems of our great religion is that we exclude half the population from enriching our communities. Ibn Rushd once remarked that if women were permitted to think and write and work, the lands of the Believers would be the strongest and richest in the world.”
The Sultan became thoughtful.
“There are some who argued this during the time of the Caliph Omar. They told him that our Prophet’s first wife, Khadija, was a trader in her own right and she hired the Prophet to work for her, some time before she wed him. After the Prophet departed, his wife Aisha took up arms and fought, and this was accepted at the time. But there are many hadith which contradict such a vision and...”
“Salah al-Din ibn Ayyub! Don’t start me off on the hadith again.”
He laughed, and then the conversation moved on to a much lighter subject. We began to talk of the fate that awaited Bertrand of Toulouse tonight. Shadhi’s tricks had reached every corner of the palace. Halima and Jamila were as intrigued as the Sultan himself. They too were curious to see if the knight would be ensnared by Shadhi’s latest ruse.
The chamber in which the knight was lodged was one in which the occupant was spied on from two corners of the adjoining room. It had been built by one of the Fatimid Caliphs who enjoyed watching his concubines coupling with their lovers. Even though the unfortunate women were later executed, the sight excited him much more than mounting them himself.
FOURTEEN
The death of Sultan Nur al-Din and the opportunity of Salah al-Din
I WAS IN THE palace library, absorbed in a study of al-Idrisi’s map of the world. The Sultan had sent me to consult the map, to ascertain whether Toulouse was marked on it. If it was, I was to take it to him immediately.
I had not completed my task when Shadhi walked into the library. There was an evil, triumphant grin on his face. It was obvious he had won the duel of wills with Bertrand. I congratulated him.
“I do not wish to shock you, Ibn Yakub,” he said in solemn tones. “You are a great scholar and scribe, and many of the ways of this world are unknown to you. I will not dwell on the details of the events which took place last night in the bedchamber currently occupied by our knight from al-Kuds. It is sufficient to inform you that he likes young men, but he insists on a violent ritual before he uses them. That
poor boy’s body was tested to the extreme last night. He has bruises and whip marks on his tender skin, and our treasury has had to pay him triple the amount we had agreed because of the strange ways of these Knights Templar. Our spies have described what took place and have not spared me any detail. If you like...”
Before the old devil could finish, one of the Sultan’s attendants appeared to summon me to the royal presence without any further delay. I ignored Shadhi’s wink and hurried back to the Sultan’s chamber, having failed to find Toulouse on al-Idrisi’s otherwise superbly detailed map. He was disappointed, but soon settled down to dictation. Shadhi, irritated at my lack of interest in the nighttime activities of Bertrand, had followed me here. One look at the Sultan’s face told him that now was not the moment to dwell on the habits of Bertrand of Toulouse. He settled down in the corner like a faithful old dog. Salah al-Din ignored his presence and began to speak.
Death surprises us in many ways, Ibn Yakub. Of these the battlefield is the least worrying. There, you expect to die. If Allah decides that your time has not yet come, you live on to fight and die another day.
Our great Sultan Nur al-Din became ill during a game of chogan. They say that one of his emirs had cheated him of a hit, and the Sultan lost his temper. His rage was such that he fainted. They carried him to the citadel in Damascus, but he never recovered. His personal physician wanted to bleed him, but the proud old man refused with a disdainful look, saying: “A man of sixty is never bled.” He died a few days later. Our world suffered a heavy blow with his passing. He was truly a great king, and a worthy follower of our Prophet. He had begun the jihad against the Unbelievers and, for this, all our people loved him dearly. Mischief-makers, most of them eunuchs with nothing better to do, would come to me with stories of how Nur al-Din was preparing a big army to take Cairo and reduce me to the status of a vassal, but I ignored such talk, for it was based on rumour.
Our differences—and yes, these existed—were not the result of petty rivalry. He knew a war against me could only benefit the Franj. Where we disagreed was on the nature of the offensive to be launched against the enemy. Nur al-Din was a just and generous king, but he was impatient. I had often told him that the time to strike must be carefully judged. If we were wrong our entire cause would be consigned to the flames. But these were not disputes between enemies, but disagreements within the camp of the Believers.
While he had been alive, I was proud to dwell underneath his giant shadow, but his death transformed the landscape. If Cairo and Damascus were left unlinked, the Franj would, through a mixture of bribery and war, take advantage, isolate one from the other and destroy both. In their place, I certainly would have attempted such a plan. Before I go into battle, be it political or military, fought with words or swords, I always place myself in the enemy’s mind. My good al-Fadil compiles a dossier detailing the activities of the enemy we are preparing to confront. We have reports on his strength or weakness of character and purpose. We have a list of his advisers and kinsmen, we know how they think and of the differences amongst them. With all this information in my own head, I then put myself in my enemy’s place and work out how they would try and outwit us. I’m not correct every time, but often enough to know that this simple method has much to recommend it.
Now think, Ibn Yakub, just think. Nur al-Din is dead. In Damascus, Aleppo and Mosul, those who wish to succeed him are making plans to elbow rivals out of the way. They are expecting me in Damascus for the funeral. But I remain in Cairo. I let them make the first move. Nur al-Din’s son, es-Salih, is only a boy. They are trying to use him to grab the throne. I still remain aloof.
Then a messenger arrives with a letter for me from Imad al-Din, one of Nur al-Din’s most trusted advisers, as he is now mine. The letter appeals to me to protect the young boy from the vultures with greedy eyes who watch the citadel day and night. I send an ambassador to Damascus and pledge my loyalty to Nur al-Din’s son. I also warn the emirs of Damascus that if they make the kingdom unstable, they will have to face the wrath of my sword.
I often ask myself how it has happened that strong rulers usually leave behind weak dynasties. Is it the curse of our faith that Allah has condemned us to a state of permanent instability and chaos? The first Caliphs were not chosen on the hereditary principle, but by a decision of the Companions of the Prophet. The dynasties established by the Umayyads and the Abbasids have led to disasters. Sultans and vizirs nurture the growth of kingdoms for their children, but what if their children are incapable of ruling, as we have seen so many times since the death of our Prophet? I sometimes think we should have a Council of the Wise consisting of men like al-Fadil and Imad al-Din. These wise men should determine the succession. You smile. You think the wise men would, in time, unleash their own dynasties of wise children and grandchildren? Perhaps you are right. Let us continue this discussion some other time. Our friend Shadhi is already fast asleep.
Despite Shadhi’s loud snoring, I resisted this suggestion. I knew that his mind was now totally concentrated on one objective, the reconquest of Jerusalem. The information given him by Bertrand of Toulouse had enhanced his confidence. He now believed that he could overpower Amalric.
I suggested that perhaps we should continue the story of his triumph in Damascus, subduing all his rivals and making himself the most powerful ruler amongst those who swore allegiance to Allah and his Prophet. Soon he would be engaged in new battles. We would have little time, and memories of previous encounters might fade away.
Salah al-Din sighed and nodded in agreement.
“You are too delicate to mention another possibility, Ibn Yakub. I might be killed in battle, and then your story would remain half-finished and untold. Your case has much merit. Let us continue, though there is a danger of which I must warn you. I am now speaking of events which excited a great deal of passion. My enemies spoke of my conquests as acts of personal ambition. I was a lowly mountain Kurd in a hurry. I was only concerned with leaving behind a dynasty and enriching my clan. I say this to you because if ever you feel that I am straying into the land of deceit, you must feel free to question me as you wish. Is that understood?”
I nodded, and he continued.
The most disturbing news from Damascus came one day in the shape of an old soldier. He had left the city of his birth with his family, his herd of camels, and all his belongings, and made his way across the desert to Cairo. It was Shadhi who saw him one day, a supplicant outside the palace. This old man had served with my father and uncle. He was a brave and dependable soldier and had become very attached to my father’s person. Shadhi did not waste time, but brought him in immediately to see me. We found quarters for his family, though he had not come here to ask for favours.
He informed me that the emirs in Damascus had paid a great deal of gold to the Franj to buy their good will. This act of treachery had been multiplied a hundred times over in an exchange of letters in which the Franj had been asked for help against me. Can you imagine, Ibn Yakub? They were so frightened at the thought of losing their own power that they would rather hand their city over to the enemy. The same city where the grief-stricken populace had only recent buried Nur al-Din, who taught us all that the first task was to rid our land of these locusts, who worshipped icons and two pieces of wood stuck together.
I was livid with anger. At that moment I decided that we had to make sure that the Franj never entered Damascus. Fate helped us. Since Nur al-Din’s death, the three great cities—Damascus, Aleppo and Mosul—had become divided. The eunuch who ruled Aleppo kidnapped Nur al-Din’s son and made him a pawn on the chess-board that was once his father’s kingdom. The nobles of Damascus became panic-stricken. They had lost the pawn to their rival. They appealed to Saif al-Din in Mosul, but he was engaged in his own plans and refused to help them.
At that point they turned to me. It was winter. We would have to ride through the night-cold of the desert, never a pleasing prospect. I called my commanders, and we prepared a force of a thousand
carefully picked soldiers.
At these critical moments, timing is everything. Even a short delay and victory withers to defeat. We left the very next day and rode as if on our way to heaven. We took a spare horse for every soldier, enabling us to rest the beasts though not ourselves. Often we slept as we rode. Within four days I had reached the gates of Damascus. You see, O trusted scribe, the reason for my speed. Those who had, in desperation, invited me to save them were just as easily capable of changing their mind if another alternative in the shape of the Franj had appeared outside the city walls. I did not want to give them that opportunity.
As we entered the old city I found tears streaming down my face. This was the city of my youth. I went straight to my father’s house. The streets were crowded with people who were cheering our arrival. There were loud acclamations and the nobles, their faces hard as a camel’s behind, bowed before me and kissed my hands. They would have done the same to Amalric, though not in public. Our people would have hidden in their homes if the Franj had ever entered our town. I speak now not simply of the Believers, Ibn Yakub. Your people have always been with us, but even the old Christians of Damascus, who call themselves Copts, were not inclined to welcome the Knights Templar.
It was a joyous day, and many old friends came to see me. Imad al-Din, fearful of the nobles and their self-serving intrigues, had left the city and sought refuge in Baghdad. I sent for him. He is the al-Fadil of Damascus. These two good men are my conscience and my head. If every ruler possessed men like them, our world would be better governed. I left my younger brother, Tughtigin, in charge of Damascus and went to complete the task I had assigned myself, the task of reuniting Nur al-Din’s kingdom.