The Islam Quintet

by Tariq Ali

  We woke early, well before sunrise, and resumed our journey. To my surprise we reached the village when the sun was at its zenith. I had assumed that we would be riding for at least another six hours, but two of the soldiers were from this village and had brought us here along a much shorter route.

  Our arrival had been eagerly awaited, and we were taken immediately to a small house. Here the Sultan lay, covered in white muslin sheets, with two attendants keeping the flies away from his face. His eyes were shut, but I was startled at how thin his face had become. His voice was weak.

  “I know what you’re thinking, Ibn Yakub, but the worst is over. Your journey was unnecessary. I am feeling much better again, and tomorrow I will ride back with you. Imad al-Din is in Aleppo and when I summoned you I thought I would not live long. I wanted to set out my exact plans for the jihad so that my successor could carry through what Allah in his infinite Mercy had decided was now beyond me. Fortunately the Almighty changed his mind and I am still alive. We buried four emirs in this village only a week ago. I think I have survived simply by dint of sucking the juice out of the lemons which hang from the tree outside. I cannot think of any other reason, for I was as ill as those who died. Do you think the lemon has curative qualities? My physician thinks I am cured because he bled me, but he bled the emirs who died. Write to Ibn Maymun and ask him for his opinion. And from now on I must always have lemons wherever I go.”

  The Sultan smiled as he sat up in the bed. His eyes looked clear. He had survived. I had taken all this talk of lemon juice to be nothing more than delirium, brought about by the fever, but now I wondered whether it could all be true.

  He wanted to know what was going on in Dimask and questioned me in great detail, appearing irritated when I could not answer all his questions. I tried to explain that in his absence I was not present at the meetings of the council, and therefore my knowledge was limited to what had been reported to me directly. This increased his annoyance, and he summoned the chamberlain to demand why, despite his express instructions to the contrary, I had been excluded from meetings where important decisions of state were taken.

  The chamberlain had no excuse and bowed his head in a shamed silence. The boastful frequenter of special brothels had suddenly lost his tongue. The Sultan dismissed him with an angry gesture.

  The next day, when the sun was beginning to set, we began our return journey to Damascus. The size of our party had increased a hundredfold. When we camped for the night, the Sultan sent for me and questioned me first about the state of Shadhi’s health. When I had reassured him that all he was now suffering from was the rigours of old age, he asked after Halima and Jamila. I was taken aback. Should I simply mutter a few half-truths about both of them being in good health, to face his wrath when he subsequently discovered my deception, or should I confess all that I knew?

  Unfortunately, he was more alert than I had expected and noticed my slight hesitation. He spoke in a stern voice as his eyes, shining in the light of ten candles, fixed on mine.

  “The truth, Ibn Yakub. The truth.”

  I told him.

  TWENTY-TWO

  The Sultan declares his undying hatred for Reynald of Châtillon; the death of Shadhi

  SALAH AL-DIN WAS NOT a vindictive or cruel man. He did not harbour grudges. He usually counselled against vengeance. I heard him say once that to act purely out of revenge was always dangerous, like drinking an elixir which becomes a habit. It was impolitic and did not differentiate Believers from the barbarians. He expressed these views often, though quietly, but when his commanders or emirs defied his advice and could not control their baser emotions, he never punished them. Instead he would sigh and shake his head in bewilderment, as if to indicate that the ultimate arbiter was not the Sultan, but Allah and his angels.

  There was, however, even in Salah al-Din’s case, one remarkable exception. There was a Franj knight, by the name of Reynald of Châtillon, and the time has come to write of this abomination, for we are now not so far from the last battles of the Sultan against the Franj, and we will soon meet this wretch in person.

  The Sultan’s hatred for Reynald was pure. It was unsullied by any feelings of forgiveness, generosity, kindness or even arrogance, which might have led to regarding this man as a worm beneath the contempt of Sultans. Reynald was a poisonous snake whose head must be crushed with a rock. I had myself heard Salah al-Din in open council swearing before Allah that, if the opportunity ever arose, he would decapitate Reynald with his own sword. Remarks of this sort always pleased his emirs, who felt much closer to their ruler when he expressed emotions akin to their own. The fact was that ever since the Franj had first arrived and stunned our world with their barbaric customs and habits, our side too had become infected, imbibing some of the worst of the traditional practices of the Franj.

  It was the Franj who, over a hundred years ago, during a siege, had roasted their prisoners on an open fire and eaten them to assuage their hunger. The news had travelled to every city, and a sense of shock and shame had engulfed our world. This we had never known before. Yet only thirty years ago, the great Shirkuh had punished one of his emirs for permitting the roasting of three Franj captives and tasting their flesh. The ulema had soon been prevailed upon to acknowledge the practice and denounce it as a sin against the Prophet and the hadith.

  The argument that finally settled the issue was a view expressed by the Kadi of Aleppo, who had stated after Friday prayers that eating Franj flesh was repugnant to Believers, since the Franj consumed large quantities of pig-flesh. This meant that their own flesh was polluted. Curiously enough this statement had a much greater effect in curbing the practice than all the pious references to the hadith and the convenient discovery of new traditions just when they were needed.

  I had never been told of the reasons that lay behind the Sultan’s revulsion for Reynald. It was something that was just accepted, like the landscape. One day I ventured into the library of Imad al-Din and stayed waiting for the great man to arrive. His first reaction on seeing me was to frown, but his face changed rapidly as he donned a mask exuding good will.

  “I am sorry to intrude in this fashion, Master, but I wondered if you could spare me a tiny portion of your precious time?”

  He smiled with his lips, but his eyes remained hard.

  “How could I refuse any request from the Sultan’s personal scribe? I am at your service, Ibn Yakub.”

  “You honour me, sir. I will not take up too much of your time. Could you perhaps enlighten this ignorant scribe on the reasons for the Sultan’s burning hatred for Reynald of Châtillon?”

  Imad al-Din laughed, a deep, throaty chuckle which was completely genuine. He was delighted at my ignorance and only too pleased to enhance my knowledge on this as on any other subject.

  “Good friend, Ibn Yakub, you have begun to understand the ways of our Sultan, but even I, who have been with him much longer than you, am sometimes surprised at the way he arrives at a decision. For me, the method is all-important, but for him it is always instinct, instinct, instinct. If my method and his instinct coincide then all is well, but there are occasions when the two are opposed. Then his instinct triumphs and, as a loyal counsellor, I bow before his will.

  “How should we deal with the Franj in the course of the jihad? This is a subject on which we have never disagreed. There were some hot-headed fools for whom the jihad meant a state of permanent war with the Franj, but Salah al-Din was never sympathetic to such a view. He understood that the enemy, like us, was usually divided. Just as our belief in Allah and his Prophet never stopped us from cutting each other’s throats, so, in the same fashion, the Franj, despite their worship of idols and their loyalty to their Pope, were rarely able to rise above petty disputes with each other.

  “The Sultan now rules over Cairo, Damascus, Aleppo and Mosul. From the Nile to the Euphrates there is one authority, except where the Franj rule. No other ruler is as powerful as he is, yet despite our strength, he agreed a truce with Am
alric’s boy, Baldwin the Leper, who rules in al-Kuds. Baldwin may have been weak in body, but his mind was strong. He knew that the Sultan kept his word and the peace was helpful to him as well. The result of the truce was that our caravans travelled freely between Cairo and Damascus, often stopping at Franj villages to sell their wares.

  “Four months ago, as you know, the poor leper-King died, insisting that his six-year-old son be placed on the throne as Baldwin the Fifth. Our spies send us weekly reports from that city which, Allah willing, will soon belong to us again.

  “The Sultan is well informed. He knows that there are two major factions within the Franj in al-Kuds. One of these is led by the Count of Tripoli, Raymond ibn Raymond al-Sanjili, descended from Saint-Gilles. To look at him he could be an emir from Damascus. His complexion is much darker than the Sultan’s. He has a nose like a hawk and he is fluent in our language.

  “The Sultan is very fond of him and would like him to win the struggle for power. Were you aware that in order to help him we freed many knights from Tripoli who we had captured at different times over the last few years? That is a measure of the seriousness with which the Sultan regards the outcome of the factional struggle in that city. A battle which is taking place even as I speak with you, Ibn Yakub.

  “Now I come to the question which you asked me earlier. Reynald of Châtillon! A more bloodthirsty monster was never born, not even in the world of the Franj. He was captured by Nur al-Din, and spent twelve years in the prisons of Aleppo. He was only released after Nur al-Din’s death. The Franj paid a large ransom to obtain his freedom. Better instead that his head had rolled in the sand.

  “He is a man who enjoys killing for its own sake. He takes special delight in killing your people, Ibn Yakub. He believes that Isa was sold to Pilate by the Jews. We come second in his hatred. I am told that he specialises in disembowelling all Jewish prisoners and feeding their insides to his dogs. I say all this so that you can appreciate that, even if he had not directly offended the Sultan, he would still be a figure who inspired hatred. But he did upset Salah al-Din by breaking the terms of the truce that had been agreed with Baldwin the Leper.

  “Two years ago he attacked a merchant caravan on its way to our holy city of Mecca. All the merchants as well as those travelling with them were brutally dispatched. Mercy, in Reynald’s eyes, was a vice. A sign of weakness. Among those who lost their lives that day was Samar, four score years of age and desperate to see Mecca before she died. Instead what she saw was the grim visage of the Franj. She was the Sultan’s last surviving aunt, his father’s younger sister.

  “I drafted a very strong letter on his behalf to Baldwin the Leper. We asked him to punish and control his wild vassal. Baldwin confessed his powerlessness. As if this was not enough, Reynald led a raid on Mecca itself and desecrated our Holy Shrine. His horses defecated in the mosque. News of this outrage stunned Believers throughout the world. A very rude message arrived from Granada and other cities in Andalus to the Caliph in Baghdad, offering help in the shape of gold and men to aid the capture of the Franj beast. Prayers were offered in every mosque in the land, demanding retribution in the shape of Reynald’s severed head.

  “The Sultan sent an urgent dispatch to his brother al-Adil in Cairo. It contained one sentence: the criminals must be punished. He did as he was asked, and most of the criminals were captured and taken to Mecca and publicly beheaded. An exemplary punishment for those who dared violate our holy places, and a warning to those who attempted such a sacrilege again. Alas, Reynald, one of the most accursed and wicked among the Franj, had escaped us again.

  “To my surprise the Sultan smiled when this fact was reported to him. ‘Allah is saving the devil for me, Imad al-Din. I will kill him with my own hands.’

  “Does that answer your question, Ibn Yakub?”

  “More thoroughly than it could ever have been answered by anyone else in the whole kingdom, O learned master.”

  He was pleased by the flattery, but not enough to prolong my audience and so, after thanking him again, I took my leave. As I reached the door, his voice arrested me.

  “I have just prepared an order for the gratuity you are now due from the Treasury and which will be paid to you regularly till you die. The Sultan instructed me to prepare it many weeks ago, before he fell ill, but it was in the midst of war, and I was so busy taking down the names and details of the prisoners we had captured, that your case escaped my mind. Forgive my neglect.

  “There is another surprise awaiting you today. I think it will please you, and that, too, is the result of an order issued directly by the Sultan. If you see the chamberlain on your way out, he will provide you with the details. Your welfare concerns the Sultan. He must be pleased with you.”

  Was there a slight touch of envy in the way he spoke those last words, or was it just my imagination? I had little time to think of Imad al-Din and his sensitivities, for the chamberlain’s news stunned me into such speechlessness that I had to sit down and drink some water. The Sultan’s motives were pure, but I wish he had consulted me in advance.

  My wife and daughter, together with all our possessions and my library, had been transported from Cairo to Damascus. A small house, not far from the citadel, had been provided for our use, and a retainer was leading me in its direction. I walked in a daze, like those who have inhaled more banj than their bodies can contain. The retainer from the citadel left me just outside the house. The door was open and the courtyard glistened in the afternoon sun.

  It was Maryam who saw me first from a window and rushed down to hug me. I had not seen her for nearly four years. Tears wet my beard as I held her close to me and then pushed her gently away so I could see how she had changed. She had matured, but not beyond recognition. For what I saw before me was a beautiful young woman of sixteen, her eyes the colour of honey. Her pitch-black hair nearly touched the ground. I had seen this before.

  She was the exact image of her mother Rachel when I had first espied her walking with her friends to fetch water from the well. As I drank in the sight, I felt a touch on my shoulder, which burnt me. I turned to embrace Rachel. She had aged. Her face was lined and there were streaks of grey in her hair. My heart missed a beat, but all the poison had gone and I kissed her eyes. It was wise of the Sultan not to have asked me before sending for them. I might have refused and suffered a great deal as a consequence.

  It would be strange living in a house again. I had become accustomed to the luxury of the citadel, where all my elementary needs had been satisfied. The permanent proximity to power had stimulated me. Yet I was not displeased with the opening of a new phase in my life. Maryam would be married soon. Rachel and I would be alone again as we had been for four years, before Maryam was born. In those days we were so desperate for children that we fornicated at every possible opportunity. All that labour had produced only Maryam. A son was denied me. What would we do after Maryam had left home?

  It was strange that this question arose in my mind so soon after Rachel’s arrival, but I was distracted by a messenger from the citadel. I was to return immediately. Rachel smiled patiently.

  “It will be just as it was in Cairo. Go, but do not stay long. It is our first night together for many years, and last night in the desert caravan I saw the most beautiful crescent moon.”

  I did not return home that night. I had been summoned to Shadhi’s bedside. The old man lay dying. He smiled weakly as I entered his chamber.

  “Where is my Salah al-Din? Why is my boy not with me in these last hours?”

  I held his hand and stroked it gently.

  “The Sultan is fighting the Franj, my good friend Shadhi. Please don’t leave us yet. Just a few more months.”

  “Allah has finally summoned me, but listen to me now. Just listen. When al-Kuds falls and you enter the gates next to my boy, think of me, Ibn Yakub. Imagine I am riding next to the Sultan, whispering encouragement in his ear just as I did when he fought his first battle. It was not granted to me to see my boy’s
victory, but I am sure it will come. As sure as I am that I will not be there by his side. His name will live forever. Who will remember Shadhi?”

  “He will,” I whispered, the tears cascading down my cheeks. “And I will. We shall never forget you.”

  He did not reply. His hand went cold in mine. My throat was tight with fear. Shadhi had gone. This old man in whose company I had spent countless hours, who had enriched my life immeasurably, was dead.

  I remembered our first meeting. I had been a bit frightened of him, not knowing how to respond to his disregard for authority. Yet even on that day, at the end of our first conversation, I was praying for a second one. I had realised that he was an invaluable source for the secret history of Salah al-Din and the House of Ayyub.

  Shadhi was no longer with us, but he would live inside me. There could be no permanent separation. I tried to peer into the future. His voice, his laughter, his mocking tones, his spirit often clouded by arrogance, his refusal to tolerate fools or pompous religious scholars, his bawdy jokes and the tragic story of his own love. How could I ever forget him? I would hear his voice as long as I lived. Memories of him would guide me as I completed the chronicles of the Sultan Salah al-Din and his times.

  We buried him early the next morning. The Sultan’s oldest son, al-Afdal, led the mourners, who had been restricted to the Sultan’s immediate family. Amjad the eunuch and I were the only outsiders. Amjad had looked after Shadhi, tended his needs during the last few months. He, too, had fallen under his spell and was sobbing uncontrollably. As we comforted each other, I felt close to him for the first time.