The Islam Quintet

by Tariq Ali

I had not slept all night. After the funeral prayers were over I went home. I thanked my stars for having my wife and daughter in Damascus. It would ease the pain of Shadhi’s loss.

  Rachel knew what Shadhi had meant to me. I had talked of him often enough during the first weeks of my employment in Cairo. She knew that he had been my only true friend in the Sultan’s entourage. Words were unnecessary. I fell asleep weeping in her lap.

  TWENTY-THREE

  A traitor is executed; Usamah entertains the Sultan with lofty thoughts and lewd tales

  TEN DAYS AFTER SHADHI’S death, Salah al-Din returned to Damascus. A courier had informed him of the event, and since receiving the news he had, uncharacteristically, not spoken to anyone after giving the orders to lift the siege and return home. He insisted on being completely alone when he stopped to pray at Shadhi’s grave before entering the citadel.

  I was summoned to his chamber in the afternoon. To my amazement he hugged me and wept. When he had recovered his composure he spoke, but in a voice heavy with emotion and barely audible.

  “One night during the siege the sky grew dark and it began to rain. As we covered our heads with blankets, several soldiers approached me holding a tall, dark man captive. The prisoner, who was groaning, had insisted on pleading his case before me. My men had little alternative but to agree to his request, since my battle orders are very firm on this question. Any prisoner condemned to death has the right to appeal directly to the Sultan. I asked them why they were intent on killing him. A short soldier, one of my best archers, replied: ‘Commander of the Brave, this man is a Believer. Yet he betrayed us to the enemy. If it were not for him we would have taken Reynald’s castle.’

  “I looked at the prisoner, who stared down at the earth. The rain and the wind had stopped, but the evening was still black. No stars had appeared in the sky. I looked at his bloody, bearded face and became angry.

  “‘You are an apostate, wretch. You betrayed the jihad, you betrayed your fellow-Believers to this devil, this butcher who has killed our men, women and children without mercy. You dare appeal to me for your life. By your actions you have forfeited my grace.’

  “He remained silent. Once again I asked him to explain himself. He refused to speak. As the executioner was preparing the sword to decapitate him, the traitor whispered in my face: ‘At the exact moment that your swordsman removes my head from my body, someone very dear to you will also die.’

  “I was enraged and walked away, refusing to dignify his death with my presence. I am told, Ibn Yakub, that Shadhi died that same evening, leaving us alone to count the empty days that lie ahead. He was more than a father to me. Long years ago he never left my side during a battle. It was as if I possessed two pairs of eyes. He guarded me like a lion. He was friend, adviser, mentor, someone who never shied from telling me the truth, regardless of whether or not it gave offence. Now he has fallen victim to death’s cruel arrow. Men like him are rare and irreplaceable. I wish we could bring him back to life with our tears.

  “How had that blasphemer, punished before the eyes of Allah, known that Shadhi, too, would die? It was as we were riding back to Damascus that one of the soldiers told me that the prisoner we had executed had turned to treachery because Reynald had raped his wife before his eyes and had threatened to invite a hundred others to do the same before he killed her. Naturally I was sad on hearing this tale, but I did not regret the punishment. During a war, good scribe, we have to be prepared for every sacrifice. And yet I respect him for not recounting his wife’s ordeal himself. Reynald, too, will be punished. I have taken an oath before Allah.

  “Death has become a garland round my neck.

  “I want to be distracted tonight, scribe. Send for Usamah and let him entertain us or, at the very least, stimulate our brains. A session. Let us have a session tonight after sunset. I do not wish to sleep. Let us remember Shadhi by doing something that always pleased him. He loved testing his wit against that of Usamah. Is the man in Damascus or has he deserted us for the delights of Baghdad? He’s here? Good. Send a messenger, but please eat with him on your own. I am not feeling in a mood to watch him devouring meat like a wild beast. You look relieved.”

  I smiled as I bowed myself out of the royal chamber. Not sharing the Sultan’s meal was indeed a relief. I dispatched the chamberlain to fetch Usamah ibn Munqidh as the Sultan had directed, but I wondered whether the old man might not be too tired for a sudden exertion. Usamah was born not long after the Franj first came to these lands. He was ninety years of age, but as well preserved and as solid as ebony. He showed no trace of infirmity, though his back was bent and he walked with a slight stoop. He spoke in a deep, strong voice. I had last seen him in Cairo in the company of Shadhi.

  He had been in his cups while we had sipped an infusion of herbs, pretending to keep him company. Usamah had consumed a whole flask of wine, all the while smoking a pipe filled with banj. Despite the stimulation he had not taken leave of his senses and regaled us for most of the night with anecdotes relating to his Franj friends, who were numerous. They often invited him to stay with them and Usamah would return with a sackful of strange and wonderful stories.

  That night in Cairo he had discussed the Franj’s filthy habit of not shaving their pubic hair. He described a scene in the bath when his Franj host had called in his wife to observe Usamah’s clean-shaven groin. The couple had marvelled at the sight, and there and then summoned a barber to shave off their unwanted hair. “Did not the sight of a naked woman, having the hair below her belly removed, excite you, my Prince?” Shadhi had asked. The question appeared to have puzzled him. He puffed on his pipe, looked straight at Shadhi and replied: “No, it didn’t. Her husband was far more attractive!”

  Shadhi and I had roared with laughter till we saw his surprise at our mirth. Usamah was in total earnest.

  Usamah was a nobleman with an ancient lineage. His father was the Prince of Shayzar, and so the son was brought up as a gentleman and a warrior. He had travelled widely and was in Cairo when Salah al-Din became Sultan. The two had become friends from that time onwards, but all of Salah al-Din’s attempts to draw on Usamah’s age and experience to acquire an understanding of Franj military tactics ended in failure.

  The Sultan was genuinely perplexed, till one day Usamah confessed that he had never fought in a single battle, and that all his training had come to nought. He was, he said to the Sultan, a traveller and a nobleman, and he liked to observe the habits and customs of different peoples. He had been taking notes for thirty years and was working on a book of memories of his life.

  Later that evening I was still recalling the past, when Usamah arrived and greeted me with a wink. I had been waiting to eat with him, but he had already taken his evening meal. I gave up mine and we walked slowly to the Sultan’s audience chamber later that evening. His stoop had become more pronounced, but otherwise he had changed little over the last few years. He acknowledged Imad al-Din’s presence with a frown—the two men had always disliked each other—and bowed to Salah al-Din, who rose to his feet and embraced him.

  “I am sad that Shadhi died before me,” he told the Sultan. “At the very least he should have waited so that we could go together.”

  “Let us imagine he is still with us,” replied Salah al-Din. “Imagine him sitting in that corner, listening to every word you utter with a critical smile. Tonight I really need your stories, Usamah ibn Munqidh, but no tragedy, no romance, only laughter.”

  “The Sultan’s instructions are difficult, for there is never a romance that is not preceded by laughter, and why is a tragedy a tragedy? Because it stops laughter. So with great respect I must inform the Sultan that his desires cannot be fulfilled. If you insist simply on laughter then this tongue will fall silent.”

  It was a useful opening move by the old magician. The Sultan raised his hands to the heavens and laughed.

  “The Sultan can only propose. Ibn Munqidh must dispose as he chooses.”

  “Good,” said the old stor
yteller, and began without further ado.

  “Some years ago I was invited to stay with a Franj nobleman, who lived in a small citadel near Afqah, not far from the river of Ibrahim. The citadel had been constructed on the top of a small hill, overlooking the river. The hillside was a cedar forest and the whole prospect afforded me great pleasure. For the first few days I admired the view and relished the tranquillity. The wine was of good quality and the hashish even better. What more could I want?”

  “If Shadhi were here,” muttered the Sultan, “he would have replied: ‘A pretty young man!’”

  Usamah ignored the remark and continued.

  “On the third day my host informed me that his twenty-year-old son was seriously ill and asked me to take a look at him. I had met this boy once before and had taken a strong dislike to him. As the only son he was greatly overindulged by his parents. He used his position as the son and heir of the Lord of Afqah to have his way with any wench who caught his eye. Several months ago he had killed two peasant boys who attempted to protect the honour of their twelve-year-old sister. To say that he was loathed by his father’s tenants would be an understatement. Perhaps some of the stories about him that travelled from village to village were exaggerated during the journey. Perhaps not. It is difficult for me to say.

  “Yet I could not turn down the request of my friend to look at the boy. I was not a trained physician, but I had studied all the medical formularies and my closest friends had been celebrated practitioners. After their deaths I was often consulted on medical matters and surprised myself by my own knowledge and prescriptions, which were often successful. My reputation had grown.

  “I ordered the sheets to be removed and inspected the bare body of this boy. There were abscesses in both legs, which had spread and could kill him within a few weeks unless drastic measures were taken. It was too late for poultices and a severe diet. I told the father that the only way of saving the boy was to sever both legs from the thighs. My friend wept. His wife’s anguished screams softened even the hardest heart present in the boy’s chamber.

  “Finally the father gave his approval, and I supervised the removal of the legs. The boy, not unnaturally, fainted. I knew from past experience that once he returned to awareness he would not realise his legs had been removed. This is an illusion which remains for a few days after an organ has been cut off. His father told me to ask the poor boy what his greatest wish was in this world, and he would do all in his power to make sure it was granted. We waited for him to recover. We waited for over an hour. When he opened his eyes, he smiled because the old pain had gone. I whispered in his ear: ‘Tell me, son, what would you like the most in this world?’ He smiled, and a chilling, lecherous grin disfigured his face. I bent down so he could whisper back in my ear. ‘Grandad,’ he said mockingly, and I was surprised that even in this state his voice was marked by viciousness. ‘What I really want more than anything else is a penis that is larger than my leg!’

  “‘You have it, my boy,’ I replied, slightly ashamed at my own pleasure. ‘You have it.’”

  At first, the Sultan looked at Usamah in horror. Then he began to laugh. I could see that the story was not yet finished. Usamah’s body movements indicated that a few embellishments, last-minute treats, still awaited us, but the Sultan’s laughter became uncontrollable and began to take on a character of its own. He would stop. Usamah would make as if to continue, but the Sultan would be overcome by a new fit of laughter. I had caught the infection and joined him, discarding a time-honoured court ritual. At this juncture, Usamah, deciding that his isolation was now complete and that his story was destined to remain unfinished, decided to forgo the ending and joined in the merriment.

  The Sultan, having recovered his composure, smiled.

  “What a marvellous storyteller you are, Usamah ibn Munqidh! Even Shadhi, may he rest in peace, would not have been able to resist a laugh. I understand now that humour only amuses when it is twinned to something else. Have you anything else for us this evening?”

  The Sultan’s praise pleased Usamah. The lines on his face multiplied as he smiled to show his pleasure. The old man took a deep breath and his eyes became distant as he recalled another episode from his long life.

  “Many years ago, some time before you were born, O Sultan, I found myself one evening in a tavern in the Christian quarter of Damascus where only lofty subjects were discussed on the day of the Christian Sabbath. I was nineteen or twenty years of age. All I wanted was to enjoy a flask of wine and think again of a Christian girl who had been occupying my mind for several months.

  “I had come to this quarter on that particular day for one reason alone. I wanted to catch sight of her coming out of church with her family. We would exchange glances, but that was not the sole reason for my journey to this quarter. If the scarf was white it was bad news, and meant we could not meet later that day.

  “If, however, she was wearing a coloured headscarf it was a sign that we would meet later that evening, at the house of one of her married friends. There we might hold hands in tender silence. Any attempt by me to stroke her face or kiss her lips had been firmly rebuffed. Last week she had taken me by surprise, by responding warmly to my lukewarm effort to go beyond holding hands. She had not merely kissed me, but guided my hand to feel her warm and trembling breasts. Having set me on fire, she had refused to put out the flames, leaving me frustrated and in a state of considerable despair.

  “‘One citadel at a time, Usamah. Why are you so impatient?’ Having whispered these words in my ear she had fled, leaving me alone to cool myself. It was this change in her attitude that had given this particular day its importance. I was dreaming of conquering the citadel that lay hidden under that perfumed forest of hair between her legs.

  “She emerged from the church, wearing a coloured scarf. We exchanged smiles and I walked away, surprised at my own self-control. I wanted to jump up and down and shout to all the other people on the street that exquisite raptures awaited me that afternoon. Happy is the one who has experienced the torments, tempests and passions of everyday life, for only he can truly enjoy the fragile and tender delights of love.

  “I waited for her at the house of her friend, but she did not arrive. After two hours a servant-boy came with a letter addressed to her friend. She had made the mistake of confiding her growing love for me to her older sister, who, overcome by jealousy, had informed their mother. She was worried that her parents would now hasten her marriage to the son of a local merchant. She pleaded with me not to act rashly, but to await a message from her.

  “I was desolate. I wandered the streets like a lost soul and wandered into the tavern of lofty thoughts with only one thought, namely to drown my sorrows. To my amazement they were not serving wine that day. The innkeeper informed me that they never served wine in his establishment on the Sabbath. I found this odd, since alcohol had always been part of their pagan church ritual, symbolising as it did, the blood of Isa.

  “I protested and was informed in a cold voice that the prohibition had nothing to do with religion. It was simply the day designated for lofty thoughts. I was welcome to repair to a neighbouring tavern. I looked around and realised that the clientele, too, was unusual. There were over fifty people, mainly men, but a dozen women. Most of them were old. I think, leaving me aside, the youngest person present must have been forty years of age.

  “The arrogance of these people attracted me to them while simultaneously distracting me from my more immediate concerns. I asked whether I could participate in their discussion and was answered by a few affirmative nods of the head, mainly from the women present. The others looked at me with cold indifference, almost as if I were a stray dog desperate for a bone.

  “It became a matter of pride. I decided to stay, to melt their coldness and pierce the cloud of aloofness that surrounded them like a halo. From their expressions I could see that they saw me as a shallow youth with nothing to teach them. They were probably correct, but it annoyed me and I became
desperate to prove them wrong. This whole business had begun to distract me from the blow I had suffered earlier that afternoon, and for that I was immensely grateful.

  “I took my seat on the floor. The subject for that evening’s discussion seemed relevant enough to my problems: ‘The escape from anxiety.’ The speaker was Ibn Zayd, a traveller and a historian from Valencia in Andalus.

  “I should have known. Only the Andalusians were capable of dissecting the meanings of concepts and words that we took for granted. The distance from Mecca had given their minds a freedom greatly envied by our own scholars.

  “The Sultan may frown, but what I say is acknowledged by all our scholars. Even our great Imad al-Din, who disapproves of my habits and way of life, would confirm this well-known fact. It is true we have had our share of sceptics, and one was even executed on the orders of the Sultan, but not on the scale of Andalus. We can discuss scepticism another day.

  “With the Sultan’s permission, I will continue the sad story of my youth. Ibn Zayd must have been in his late forties. Only a few grey hairs were visible in his raven-black beard. He spoke our language with an Andalusian lilt, but despite the strangeness of his accent, his voice was like that of the singer-boatmen of the Nile, both soft and deep at the same time.

  “He began by informing us that the talk he was about to give us was not original, but based on the Philosophy of Character and Conduct, by Ibn Hazm, in front of whom even the greatest intellect is abashed. He, Ibn Zayd, had his own criticisms of the master-work, but without it nothing could have been possible.

  “He spoke of how Ibn Hazm wrote that all human beings are guided by one aim. The desire to escape anxiety. This applied equally to rich and poor, to Sultan and mamluk, to scholars and illiterates, to women and eunuchs, to those who crave sensuality and dark delights as well as ascetics. They all seek freedom from worry. Few follow the same path in achieving this aim, but the wish to escape from anxiety has been the common purpose of humanity since it appeared on this earth.