by Tariq Ali
Later, back at home, I gave my approval of the match. When the excitement finally subsided, I told Rachel that I was leaving the next day, on the express instructions of the Sultan. She took the news well. Mother and daughter both hugged me when I insisted that the wedding must go ahead as soon as possible. They should not wait for my return.
That night in bed, Rachel whispered in my ear.
“Can you imagine a grandson, my husband? I could never give you a boy, but our Maryam will, and soon, I’m sure.”
With imaginary grandsons on the way, I understood why news of my departure to a war in which I might be killed had not caused greater sorrow. I understood, but it would be a lie if I said that I was not a little hurt.
JERUSALEM
TWENTY-SIX
The Sultan pitches camp and soldiers begin to assemble from every quarter of his empire
THE JOURNEY ITSELF WAS uneventful. It took us two days to reach Ashtara, nothing compared to the agonies I suffered when we made the journey from Cairo to Damascus. It was, however, unbearably hot. Once we had abandoned the green fields and rivers outside Damascus, the trees became fewer and fewer. My mood began to get correspondingly worse. The disconcerting thing about the desert is that no birds sing to greet the dawn. Morning comes suddenly, and before one has time to wake fully and stretch, the sun is already beginning to hurt.
The Sultan had decreed that we should pitch camp at Ashtara, a small city surrounded by large plains. Here mock-battles could be fought and we would be blessed with an unlimited supply of water—always a crucial consideration, but a hundred times more so in times of conflict. For the next twenty-five days, we prepared for the battles that lay ahead.
Soldiers, archers and swordsmen began to assemble from all corners of the empire. Slowly our encampment grew and grew until the entire town was overwhelmed by the great city of tents that had sprung up in its midst. A hundred cooks, assisted by three hundred helpers, prepared food for the army. The Sultan insisted that everyone should eat the same meal. He told his emirs and secretaries that this simple rule recalled the earliest days of their faith. It was necessary to show both friend and enemy that, in a jihad, all were equal in the eyes of Allah.
To the great amusement of the emirs, Imad al-Din found it difficult to conceal his chagrin. He muttered under his breath that the early days of their religion were long past, now it should be just as important to let the Franj observe the richness and variety of the Damascus cuisine. The Sultan’s frown ended the frivolity. Imad al-Din’s tastes were very special and could only be satisfied by the cooks in two establishments in Damascus. For most other people the camp was well stocked with everything. There were several dozen cooks, each of whom had thirty cooking pots under his command. One of these pots could hold nine sheep-heads. In addition special baths had been dug in the ground and lined with clay. The Sultan knew that the stomach and hygiene of an army were crucial in maintaining its morale.
The camp routine was established from the first day, and newcomers were initiated from the moment of arrival. Trumpets and a roll of drums, punctuated by the cry of the muezzin, woke the whole camp at sunrise. This was the only call for collective prayers, except for Christians and Jews, who were exempted, though they had to rise at the same time. This was followed by a substantial breakfast, whose function was to keep the soldier strong till the evening meal. A short recreation followed, utilised mainly for purposes of defecation. Rows and rows of men went outside the town to empty their bowels in ditches dug for the purpose and covered with sand every second day to moderate the stench. A second drumroll summoned the men to carefully organised bouts of sword-fighting, archery and horse-riding. The foot-soldiers had to run for two hours every day.
Not a day passed without some excitement. The colours of the Caliph arrived, to be received by the Sultan amidst general acclaim and shouts of “Allah is great”. This did not stop al-Fadil whispering comments to Imad al-Din, loud enough to reach my ears:
“At least he has sent the Abbasid banners, but he will be sick with fear if our Sultan takes al-Kuds. That will make Salah al-Din the most powerful ruler in Islam.”
“Yes,” chuckled the great man of letters, “and his astrologers are already telling him to beware of him who prays first at the Dome on the Rock, for he will come to Baghdad and be greeted as the real Caliph.”
That the Caliph was jealous of our Sultan was hardly a secret. Every merchant travelling from Baghdad to Damascus came replete with court gossip, much of it exaggerated, but some of it confirmed by other sources, namely the spies of Imad al-Din, who sent him regular reports from the first city of the faith. What was surprising was the contempt with which the two men closest to the Sultan regarded the Caliph.
We had been at Ashtara for barely a week and it already felt like home. The reason for this was not the comfort of our surroundings but the general feeling of solidarity which suffused the atmosphere. Even the Kadi al-Fadil admitted that he had never experienced anything like it during previous campaigns. Soldiers spoke to emirs as virtual equals without threatening the discipline of the army. The emirs, for their part, and under the explicit orders of the Sultan, made a point of eating the evening meal with their men, dipping bread in the same bowl and tearing meat off the same bone.
It was in this spirit that one morning the colours of the Kurds were seen in the distance. A messenger rushed to inform the Sultan, who was out riding with Taki al-Din and Keukburi. I, on my poor horse, was trying to keep up with them. The three men were discussing whether their traditional tactics of charge and retreat, which owed a great deal to the Parthians, and were ideal for small formations of highly trained and skilled horsemen, could be applied with such a large army as was being assembled at Ashtara.
At this crucial juncture, the messenger announced the arrival of the Kurdish warriors. The three generals burst out laughing, for the indiscipline of the Kurds was well-known. Shirkuh was the only leader who had succeeded in taming their wilder instincts. Most of them had, till now, refused to fight under Salah al-Din. They claimed that he lacked his uncle’s audacity and his father’s cunning. This was why their arrival was greeted with joy by the Sultan, and we rode back ferociously to the camp.
The Kurds had arrived and cheered the Sultan’s arrival in their own language. Their leaders came forward and kissed Salah al-Din fiercely on both cheeks. He turned to me with a tear in his eye. I went close up to him and he whispered in my ear.
“I wish Shadhi were here to witness this day. Many of them remember him well.”
That night the spirit of fermented apricots dominated the camp. Even the Sultan was observed taking a sip from a flask covered in leather worn shiny with use. Then the Kurds began to sing. It was a strange mixture of lover’s laments, combined with chants of hope and love. An older warrior, who had imbibed too much potent apricot water, interrupted everyone with a lewd song. He sang of the woman he wanted, that she might have a vagina that burned like a furnace. Before he could continue, his sons took him aside, and we did not see him again till the next day.
The evening ended with a Kurdish war-dance which entailed several pairs of fighters leaping over the camp-fire with unsheathed swords and fierce expressions, and the carefully orchestrated clash of swords.
As I was walking back to my tent, I saw the Emir Keukburi and Amjad the eunuch in animated conversation with a man of medium height who I did not recognise. He was clearly a nobleman, probably from Baghdad. He was wearing the colours of the Caliph, and a black silk turban which matched his flowing beard. Even in the starlight a precious stone the colour of blood, set in the centre of the turban, shone splendidly. I bowed to the party, and Amjad introduced me to the stranger. It was Ibn Said from Aleppo, who had lost his power of speech as a child and could only communicate with gestures.
“What did you think of the Kurds, Ibn Yakub?” asked Keukburi.
“They provide the Sultan’s army with much-needed colour,” was my polite reply, but the mute from Aleppo b
egan to gesticulate wildly. Amjad the eunuch nodded sagely and translated Ibn Said’s hand movements for our benefit.
“Ibn Said wants you to know that the Kurds are only good for stripping a city clean. They are the vultures of our faith and should be used sparingly.”
Keukburi frowned.
“I am sure Ibn Said is aware that the Sultan himself is a Kurd and, for that reason, I cannot accept the insult lightly.”
Once again the stranger began his hand movements, which included touching the stone in his turban. Amjad watched every movement like a hawk, nodding all the while.
“Ibn Said says that he is only too well aware of the Sultan’s origins. He says that all precious stones are rough before they have been shaped and polished. The Sultan is such a precious stone, but the men from the mountains still require a lot of work.”
Keukburi smiled and was about to comment when Taki al-Din hailed him and took him away from us. They were both invited to sip tea with the Sultan. As they left I, too, began to move, when suddenly the mute Ibn Said began to speak.
“I knew I had deceived Keukburi, Ibn Yakub, but I thought your powers of observation were sharper.”
The voice was familiar, but the face...and then Amjad was laughing and I knew that the beard and turban were a disguise. Underneath lay the familiar features of the Sultana Jamila.
We all laughed and I was invited to the tent of “Ibn Said” to sip some coffee with her and Amjad the eunuch. Jamila could not live without her coffee, and the beans were sent regularly by her father and, lately, her sister in Harran. It was certainly the most delicious coffee in Damascus, and she was probably right in claiming that it was the best in Arabia and, therefore, the world.
We sat outside her tent savouring the aroma and watching the stars. None of us felt much like speaking. I had noticed this on previous days as well. Soldiers and emirs often sat quietly, deep in thought, before they went to sleep.
What were they thinking? What thoughts were crossing their minds? Were they, like me and Jamila and Amjad, thinking of the battles that lay ahead? Victory or defeat? Both were possible. The feeling of deep solidarity that existed in all these men when they marched together was undeniable. That solidarity was created by the knowledge that if they succeeded in driving the Franj out of al-Kuds, this army of which they were a part would be remembered throughout history.
This solidarity gave them a collective identity when they thought only of victory, but these soldiers were also individual human beings. They had mothers and fathers, and brothers and sisters and wives, and sons and daughters. Would they see their loved ones again? True this was a jihad, and that meant they would go straight to heaven without any accounting by the angels. But what if people close to them failed to win entry to heaven? What then? It was thoughts of this sort that dominated their minds as they savoured the night sky before closing their eyes. I know this because I spoke to many of them and heard their stories.
“If we lose,” said Jamila, “and Salah al-Din is killed, I will take my sons and return to my father’s home. I do not wish to sit in Damascus and watch more wars whose only aim is to determine who succeeds him. I suppose pessimism is natural on the eve of a war. My instinct, however, says the opposite. I feel strongly that he will win this war. Let us retire for the night, Ibn Yakub, and careful you do not betray my secret.”
I bade goodnight to the bearded Jamila, but the Sultan clearly had other plans for me. Just as I was walking to my tent, one of his bodyguards waylaid me with instructions to attend to the Sultan without delay. I rushed to my tent to collect my pen and ink and sheafs of paper.
The Sultan’s tent was surprisingly modest. It was only slightly bigger than mine, and the bed in the corner was no different to that on which I slept. The only sign of rank was a large silk carpet which covered the sand and on which he sat, leaning against a pile of cushions. Next to him were the Emir Keukburi and Taki al-Din. The Sultan was in a light mood. He looked at me and winked.
“Who is this Ibn Said from Aleppo who insults my Kurdish warriors?”
“A man of no importance, Commander of the Victorious.”
“I hope you are right. Keukburi is convinced that he is a spy of some sort.”
“Spies,” I replied, “are usually keen to ingratiate themselves with the enemy. They flatter shamelessly the better to deceive. The stranger from Aleppo is one of nature’s sceptics, with a whip for a tongue and a brain so sharp that it could slice a camel in two.”
The Sultan laughed.
“You have just described the Sultana Jamila.”
Everyone laughed at this sally, and Keukburi, unaware that he was the butt of the joke, louder than most, to show that he really appreciated the dig at his sister-in-law.
Before Keukburi’s ignorance as to the real identity of Ibn Said could be further exploited, the tent flap opened and the Sultan’s oldest son, al-Afdal, all of seventeen years, walked in and bowed to his father, acknowledging the rest of us with a patronising smile. He had grown since I last saw him over a year ago. His beard was neatly trimmed and his whole demeanour suggested a person of authority. I remembered him and his brothers as small boys being taught to ride in Cairo. I had seen this boy being taught how to fight with a sword on horseback and on foot.
Assuming that father and son wished to be alone, Taki al-Din, Keukburi and myself rose to leave. The Sultan permitted the other two to leave, but waved me to stay seated. After the two men had departed, he allowed his son to sit down.
The boy had fought his first battle several weeks ago and had sent his father a glowing account, comparing his first war to the deflowering of a virgin, an analogy that had greatly displeased Imad al-Din. He had muttered rudely that, whatever else he might become, al-Afdal could never be a prose stylist. Salah al-Din was a loving but stern father. Since the arrival of his son, his mood had changed. His face had taken on a severity which did not augur well for the young prince, who realising this just as I did, frowned at my presence. I smiled at him sweetly and he turned his face away, not looking his father in the eyes.
“Look at me Afdal! We are about to fight a battle in which I might die. Our spies tell us that the Franj King, Guy, has offered a large reward to the knight who lances me in the heart.”
The boy was moved to tears.
“I will be at your side always. They will have to kill me first.”
The Sultan smiled, but his face did not lighten as he continued.
“Listen to me, boy. You are still young. Understand one thing. In the field of battle, respect must be earned. I was given a chance by my uncle Shirkuh to prove myself early in life, just like you, except that I exercised no power whatsoever till much later. Shirkuh never believed in inherited authority.
“I was grateful to him, even though at the time I felt like a man who does not know how to swim but is thrown into a river. He has to learn how to swim and reach the other side at the same time. You think because you are the son of the Sultan that the soldiers and the emirs will respect you. They may want you to believe that, but you would be a fool to do so. Once you have fought by their side, eaten sand and tasted blood, then they might begin to see you as their equal. After you have fought with them several times, they might begin to respect you. The right to give orders does not win respect.
“Imad al-Din and al-Fadil have educated you well. I am aware that you are well acquainted with the history of all the great wars we have fought since the days of our Prophet, may he rest in peace, but that knowledge, important though it is, will not come to your aid in the battlefield. In wars, experience is a much better teacher.
“What you learn from books you can just as easily forget, unless you are blessed with the memory of Imad al-Din. What you experience yourself stays with you till you die.
“I summoned you because it has come to my attention that some weeks ago you challenged the authority of your cousin and my brother’s son, Taki al-Din, in front of the emirs, ordering him to carry out an instruction contrar
y to what he had already decided. He was disciplined, and did as you asked. In his place my uncle Shirkuh and I would have slapped your neatly bearded face. Fortunately your orders did not lead to disaster, otherwise I would have had to reprimand you in public.
“I want to be clear on one point. Taki al-Din is my right arm. I trust his judgement. I trust him with my life. If, in the course of the battle, Allah decides that my time has come, Taki al-Din is the only emir genuinely respected by the soldiers, who could still lead our side to victory. I am leaving orders to that effect. You can learn a great deal by observing your cousin and staying by his side, but that is a decision for you alone. Tomorrow morning I want you to go to him, apologise for what you did, and kiss his cheeks. Is that plain? Now go to bed.”
The Sultan’s chosen heir was in chastened mood as he bowed to both of us and left the tent.
“Do you think I was too harsh, Ibn Yakub?”
“Not having a son myself, O Sultan, I am not the right person to comment on relationships between a father and his son, but as a leader of men, what you said was totally justified. He was hurt, but mainly because of my presence. He would have taken it better without me, but a young prince who aspires to be a good ruler must learn to make his own way in this harsh world.”
“I could not have put it better myself, scribe. I wanted you to be present so that you could inscribe it and it will remain part of our family history. If he turns out to be a good Sultan he will appreciate these words, for he might need to use them to his own son. Leave me now. I think I will spend the night exploring the mind of Ibn Said. I shall send for our sceptic from Aleppo to warm my bed and stimulate my brain.”