by Tariq Ali
‘Look, Muhammad,’ she had shouted, ‘look at me. I’m a firefly.’
He had sat and watched her until a sudden storm had erupted with thunder and freezing rain. He had taken her hand and they had run all the way back to the village. Before they parted he had held her close and kissed her lips.
He heard Ibn Fityan cough discreetly. ‘Time for bed, master?’
‘Yes. Come with me and press my feet.’
The eunuch followed Idrisi to the bedchamber where an attendant undressed him and gave him a robe for bed.
‘Did you know Thawdor’s youngest boy sailed on my ship?’
The eunuch did not reply.
‘You did. Why was I not informed?’
‘Thawdor felt it was best that way. He did not wish to trouble you.’
‘It’s your job to tell me everything. Is that understood? What are they saying in the qasr?’
‘They are saying the Sultan is ill and might not survive the year. They are saying that his youngest son is a secret Believer and will restore our people to the positions we deserve. They are saying that you, master, have an important role to play. The Nazarenes are pressing the Sultan to teach us a lesson. They talk of conspiracies and are advising him to destroy all the mosques in Palermo because they are the breeding grounds of rebellion. That’s what they’re saying.’
He did not wait for a reply because he saw that Idrisi had fallen fast asleep. He covered his master’s sleeping form with a sheet and tiptoed out of the room. But Idrisi was not asleep. He was thinking of the future. He knew the palace factions and their leaders, but he had always remained aloof from them. Now that his book was finished he would go to the Friday prayers and hear the khutba. Perhaps he should have gone to the palace after all.
When he woke at first light the next morning he looked out of the window to see if the fireflies had brought a storm with them, but there was no sign of wet earth and the sea appeared calm. He sent for his grandchildren and was surprised to learn that only the boys had been brought to see him. Samar’s son Khalid was fourteen, his cousin, Ali, two years older.
‘Wa Salaam, Jiddu.’
He hugged each of them in turn and asked them to sit on his bed. ‘We shall have breakfast here and while you eat I will ask questions about your riding and your tutors.’
But what he really wanted to know was about the boys and their fathers. And what he heard pleased him. In each case the father took a great deal of interest and spent several hours a week with his son. Ali spoke of how Khalid’s father had taught them to fire an arrow at a mark and hunt. Khalid recounted how they had been taught the poetry of Ibn Hamdis, which Ali’s father could recite from memory.
‘Do you like his poetry?’
Ali nodded vigorously, Khalid made a face. Their grandfather burst out laughing. ‘I see that Ali is a sentimental man, much given to romance, while Khalid is more interested in weaponry.’
‘Jiddu,’ replied Khalid, ‘Ali thinks we will be forced to leave Siqilliya one day, just like Ibn Hamdis. If that is so, what use is poetry? I think we must learn to fight so that we can defend ourselves. I will not see my family slaughtered like goats at festival time.’
Idrisi looked at them closely. He saw how carefully they ate the sheep’s-milk yogurt and bread that had been placed before them. Allah had been kind. The boys were tall and resembled their fathers. Ali’s ear lobes reminded Idrisi of his own father. He liked and approved of his grandsons. ‘Jiddu,’ asked Ali in a soft voice, ‘in your book do you explain why the mountain in Catania breathes fire? Last month the villagers who live below it packed their belongings and ran away. But after a few fireballs, the mountain went to sleep again and the villagers returned looking somewhat foolish. Why does it happen? My father says it’s because Allah is angry at the sins being committed by the Nazarenes against the Believers.’
‘If that were the case, my sons, why would he be punishing us? It’s our people who live in that region. I have not fully investigated this matter, but I am sure it has something to do with how this Earth came into being.’
‘But it was Allah who ordered the Earth to come into being,’ said Khalid with a trembling voice, which suddenly reminded Idrisi of Walid at that age, intense and questioning.
‘When your uncle Walid, who I hope will return home one day so that he can see both of you ... when he was ten or eleven years of age we were in a large boat not far from Catania. And the fire-mountain became very active and the sea very rough and I thought we might not survive. But it did not last long and we came to shore safely. Walid asked the same question and I gave the same reply. And he then said what you just told me, young Khalid. So I told him a story that the Greeks used to tell in olden times about the fire-mountain. Are you interested?’
The shining eyes of his grandsons encouraged him to go on.
‘A long, long time ago, the Greeks did not believe that there was only one Allah. They believed in many different gods. The Sultan of their gods was Zeus, who lived on Mount Olympus together with his fellow-gods and goddesses. The people on Earth resented the power of the gods. Why should only they be immortal? Why should they get the best things on earth and transport them to Mount Olympus? So it came about that Mother Earth decided that two giant twins, the Aloeids, who grew six feet taller each year, should steal the food that made the gods immortal, banish them from Olympus and rule the world themselves. Not a bad idea, eh? They captured Ares, the god of war, in Thrace and locked him in an iron chest.
‘But they did not succeed. The wiles of Artemis defeated them and they killed each other by mistake. Mother Earth was really upset, but refused to give up. She decided to create a big, new monster called Typhon. This monster had the head of an ass, with ears that reached the stars and giant wings that could block the sun, and hundred of snakes instead of legs. He breathed fire and when he reached Olympus the gods were terrified and fled. Yes, they ran away to Egypt. Zeus went disguised as a ram, his wife Hera as a cow, Apollo became a crow and Ares a wild boar. But the most intelligent and wisest was the goddess Athena. She refused to leave and called her father Zeus a coward. This angered him. He returned and hurled one of his famous thunderbolts at Typhon who was burnt in the shoulder and screamed for help. Then Typhon, in a rage, seized Zeus, disarmed him and handed him to a big she-monster called Delphyne. The other gods decided to rescue Zeus. With the help of the Fates, they poisoned Typhon. Then Apollo killed Delphyne and rescued Zeus. But Typhon was not dead. He was in Catania, alive but weakened. Zeus took a giant rock and hurled it on top of Typhon and that became your fire-mountain. Typhon is still there and his fiery breath sometimes rushes up and frightens everyone. Isn’t that a bit better than saying it’s the will of Allah?’
The boys clapped their hands in excitement.
‘Jiddu, did the Greeks really believe they could overthrow their gods?’
‘Yes. And then the Romans came and took over the gods, but the Romans went one step further and their Sultans decided that they could become gods themselves. And they did.’
‘How?’
‘By informing their people that they were gods and having great statues built in their honour.’
‘But we have only Allah,’ said Khalid, ‘and that’s much better because he is all-powerful. Nobody can overthrow him.’
‘That is true, my child,’ replied their grandfather, ‘but I think the Greeks had more fun with their gods.’
‘But did they really exist?’ asked Khalid.
‘If people believe in them, they exist.’
‘But Jiddu...’
‘Now listen to me. Go and have your baths and dress properly. I’m taking you to the palace today. You will meet the Sultan.’
As he went down the stairs, a retainer whispered that his two daughters wished to speak with him before he left the house. Samar and Sakina had heard the news about the trip to the palace from their sons and they assumed their father intended to ease the transfer of lands to the boys. So the brazenfaced women greete
d their father cheerfully, showering him with honeyed words and asking his permission to return to their homes in Siracusa. A cold anger gripped him and made him unable to reply. Samar expressed concern. ‘Are you well, Abi? We can speak after your return.’
‘Sit down.’
They did as he asked.
‘I have just broken bread with Khalid and Ali. They are intelligent and thoughtful boys and I would like them to stay a bit longer so I can get to know them better. I want to teach them something important. In this house we honour truth. That’s what I wish to teach them.’
The women smiled appreciatively and nodded in agreement.
‘For that reason,’ he continued, ‘I have decided to ignore the lies you have told me about your husbands. Each and every word you spoke was an untruth and you were prepared to testify falsely with your hands on al-Quran. I was aware that Allah had not blessed you with too much intelligence, but your stupidity is truly monumental. And behind this dishonourable attempt an even higher level of stupidity than yours appears to be at work. Was this foolishness your mother’s idea? Answer me.’
Sakina began to weep tears as false as her earlier smiles.
Her father rose to dismiss them. ‘I wish you to return to your homes and forget this whole business. Are you not aware that the boys love the men you wish to defame? If I hear another word from you I will make sure you are severely punished.’
Shaken by this display of anger, Samar and Sakina fell on their knees before him and kissed his feet. Samar spoke in a broken voice. ‘Forgive us, Abi. You are correct. It was our mother’s idea. We will not mention it to another person as long as we live.’
Then Sakina, desperate to restore herself to her father’s favour, declared, ‘We will never speak untruth again.’
Idrisi was unbending. ‘You might as well say you’ll never eat again.’
‘Abi, a letter arrived from Walid.’
The shock almost felled him. He sat down again. ‘If this is another falsehood ...’
‘It is not, Abi,’ Samar spoke to back up her sister. ‘We saw the letter.’
‘When did it arrive?’
‘A year ago,’ replied Sakina. ‘It was delivered to us by a merchant who had met Walid.’
‘Why was I not informed?’
The women bowed their heads and did not answer.
‘Who was the letter addressed to? Do not fear. Tell me the truth.’
‘To us,’ replied Samar, ‘but in it there was a sealed parchment for you. Our mother told us we should conceal it till you agreed to our plan.’
‘I assume you have brought it with you?’
She nodded and rushed to her room, returning with a sealed roll of paper. Taking it from her, Idrisi asked them to leave him alone. He inspected the document closely to ascertain whether it might have been opened and re-sealed but, to his surprise, it had not been tampered with. As he stamped on the seal and watched it crumble, his eyes moistened. Walid was alive. The clumsy calligraphy was reassuring. There could be no doubt that Walid was the author of what lay on the table before him. On another piece of papyrus with the letter Idrisi saw the outlines of a map, but which coast could this be? For a moment the mapmaker took precedence over the father. He clapped his hands. It was the southern coast of India, but drawn with much greater skill than his own.
‘Allah be praised,’ he said to himself. ‘The boy is more gifted than his father.’
Then he devoured the letter.
Most respected father, I hope this finds you in good health. I honour you and I love you. This is the third letter I am sending you. The first two were despatched through merchants who were on their way to Palermo. I asked them to deliver the letters to the palace, since I assumed they would reach you there. I have a feeling that they never reached you, because I know if they had you would have found a way of responding and I used to dream that your ship would enter this city of water and find me.
This letter I am sending with a seafarer who became a dear friend of mine on the first voyage and is now captain of his own ship. He is on his way to Siracusa. In my previous letters I asked you to forgive me for leaving without saying farewell. I did not want you to be worried or fearful on my behalf. I know how much you loved me and I did not want to let my absence become a permanent worry in your mind as yours is in mine.
I stopped travelling some years ago after I had endured some grim sorrows in my life. Now I am happy again and in the service of a very fine merchant, Master Soliman, who knows Palermo well from the stories of his grandfather who traded in silks and brought back many beautiful pieces of cloth from our city. Master Soliman does not travel any longer. He works mainly on curved clasps and silver necklaces for the ladies and, sometimes, gold cups for the palace. He is a very skilled craftsman and could make a silver planarian for your maps.
Father, I wish to see you, but I do not wish to return to Palermo. It will end badly for our people and I have no desire to witness more killings. As you know, it was the death of my mother’s brother that was the cause of my leaving. I am aware that you had nothing but contempt for him, but he was an affectionate man, always very kind to me and there was no real motive for his death, except robbery. The nobles who killed him knew he had no children and the land would revert to the Sultan, which it did and was handed over to the murderers. Here in the city of water there are not many Believers. Master Soliman, who is a Jew, thinks I might be the only follower of our Prophet who actually lives in this city. For that reason my presence is not threatening to anyone. I can’t remember if you ever visited Venice on your travels, but if you ever decide to come here you can find me in the home of the silversmith Soliman who is known to all. The little map that I send with this letter was made by me when I was a seafarer and I travelled a great deal on the Eastern and Western coasts of India. Peace be upon you, Father.
Your obedient son,
Walid ibn Muhammad
A waterfall of emotions descended on him—relief, joy, love, anger, sadness all flowed together as he wiped the tears from his eyes. Unasked questions and unspoken bitternesses would continue to weigh down his heart unless ... He would ask the Sultan for permission to visit Venice.
THREE
Siqilliyan whispers. The Sultan in the palace informs Idrisi of the fate awaiting Philip al-Mahdia. Idrisi’s encounter with Mayya and Elinore makes him forget all else.
AFTER THE FORMALITIES HAD been concluded and the two grandsons presented to Sultan Rujari, who gave each of them a little silk bag with freshly minted coins, the audience was over. The boys bowed and were escorted home by Ibn Fityan. The rest of those present were asked to leave the two men alone.
Idrisi was taken aback by how much weight the Sultan had lost over the last three months. His robust, vigorous, handsome friend had aged. The dark red hair of which he was so proud and which he had inherited from his mother, Adelaide of Savona, had now turned completely grey. The same fate must have befallen his beard, and was probably why he had had it removed. Appearances mattered to this Sultan. Idrisi looked at Rujari, who averted his eyes. Both men knew that death was not far away.
Just as Idrisi was about to speak, a young woman, not more than seventeen or eighteen years of age, ran into the room and embraced the Sultan, resting her head in his lap. As soon as she realised he was not alone, her face coloured and she muttered an apology. The moment Idrisi saw her he knew who she was and the beats of his heart increased. Her eyes and lips were an exact replica of her mother’s at that age.
Rujari smiled. ‘My daughter, Elinore, but then you recognised her, did you not? She is like her mother. Except for her thick, dark hair. That was my contribution. I think.’
She looked at him carefully now and whispered in her father’s ear. ‘How would he know my mother?’
‘Master Idrisi, she wants to know how you knew her mother. You grew up in the same village, did you not? I think I first met her in your uncle’s house in Palermo. You were there?’
Idrisi nodded.
>
‘I must speak with your mother’s friend, my child. He is the greatest scholar in our kingdom but he is rarely in Palermo. Tell your mother he’s here. If she wishes, she may share our midday meal.’
Like a gazelle, Elinore ran out of the room, turning once to look back and smile.
‘I hear you have news of your son.’
‘Your spies are quick, Exalted One. And, on this occasion, they tell the truth. And your health?’
‘See for yourself. I lie here in the palace of your Sultans, broken by cruel old age and the loss of my sons. You know how that can feel. Your boy disappeared on a vessel and I remember you could not eat for many days. Three of my boys have been taken away from me. Rujari I loved more than anyone else. He was learning fast. You taught him. Don’t you remember? He was a healthy sapling, then shot up quickly like a young tree. I loved him, Idrisi. I tended him carefully. He was the pride of my orchard. God is cruel. Then Tancredi went, followed by Alfonso. Now there is Guillaume or “William the Conqueror”, as his brothers used to tease him. He is a sweet boy, of even temperament, but ungifted and lacking in both wisdom and virtue. The crown will weigh heavily on his head and I fear he will rely too much on the sword. The sword, as you know better than most, is an essential defence against enemies at home and abroad, but must be used with care. If I had thought that all his brothers would die before him I would have ensured he was given the chance to govern or to work for the Diwan. His interests are limited to Arab poetry, discussions on love, consuming wine and fornicating. He has imbibed so much of your culture that I think he feels and thinks like an Arab. This is dangerous, Idrisi, and will anger the nobles. I want you to speak with him, teach him and help him. He could lose this kingdom as easily as my father won it. If he does, I hope your people will regain it, but I doubt their capacity to do so. There is a deep-seated weakness in your statecraft. You overestimate the power of the Word and the sword, but underestimate the necessity of law, especially in relation to property. Don’t misunderstand me: the law is only an instrument to be used by the ruler as he wishes, but it creates the basis for stability. I would hate the Popes to take Sicily, or the English or the Crusaders. If they do, everything we have created will be destroyed. It will be the end. I was hoping that my young and beautiful wife might bear me a new son, but she has produced a girl and that is unhelpful.’