by Tariq Ali
The Bishops undoubtedly found him a serious obstacle to their plans, most notably the slow forced conversion of all infidels. That could be the only reason for them to demand his removal. Philip also possessed a sharp tongue and made little effort to disguise his aversion to some of the priests, while maintaining a close friendship with others. Idrisi could understand why the clerics wanted blood. But what had happened to Rujari?
‘What is the charge against Philip?’
‘That he was too lenient to the prisoners taken at Bone.’
‘Sultan, both you and your father in his time showed leniency in your dealings with defeated people. In itself what Philip did does not constitute a crime. Your Bishops and no doubt the Barons who feed them and protect the church estates are fearful of Philip’s power and his closeness and loyalty to you. Send him away if you must, but do not burn him. It will not appease their hunger. You are ill and weak, I know, but your political strength remains. Burn Philip and those you appease today will destroy your heirs tomorrow. My advice as a friend is to resist the pressure. Turn their demands on them. You know better than me how the Barons have stolen lands and abducted young children for ugly purposes. Ask the bishops to try these men for their crimes before you touch Philip. Get something in return for the crime you are about to sanction. If they refuse, then you can return to being your old, compassionate self.’
Rujari did not reply.
‘With your permission, I will take your leave now.’
A slight nod from Rujari was the only response.
The mapmaker was trembling with rage as he bowed and left the chamber. Outside he was escorted by one of the lesser Chamberlains and two slaves. As he walked through the outer courtyard, he saw a figure flying in his direction. He stopped till the apparition almost ran into him.
‘Elinore, child,’ he said, because the way she looked at him with a single raised eye reminded him of Walid. He bit his lip, but she did not appear in the least disconcerted.
‘Master Idrisi, my mother and I are going to spend the day with her family next week. Since your sister will also be there it would be a pleasure if we could break bread together. You do not need the permission of the Sultan to visit your sister, or do you?’
‘I will think about your suggestion, Princess.’
‘If you are fearful of losing your way I will happily draw you a map.’
He burst out laughing. ‘I will be there, provided you let me know the day.’
‘Good. We will discuss Pythagaros of Samos and his ideas. I believe in the importance of numbers, but definitely not seven.’
On seeing the surprise on his face, she laughed and disappeared. Thank Allah that every day was not like this one. As to which of the two emotions he encountered in the palace that day affected him more, it was difficult to say. That he still loved Mayya was hardly a surprise. She was forever locked inside him. On his long voyages, she was always with him, a willing participant in dozens of imagined conversations that had become a balm to ease his mental exhaustion.
In the past when she had whispered in his ear that Elinore was his daughter, he had not completely believed her. He had thought this was her way of assuaging her guilt. He did not know that she had none; guilt played no part in her feelings. For her, the offer of a place in the Sultan’s harem had not been a choice. It was a command. She had not had to be told that if she disobeyed, her entire family would suffer. In this respect all Sultans were the same: a belief in the prophecy of Muhammad or the miracles of Jesus made no difference. The satisfaction of their carnal needs transcended all spiritual beliefs.
Idrisi saw now that there was no way she could have conveyed this to him, but with his knowledge of the world he should have known. How they had managed to meet in secret and made love was something that still frightened and astonished him. She was sure they had not been seen, that not even the most hated eunuch of the harem knew what had happened, but could one be sure of anything in that cursed palace? Just as he should have known that for her, he, Muhammad al-Idrisi, would be the only man in her life. It upset her that the fever of love had left no mark on him, but here she was wrong. She looked for physical signs and wondered why he was not thin and distraught. That was how the poets described lovers who had been deprived of their beloved. If Qays could starve himself for his Laila, why not Muhammad for his Mayya? She did not know that she was ever present in his mind, that the book he had just completed was written for her, not the Sultan, that the main reason he stayed close to Rujari and, in consequence, angered many of his friends, was to be close to her. He had never told her that because he did not think she would believe him.
Of one thing Idrisi was now certain. Elinore was his child. All doubts had fled. And he feared that the Sultan suspected as much. The joy of holding Mayya in his arms and seeing his daughter had lifted his heart. But now, as he walked back to his house, acknowledging the greetings of passers-by as if in a dream, he could not get the thought of Philip out of his head. He knew him well, which did not make it easier to accept Rujari’s decision. Philip had been helpful in regard to the book, on one occasion going so far as to capture and bring to Palermo a Chinese merchant for questioning on his country’s coastal lines.
But it was a long-ago meeting that Idrisi now recalled. That day after patiently listening to him expand his ideas of the world for over an hour, Philip had smiled a sad smile and spoken words that Idrisi had never forgotten: ‘I have never doubted that your work is of great importance for you, Master Idrisi. And for the Sultan, who waits impatiently for the completion of your book. I am also aware of how much it costs you in personal terms. I know of the men in the mosque, good people most of them, who are angry with you for not doing more to help their cause. For me—and you will forgive me for speaking plainly—geography has never been decisive for knowledge. If anything, true knowledge drowns all the maps you make. For this knowledge comes from those permanent storms that torture our minds, like the whiplash on the naked body of a sailor or prisoner. In both cases the scars left behind never heal. It is this experience of living that educates us, Master Idrisi. Not your maps. Don’t misunderstand me. We need to know the size and extent of the world, but on its own the knowledge is useless. It is what we do with it that matters. Sometimes the followers of the Prophet become so distracted by new landscapes that they forget their origins. And one day, without warning, knights arrive. The cross that marks their shields is the colour of blood. Their fierce shouts resemble those of a hungry lion. It is this intrusion that reminds the Believers of who they once were and what they have become. But now it is too late. The damage has been done. They will not recover. Rujari is a wise and prudent ruler, but he will die. Then the knights will clamber over us like a lizard scaling a rock. They will decide that in order to preserve their own power they need to cleanse the court of people like you and me. Later they will wash Palermo with the blood of its people. I fear we have lost the war.’
These words reverberated in his mind as he thought of the consequences of Rujari’s decision to sacrifice the most intelligent adviser in his kingdom. Could anything be done to help Philip? Why shouldn’t he escape to Ifriqiya? It wouldn’t be difficult to organise a vessel that would transport him across the water. Philip, who knew everything, must be aware of what was being planned.
An unexpected sea breeze took Idrisi by surprise. Instinctively, he clutched at his beard to prevent it from swaying, a sensation he disliked intensely, but he had forgotten that the beard had been severely trimmed only a few days ago. As he stood looking out to sea he knew that the eternal war between land and water was not over. Many battles lay ahead and perhaps even Allah was not sure who would win. Would this island still be there a thousand years from now?
FOUR
The mehfil at the Ayn al-Shifa mosque in Palermo. Philip is convinced that the Barons and Bishops are plotting a massacre or possibly two.
IDRISI BREAKFASTED ALONE THE next morning. He had been looking forward to the presence of Khali
d and Ali but it was not to be. His daughters had departed, ignoring his request that his grandsons be left with him. Ibn Fityan relayed his daughters’ message to the effect that the boys were desperate to return to their fathers. Even the servant smiled as he delivered it. But Idrisi was angered by their disobedience. How those wretched girls must dread his influence, fearing he might transfer his love of books to Khalid and Ali. As he ate the freshly plucked figs he looked out to sea. No breezes lifted the waves. Once this island was under water, of this Idrisi was convinced: the congealed shells he had discovered on mountain tops and the skeletal shapes of giant fish were enough proof of what once was and might be again. It would be fitting punishment for the Bishops and Barons.
The irksome thought of his daughters returned to him. Why had Allah punished him with them? How could idiocy overpower all else? After today, he no longer cared. He would try and ensure that he saw his grandsons regularly. As for the fruit of his loins, it must have been rotten-ripe from birth. But the discovery of Elinore changed everything, like catching sight of a rich and fertile coast, with pure sandy beaches the colour of gold and a green mist rising from the rich forest of palms that lay behind. The barren rocks and dust-laden shrubs withering in the summer heat were soon forgotten.
Ibn Fityan, returning with his morning coffee, whispered close to his ear, ‘The news from the palace is not good. They say that Philip has fallen out of favour and the Bishops are demanding his head. Could this be true, master? If Philip falls, who will protect us?’
Idrisi was not at all surprised that the worried palace eunuchs were spreading the news. He shook his head in despair.
‘The Sultan is unwell. He thinks that offering Philip’s head to the Nazarenes on a platter will ensure a safe succession. He thinks that William is a weak boy and will need much help from the Bishops and the Barons. That is why he is prepared to sacrifice Philip, a person whose loyalty to him cannot be challenged.’
The steward looked at him with hurt eyes. ‘Treachery. And you have accepted it?’
Idrisi did not answer till he had finished eating the honey-flavoured sheep’s milk curds. ‘I will go to the mosque today and listen to the sermon, but after the Friday prayers are over. You may accompany me as long as you keep your dagger hidden. I don’t want it said that Idrisi is frightened of the populace.’
Ibn Fityan smiled. It was what he wanted to hear. ‘Not the populace, Commander of the Book, but a Nazarene stoked to fury by the monks who resent your closeness to the Sultan. The vile rumours they spread about you are truly unbearable and ...’
Idrisi interrupted him. ‘If I can bear them you must try and do the same.’ He understood the fear that the news had unleashed. He had known hunger, thirst, bodily weariness, and emotional anguish; sometimes, the thought of Mayya imprisoned in the harem induced a terrible misery. All this, but never fear. Now, he had to admit that the news of Philip’s fall from favour had shaken even his self-confidence.
As they walked through the crowded streets to the mosque Idrisi noticed the silence of the multitude, straining to hear the words of the sermon, mutilated excerpts from al-Quran. Entering the mosque, the Believers made way for him so he could sit at the front, but he declined with a grateful gesture and sat in the open courtyard under the glare of the sun. He looked around to estimate the size of the gathering. There were at least three thousand people assembled, probably more. The qadi would speak for a long time today, overwhelming the faithful with a confusing mixture of dogmatic counsels and endless rhetoric, which flowed like a stream. When the crowd expressed appreciation of a particular phrase with cries of wa-allah, he would repeat it, enunciating each word carefully, his gaze directed towards heaven.
Idrisi stopped listening and recalled one of his earliest meetings with Philip in the palace. The Sultan was questioning his victorious Amir al-bahr on the pattern of a city built by Believers. Why the water? Why the gardens? Why the row of straight trees?
‘Bountiful Sultan,’ replied Philip, ‘the garden is heaven on earth, the water must be kept pure and clear in canals, the trees must be planted in rows. The reason is simple. It helps us to develop pure and clear conceptions and guard against false illusions. The builders create cities like this everywhere to stress the universality of the Prophet’s faith. And it is this that pushes the soldiers of the Prophet towards expansion and the enemies of this faith towards surrender.’
The Sultan smiled and nodded. ‘When you speak like this I sense something. In your heart you remain a Believer in your Prophet. The conversion to my faith was a pretence. I do not blame you, but I would be happier if you admitted this and then you and Master Idrisi can pray together.’
Philip had paled, but apart from that his expression betrayed nothing. ‘I am grateful to the Sultan. I pray in the large church built by your father.’
Suddenly Idrisi became aware that Philip’s name had been spoken by the qadi. The other listeners had already succumbed to the preacher. Now Idrisi, too, strained to hear every word.
‘It has been reported to us that Philip al-Mahdia, the great Amir al-bahr and a worthy successor to the late George, may Allah bless his memory, is the victim of falsehoods. The Nazarene monks charge Philip with treason because they say that when he conquered Mahdia he refused to torture and kill Believers or rape the women. Is this a crime? May the stars rain on the head of the Nazarenes and may they be forced to drink their own blood for making this charge. Sultan Rujari is our protector and we must not do anything to shake his throne. Hear me, O Believers. This Sultan has defended us against the madness of his monks. The Sultan and his family will guard us against all catastrophes and for that reason let us pray to Allah to guide the Sultan and urge him to spare the life of Philip.’
Idrisi joined in the prayer, cupped his hands and looked upwards. A collective ‘Amen’ rent the air and the sermon was over. As the faithful surrounded him, they shouted questions from every direction: Is what the qadi said true? Do you think Filib will die? Will our world end? Should we not resist now instead of waiting for the executioner’s axe?
He smiled at them with sad eyes and allowed himself to be taken deep into the heart of the mosque, into a narrow room where the others had assembled. As his eyes became accustomed to the semi-darkness, he felt a lightning bolt. Philip, attired in long white robes, was seated on the floor with the rest of them. He rose to his feet and embraced Idrisi, kissing him three times. The others did the same. Apart from the qadi, Philip and himself, there was the Chief Eunuch from the palace and two young men who introduced themselves as Philip’s captains in charge of their own ships of war. Philip had taught them all they knew and they would die for him. Once the introductions were over, a silence fell.
It was Philip who spoke first. ‘What the qadi said today was true. There is a conspiracy being prepared against us. So much is certain. It is in its early stages, but our choices are limited. Any resistance at this moment would be easily crushed. The Barons and monks are hoping that when I am burnt at the stake, there will be an uprising.’
The two young sea captains shuddered in horror and the older of them spoke. ‘Amir Philip, if they burn you, we will burn this city. The loyalty of the men on the ships is to you and no one else ...’
Philip raised his hand to stop him. ‘It would be a tragedy if this were to happen. The Sultan is ill. He will die soon. He knows. The boy who succeeds him is even more sympathetic to us than his father. He has mastered our language and al-Quran. He has admitted to his tutors that he would like to convert to our faith. Is that not true, Master Idrisi?’
‘It is true,’ whispered Idrisi, ‘but be careful. These are the wishes of an impressionable young man who is in love with our women and we should not assume that he will convert ...’
Philip smiled. ‘Some men remain impressionable till the day they die. I am aware of this only too well. If the tide turns, William may float away. In a long war nothing can be taken for granted. That I know better than all of you. The fate of a battle
is usually decided at the moment of victory or defeat. Who would have believed that a handful of Normans could have defeated our armies on this island? We outnumbered them, we had more weapons, more food and we controlled the towns and the sea. But they won. Till the last moment anything is possible. It is the quality of the men who fight, their mental capacity, that determines a great deal. It is the same in the situation that confronts us at this moment. But we must prepare carefully and give strength to Rujari by declaring our loyalty to his family. For us the best conditions for the struggle that lies ahead would be if the Barons refused to accept William as their King. If that happens, you must resist them and defend him. Who knows, perhaps Siqilliya, with or without the Franks, will return to our faith.’
Then Idrisi spoke. ‘There is a problem you have not taken into account. If they burn you, the charm will be broken and the beautiful illusion or hope—call it what you will—gone for ever. When our people see that Amir Philip, the most powerful man in the kingdom after the Sultan, can be burnt like a piece of wood and his ashes scattered in the sea, they will despair. They will think Allah has abandoned them. They will become embittered and desperate and in that state men can no longer think in a calm and rational way like you. Please do not underestimate the effects of your death.’
Philip smiled. ‘Torture and death by fire is an abomination, but I think I will feel it more than you. I was sold into slavery and in that condition one is always prepared for death. It would worsen my misery if I thought you were all engaged in planning an action that was doomed to fail.’
Then the qadi spoke. At seventy-six years of age, the hair on his head had disappeared some time ago, but his long white beard, clutched tight during key moments of his sermons, had a touch of wild grandeur. Idrisi had heard him in this same mosque for many years and knew all his rhetorical ploys. They reminded him of the weather. When he began to speak it was like a hot moist squall that suddenly blows away and the air becomes stagnant and motionless. Then, suddenly, without warning, a dark cloud appears, followed by a thunderclap, exhorting the faithful to action. Sometimes there were variations, but nothing significant. And Believers, to their credit, learnt to display a stoicism worthy of their earliest forebears, applauding the same words week after week as if they heard them for the first time.