by Tariq Ali
The Trusted One put his arm around the peasant’s shoulders. ‘Can you read and write?’
He nodded. ‘My mother was a cook and worked for Ibn Omar’s family. So I used to play with the children and learnt to read and write with them.’
‘And afterwards?’
‘Nothing. The Lombards, most of them could not read, threw out all the books from the library and lit them, but Allah decided it would rain that day. We children saved the books and they are hidden in different homes. I never stopped reading even when I couldn’t understand more than three sentences on a page. My wife has named me Ibn al-Kitab.’
The others laughed, but the Trusted One hid his delight at discovering such an erudite peasant. Open praise would have excited the envy of the others.
‘Ibn al-Kitab is a good name. I need you to question everyone and compile a register. I want to know which peasant worked on which field, how many hours were worked before and after the Nazarenes came. Then I want you to compile another register dividing the land equally between all the peasant families. This register must be backdated thirty years. I will sign the deeds on behalf of Hamza ibn Omar. This is to safeguard all of you against any authority. You had nothing to do with burning the Bishop or killing the Lombards. Blame the men who came from outside. In any case, why should you wish to kill anyone when your lord gifted the land to you thirty years ago? One more request to all of you. You must consult everyone before you reach your decision. Twelve of my men wish to settle here. They will work alongside you and, if it ever becomes necessary, defend you. But they must have an equal share in the land.’
The twenty or so peasants accompanying him nodded gratefully, assuring him that there would be no problem about his men. But he insisted that the village should decide this collectively. Ibn al-Kitab asked, ‘When you say the land should be divided equally, does that include Yuhanna, the monk?’
‘Does his family live here?’
‘Yes.’
‘Then he must be included. We can afford to be generous. There is a great deal of land, as we have just seen, and best to share it with everyone.’
As they were walking back, Ibn al-Kitab whispered, ‘I would be honoured if you would join us for the evening meal.’
‘I would like that and then you can show me some of the books you saved from the fire.’
Later that afternoon, after the peasants had returned from work a large mehfil was convened in the square. Ibn al-Kitab spoke of the plan that had been suggested by the Trusted One. It was greeted with shouts of joy. Then a semi-spontaneous chant erupted, during which the Trusted One’s men remained silent: ‘Long life to the Amir al-Jihad.’
The Trusted One rose. He told them it was their own strength that would now take them forward. He could do no more for them. Within a week they would have the deeds to their land and the register must be kept hidden in a safe place known only to ten families. It was only to be shown to the Emir of Siracusa or his agents, never to the Lombard who would immediately destroy it. That they were involved in a deception was undeniable, but he felt sure that Allah and God and the Prophets Muhammad and Isa would forgive them because they were correcting a grievous injustice that had been done. All that was necessary was that they tell the same story to anyone from outside who asked questions regarding the land. And he made one last appeal. The land now belonged to them, but he would urge them to make sure each family was fed, had milk and water and fruit before they sold the produce in the market. And they should make sure to rebuild their mosque. As he walked away from the throng, people of all ages touched him in silent appreciation. Ibn al-Kitab took his arm. ‘Trusted One, if you could achieve the same in other places on this island we could raise an army that would take Palermo.’
‘It will not be so easy elsewhere.’
It began to rain and both men were drenched by the time they reached Ibn al-Kitab’s house. The Trusted One was shivering and his new friend insisted he change his tunic. A clean shirt and loose trousers were placed on the bed in an adjoining room where he could undress and dry himself. The Trusted One began to weep from a well of tears deep inside him. When he had recovered he changed into the dry clothes. They hung loose on him. He could not remember the last time he had worn a clean shirt or trousers. Beneath the uncouth bearded figure in a tunic that had never been washed was revealed the noble profile of an Amir.
In the front room, she was smiling with two young boys and a proud husband at her side. He kissed each boy on the head. Even her voice reminded him of Bulbula.
‘We are honoured by your presence, Trusted One. News of you had reached us many months ago, but we wondered whether you were real or an apparition. I’m glad you’re real. Please be seated. The children are going to bed and your meal is almost ready.’
The two men remained silent till Ibn al-Kitab showed him a book the sight of which made him stand up in excitement. It was Ibn Rushd’s The Incoherence of the Incoherent, a spirited defence of Reason as something separate from Divine Truth.
‘This was in the library?’
‘Yes. This is the one I cannot understand, however hard I try.’
‘It is difficult, but it is the most courageous text produced by our philosophers. I myself have only read extracts. May I borrow it to read while I am here?’
‘I was going to give it to you.’
Tears came to The Trusted One’s eyes. ‘It should belong to everyone. When the mosque has been rebuilt it will contain a small library for books other than al-Quran, which as Allah knows, we have read so often that we can remember each verse.’
Then she re-entered the room and he could no longer contain himself.
‘May I ask your name?’
‘Zainab.’
‘Forgive my abruptness. You remind me of someone I knew a long time ago in another life. You resemble her so strongly that with your permission I would like to ask you another question.’
Zainab’s face paled. ‘You may ask me whatever you like.’
‘You were born here?’
‘Yes.’
‘Your parents have lived here always?’
‘Yes, except in bad times, when my mother obtained employment in Noto. Like my mother-in-law, she is an excellent cook.’
‘Do you know where she worked?’
‘Yes. It was only for a few years and before I was born, but she talked about it often enough. She worked for a merchant, a widower who had a very beautiful daughter. She died in sad circumstances.’
‘Could I trouble you for a bowl of water, please.’
He was trembling and they thought he was cold and gave him a blanket.
‘Is your mother still alive, Zainab?’
‘Allah be praised, she will be here very soon with our meal. When we told her you were coming she insisted on cooking. My father died a few years ago.’
‘Is her name Halima?’
Now it was Zainab’s turn to be surprised. Before she could question him, the door opened and they rushed to help the old woman bring the food indoors. She saw the Trusted One and came and touched his head and blessed him. Then he spoke in a voice she knew.
‘Halima, you did not recognise me?’
She almost dropped a pot and turned around. He hid his beard. Her voice became weak. ‘Ibn Zubair, is it really you?’
She was the only person left in this world who knew his real name. He embraced her and they both began to weep. When they had recovered he swore them all to secrecy.
‘The resemblance to Bulbula had alarmed me, but it was already dark when I first saw Zainab. I thought I might have been mistaken. I could not sleep properly last night. The wildest conjectures passed through my mind. Today when I saw her with her family, I was no longer confused. There was no room left for doubt. She looks exactly like her sister, except for the colour of her hair. Bulbula’s mother was a Greek and she inherited her hair, the colour of gold it was ... remember?’
Halima nodded and kissed his hands.
‘Her father, m
ay Allah forgive him, never recovered from her death. It was guilt that created the bad humours inside him. That’s what killed him. He left me all his money. I distributed it to the poor. Did he know about Zainab?’
‘No. Nobody knew till now.’
‘You should have told him. He would have been as pleased as I was to see her. It might have kept him alive. You and Zainab would have inherited a beautiful house in Noto and a small fortune.’
‘My husband would have killed me. Zainab was our only child—or so he thought—and he was so happy when she was born, even though he had prayed for a son. If only the merchant, who was not an unkind man, had allowed Bulbula to marry you, who knows what would have happened.’
‘If she had lived I would not be the man you see before you. She would have kept me close to her. I would be sitting in a library most of the day, reading, thinking, writing, but nothing more. In the life I chose I feel I have achieved something. In this village we have created an example that could spread. For a people to prosper, they must take their destiny in their own hands.’
Zainab had been waiting patiently till the Trusted One had finished speaking.
‘Umma, what happened?’
Her mother told her.
FOURTEEN
A dual pregnancy and Idrisi discovers an unusual cure for coughs and colds.
SEVERAL WEEKS LATER, NEWS of the events that had taken place in a village so small that it did not yet have a name reached Palermo. The merchants who carried the information described what had taken place in great detail, as if their own eyes had witnessed the Bishop being thrown into the flames and the Trusted One standing up to declare it as revenge for Philip. Then they would talk of how the Lombards had been hung naked from the trees, their legs and uncircumcised columns swaying in the wind and how, once the skin had been eaten by large birds, their skeletons had become bleached by the sun and polished by the rain. But they had been left in place as a mute warning to all infidels.
When Idrisi inquired whether they had seen the dangling skeletons with their own eyes, the merchant would admit it had been told him by a friend who had been told by another and before long the genealogy of the storytellers was so firmly established as to overpower the facts.
It has always been thus in our world, thought Idrisi, wondering if anything had taken place at all. Most legends contain a kernel of truth so it was clear that something must have happened. The problem was that news of the Trusted One’s exploits was feeding the delirium that had gripped the city since the public burning of Philip. One of the justiciaries who had thrown Philip’s body into the pit of fire had disappeared without trace. Fifteen days ago, a judge at the trial had died a natural death, but it was claimed in the qasr that he had been poisoned. What was undeniably true was that when his coffin was being carried to the cemetery, it had been attacked by a swarm of bees that emerged from nowhere. When the pallbearers were stung, they dropped the coffin in the street and ran away screaming in search of water. Even after the bees—may Allah bless them—had disappeared, the coffin had lain unattended for some time and young boys had dared each other to go and piss on it. They took it in turns to keep guard, with the result that over a hundred boys under ten years of age had drenched the wood with their rain. When the funeral procession was resumed the discomfort of the pallbearers was evident. Their wrinkled noses made the boys who were watching from their hiding places giggle with delight. In this febrile atmosphere the Trusted One and his military campaigns were discussed endlessly in the old city, each shop-keeper vying with his competitors to retell the most bloodcurdling stories.
Idrisi was preoccupied with more intimate problems—unsurprising since he lived with them each day. Mayya and Balkis were seven and six months pregnant, their distended stomachs competing for his attention. He spent more time with Balkis than with Mayya and for a simple reason: Balkis was locked inside him. When questioned by Elinore about the apparent discrepancy in his affections, he assumed the air of a physician. ‘Your mother has had you and knows what is involved. For Balkis it is her first child and the circumstances are difficult. She needs more care.’
Elinore raised her eyes and glared at him, but no words were exchanged.
Balkis had written to her husband Aziz and informed him of her state. A special messenger had arrived within three days to deliver a letter in return. He was delighted and would leave Siracusa in a few weeks to fetch her. He pleaded with her not to exert herself too much or do anything that could threaten the child. The news came as a relief to Mayya, but cast a thick cloud of gloom around the guest chambers occupied by her sister. For most of the time the sisters displayed a stoicism that greatly impressed Idrisi. What he did not realise was that what usually brought them close to each other was his absences from the house. If he had decided on a long sea journey the sisters would have become inseparable. These days he would not leave the island.
A week or two in Shakka or Djirdjent was the farthest he travelled to meet old friends and also to continue his research on herbal cures for the medical formulary he was composing. Nor were the two women exempted from his experiments. He inspected them closely and noted how their bodies reacted to the presence of the unborn child. Mayya could no longer eat meat and her body rejected all sweet delicacies except pastries that contained only honey. Balkis became allergic to garlic and onions, but developed a huge appetite for a long, thin pastry filled with almond paste. Neither of them could bear to taste the Arabian coffee which had been a household favourite.
Once, when Idrisi had developed a cough which persisted, he tried his own cure of honey, ginger and wild thyme boiled in water and, despite the unpleasant taste, he took it thrice a day. It had always worked before, but this time the cough refused to go away. In order to avoid infecting the two women he had stayed away from them, concentrating on writing and playing chess with Elinore.
One afternoon Balkis, who missed his presence more than her sister, entered his chamber and cradled his head on her breasts. The cloth covering her was moist with her milk. He licked it and liked the taste, then lifted her dress, eager for more. That same night his cough disappeared. It could have been pure coincidence, but Idrisi linked it to the milk. Was this real or a hallucination? He decided it was real. Was it the combination of honey, herbs and human milk that had worked the cure, or the milk alone? And if it was the milk alone, could he include the prescription in his formulary? He dreaded the thought of cough-ridden Sultans, Emirs and Barons scouring their palaces and estates for women in late pregnancy. It would add another burden on the poor. On the other hand, if he did not record the cure he would be in breach of the ancient oath. He arrived at a compromise with himself. Both women were likely to be breast-feeding the infants for a year or possibly two. It was just as likely that he would develop a cough over this period. When there was a conjunction between the two events he would just drink the milk. If the cough disappeared he would have to mention the fact in the formulary, regardless of the consequences. If it did not work, then he could regard what had happened with Balkis’s milk as a chance occurrence. But clearly Balkis had other concerns on her mind. From the look on her face he knew this was to do with her husband. She stood there, arms on hips and gave him one of her fierce looks.
‘Balkis, you must go with him, at least till the child is born. Afterwards he will not object if you return.’
‘You don’t care for me now that I am fat and ugly,’ she screamed, hurling herself against his body and weeping.
‘I agree that your body is not at its best, but to suggest that the love I feel for you is dependent on such things is an insult to our passion. If what you say were true, how do you explain that we make love almost every day, ignoring your stomach which seeks to obstruct us? Do you think I’m pretending when we are at the height of our union?’
‘Then why do you say I must go?’
‘It’s because you are married to him, Balkis. How often have we discussed this possibility? Believe me, all he wants is to show h
is child to his people and his family. I hope, for his sake, it is a boy. That will make him very happy. He won’t mind your returning here to create another child.’
She laughed. ‘In that case you should pray it’s a girl. Then I will definitely be returned to the great physician. But you speak the truth. I know that and I will do as you ask. The one thing I cannot bear to think of is being touched by him and if he does ...’
‘Most men stay away from women when they are breast-feeding an infant. The reason I would not is because as a physician it is my duty to observe and record the functions ...’
She kissed his lips and might have moved further had Ibn Fityan not knocked on the door to inform them that the Amir of Siracusa had left the palace and was reported to be riding in the direction of the house.
Refreshments, including the exquisite lemon elixir, were served on the terrace where they could enjoy the warmth of the winter sun. Aziz described his visit to the Sultan. He had been questioned in detail about the Trusted One, but denied that a Bishop had been burnt or Lombards fed to the animals.
‘But I can tell you, dear friends and trusted wife, what really took place. It is quite remarkable, but disturbing. They did burn the Bishop and the Trusted One did shout it was for Philip, but they dug a grave for the prelate and the local monk swears on the bible that he died a natural death. After his death the Lombards fought each other for the Bishop’s gold and probably his store of young men and, to the amazement of all, they destroyed first the castle in search of the gold and later themselves. The single survivor died of wounds. They were all buried in consecrated ground. This is, incidentally, true.’
‘But how did the battle start?’
Aziz told them the entire story, except what he did not know, namely, the meeting between the Trusted One and Halima and the discovery of his real identity.
‘We tended to believe that the Trusted One was a slightly unbalanced preacher, wandering through villages and infecting the credulous peasants with religious dreams, encouraging martyrdom and revealing the stigmata that marked his own uncultivated mind. This was certainly the impression he wanted to convey. But what he has done threatens us all.’