Struggle and You, they were all I had left,
Along with words of salvation from the smoke that I recite
Directly from you, with no other authority,
Thou source of succor and support!”
She would also say:
“My dear brother, your entire reign is summed up as one vast graveyard,
Poverty, misery, murder, and terror, my Lord.
Have you heard the tales of panic and confiscation,
Stories of siege?
You, my Lord, who govern by outrage.
Woe to you, a thousand times, woe!
One day the peoples of Egypt, Tunisia, and Syria
Will inevitably occupy streets and roofs in God’s land.
And legislate in the name of justice and God’s unity.
Then in God’s name they will demolish your idols, my Lord.”
This is how Sitt al-Mulk gradually came to a firm resolve that there was indeed a desperate need for salvation and release. She was impelled in that direction by a series of dreams in which Fatima al-Zahra’ appeared and enjoined her to take care of her beloved dynasty. She would stay with Sitt al-Mulk until dawn’s golden rays emerged; then she would vanish, leaving behind her sacred sash across the ever brightening sky.
Sitt al-Mulk spent many sleepless nights like this. No sooner did she fall asleep than Fatima al-Zahra’ would appear and offer her advice. Indeed Fatima al-Zahra’ would even visit her in daydreams, always enveloped in the same radiant halo of sanctity; at times she would be accompanied by a bank of clouds, at others by various stars that augured good fortune and happiness.
During her final apparition Fatima added a new injunction, urging Sitt al-Mulk to go to her brother and persuade him to desist from his perverted and tyrannical behavior. After a good deal of thought during which Sitt al-Mulk tested the validity of this proposition, she proceeded to carry it out. One morning, a day to remember indeed, she went to al-Hakim’s room in the palace. There they had a memorable conversation, one that augured the direst of consequences.
“How my heart boils when my sister defies me!” he roared in a fit of anger. “You’ve remained apart! May you never penetrate my subsoil, nor I uncover your secret. You dare to come into my presence without an invitation from me? Your spirit is suppressed to the point of exploding: you’re poison just waiting for the right occasion. You are the foulest of stains on my state and kingly brow. Be gone from here, Christian’s daughter. Reveal your secrets and explode before I vent my wrath on you!”
Sitt al-Mulk made valiant efforts to control her nerves and organize her thoughts. “Our lord. Imam Ja’far ai-Sadiq,” she replied, “had this to say: ‘Remaining silent under tyrannical rule is a kind of religious servitude.’ So how am I to remain silent when I too, my brother, am a part of this dynasty? How am I supposed to think positively and put worries aside when I spend all my time suffering through your moods and waiting for the inconceivable to occur? That I may die, my brother, or that you will inevitably do away with me, neither of those things scare me. No, what really frightens me is that you’ll destroy this entire house and help our foes wipe out not merely us but our religion of Islam in some way yet unknown.”
“And how do you dare to claim responsibility for this house?” al-Hakim interrupted, shards of loathing and anger spewing from his mouth. “We ourselves were the ones who raised it up on sturdy pillars of stone and iron. Don’t talk about things you know nothing about. Talk to me instead about your own home. You’ve turned it into a brothel. You allow men and lovers to come there one after another and enjoy your favors and your accursed body. I’ve heard that a lewd poet with whom you’ve been consorting has even written a poem that begins, ‘How oft I have sighed at a bosom that brought a wayfarer such luscious food!’ not to mention similar outrages. As your brother, I should have kept you cloistered once you had attained puberty; that was when your lustful bosom started to bloom, and the obedient and innocent maid in you died for ever!”
In spite of strenuous efforts, Sitt al-Mulk’s eyes filled with tears. “Shame on you, brother!” she satd. “If you want to kill me, there are plenty of excuses. But for you to besmirch my honor, no and a thousand times no!”
“There no point in shedding tears in front of me,” retorted al-Hakim, his expression and voice still a tissue of fury. I no longer have a heart for you to break or win over. By noble Fatima al-Zahra’, I’m going to send some midwives to see you tomorrow, have them check on your virginity and examine that womb of yours for seeds of fornication. If I find out that what spies and old women are telling me is true, then I shall kill you myself without hesitation or mercy. Now get out of my sight before my anger gets to my sword and my sword to your neck.”
Sitt al-Mulk left al-Hakim’s palace and returned to her own. Now she was certain that her brother was a hopeless case; there was no room for either doubt or protest. It was hopeless to try to stop him committing acts of terror or to reform his tyrannical behavior. Once again Fatima al-Zahra’s voice came to her at night to confirm her conclusions and urge her to act speedily so as to extirpate this sickness by the roots before it was too late and all was lost.
By dawn next morning Sitt al-Mulk had in place a carefully crafted plan to get rid of her brother. As spearhead she selected Sayf al-Dawla al-Husayn ibn Dawass, chief of the Kutama tribe that had suffered many hardships during al-Hakim bi-Amr Illah’s reign. She went to his house alone and in disguise. Once she had entered and removed her veil, the chief bowed low and kissed the ground at her feet many times. However she grabbed him by the shoulder and told him to stand. Once he had done so, he addressed her, “How can I possibly deserve all this?” he asked, his heart palpitating in a blend of pleasure and amazement. “By God, after this hallowed visit I shall sleep sound and content, untroubled by thoughts of al-Hakim’s swords or poisons. The nightmare is over. Now I’ll be able to breathe fresh air, the sweet air of peace and liberty, things I have missed for so long! You, Madam, are the instigator of such joy.”
“May all boons be yours, Sayf al-Dawla!” Sitt al-Mulk replied. “You are the lord of that tribe without whose courage and steadfastness the Fatimid dynasty would never have been established in Tunisia, Egypt, or Syria, You are the very embodiment of your people’s glory and prestige; in your towering figure, one that has traversed seas and capped waves, I envision a wind-filled sail propelling our boat forward against our foes. Dear Husayn, you have wasted your oars in al-Hakim’s evil swamp when what you really desired was to escape! How bitter the truth is! How long can you stand to watch in horror as blood flows like water and heads continue to roll with neither cause nor justification? How much longer can your sword remain buried in its scabbard collecting rust?”
“My lady,” Ibn Dawwas responded, “your words are like the sweetest perfume, the purest amber. They weave a garment of resolve and warmth for me personally and the state as well. I fee! as though the sweet rain of deliverance is about to fall. Droplets of mercy and healing are flowing through my mouth!”
“You are right, Husayn,” said Sitt al-Mulk, “and so is your vision. The rain will indeed fall very soon. It will water the furrows of our parched land, sweep away the anxieties that have beset us, and let the water of our beloved Nile flow freely once more. That blessed era will only come when you put an end to the evil tyrant who has claimed divinity for himself and spread perdition and shame among us all.”
Ibn Dawwas fell to the ground again, kissing Sitt al-Mulk’s leg, clinging to her garment and begging to be relieved of such a risky task.
“This is a daunting charge, my lady!” he stammered. “I am even more afraid of failure. These days al-Hakim has managed to tyrannize and cow everyone to such a degree that you won’t find anyone who’d dare strike a blow against him, even from a distance with a bow and arrow or catapult.”
“Come now, Sayf al-Dawla!” Sitt al-Mulk retorted as she leaned over and wrapped his head in her garment, “do you imagine I haven’t taken your fears i
nto account? I don’t want your hands to be besmirched by al-Hakim’s blood; you don’t even have to be there when he’s killed. All I’m asking you to do is select two of your slaves who have never set eyes on al-Hakim, men whose strength and courage yon trust implicitly. Just convince them that a traitor is bent on harming their master the caliph. Tell them that tomorrow night this nefarious criminal will be lurking in the Muqattam Hills; he’ll be riding a gray donkey and imitating the caliph’s own dress and habits. Promise them money, estates, and high positions if they bring you the head and guts of this traitor in a bag. They should bury the rest of his corpse along with that of the donkey and any companions he may have with him. If they succeed, you must do away with them, so this secret stays between just the two of us. Keep it firmly locked away inside your heart, and you’ll enjoy every possible blessing. You’ll be given charge of government affairs for al-Hakim’s successor whom I shall appoint. For my part, I shall remain what I am, a woman behind a veil.”
Sitt al-Mulk had allowed no leeway for expressions of fear or objections. In fact Ibn Dawwas started extolling her wondrous intelligence; as he saw it, the plan she had devised was flawless. When she was sure he understood it in every detail, she planted a kiss on his ear. She then took two sharp knives out of her sleeve and handed them to him.
“These are Tunisian-made,” she told him. “I have complete faith in their efficacy.”
With that she stood up and left. Ibn Dawwas followed her to the door, uttering expressions of obedience to her wishes. He promised to bring her the bag the next night, just before daybreak.
That very night, while Sitt al-Mulk was hatching her plan and giving Sayf al-Dawla ibn Dawwas the task of carrying it out, al-Hakim himself rode out to the water reservoir in the northeast of Cairo. There he inquired after the latest pilgrim caravan that he had sent on its way months earlier but had not yet returned. He was told that they had sought refuge at the Ka’ba in Mecca and were still there. When he asked about the presents and pilgrim dues he had sent with them, he was informed that Qarmatian robbers had waylaid them and stolen the holy Kiswa, as well as wheat, flour, oil, and even candles and perfume.
“There was a time,” he said slapping his thigh, “when I used to prevent Egyptians from performing the pilgrimage. But then I cancelled the order. Today however I’m going to reimpose it, and there’ll be no appeals.”
Just at that moment al-Hakim felt a sudden stab of pain. He dismissed his servants and guards, then turned his mount toward the Lu’lu’ Palace gardens where he planned to lie down for a while. However no sooner had he arrived than he started feeling even worse. Trees loomed in front of his eyes like soldiers; the branches were drawn swords, each one ready and eager to tear him limb from limb. He headed back to the palace by way of the Tarma stables where he insisted on moving all the horses and other animals out so he could spent the night in the company of his faithful donkey, al-Qamar. It was here in the pitch darkness that al-Hakim started uttering strange phrases, the audible parts of which sounded weird and obscure; his only accompaniment was the neighing of his donkey spreadeagled on the ground, coupled with the stench of straw and animal droppings.
The following morning found al-Hakim still ensconced at al-Tarma. His guards came in and asked if he wished to be taken back to his own bed. He agreed, but once installed there, he continued talking in riddles. He kept shivering uncontrollably, but eventually fell into a deep, yet fitful slumber. When he woke up, his final night on earth had already-begun. He got up and summoned his astrologers. He was reminded that he had banished most of them and murdered the ones who were most skilled. There was only one left, and he was blind and crazy; no one knew his whereabouts. Al-Hakim looked up at the heavens.
“So there you are, O ill-omened star!” he said.
After contemplating the sky for a while, al-Hakim went to see his mother. Lady ‘Aziza. He kissed her head and hands and told her about the unlucky star. His mother wept bitterly. She begged her son to break his normal routine just for this one night and not go out to the desert by the Muqattam Hills.
Al-Hakim responded to her pleadings, shivering as he did so. “This very night and early tomorrow,” he said meekly, “I have much to do. My dear mother, I have led you to perdition, and now my own sister is out to destroy me. But you’re the one I’m worried about, far more than whatever she may decide to do. Take this key, it’s the one to the safe; in it you’ll find boxes containing three hundred thousand dinars. Take the money back to your palace to keep as a reserve.”[25] Now I see you kissing the ground and begging me to dispense with my nighttime ride, yet my restless soul tells me otherwise. Either I’ll go out and come back unscathed, or else I’ll die. If it’s the latter, then farewell. We all belong to God, and to Him do we return.”
Only the last third of the night still remained when al-Hakim left his palace, as though drawn by some invisible force. He got on his donkey and rode off toward the Muqattam Hills, instructing his guards not to come with him; all except for a single boy who brought inkwell, pen, and paper with him. Sitt al-Mulk was following his every move from her own palace. No sooner did he reach the hilltop and go down into the hollow than he started shouting over and over again, “Now you’ll be rid of me! Now you’ll be rid of me!” Coming to himself again, he kept on talking, loudly at times and then muttering, “This is a night like no other. It is the infinite abyss whose overwhelming beauty draws me onward. As I follow the stars and planets of this night sky, I see myself longing for my own demise and the totality that is indivisible. This night is the never-sleeping eye that lures me, pulling me toward the treasure-trove of eternity and the blessings of the world to come.
“On this night that remains unsullied in spite of your vigilance and efforts, my body disintegrates and my cells evanesce, and yet I no longer value them.
“I now belittle this earth of mine where I was welcomed before this dark firmament studded with lustrous pearls!
“Were my soul to fly away and quit the havens of corruption in order to blend with the elements, then my death would be so easy and pleasant!
“Yet what distresses me and kindles my ire is that I am to meet my fate after being betrayed, cut down, and torn apart by the weapons of scum.
“My unlucky star reveals to me how my own end has come about as a result of the scheming of a woman who is closest to my heart, and using a Tunisian knife. This woman will order me killed, then will kill my murderer, and all those who know about it.
“Woe then to the chief of the Kutama! And woe to all those who plot against me!”
The murder of al-Hakim bi-Amr lllah took place on the 27th of Shawwal 411. At the time he was thirty-six years old, and he had reigned for twenty-five years and one month. If the killers had not forgotten to bury the crippled carcass of the donkey, Sitt al-Mulk’s plan would have worked perfectly. As it was, rumors were rife in every town and leaders started asking questions. But Sitt al-Mulk managed to brush aside this conspicuous error by responding to the rising tide of questions with a serene demeanor, “Al-Hakim informed me,” she said, “that he would be absent for a while. Everything is fine. Al-Qamar, his donkey, either died of exhaustion from carrying too heavy a load or else al-Hakim killed it himself, something he’s threatened to do many tunes.”
Throughout the week following al-Hakim’s disappearance Sitt al-Mulk was in a race against time. The long wait and al-Hakim’s empty throne seemed to her like a sword; either she had to use it herself, or else it would strike her down. In order for her gamble to succeed, she would have to get the Tunisian and Turkish soldiers on her side, distribute cash and rewards among them, and make land-grants to their commanders and officers. In order to broaden her sphere of discretion, she found it necessary to let the Prime Minister, Khatir al-Mulk, in on the secret of al-Hakim’s murder, in exchange for which she extracted from him a solemn oath of loyalty and total secrecy. She ordered him to bring the heir-apparent, ‘Abd al-Rahim ibn Ilyas, back from Syria. Since she was adamantly oppo
sed to seeing the caliphate transferred to al-Hakim’s cousins, she also gave the minister the task of forcing the young man to commit suicide. A short while later Khatir al-Mulk did exactly that. His own retainers provided the following account: “We took the heir-apparent some poisoned fruit, dales, almonds, and pomegranates. “The Lady Sitt al-Mulk has sent these fruits to you as a present,’ we told him. ‘They’re fresh from this season’s pickings. Enjoy them!” With that the young man and his throne,’ he gasped as he lay dying. ‘As I go to see my God, I have a never ending stream of disturbing questions.’”
At this point a whole series of strange tales and loaded rumors about Sitt al-Mulk began to circulate among the populace and even judges and justices. So she summoned a group of them to meet her.
“Woe to all of you!” she said in a harsh tone. “Are you supposed to be trustworthy servants of this state or merely scum of the earth? Are you all renouncing your faith in the esoteric, the occult, and the hidden, in the very bases of the Fatimid cause? Am I supposed to regard you all from now on as Sunni Muslims, a group of incompetents whose legal scholars and imams have had this to say: ‘There is to be no hereafter for such people. When they die, their souls will not leave their bodies; instead they will be punished for evermore in torture’s lingering grip.’ Recant your folly and spare me your arguments. Purge yourselves in the pure water of virtue and the preservation of honor. Otherwise look forward to God’s own curse upon you and the punishment of a woman behind the veil.”
When Sitt al-Mulk put on such an obvious display of anger and sanctity, the justices and judges started whispering to each other that she was obviously guiltless. With that they all bowed down before her and begged her for forgiveness and a pledge of safety. That said, she duly pardoned them all and calmed their worries.
Once this first and last storm had died down, Sitt al-Mulk began to feel the road to power now fully open to her. She used the occasion of the Feast of the Sacrifice to install her own candidate on the throne and crown him. He was Abu al-Hasan ‘Ali ibn al-Hakim, a young man to whom she assigned the title al-Zahir li-I‘zaz Din Allah. She immediately summoned Ibn Dawwas.
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