by Tariq Ali
The Amir had discarded his listlessness and even the stoop seemed to have disappeared. With an unflinching gaze, he introduced Idrisi to the fifty or so men who, like carefully planted trees, stood in a straight line. Most of them were aged oaks, but towards the end of the row he observed two young men of chivalrous and attractive mien, who, defying convention, were deep in animated conversation, but fell silent at his approach. Each placed his right hand on his heart, bowed slightly and introduced himself in turn.
‘Abu Khalid.’
‘Abu Ali.’
Idrisi was stunned. They were his sons-in-law and must have been invited as a courtesy by the Amir. He embraced them warmly and whispered, ‘I am happy to see you. We will speak on our own tomorrow.’
As they were being seated, Idrisi was struck by something odd: no Bishops or monks were present. As far as he could tell there was not a single Nazarene at the table. He could not recall having ever sat at an official banquet without the presence of a prince of the Church or a monk. True, the Amir was a Believer and the palace was without a chapel, but there was no shortage of Bishops or Barons in the region. Idrisi wondered whether this had been a wise decision. The answer came soon enough.
‘I have noticed your inquiring looks, Ibn Muhammad,’ began the Amir in a barely audible voice. ‘This is an unusual gathering and not intended for many who are normally invited to the palace. I thought we would take advantage of your presence to invite a few chosen men who are filled with foreboding at the news that reaches us from Palermo. You appear surprised? Let me assure you that this is the first mehfil to meet at the palace. Usually some of us gather in the mosque after Friday prayers to discuss matters of common interest. But, as you know, some of our guests have travelled a long distance to be with us. You are amongst trusted friends. What you say will not be repeated.’
Idrisi felt trapped. He knew perfectly well that everything he said would be repeated in the tiniest villages in the region and by the time his words reached Noto, their meaning would be distorted beyond reason. He knew he must take great care.
‘Friends, I am touched by your trust and honoured by your presence, but what I am about to say is no different from what I have said on many occasions to the Sultan himself. And I will be happy to answer your questions provided that I know the answers. I assume you have heard the news regarding Philip.’
All nodded sadly. Idrisi did not reveal the discussion that had taken place with Philip in the darkened room of the Ayn al-Shifa Mosque in Palermo, but he told them as much as he could without implicating anyone apart from himself. He talked of the loyalty that Philip had always demonstrated to the Sultan, of his administrative skills and how he had done his utmost to prevent injustices on the island. Even though he had not always succeeded, the Barons and other land-thieves saw him as an enemy, an obstacle that had to be removed if their cause was to triumph in the Two Kingdoms.
They heard him in silence.
It was the Amir who raised the first question. ‘They will try him, find him guilty and burn him. And we are to watch this powerless and without making any attempt to save him.’
Idrisi responded: ‘That is what he desires. He feels anything else would be regarded as a provocation and could unleash a bloodbath throughout the island, especially where we are still strong as in Siracusa and Noto.’
Next Abu Khalid spoke. ‘Respected Abu Walid, not a single day passes without our land being transferred to their Church or the Barons. Even here, where you say we are strong, our people have become slaves. We are forced to work for them on the land and kill and die for them in the Sultan’s armies. They don’t trust us at all. That is why they bring the barbarians from the North to oppress us. Lombards they call them. These rude animals helped to destroy the great empire of the Romans. Now they adorn themselves with wooden crosses around their necks, but their heads remain empty. Anything the monks tell them is impure they kill. They dishonour our women and subject our men to unbearable tortures, leaving them to die slowly in the sun after they have been disembowelled. And all this to drive us off the lands they covet. If we delay too long, there will be nobody left to resist them. How long can we wait? Should we fight or leave while we are still alive? Perhaps Ibn Hamdis made the right choice seventy-five years ago, when he left this city and sought refuge with the Amir of Majorca.’
Idrisi was moved by his son-in-law’s passion, but Philip had convinced him that timing was crucial. How many battles had been lost because the Amirs had chosen the wrong moment to confront the enemy or each other? He explained all this in a soft voice, while stressing that he was well aware of the cruelties that were being inflicted on the people.
‘Never forget that it is sometimes possible to destroy the enemy, not by force of arms which we lack, but by the strength of the knowledge that we have accumulated over the last five hundred years. That is why my friend is still the Amir of Siracusa and Rujari converses with me in Arabic. At the moment our strength lies in this: the Franks have no other way of ruling this island. We must not run away from what lies ahead. You spoke of Ibn Hamdis, but his example is not a good one. The poet of Siracusa was never happy anywhere else. Siqilliya was the mother who fed him, Majorca the aunt whose breasts were milkless. Wherever he went he wrote of Siqilliya. Remember? This is Allah’s country / Abandon its spaces and / your aspirations to earth will be shattered. And later in the same poem he writes: Chain yourself to the beloved homeland / Die in your own abode / And as the mind refuses to try out poison / Reject the thought of exile. He is not a good example. He was never happy anywhere else.’
But Khalid’s father was not prepared to surrender so easily.
‘Respected father, how would you respond to the words of Abd al-Halim? I loved Siqilliya / In my first youth she seemed a garden of eternal felicity / Scarce had I reached maturity / Behold, the land became a burning gehenna.’
Idrisi smiled. ‘Good sentiments do not always make good poetry, my son. I agree with your poet, but to state the obvious is not a solution.’
Those within this small circle who spoke later merely repeated in different words what Idrisi had already stated. No decisions were made and nothing irrevocable said. If a Nazarene had been present, there was little he could have reported that had not been said before on many occasions. And yet underlying everything was a silent, formidable struggle between those who wanted to unleash an armed resistance now and those, like the mapmaker from Palermo, who argued that nothing should be attempted while Rujari still breathed. The Amir rose and said farewell to his guests.
Idrisi embraced the two young men and invited them to breakfast the following morning. They informed him that they had brought their sons along with them, which pleased him greatly. ‘Bring them with you tomorrow. Your sons are a living proof of an old saying: they are the product of a combination in which the stronger element has, Allah be thanked, subordinated the weaker with which it was forced to be in contact.’ A burst of spontaneous laughter from his sons-in-law pleased Idrisi. He had been thinking of composing a treatise on laughter. The role it played in everyday life. Laughter as a disguise, as a retreat, as an escape. Polite laughter to please the Sultan or the Amir or the Baron or the qadi or one’s own father/grandfather/great-uncle. Malicious laughter to strike down an enemy.
The laughter of women, in particular, was severely curtailed. It was not permitted when outsiders or male elders from the family were present. Women could cover their mouths with a hand and smile, but not laugh. Idrisi recalled his childhood. The women of the household constantly regaled each other with the bawdiest of jokes, but fell silent when his father or uncle entered their space.
As he prepared for bed he thought about how he knew Mayya belonged to him when she had laughed in the most abandoned way during the months of their secret courtship, when she was sixteen and he had just marked his twenty-second year. She had never been formal with him, then or now. But why had the laughter been so decisive? Of course, the women in the harem ignored all conventions
, often punishing eunuchs who could not make them laugh and insisted on everything being laid bare. But they were a special case. Idrisi was determined to find out whether the restriction on laughter was something confined to the towns or whether the same rules applied in the villages. The poets of the past had made no secret of the fact that in the desert encampments of the old tribes, the women laughed, sang, fought, fornicated and traded, just like the men.
The conquest of the towns had changed all that. Everything was carefully controlled. Including laughter? Possibly. The desire to control women obviously meant controlling their laughter as well. Nor was it just that of women. Slaves, retainers, peasants, soldiers, none of them laughed openly in front of their masters. Laughter was also an indication of equality and intimacy. Only equals could laugh together.
And yet some inner voice told him that it was still different in the desert or the mountain villages of Siqilliya. If only he had the time he could explore the interior of the island as thoroughly as he had studied its coasts. He was tired of plants and trees and the structures of rock formations and yes, even maps. More than anything else he wanted to speak with his people. To hear from their own lips how their lives had changed since the Franks had conquered the island. Ibn Hamdis was far too harsh on the Hauteville tribe that ruled over them. It could have been much, much worse and would be if they were replaced. Of that he was sure. Philip understood that better than anyone else. The thought that troubled him as he lay in bed trying to sleep was how long the Popes and Emperors of the Holy Roman Empire would permit this strange hybrid to exist. The irresistible expansion of the Church had been retarded, not extinguished, by the armies of the Prophet.
The muezzin woke him at dawn and try as he might, he could not go back to sleep. Instead he bathed, dressed and walked in the garden within the palace enclosure. The Amir, having completed the morning prayer, sighted him from the balcony of his bedchamber and came down to join him. Idrisi had taken an instinctive liking to the man and could not understand why Ibn Fityan had any doubts about him. True, a choice confronted those whose leadership was respected by Believers. The conquest had thrown them off balance, but it was the qadi of Palermo who had decided to surrender the city to Rujari’s father on terms that were not as unfavourable as those imposed on Salerno. If the Believers had not surrendered, the Franks would have burnt the town and killed everyone. Would that have been better?
‘Why did we lose Siqilliya?’
The Amir had not disturbed his thoughts, but entered them. Idrisi looked at him and smiled. ‘Because we could not take Rome. Our ships were moored on the Tiber, but we were morally too weak to take advantage. They bought us off with sacks of gold. If we had taken Rome, our armies would have marched South and prevented the intrusion of the Franks.’
‘And the Pope?’
‘He would have worked with us till a more powerful force emerged.’
Both men laughed at the thought.
‘Our faith,’ Idrisi remarked, ‘inspired devotion and conquests, but it is like a hurricane. Transient.’
‘Let me ask you something, Ibn Muhammad. I appreciated your discretion last night. Everyone present was loyal, but it is better not to take risks. If they burn Philip it will be difficult to control the anger of our people.’
‘But why? As far as they are concerned Philip is a Nazarene just like the Sultan. Might not some think it’s good they’re killing each other?’
‘You underestimate the intelligence of our people. Few believe in Philip’s conversion. I have noticed that those who do are themselves converts from our faith. What matters is what they say to each other at home or in the bazaar. And here as well as in Palermo and in the lesser cities, they whisper to each other that Philip remains a Believer. His punishment will only confirm this belief.’
‘You are right, my friend. In fact, that is what they are going to charge him with.’
‘There will be a response.’
‘In Siracusa?’
‘I will keep the city under control because anything that happens here has much graver implications. But your two sons-in-law will be able to give you much better information. And later today, my sister-in-law arrives with our niece Elinore. It would be a great honour if you ate with my family tonight.’
‘The pleasure will be mine.’
As the Amir walked away, Idrisi wondered how much he knew. His wife must have told him about Mayya, but did he or his wife suspect that Elinore was not the Sultan’s daughter? Before he could think about this further, his attendant came forward to inform him that his grandsons and their fathers awaited him for breakfast.
The boys ran to hug him and he kissed each of them tenderly. ‘You little devils, why did you run away from me in Palermo? I was going to show you many things in the city and buy you gifts, but ...’
‘It wasn’t us, Jiddu,’ said Khalid.
‘Our mothers said you were angry with them and if we didn’t rush home, you would put them in prison,’ interjected Ali.
Idrisi threw back his head and laughed. ‘Did you believe them?’
The boys shook their heads.
‘Good. Now just look at this breakfast the Amir has had prepared for you. Eat all you want, but you must start with the fruit. What delicious figs and dates we have here. After that you can eat what you like. I need to discuss something urgent with your fathers. When you’ve finished, come outside and join us. There is a beautiful fountain and if it gets warmer you can take off your shoes and dip your feet in the water.’
Idrisi put his arms around the shoulders of his sons-in-law as he guided them out of the room. He wanted the boys to see he appreciated their fathers.
‘We know why your daughters went to Palermo and we are grateful for your support,’ said Abu Khalid. Of the two he tended to speak more openly. ‘We do not know how to deal with the situation. If they were to speak like this to an enemy you can imagine the fate that would befall us.’
Idrisi’s face became a rock and he spoke with a stern voice. ‘Warn them both. Tell them we have spoken. If they behave like this again you must divorce them immediately and return them to their mother. If you feel that you need to do that anyway you will have my support. I will not see them while I am here, but I have already sent a message to their mother warning her against any repetition.’
‘May you live long, Jiddu,’ said Abu Ali. ‘You have freed us from a highly painful task. For myself I will not divorce Ali’s mother, but I will take another wife. I wish Ali to have brothers and sisters and that is no longer possible with his mother.’
With a despairing shake of his head, Idrisi indicated his agreement and then looked straight into the eyes of Khalid’s father. His look did not waver.
‘I will not wear a mask, Abu Walid. I can no longer live with Sakina. Our marriage has not been a happy one and was forced on me by my parents. The hurried union that produced Khalid was never repeated. I will abide by all the terms of the marriage and Sakina never need rely on anybody else while I am alive, but I can no longer live with her.’
‘I understand you perfectly, Abu Khalid. You must do as you wish. I will make sure her mother understands this as well. We do not need more mischief. And Khalid? Is he close to his mother?’
There was a moment’s hesitation.
‘I thought you might receive us politely, but coldly. Your warmth has reached our hearts. What is the point of hiding anything from you? The answer to your question is no. Khalid is closer to my mother than his own. Children have a capacity to understand who is genuinely fond of them. They can sometimes see through pretence and falsehoods better than grown men.’
Idrisi was relieved. If he, as their father, felt little or no affection for his daughters why should their own children feel differently? When Samar and Sakina were young he had noticed the feebleness of their brains, but thought that in time they would attain their full development. Allah had willed otherwise.
‘I am not surprised by what you say and I am glad you have spoke
n in a direct fashion. May Allah guide you both and protect your children. But there is a more important matter we need to discuss.’
The two men exchanged looks. How much did he know?
‘Our faith,’ Idrisi continued calmly, ‘has produced brave warriors and brilliant minds, but we also possess a restless, impatient, unstable side that can flare up one moment and disappear the next. It produces a lack of discipline. I have no wish to know your exact plans. The fewer who do so the better, but I would urge caution in respect of timing. Nothing—I repeat nothing—must happen, while Rujari is alive.’
‘Nothing at all?’ asked Abu Ali.
‘What do you have in mind?’ inquired their father-in-law.
‘We are not preparing a full-scale rebellion at the moment, but we are in touch with our people throughout this region. In each quarter of every city and in even the smallest hamlet there is a mehfil that meets every Friday to discuss the situation on the island. We will try and control the anger of the multitude after the martyrdom of Philip, but make no mistake. When the time comes Noto and Siracusa and the villages that lie in between will raise the banner of our faith and challenge the bishops.
‘In the meantime, we have to maintain the spirit of our people and defend them against all tormentors. For that reason, we have decided to inflict a severe punishment on the monks and the Lombards who guard them in a village near Noto. The atrocities they committed have created a sense of fear. We need to teach these people a lesson. One Lombard will be left alive to spread the news.’
Idrisi did not reply, but from his eyes they could tell he was proud of them and this strengthened their confidence. ‘Who is the preacher in your village, Abu Ali? I have heard talk of him. They tell me he sees visions of our armies fighting the infidels in the sky and recites poetry of his own making.’