by Tariq Ali
The Kadi raised his glass of lukewarm mint tea to his lips, draining it in a single gulp as if he needed extra strength. Al-Fadil was not a well man. Ibn Maymun had told me that his diet was unhealthy. His weight was too heavy for a man his size, and he suffered from swollen knees. Today, as he spoke, he paused frequently to regain his breath.
“A few days ago, a young woman, not yet twenty, was handed over to one of my inspectors by her husband’s father, and charged with adultery. The young woman admitted that she had a lover, but she insisted that the reason she had found one was because her husband refused to consummate their marriage. According to our laws, that is no justification for adultery. Hence I had no option but to sentence both the girl and her lover to be stoned to death.
“She is the younger sister of Sayed al-Bukhari, one of our most respected and venerable sheikhs. It is a story, Commander of the Valiant, that fills my heart with sadness. The final decision rests with you. The sheikh al-Bukhari awaits your decision. I took the liberty of bringing him with me. It is best that you hear the story from his lips rather than mine. His words will carry greater weight if spoken by him. What is the Sultan’s pleasure?”
Salah al-Din remained silent. He was thinking. What could he be thinking? Probably making up his mind whether this affair was best handled by the Kadi, so that it was al-Fadil who took the blame for what might not be a popular decision.
“Send for al-Bukhari. We will hear his case.”
A few minutes later, a tall, well-built man, too proud to dye his white hair, was brought to the chamber. He fell on his knees and touched the Sultan’s feet with his head.
“I am sorry we meet in these conditions, al-Bukhari,” said the Sultan, in a remarkably soft voice. “I remember well your presence at our evening discussions several years ago. I valued what you said then, and it is for that reason that I have agreed to hear your story myself. Explain to me why your sister should not be punished, as our merciful Kadi has decreed.”
The sheikh looked at his ruler gratefully. A sad smile appeared on his face as he began his story.
“If anyone should be punished, O merciful Sultan, it is not my unfortunate sister, but me.
“I alone am to blame for the terrible misfortune that has befallen her.
“Some five years ago, a mysterious visitor entered the crowded room where I used to provide my interpretation and commentaries on the hadith that were written down by my great forebear. May Allah forgive me, for I had no idea that I was about to dishonour my ancestor.
“The new arrival attracted the attention of all those who were present. He was a young man with striking features. His sparkling grey eyes illuminated his pale face. His hair was the colour of wheat. A silent question appeared on the faces of the Believers. Who was he?
“He had come to Cairo as a child, on a trading vessel from the land of the Franj. His father, a merchant from Genoa, had died suddenly. The sailors on the ship refused to accept any responsibility. It was bad luck to sail with an orphan. The superstitions of these people were primitive. The boy, who was seven or eight years at the time, was adopted by a merchant in the street of sword-sellers. This man’s first wife, who was childless, lavished great care on the boy and he grew up, Allah be praised, as one of the sons of the family. Naturally he had to be circumcised, and his new family obtained the services of Your Excellency’s own barber, Abu Daniyal, to perform the rites.
“They called him Jibril, which pleased him greatly since it was the original version of the name that he had been given on birth—Gabriel. Once he spoke our language, his adoptive mother often talked to him of his real mother and his sisters, whom he missed greatly. They promised him that when he grew up they would ensure his return to Genoa. The education he received was so refined that soon it became difficult to say that he had ever been anything else but one of us.
“He grew up to be an extremely intelligent logician, much attracted to the writings of our friends in Andalus. It was his interest in logic that caused his friends to send him to my lectures. They thought I might cure him of his addiction to heresy. Indeed I might have done, but for the fact that he was a very beautiful young man. His sudden arrival had unsettled me.
“He would arrive twice a week and sit at my feet, drinking in every word I uttered with his shining, attentive, but always questioning eyes. Was it just my imagination, or did I, on occasion, catch a glimpse of torment in those grey eyes?
“At the end of my talk, while others asked polite questions to help me elaborate on certain points, this young Jibril would question me in such a way that to even reply to him would have demolished the architecture of my thought.
“One day, they all came late to my class. When they arrived, I was stunned. They were intoxicated, and Jibril was completely naked. His colleagues were laughing, but he did not seem to understand that he was the cause of their mirth. When I asked him to explain himself, he replied that they had all tried to sharpen their memories by drinking a strong dose of a fermented infusion of cashew-nuts. The others, he continued, had lost control of their wits. He alone had remained sane. I covered him with a sheet and put him to bed.
“I cannot lie to the Sultan or his great Kadi. I must confess that I was bewitched by the demeanour of this young man. When he was present, I spoke as if he was the only one in the room.
“I was in the grip of the old disease brought to our world by the idol-worshipping Yunanis and the accursed Rumis. Jibril, through no fault of his own, became the fountain of all my misery. His absences gave me the most unbearable headaches. I would fall on my knees and pray: ‘Ya Allah, why are you punishing your slave in this cruel fashion?’
“One day he came when I was alone in the house. My face must have expressed all the emotions that my heart was trying to repress. He reacted well, and declared his feelings for me. May Allah forgive me, but we became lovers. The flowering of his passion aroused me in such a way that I was transported to the sixth heaven. We had tasted the forbidden fruits. Our conscience had become a fathomless abyss. Nothing else mattered any longer.
“I see from the face of our venerable Kadi that my frankness is only arousing feelings of disgust. I will not continue in this vein much longer.
“I am what I am, but I am still one of you. Please try and understand.
“Soon I could not bear to be without him. I began to think of how I could live with Jibril forever. The idea came to me one day when I saw him talking to my sister. She is a beautiful girl, and it was clear to me that her feelings for Jibril were no different to mine. Why should he not marry her? Then he could live in our house quite openly, without fear of cruel tongues. To tell you the truth, I would not have even objected to sharing him with my sister.
“Jibril accepted the plan. The wedding took place. He moved in to our house, but from the very first week it was obvious that my sister was unhappy. Jibril gave her cold comfort. He felt no attraction for women. Not even a tiny spark. Therein lay the real cause of this tragedy. My sister took a lover. Jibril and I enjoyed much happiness.
“We lived just for ourselves. Our selfishness, instead of receding, grew by the hour. Nothing seemed to affect us. The khamsin would blow sand in our hair. Our throats would become parched. Stars would chase each other in the night sky. My sister would sit quietly, gazing patiently at the window, waiting for the next message from her lover. Autumn came and went, followed by a rainy winter. We never felt the night cold. The barking of stray dogs never disturbed our peace. He knew how to love and he taught me the virtues of submissive tenderness.
“It was only when the merciful Kadi, may Allah give him inner strength, sent for me one morning that my heart was seriously troubled. The rest you know.
“I place my head at your feet, Commander of the Merciful. Do with it whatsoever you wish, and I will accept whatever punishment you decree, but, in the name of Allah, I plead with you to spare my sister further humiliation. She has suffered enough for my sins.”
The Sultan stared at the g
round in silence. He had appeared to be moved by the intensity of the love described by the sheikh. The Kadi and I looked at each other. How would he decide this particular case? Would he ask to see Jibril and keep him as an attendant at the palace?
“One thing is clear to me, Sayed al-Bukhari. Your sister deserves no punishment. Al-Fadil will make sure that she is freed today. The Kadi will also make sure that the man she loves will marry her in the sight of Allah and with his blessing. As for you and Jibril, this is a more difficult decision. As a scholar, perhaps you could give me some help. Is there anything in the hadith that could help me decide your case? I have studied most of the hadith myself, and I cannot think of any precedents in this regard.
“While you give my request further thought, and consult other scholars, I think the time has come for Jibril’s family to honour their pledge to him and send him on a journey to his place of birth. Let him meet his sisters. And let it be a long absence. Is my meaning clear?”
Our bearded scholar had come to the palace determined to save his sister from the stone-throwers. He had come fully expecting to sacrifice his own head, and possibly even that of his young lover. As he realised that the Sultan had, in effect, pardoned him, tears of gratitude slid down his cheeks like a torrent, drenching his beard. He bent down and kissed Salah al-Din’s feet.
After the departure of the bearded scholar, a man much relieved, none of us spoke. It was time for the midday repast and I rose to take my leave. To my surprise, the Sultan asked me to stay and eat with him and al-Fadil.
We walked out of the cool semi-darkness of the audience chamber into a blinding sun and a gust of hot wind, harbingers of the miseries that lay ahead. The Cairo summer was not far away.
We entered the eating room to be greeted by Afdal, the oldest son of the Sultan. He rushed forward to embrace his father, before bowing to the Kadi and me. Salah al-Din put on a stern face.
“Why did you not go riding today?”
“I was fast asleep. The others left without me.”
“That is not the story I heard. I was told that when Shadhi and Othman came to arouse you, all they got was a shower of abuse. True or false?”
Afdal started laughing.
“True and false. Othman tried to wake me up by pouring cold water on my head, while Shadhi stood behind him and bared his gums. In these circumstances, Abu, it was difficult for me either to restrain my tongue or to go riding with them.”
The alert eyes of the twelve-year-old were sparkling with mischief. Afdal looked straight at his father to determine the reaction. Salah al-Din smiled and stroked the boy’s head.
“This evening you will ride with me to the citadel.”
“When will it be finished, Abu?”
“When I am dead and, Allah permitting, you sit in my place. You will celebrate its completion. Do you understand?”
Afdal’s face clouded. He clutched his father’s hand and nodded. The Sultan hugged and gently guided him out of the room.
The food laid on the floor before us could by no means be described as a feast. The Sultan’s austere tastes were highly praised by the people, since the contrasts with the Caliphs in Baghdad or his predecessors in Cairo could not have been more pronounced. This admiration was not universally shared. The Sultan’s household and his brother al-Adil in particular, mocked his simplicity and often declined to eat with him. He ate only one full meal a day, and that was in the evening.
We were served some wheat bread to dip in a modest bean stew, a plate full of fresh cucumbers, onions, garlic and ginger, and nothing else. The Kadi suffered from chronic indigestion and, on Ibn Maymun’s instructions, was not permitted to eat beans. These, as is well known, only served to exacerbate his problem. While the Sultan and I ate the stew with relish, the Kadi broke some bread, nibbled a cucumber, and drank a glass of tamarind juice.
As we ate, it became obvious that the Kadi was somewhat displeased. The Sultan asked him if it was the lack of variety in the food which upset him.
“The Sultan knows that I am under the medical instructions of Ibn Maymun. He has prescribed a very strict diet and obliges me to reduce the amount of food I eat. No, it is not the food that worries me, but Your Highness’s excessive generosity.”
The Kadi was unhappy with the pardoning of Sayed al-Bukhari. He felt it established an unfortunate precedent. The Sultan heard his complaint in silence. The table was cleared and a large bowl of fruit was placed before us. The Sultan had still not replied, and none of us spoke. The Kadi felt the weight of the silence. He bowed and took his leave. The minute he had left the room, Salah al-Din roared with laughter.
“I have come to know all his tricks. He’s not worried about al-Bukhari. In fact he is pleased with our decision. Did you know, Ibn Yakub, that al-Fadil often attended al-Bukhari’s lectures? He was close to him. But if people complain that the sheikh was let off too lightly, the Kadi will sigh, agree with his interlocutors, and tell them that the problem is our Sultan. There are times when he is too soft-hearted. He will also insist that the next case is dealt with severely so that our authority is reaffirmed.
“Now tell me something, Ibn Yakub, and speak the truth. Was the food we have just consumed sufficient or would you have preferred, as is your wont, to compete with Shadhi as to which of you can bite more meat off a leg of lamb? Speak the truth!”
I decided to lie.
“It was more than sufficient, Commander of the Generous. It was a meal which could have been prepared by Ibn Maymun himself. The only function of food, in his eyes, is to keep us healthy in mind and body. When he stays with us, my wife never serves meat.”
Salah al-Din smiled.
Nine
The young Salah al-Din is abandoned by his mistress for an older man and gets drunk in the tavern; his uncle Shirkuh decides to divert him by taking him on a short mission to conquer Egypt; Salah al-Din becomes the Vizir at the court of the Fatimid Caliph
I DID NOT WANT to leave Damascus. Can you believe that, Ibn Yakub? I had grown to love the city. Despite my father’s injunctions to the contrary I had explored every quarter and every street, usually on my own, but sometimes with my brother. We used to pay a few street-pedlars to sell us their clothes. This simple disguise was our armour against most would-be assassins. In this fashion I wandered the city at will.
On a summer’s night I have seen the full moon light up the dome of the Umayyad mosque. I have watched bare-footed labourers carrying bricks on planks, precariously perched on their heads. They might have been building a five-storied house for some merchant or other. I loved throwing stones in those ancient ditches outside the old walls of Damascus. And I have seen women with translucent eyes, the colour of sea-water, bought and sold for bagfuls of dinars in the market-place. I am attached to Cairo, but make no mistake, Damascus is the heart of our world. Its fears and worries have become mine.
Till now, Baalbek had been my favourite home, but it was displaced, and you know precisely why, don’t you, my good scribe? Shadhi told you of my first love. You look embarrassed. It was better left to him than me. My own memory is now hazy. What I remember well is the day she left me, not because of the parting, but because something much more important than our puny lives was taking place outside the city walls.
She was a woman some ten years older than me, possibly more. She gave me great pleasure and taught me how to enjoy a woman’s body. One day we had arranged to meet just after sunrise, but when I rode to the glade by the river she was not there. I waited and waited. Still no sign of her. I was about to leave when she arrived, out of breath and with a puffy face. She had been crying. I realised that this idyll, too, had come to an end. She kissed my cheeks and then my eyes. She had found a man closer to her own age and, by contrast, I must have seemed a bit dull.
Naturally, I was upset, but what could I do to ease my pain? I could not discuss the matter with anyone because, in the dream-world that I inhabited at that age, I thought nobody else knew. It was our secret.
S
o I rode back to Damascus in a jealous rage, weeping tears of anger and of sadness. So preoccupied was I that I did not notice anything. I went home and changed, and dragged my brother out of bed. We went to the only tavern in the city which opened before the midday meal. It was run by Armenians in the Christian quarter. Not only did they ask no questions, they also served some of the best wine in Damascus. This was not brought by traders from the lands of the Franj, but made from Taif grapes, grown in the mountain vineyards in the highlands just above Mecca. It is said that the wine of Taif is so potent that it can transform dwarves into giants.
When Adil and I arrived, the tavern was virtually empty. A few eunuchs who had come to recover after a hard night somewhere in the city were too intoxicated to bother about us.
We began to drink the wine which is forbidden by our Holy Book. Adil could see that I was upset, but dared not ask the reason. He stole occasional glances at me, and would press my arm to comfort me. He knew. It was instinct, just as I knew that he went to male brothels and had set his heart on a young flute-player. He may not have known the exact reason for my sadness, but he could tell I was nursing a wounded heart.
Slowly the wine took its effect. The serving-woman carrying the flasks began to change shape in front of my eyes. Was it a gazelle? I became blind to the world outside. Soon we were singing impromptu songs about women who betrayed their lovers, about the lover’s revenge and the kadi’s displeasure. Food was placed before us and we ate without knowing what it was that we were eating. Then we sang some more, and this time the eunuchs joined us. I cannot recall now how long we were there, but I can remember Shadhi, my guardian angel Shadhi, shaking me firmly by the arm to wake me up. If I shut my eyes I can still see his worried face, and hear his voice whispering: “Yusuf Salah al-Din. Yusuf Salah al-Din. Time to come home.”
The thought still makes me shiver with shame. You know why, Ibn Yakub? That was the day that our great Sultan of Aleppo, Nur al-Din, the oldest son of the slain warrior, Zengi, was outside the gates of Damascus. He wanted to take the city, and at his side was my uncle Shirkuh. Inside, commanding the armies of his enemies, the rulers of Damascus, was my father Ayyub.