by Tariq Ali
My uncle had sent a secret messenger two weeks prior to that day to alert my father. Both men knew they would never fight against each other. My father’s main concern, as always, was to avoid bloodshed. He negotiated a settlement acceptable to the ruler of Damascus. No blood stained our streets that day. Nur al-Din took the city unopposed. All this took place while I was in my cups, feeling sorry for myself.
I arrived in time to see Shirkuh hugging my father on the ramparts of the citadel. At first I thought it was an apparition, but then my uncle lifted me off the ground. He hugged me with such force that my stomach turned and the Taif wine let me down badly. I vomited at his feet. All I can remember is the horrified look on my father’s face, and Shadhi’s roar of laughter.
Nur al-Din was the first ruler who had a plan for uniting the Believers and driving out the Franj. He believed that until there was one Caliph as the fount of all authority, the Franj would always play on our weaknesses and rivalries. Nur al-Din could not have been more unlike his illustrious father, Zengi. Where Zengi allowed his instincts to determine his strategy, his son took advice from his commanders and emirs. He examined every detail, weighed every option, and closely studied the special maps prepared for him, before ever reaching a decision. Unlike his father, he never permitted even a drop of wine to taint his lips.
Nur al-Din was determined to conquer their Kingdom of Jerusalem. In order to achieve this aim he needed a powerful and reliable Misr, whose ruler was strong enough to resist Franj attempts to take Cairo. Misr was possessed of great wealth and weak rulers. A beautiful bride waiting for a husband.
I remember the Sultan often asking my uncle Shirkuh: “Any news from Misr?” and Shirkuh would shake his head with a strange expression on his face. “Do not expect any good news from there, My Lord. Their Caliph, the pretender al-Adid, is addicted to banj and brothels, and surrounded by mothers and grandmothers who scheme and plot each minute of the day. It is the vizir who rules, and his successor is usually his assassin.”
One day there was news from Misr. It was the summer of 1163 and there was excitement in the palace. It was announced that Shawar, the most recently deposed vizir, had escaped with his life and arrived in Damascus. A few days later, a more official messenger arrived from Cairo, carrying a letter from Dirgham, the new vizir. He brought with him a large ivory box inlaid with gems, containing some of the most flawless diamonds to be viewed in our city.
Nur al-Din smiled and handed the box to his secretary, with instructions that it should be placed in the great treasury of the state. The accompanying letter offered other inducements, and pleaded with the Sultan of Damascus to abandon Shawar. Nur al-Din called my father and uncle to his council chamber.
“I think we shall take Misr. Can you imagine the state of a country whose rulers plead with us to back them and not a deposed vizir? They will make similar offers to the Franj. It is imperative that we reach Cairo and Alexandria before the enemy. Shirkuh, you will lead our soldiers with the bravery of a mountain lion.
“Treat Shawar as one would a juicy date on a long march through the desert. Once his usefulness is over, spit him out as you would the seed. Do not delay. He has promised us a third of the grain revenues of Cairo. Hold him to his word.”
Shirkuh insisted on taking me with him. I was reluctant. It was not that I disliked the thought of combat. The fact was that I had grown accustomed to meeting a group of friends on most evenings, and we would think heretical thoughts, and recite and discuss poetry. On some nights I would go to a secret assignment near the public baths, to exchange glances and sometimes a little more with a young woman whom I was not permitted to marry.
I was slightly upset at the eagerness with which my father agreed to his brother’s request. I had no time for farewells. Shadhi was sent to keep an eye on me. Within three days of the decision being made, we were on our way to Cairo. The combination of Ayyub and Shirkuh was formidable. The “mountain lion” was indomitable, impulsive, incautious and injudicious. My father was crafty, but careful. He was a brilliant organiser of supplies. It was thanks to him that the sword-makers and the tent-makers had been alerted to Shirkuh’s needs. He made sure that they had the raw material to provide our expedition with everything needed.
Thus began the journey which finally ended in this palace. If, at that time, a friend had joked that I would one day end up as the Sultan, my uncle and Shadhi would have laughed all the way to Misr.
We are never fully in command of our own biographies, Ibn Yakub. Allah pushes us in a certain direction, the courage and skill of our commanders can change the course of a battle, but ultimately a great deal depends on fate. To a large extent it is who lives and who survives on the battlefield, or on the track to where the fight will take place, that determines our future. I learnt this elementary fact during my first campaign.
We rode for twenty-five days, following the paths of the old wadi to Akaba Eyla on the Red Sea. This was to be our longest stop before the march to Cairo.
It is not easy, Ibn Yakub, to march with over nine thousand men, and the same number of horses and camels, from Damascus to Cairo, avoiding marauding detachments of Franj. We could have defeated them, but it would have been a distraction that would have delayed our mission.
Our Bedouin guides knew all the routes through the desert; there were twenty-five of them attached to our army. They needed neither maps nor stars in the sky to guide them. They knew the location of every oasis and even the tiniest watering holes did not escape their notice. Without this knowledge, it would have been impossible to refill our goatskins. All soldiers rightly fear thirst more than the enemy. It is tedious now to recall or describe every detail, but it is during such marches that good commanders discover many truths about the men who will fight under them. The men even learn to detect the moods of their horses.
Shadhi it was who taught me how to look after horses. To this day he can tell when a horse gets dizzy, and sees the world whirling in strange circles before his dimmed eyes. Imagine if that happened in the heart of a battle! Why, the rider would become even more disoriented than the horse. It was the same Shadhi who taught me how to draw sweet and frothing milk in abundance from the firm teats of a mare.
During the night we would light a fire and sing songs to keep our spirits high. Like most of the men, I slept in a tent, but I envied the Bedouin guides and the soldiers under their influence, who covered themselves in blankets, lay on the sand, drank date wine from flasks made of camel hide, and told each other stories about the desert before the victories of our Prophet. They went to sleep with the starlight shining on their foreheads.
We had been on the march for fifteen days before we reached our target. The partisans of the Cairene vizir, Dirgham, were waiting for us at Tell Bastat, half a day’s march from Bilbais. My good uncle Shirkuh was always reluctant to lose the life of any of his men without good reason. He suggested to Shawar that since this was primarily a Misrian question, it should be Shawar and his followers—as the claimant—who should give battle. He, Shirkuh, would intervene only if it became necessary. Shawar won. The Caliph in Cairo abandoned Dirgham. Shawar entered the city through the Bab al-Zuweyla and was reinstalled as vizir. Only then did what Nur al-Din had shrewdly suspected begin to come true.
Once in power, Shawar grew nervous of our presence. He would have been better advised to fulfil his side of the bargain. This would have made it difficult for Nur al-Din not to recall us to Damascus. Instead, foolish and vain as a peacock, Shawar thought he could form an alliance with the Franj to defeat us. He sent a message to King Amalric of Jerusalem, a man who had previously been engaged in numerous intrigues with the ill-fated Dirgham. At the same time, he constructed a veritable pyramid of excuses to demonstrate why our forces should not enter Cairo. Shirkuh, compelled to kick his heels at Fustat, was livid.
His instinct was to defy military logic, to raid the city, and to capture Shawar. But the logistics of such an operation were daunting, and our casualties would be high.
His emirs resisted the adventure. In desperation he looked at me.
“What do you think, Salah al-Din?” he asked me.
I was torn between family loyalty and good sense. I thought hard and finally came down against him. To my surprise, he was not angry at all. If anything, he was impressed with my reasoning. Even as we were talking, a messenger brought news that a Frankish force under the command of Amalric was heading towards Bilbais.
Like Nur al-Din, the Frankish King had understood that if he did not take Misr we would, and that would be the end of his Kingdom of Jerusalem. Of all our sultans and emirs the Franj feared no one as much as they did Nur al-Din. They were not wrong. He was single-minded in his resolve to drive the Franj out of our lands. The passion that raged in his heart almost made you feel that he regarded the occupation as a personal affront.
Shawar did not keep his side of the bargain. Shirkuh instructed me to take half our force and occupy Bilbais. I did as I was asked. Shawar appealed to Amalric for help, and Shirkuh joined me with the remainder of our army. For three whole months, Ibn Yakub, we kept the Franj outside the city. Three whole months in Bilbais. It was not my idea of a good life. Then Nur al-Din, realising we could not resist for much longer, took the Franj by surprise, and confronted them outside the fortress of Harim, near Antioch. It was a famous victory. The Franj were crushed, losing ten thousand men. Their leaders, Baldwin of Antioch and the Count of Tripoli, were captured. The news of this defeat frightened Amalric. He sued for peace. We did not lose face. The mountain lion led us back to Damascus.
Before this I had no idea of what a war entailed. Having observed Shirkuh in command of an army, I had learnt a great deal, but I was totally exhausted. For the first week after my return I spent most of my days in the baths, being rubbed with oils. In the evening I went to enjoy poetry and wine in the tavern. Then, you know, Ibn Yakub, something strange happened to me. I became restless. The aimlessness of my daily existence began to nauseate me, and I yearned for the comradeship of the battlefield. I had seen the Franj face to face, and now, suddenly, all the childhood stories I had heard of the time when they first invaded and occupied our lands came back to me. How fate had smashed us as if we were tiny pieces of glass. The shards had scattered.
I remembered Shadhi’s voice descending into a frightening whisper: “Sons of Ayyub, do you know what the Franj did in Ma’arra? They captured Believers and placed them in cooking-pots filled with boiling water. They roasted little children on spits and ate them grilled. These are the wild beasts who have devoured our country.”
To tell you the truth, I never really believed Shadhi. I thought he was making all of this up to frighten us, so that we never missed a riding lesson, but it was the truth. The pure truth, unadulterated by invention. I have read the manuscripts of the infidel chroniclers. You have as well? Good. Then you understand the anger that expanded my chest when I first caught sight of the Franj in Misr. This anger was not mollified by women rubbing oil on me or the joys of the Taif grape, not to mention the delights of fornication. I felt that all of this was as nothing compared with the tasks that lay ahead.
Before Nur al-Din took Damascus, there was no sultan who understood the burning need to drive out the Franj, to recover the Dome of the Rock and the Temple of Solomon for the People of the Book. Before Nur al-Din, our emirs and sultans were happy to make their peace with the enemy. “Kiss any arm you cannot break,” as they say, Ibn Yakub, “and pray to Allah to break it.” But that was not the attitude of our Prophet. Did he not say, “Pray to Allah, but make sure you have tied your camel first!”
Pleased with himself, the Sultan burst out laughing. Naturally, I had heard him laugh before, but always in a restrained fashion as befitted a prince. Now it was uncontrolled. The saying of the Prophet, at best mildly amusing to myself, made him laugh and laugh. Tears poured down his face. When he recovered, and had wiped away the tears from his face and beard, he explained himself.
“You look surprised, scribe. I just thought of what could have made the Prophet say such a thing, and an image flashed past my mind of the early Believers who had come to pray. Trusting in the power of Allah, they left their camels outside, only to discover that they had been stolen. This could not have enhanced their faith in Allah, could it, scribe? Enough for today. I have to discuss the late collection of the taxes with al-Fadil, who thinks that this could lead to a national calamity.”
I pleaded for one more hour. “The line contained in the Sultan’s narrative today is very straight and clear. I fear that if we stop now we might never return to this part again. Could Your Highness not finish with the fall of Shawar and your return to Cairo?”
Salah al-Din sighed and then a frown crossed his forehead. Finally he nodded and continued, but not in his usual relaxed fashion. He began to gallop, and my fingers had to race to keep up. Usually there are at least five scribes present to note the words of the Sultan. After he has finished, they compare notes and we end up with one agreed version. I was alone.
Shirkuh never forgot Shawar’s treachery. He burned for revenge. He would often remark: “That goat-fucker Shawar used us to win power, and used the Franj to neutralise us.”
It was time, Nur al-Din said one day as he addressed a council of war, for Shirkuh and Salah al-Din to return to Misr. This was the first time he had mentioned me in the presence of all the emirs. My chest expanded with pride. My father, too, was much pleased, though his face, as usual, showed no emotion. Shirkuh bowed.
And so began our great adventure. Our spies reported that Shawar had concluded a deal with Amalric against us. This, dear friend, was the state of our world. Believers joined infidels against other Believers. Shawar and Amalric had joined forces and were waiting for us just outside Cairo. Shirkuh, who taught me everything I know about making war, was a brilliant commander. He refused to fight on the ground they had chosen. Instead we crossed the Nile. We marched northwards from Cairo and set up our tents near the pyramids of Giza. The great river separated us now from the enemy.
From this position Shirkuh sent Shawar a message. I see him now, roaring like a lion, as he reads the message first to our own soldiers. “The Frankish enemy is at our mercy. They are cut off from their bases. Let us unite our forces to exterminate them. The time is ripe and this opportunity may not rise again for a long time.”
Our men roared their approval. For a long time, or so it seemed that day, there were loud cries of Allah o Akbar, so loud that the pyramids appeared to shake. Every soldier volunteered to take the message to Shawar. Every eye was strained. Who would Shirkuh pick?
His choice fell on his favourite bodyguard, Nasir, a young Kurdish archer whose sharp eyes had saved Shirkuh’s life on more than one occasion.
Shawar received the message and showed it immediately to his ally, Amalric. To prove his loyalty to the Franj, he had Nasir executed. His head, wrapped in filth, was returned to Shirkuh. I don’t think I have ever seen my uncle so angry as he was that day. The sun was setting and soldiers were making their ablutions before the evening prayers. Shirkuh interrupted them. He was naked except for a piece of cloth that covered his loins. He grabbed Nasir’s head and ran like a madman, showing it to everyone. Nasir was a much-loved man, and tears filled so many eyes that evening that the level of the Nile itself must have risen.
Loud cries rent the camp. Shirkuh, still holding the head, climbed on his stallion. The last rays of the sun caught his hair as he screamed in rage: “I swear on the head of this boy, who like me came from the mountains. I swear that Shawar’s head will fall. Nothing can keep him alive. Neither his Franj, nor his eunuchs, nor his Caliph. I swear this in front of you all, and may my soul rot in Hell if I fail.”
There was complete silence as we drank in the import of his words. For a long time none of us spoke. We were thinking of Nasir’s death, of cruel fate, and of how far we were from home. We were also thinking of ourselves. Shawar had declared war. Who would win this war? Even as we were thinking, the plaintive sounds of a fl
ute floated through the air and, following it, the voices of the Bedouin who sang a lament for Nasir. The Nile rose again.
That night, after we had finished our meal, my uncle Shirkuh could be seen pacing up and down outside his tent, like a man possessed. I was sitting on the sand, dreaming of Damascus and watching the shooting stars. I have never seen such a sky as one glimpses lying at the feet of the pyramids. A messenger interrupted my dreams. It was a summons from Shirkuh.
The emirs and commanders were already assembled when I arrived. Shirkuh pointed to an empty place on the floor. I sat down not knowing what to expect. To everyone’s amazement, Shirkuh told us that he was not going to confront Shawar and Amalric outside Cairo, or even here where we had set camp. He was planning to take the port-town of Alexandria instead. Everyone gasped at the audacity. By the light of lamps, Shirkuh sketched out his plan in the sand, giving each of us detailed instructions. He was aware that Amalric was marching to encircle and destroy us. Shirkuh knew that we had to fight a battle before reaching Alexandria. I was given command of the centre and ordered to retreat the minute the enemy charged. Unlike me, Shirkuh left nothing to chance. That is why, Ibn Yakub, I still believe that he was the greatest of our military leaders. I am nothing as compared to him. Nothing. Nothing.
We met the enemy at al-Babyn. When Amalric and his knights charged towards me, I feigned fear and led a retreat. The Franj unfurled their banners and accepted the challenge. The chase began. They had not realised that the left and right flanks of our army had been placed to circumvent a Frankish retreat. At a given signal, I stopped our forces, turning round to confront the knights. Soon they realised how exposed and isolated they were, but it was too late. Very few managed to escape, Amalric, alas, one of them.