by Tariq Ali
Shirkuh did not permit us to celebrate the victory. That same day we began our march northwards across Misr, in the general direction of Alexandria. It was the first time I had seen the sea. I could have sat there for hours, breathing in its air and drinking its beauty. Shirkuh had given us no quarter. We were exhausted in body and mind. The sight of all that water soothed our nerves. I felt calm again. A few days later we entered Alexandria. We were showered with flowers and greeted with great acclaim by the people of the city. They had strongly resented Shawar’s alliance with the Franj.
The pride in Shirkuh’s face, the tears on mine, and the joy, the sheer joy of being greeted as saviours, these are what I remember. Shirkuh did not speak for long that day. He knew we didn’t have much time. Yet the whole city had gathered to welcome us. He had to offer them a message of hope. His face was tired. He had not slept for two nights, just managing to catch the odd nap while he rode. The sight of the people aroused him. He stood on a wall outside the citadel. The crowd fell silent. Shirkuh spoke.
“Looking at you now, I can count the stars on your foreheads. What I am doing, what we are doing, everyone is capable of doing. Once our people understand this simple truth, the Franj are lost. I speak to all of you, not just the Believers. You are all under my care, and we will defend you. But the Franj are already on their way. Let us celebrate, but let us also prepare.”
This was my uncle who had taken Alexandria. This was my uncle who had spoken these simple but meaningful words. I was overcome by emotion. As he stepped down, I hugged him and kissed his cheeks. He spoke a few kind words in my ear, telling me that he was getting old and soon I would have to fight in his place. Telling me that he was proud of how I had fought. What else would he have told me had not messengers arrived with news of the Frankish response?
Shawar and Amalric were shaken by the speed with which we had travelled from south to north. They were mustering a large army to crush us. Now Shirkuh missed my father’s presence. He needed someone to plan the defence of the city, to take measures to withstand the Frankish siege, to ensure that food was saved and equally distributed, to make certain that flame-throwers were stationed in the port—to deter Frankish vessels from disembarking knights behind our backs. In my father’s absence, I was assigned all these tasks.
As you know, Ibn Yakub, that siege has now entered our books of history. I have nothing more to add, except to confess to you that I was prepared for death. Fear, which haunts us all, had disappeared completely. We were surrounded by Frankish ships behind us, and their knights were outside the city walls, their catapults hurling fire and stones. I wanted to die a noble death, as did our army. I did not want us destroyed by famine or diseases, both of which were spreading as the city was paralysed. Once again it was Shirkuh who refused to contemplate either surrender or a thoughtless battle in which, hopelessly outnumbered, we would all die.
Shirkuh’s daring had no equal. He placed me in command of the city and then, taking two hundred of our best fighters, he left under cover of darkness, galloped at full speed through the surprised ranks of the enemy, and headed for Cairo. Shadhi went with him and used to tell of Shirkuh going to villages, appealing to the peasants in a language they understood and appreciated—describing Shawar and Amalric as camel and horse droppings and making them laugh. In this fashion, he convinced the younger men among them to join his army.
The Franj, worried by this diversion, agreed to lift the siege, and we left Alexandria without losing a single soldier. The Franj, too, withdrew. Shirkuh, realising we were outnumbered, took us all back to Damascus. In his report to Nur al-Din, delivered in my presence, he predicted that within a year Shawar and Amalric would be at each other’s throats. That, he suggested, would be the best time for us to return.
And it happened, just as he had said. Shawar refused to pay Amalric the booty he had been promised, and the Franj decided to teach him a lesson.
One day a messenger reached us from Cairo. He was a spy that Shirkuh had planted in Shawar’s ranks. He had been present at the negotiations between Amalric and Shawar’s son. The Franj had demanded Bilbais in return for the help he was prepared to provide Shawar for use against us.
Shawar’s son, angered by this outrageous request had shouted: “Do you think Bilbais is a piece of cheese for the eating?” to which Amalric had responded: “Yes, it is cheese, and Cairo is the butter.”
These proved to be more than empty words. Amalric took Bilbais, killed and enslaved its population, and burnt it to the ground. Then he marched onwards to capture Cairo. To delay his old friends, Shawar burnt the old city to the ground. The people fled to where we are now, the new centre of Cairo. The fire raged for one whole month. Shawar again tried to appease Amalric. He offered him gold and a free hand in the rest of the country, but still there was no change.
At this point the Caliph al-Adid sent a messenger to our Sultan. Nur al-Din summoned me, and told me what was taking place. He sent me to Horns to fetch Shirkuh. When we returned, Nur al-Din ordered us to return to Cairo. I was reluctant. I could still see the suffering on the faces of the people at Alexandria. I did not want to experience another siege. Shirkuh took me aside.
“Are you the son of my brother or the son of a dog? Do you think I enjoy suffering? This time we will take Cairo. I need you at my side. Go and prepare your horses.”
I did as he asked. On hearing of our departure, Amalric had decided to withdraw. He had already seen that the Cairenes would resist him all the way despite the manoeuvres of Shawar. It was winter 1169 when we entered the city. As in Alexandria the previous year, we were welcomed, and the horses on which my uncle and I rode into Cairo were fed the most amazing dishes. We met Shawar in this very room, Ibn Yakub. He rose as Shirkuh and I entered, and pretended to welcome us, but his eyes would not meet my uncle’s. He fell on the floor and kissed Shirkuh’s feet. We asked whether the Caliph was expecting us, and Shawar nodded mutely.
“Then take us to him, you goat-fucker,” said Shirkuh with a cruel laugh.
He led us to the Caliph’s palace, through vaulted hallways and an endless number of ornamented chambers, each of them empty. Brightly coloured birds from Ifriqiya were making a terrible noise. We passed through a garden which contained tame lion cubs, a bear and two black panthers tied to a tree. Shirkuh was unmoved by all this, yet it was difficult not to be impressed. I tried to mimic my uncle and pretended that I, too, was unaffected. Then we entered a large room with a vaulted ceiling. It was divided by a thick silk curtain of the deepest red, on which circles of pure gold had been sewn, and jewels the size of eggs.
Shawar bowed before the curtain and laid his sword on the floor. We did not follow suit. Slowly the curtain rose and al-Adid emerged.
So, I thought to myself, this pathetic and frightened figure, barely eighteen years of age, his dark eyes shadowed by the signs of over-indulgence, surrounded by eunuchs and a great display of inordinate wealth, this was the Caliph of the Fatimids. The Caliph asked Shawar to leave his presence, and the defeated vizir slunk away like a smelly animal.
Shirkuh did not waste time. “You requested us to save Cairo. We are here. Before anything else, I ask for Shawar’s head. It is he who has brought death and destruction to our people.”
The Caliph of the Fatimids nodded. He spoke in a strange choked voice as if he too, like most of those who surrounded him, had been castrated.
“We welcome you to Cairo. We take great pleasure in appointing you as our vizir.”
Shirkuh bowed his acceptance, and we left the palace. The very next day, with the written permission of their Caliph, I personally separated Shawar’s head from his shoulders, throwing it on the ground at Shirkuh’s feet. My heart trembled, but my hand was strong.
“Now our Nasir is avenged,” he said, in a voice softened by the memory of his favourite archer.
Two months after this day, the heavens darkened. A terrible tragedy befell our family. My uncle Shirkuh passed away. I was not the only one who wept as new
s spread through the ranks of our army. Shirkuh was a much-loved commander, and even the emirs of Damascus, who made fun of the way he spoke the language of the Koran behind his back, were subdued by grief. Who would lead us now that Allah had taken away our mountain lion?
In our lives we are all prepared to die at any time, but Shirkuh’s death was not necessary. It was his appetite that led to his downfall. He had been invited to a feast where they ate for nearly three hours. Whole sheep had been roasted, goats grilled on an open fire, quails and partridges and every imaginable delicacy had been laid out before us. Shirkuh loved food. Even when he was very young, my grandmother often had to drag him away by force from the food. As I watched him, I remembered the old stories. He used to boast that he could eat and drink more than any other man in his army. Now he could not stop himself. It was a sad and an unpleasant sight. On three occasions Shadhi tried to restrain him, whispering warnings in his ear, but my uncle Shirkuh was in his own world. He choked on his food and began to suffocate. Shadhi hit him hard on the back and made him stand up, but it was too late. He lost consciousness and died in front of our eyes.
Shadhi and I hugged each other and wept. Throughout the night we kept guard over his bathed and shrouded body, which lay on a simple bed. Shirkuh’s soldiers, many of them veterans who had fought by his side while I was still a child, came in small groups and made their farewell. It was a strange sight to see these hardened soldiers, for whom the loss of a life was all part of a day’s work, weeping like children.
After midnight, we were left alone. Shadhi would remember an old episode, long before I was born, and begin to weep again. I remembered Shirkuh, his flashing eyes full of laughter as he sang to his own children and to us just as we were approaching manhood. Once when he discovered that I had been going secretly to a tavern, he called me into his room. His face was stern and I was scared. He had a terrible temper. “You have been drinking?” I shook my head. “Don’t lie, boy!” I nodded. He roared with laughter and recited the sayings of Ibn Sina, which he forced me to recite after him:
Wine is a raging enemy, a prudent friend,
A small amount is an antidote, too much a snake’s poison,
In excess it leads to no small injury,
But in a little there is much profit.
Alas, it was not a lesson he learnt himself. His death was the price he paid for over-indulgence in meat and wine. Ever since the day when I saw him die, I have been repulsed by the presence of too much meat on my table. Now do you understand why I insist on a balanced diet, Ibn Yakub? I felt the other day when we broke bread together that you really did not appreciate the meal. We shall discuss all this another time. Let us continue.
The next day, after Shirkuh’s burial, the emirs of Damascus remained aloof from me. They were huddled in little groups whispering to each other. I did not appreciate the cause of their disaffection till much later that evening.
The advisers of the Caliph of the Fatimids saw me as young, inexperienced, and weak—someone who could be easily manipulated by the court. I was invited to the palace and given the title of al-Malik al-Nasir—victorious king. How they must have laughed amongst themselves, thinking that in me they had found a pliant instrument. I was conscious of the honour, but felt lost without Shirkuh. I felt like a re-channelled river, momentarily disoriented as I observed the new landscape.
I needed to talk to Shirkuh or, failing him, my own father, who was in Damascus with Nur al-Din. As I thought about our great Sultan, I wondered what he would make of my elevation. His proud emirs, men of noble lineage, were clearly upset that a lowly Kurd from the mountains, who, in their eyes, could not speak the divine language properly, was now Vizir of Misr. I determined to send a message to Nur al-Din reaffirming that he, and not the Caliph of the Fatimids, was my commander. The last person in the world I wanted to be sharply pitted against was Nur al-Din.
The vizir’s white turban, embroidered with gold, was placed on this head, a sword decorated with jewels was placed in my hand, and a beautiful mare with a saddle and bridle encrusted with pearls and gold was given to me. I then marched at the head of a ceremonial procession with much music and chanting. We came, eventually, to this palace and to this room—here, where we are seated. It is a good place to be, and it is a good time to end our labours for the day, Ibn Yakub.
I’m glad you insisted that we finish this particular story, but I can see that your fingers are stiff. Your wife will need to rub ointments on your hands tonight, and my loyal al-Fadil must be very angry with me. I have never kept him waiting so long.
Ten
I meet Halima in secret to hear her story; she tells of her life in the harem and the brilliance of the Sultana Jamila
THE NEXT DAY A messenger arrived from the palace. He brought with him a large basket of fruits and other delicacies for my wife and child, and a message for me. The Sultan and the Kadi had left the town for a day or two and I was to be permitted a respite from my tasks. I was somewhat put out. I felt I might have been given the option to decide whether or not I was to accompany them. Where had they gone and why? Perhaps the Kadi was punishing me for having kept Salah al-Din to myself for so long the previous day. How could I write a proper account of the Sultan if I was excluded in this fashion from his daily work?
There was much rejoicing in the house after the messenger’s departure. For weeks I had barely seen Maryam, and there was much anger that I had arrived late for the feast in honour of her tenth birthday a few weeks ago. Even Ibn Maymun had rebuked me on that occasion. Rachel was, of course, delighted by my temporary leisure. Relations between us had returned to normal, but she still resented the amount of time I spent at the palace. Yet she showed no signs of resentment at the unsolicited gifts arriving regularly at our house. These came not from the palace but from merchants and courtiers, who believed I had a great influence with the Sultan.
Ever since I had started my work as Salah al-Din’s personal scribe, we had not spent a single dinar on food or oil. Add to this the satins and silks which were normally beyond the reach of people like us. Both Rachel and Maryam were now dressed in the fashion of the court nobility. On one occasion, when I taxed Rachel with all this, she laughed without any sense of shame, and replied:
“The pain of our separation is undoubtedly relieved by the receipt of all these gifts, though I still think that if I was to put you at one end of the big scales in the market and all the gifts on the other, the balance would still favour you.”
Later that afternoon, as all three of us were wandering aimlessly through the streets, observing what was on offer at the various stalls, a woman I did not recognise handed me a note, slipping rapidly away before I could question her. The message was unsigned, but it asked me to present myself at the palace library the next day. Rachel and I both assumed it was a message from Shadhi, acting on the orders of the Sultan, but I was puzzled by the choice of messenger. Something in me told me that the message had originated with neither Shadhi nor the Sultan.
The next day, upon entering the library, I was told by an attendant that Salah al-Din and al-Fadil had still not returned from the country. As I sat waiting for the person who had sent me the note, I heard a slight noise behind me, and turned to see the wooden shelves in one wall moving. Slightly nervous, I stepped forward to see a flight of stairs beneath the ground and a figure slowly ascending them. It was Halima. She smiled at my astonishment. The executed eunuch Ilmas had told her of the existence of a secret passage from the harem to the library. It had been built by al-Adid’s grandfather, a Caliph who did not object to his wives or concubines having access to the library. Subsequently the palace had been given to the vizir, and the passage had fallen into disuse.
It was dangerous to talk in the library. Halima wanted to meet in the room of a friend near the public baths, later that afternoon. The same woman who had handed me the message would meet me within a few hours, and guide me to her presence.
I was entering stormy waters. If I met her and
did not inform the Sultan, my own neck could soon lie beneath the sword. If I did tell Salah al-Din, would Halima’s life be worth living? Perhaps I should disregard her invitation. While walking through the courtyard, I saw Shadhi, who hugged me with real warmth. I had not seen him for some time. He too was annoyed with Salah al-Din for having left without him, but informed me that he was due back in the palace tonight.
We sat in the sun and talked. It was as if we had always been close and trusted friends. He asked how the Book of Salah al-Din was progressing, and I told him where the narrative had stopped. His memory confirmed Salah al-Din’s account of the circumstances that led to Shirkuh’s death. The memory saddened the old man. Taking my fate in my hands, I told Shadhi of my meeting with Halima. To my surprise he chuckled.
“Careful of that mare, Ibn Yakub, careful. She’s dangerous. Before you know it you will have mounted her, and she will have galloped across the desert with you tied to her back. She has Kurdish blood, and these mountain women, let me tell you, are very strong-willed. I know not what she has in store for you, but whatever it may be she will not let you resist. Once women like her have decided to do something, they do not permit mere men to stop them.”
I protested Halima’s innocence and my own.
“She just wants to tell her story. Is that not my job?”
The bawdy look on his face indicated that he was not convinced.
“Go meet her. Don’t be frightened of the Sultan. If he finds out, say you told me and assumed I would have passed on the information. These things do not worry Salah al-Din. It is only if others in the harem discover your secret that Halima will be in danger. And you, my friend, be careful. She is very beautiful, but she is also carrying the Sultan’s child.”
The news stunned me. I was bathed in a wave of jealousy and anger. Why should a ruler, however benign, have the right to appropriate the body of any woman he finds temporarily desirable? I noticed Shadhi looking at my transformed features, and nodding with a sympathetic, understanding smile. I recovered my composure, regretting my illogical reaction to the news. As I walked towards the palace gates I thought I heard Shadhi’s whisper in my ears: “Careful, be careful, Ibn Yakub.” But it was my imagination.