by Tariq Ali
My father had taught me that two armies under two different commands can never coexist for long. Sooner or later, Allah willing, one or the other must triumph. What was taking place in Cairo in these months was a struggle to achieve absolute power. I told the Caliph of the Fatimids that his men had established contact with the enemies of our Prophet. I told him that the eunuch Nejeh had been captured and executed. I told him that my Sultan Nur al-Din wanted Friday prayers in al-Azhar to be offered in the name of the only true Caliph, the one who lived in Baghdad.
On hearing these words, the pathetic boy began to tremble and shake. Fear had paralysed his tongue. He spoke not a word. I did not tell him that Nur al-Din wanted me to get rid of him without further delay.
The next morning, the Nubians came out on the Beyn al-Kaisreyn. Armed from head to foot, with their sharp scimitars glistening in the sun, they began to taunt my soldiers. We had many black soldiers in our army, but these Nubian brutes shouted insults in our direction. My father advised me to show no mercy to these devils. As they saw me, riding out to confront them, their ranks began to heave with hatred and a chant reached my ears:
“All white men are pieces of fat and all black men are burning coal.”
My archers were ready to shoot, but first I sent the Nubians a message. If all white men were pieces of fat, I inquired, how come that Nejeh had been plotting treachery with the Franj? In the sight of Allah we are all equal. Surrender and give up your arms, or be crushed forever. One of the rebels struck my messenger on the face with a sword. Blood had been spilled and we gave battle.
The fighting lasted for two whole days, and the Nubians burnt streets and houses to slow our advance. On the third day it was clear that Allah had granted us another victory. When we burnt al-Mansuriya, the quarter in which most of the Nubians lived, they realised that further resistance would be foolish. It was a costly victory, Ibn Yakub, but the prize was worth every life we lost, for now Misr was under our sole control.
All our emirs wanted to topple the Caliph of the Fatimids and declare our immediate loyalty to the rightful Caliph in Baghdad. I sympathised with the emirs, but, in private, I consulted my father. His sense of caution advised against further bloodshed. He reminded me that it was the Caliph al-Adid who had placed the vizir’s turban on my head. His motives may have been dishonourable, but it would be a greater dishonour to our clan to act ungenerously. I was not entirely convinced by his line of argument. I pressed my father further and finally, after making sure that no eavesdroppers had been stationed outside the chamber, he whispered in my ear:
“This wretched Caliph will help keep Nur al-Din at bay. Destroy the Caliph and you become the Sultan. What will Nur al-Din, the Sultan of Damascus and of Aleppo, think if you made such a leap? I know him well. He would ask himself: how is it that one of my youngest emirs, a jumped-up Kurd from the mountains, a boy whose uncle and father are my retainers, how come, he would ask, how come this upstart has arrogated to himself the position of Sultan without offering it to me first? Be patient, son. Time favours you. Now is the time to consolidate our power. Your brothers and cousins must be placed in all the vital positions of the state. So that when the Caliph of the Fatimids one day takes so much opium that he can only sleep the sleep that knows no waking, at that time we must make sure that the succession is smoothly handled.”
“What succession?”
“Yours. The minute he dies, you will abolish this Caliphate, you will announce from the pulpit at al-Azhar that henceforth there is only one Caliph and he sits in Baghdad. All prayers are offered in his name and you, Salah al-Din, are his Sultan.”
My father, may he rest in peace, was an inspired adviser. He was proved correct once again. The Caliph fell ill and I immediately instructed the Kadi to change the prayers. From that day on, the prayers were said in our city in the name of the only true Caliph. When the news reached Baghdad, there was great rejoicing. I received from the Caliph a ceremonial sword and the black Abbasid flag. It was a great honour.
A few days later, the last of the Fatimids died. I instructed Qara Kush, one of the shrewdest men in Cairo at the time and one of my advisers, to tell al-Adid’s family that their time was over. For nearly three centuries the Fatimid Caliphs had ruled this country. They had done so in the name of their heretical Shiite sect. Their rule was finished, and I offered thanksgiving prayers to Allah and his Prophet.
I became Sultan, with the written authority of the Caliph in Baghdad. Nur al-Din accepted my elevation, but it would be an exaggeration to say that he was pleased. I received two requests to meet him in Damascus, but I was too busy fighting the Franj. They had become greatly alarmed when they saw that Misr was now under our control. I captured a number of their citadels, including Eyla, a necessary fortress from which to provide a safe-conduct to the pilgrims visiting Mecca.
Some of his advisers suggested to Nur al-Din that I was only engaged in skirmishes with the Franj to avoid obeying his instructions to return to Damascus. This was malicious gossip. The Franj were worried by the fact that we now controlled both Alexandria and Damietta, the two ports they most needed in friendly hands. They feared, and in this they were right, that I would use our control of these harbours to destroy their line of communications with Europe. In time, that would mean the end of their occupation of our lands. They would crumble into dust. Qara Kush suggested an immediate offensive, but we were not in a strong position. It was reported that the Emperor in Constantinople had sent over two hundred ships laden with soldiers to lay siege to Damietta.
We obtained regular reports as to how many moving towers were being built for the siege and the number of knights at Amalric’s disposal. All this information was checked and sent by messenger to Damascus.
It is sometimes said about me, Ibn Yakub, that at critical moments I am not decisive enough. Perhaps this is true. I have inherited my father’s caution, and there are many in my ranks who would much rather I had inherited my uncle Shirkuh’s impulsiveness. I am conscious of this failing, and sometimes I try and combine the two. It is not always easy to make decisions which affect the lives of so many people.
What made Nur al-Din a truly great leader was his capacity to understand one important fact, namely, that unless the Franj were decisively defeated, our people would never be at peace. To make this possible, everything was subordinated to this single goal. That he was irritated by me was a minor irrelevance.
When my messengers arrived in Damascus, and informed him that we were in danger, he did not hesitate for a moment. He prepared a large army and sent it to Misr. We used this army to launch an offensive against the Franj in Palestine, diverting them from Damietta. Allah gave us victory. A sudden storm helped to sink the ships which the Emperor, whose sister was married to Amalric, had sent from Constantinople. The Greek ostrich had come here to find itself a pair of horns. It was obliged, instead, to return without its ears. Nur al-Din was a greater man than I could ever hope to be, and everything I have achieved I owe to him.
A strange smile, a mixture of elation, triumph, envy and sadness, came over his face as he uttered these last words. Perhaps he was thinking how ironic it was that he, Salah al-Din, and not his old master, was the ruler preparing to take Jerusalem. He was the man who would offer prayers at the Qubbat al-Sakhra, the Dome of the Rock, and return it to the care of the Believers.
I wanted to question him further. I wanted to ask him about Nur al-Din. But it was clear from his face that he was thinking of other matters. Suddenly he interrupted my thoughts.
“Go and break bread with Shadhi, but don’t go away. Ride with me to the citadel this afternoon.”
I bowed and made my exit. As I walked through the chambers to the courtyard I was struck by the simplicity of the man. He was surrounded by opulence. While he had stopped the elaborate court rituals of the Caliphs, there was still a great display of wealth and power, as if to show ordinary mortals like me that the two always went together. They were old bedfellows and nothing could ever chan
ge that reality.
Salah al-Din was known for his generosity. This was one reason for his great popularity with his own soldiers. Except on ceremonial occasions, he dressed simply. He was fond of riding his favourite steed without a saddle. There was nothing like the feel of a horse’s sweat to encourage dreams of future glory. He told me that on one occasion, adding that it was on the bare back of a horse, galloping through the meadows or across the sand, that his military ideas fell into place. It was, he said, as if the rhythm of the stallion’s gallop coincided with the necessary leaps in his own thoughts.
With Shadhi, I was soon eating a leg of lamb, stewed with beans of three different varieties and soft as butter. Shadhi claimed the credit for the meal. He had threatened to boil the cooks in their own olive oil if they served tough meat again. He had lost a tooth on one occasion. His threats had the desired effect. The tender meat turned out to be pure bliss.
I told Shadhi of Salah al-Din’s strange smile when he had been talking of Nur al-Din, and asked him for his interpretation. The old man snorted like a horse with a strained heart.
“Sometimes our Sultan can be very sly. We all admired Nur al-Din. He was a pure man. Nothing stained his honour. But Salah al-Din resented his authority. On one occasion, I think it must have been the siege of a Frankish castle, Nur al-Din himself joined us, and our Sultan returned to Cairo. He claimed that there was a danger of a rebellion by the remnant of the Fatimids. This was true, but it was nothing that could not have been handled by his brothers. He simply ran away from Nur al-Din. He was frightened of meeting him face to face. Why? Because he knew that Nur al-Din might order him back to Damascus. Nur al-Din was annoyed by Salah al-Din’s insolence, for that is how he saw the situation. A subordinate was behaving as an equal. He needed to be taught a lesson. He decided to march to Cairo.
“Let me now tell you something, my friend. I was present, as was Ayyub, at a meeting of the emirs and commanders of the army when the Sultan told us that Nur al-Din was on his way. Salah al-Din’s favourite nephew shouted impulsively that Nur al-Din should be resisted just like the Franj. Salah al-Din smiled indulgently at his nephew, but Ayyub, sharp as a sword from Damascus, called the boy and slapped his face hard. Right there. In front of everyone. He then stood up and spoke to Salah al-Din. ‘Let me tell you something, boy! If our Sultan Nur al-Din came here, I would dismount and kiss his feet. If he ordered me to cut off your head I would do so without question, even though my tears would mingle with your blood. These lands are his, and we are his retainers. Send him a message today, Salah al-Din. Tell him that there is no need for him to waste his energies in travelling here. Let him but send a courier on a camel to lead you to him with a rope around your neck. Now leave, all of you, but understand one thing. We are Nur al-Din’s soldiers. He can do with us what he will.’
“Everyone left the meeting, all except Salah al-Din and myself. Ayyub rebuked him sharply for permitting his ambition to show in front of the emirs, who would like nothing better than to see him displaced. Salah al-Din looked desolate, as though his heart had been wounded by a careless lover.
“Ayyub watched him for a while, letting the misery colour his features. Then he stood up and hugged him. He kissed him on the forehead and whispered: ‘I know Nur al-Din well. I think your letter of submission will work. If, for some reason, it fails to pacify him, I will fight by your side.’
“Now do you understand, Ibn Yakub? When you saw that smile on the face of the Sultan, maybe he was thinking also of the sagacity of his father. He is on his own now. Ayyub is with his Maker. Shirkuh is no more. Sometimes when I take him some mint tea in the mornings he says: ‘Shadhi, you’re the only one left from the old generation. Don’t you go and die on me as well.’
“As if I would. As if I would. I want to see al-Kuds, Ibn Yakub, the city your people call Jerusalem. I want to be next to him when we pray at the Qubbat al-Sakhra. I don’t pray much, as you know, but on that day I will pray. And have no doubt, that day will happen as surely as the sun rises and sets. Salah al-Din is determined to take the city, whatever the cost. He knows that it will strike a blow at the heart of the Frankish settlement. He also knows that if he succeeds, he will be remembered for ever. Long after our bones have enriched the soil, Believers will remember the name of this lame boy who I once trained to use a sword. How many will remember the name of Nur al-Din?”
Twelve
The Sultan visits the new citadel in Cairo but is called back to meet Bertrand of Toulouse, a Christian heretic fleeing Jerusalem to escape the wrath of the Templars
ONE REASON WHY THE Sultan did not encourage me to accompany him on his tours of inspection, or on his regular visits to supervise the construction of the new citadel, was because he was painfully aware of the fact that I could not ride. This aspect vexed him, since he could not appreciate that some of us simply lack the skill or the desire to race a horse. As a result he never talked much in my presence of horses. His understanding of the subject was immense, rivalled only by his knowledge of the hadith. Several times he would interrupt his stories and start describing a particular horse that had arrived as a gift from his brother in the Yemen. He would start on its wretched genealogy, and then, seeing my eyes become distant, he would sigh, laugh, and return to his story.
I was thinking of this as I rode in his entourage through the city. He had placed experienced horsemen on either side of me, just in case the animal I was riding took it in its head to bolt. It did nothing of the sort, and soon I even became used to the unpleasantness of the experience. I knew my backside would be sore at the end of the day, but I was pleased to ride with him.
He rode without effort.
This was not his battle-horse, but a lesser steed. Yet even for this horse, Salah al-Din’s movements had become a habit. He let the horse move at its own pace, neither too fast, nor too slow. With a slight flicker of the Sultan’s heel, the horse increased his pace, obliging all of us to keep up with him. Sometimes it seemed as though the horse and its rider were one creation, just like the make-believe creatures of which the old Greeks sang in their poetry.
We rode out of the Bab al-Zuweyla and were soon passing through streets thronged with people. They interrupted their labours to bow or salute their ruler, but he did not encourage servility and preferred to speed through the city. He wanted to avoid the supplicants and sycophants from the layer of merchants who dominated most of the streets.
Soon we passed the burnt ruins of the Mansuriya quarter, where the Nubian soldiers of the eunuch Nejeh had made their last stand before being driven from the city. The Sultan had ordered that the quarter should remain demolished, as a grim warning to all those who might contemplate treachery in the future.
Without warning, he reined in his horse. Our entire party consisted today of myself, three court scribes to take down the Sultan’s instructions for transmission to the Kadi al-Fadil, and twenty carefully chosen bodyguards—carefully chosen, that is, by Shadhi, who, if the truth be told, only trusted Kurds or members of the family to guard his Sultan, who now beckoned me to join him. He was laughing.
“It pleases me to see you ride, Ibn Yakub, but I think that Shadhi should give you some lessons. Your good wife will need to rub special ointments tonight to ease your behind. I hope this journey does not impair any of your functions.”
He laughed loudly at his own remark, and I nodded my agreement. He managed a generous smile. Then he surveyed the buildings of the burnt quarter and his mood changed.
“We were lucky to survive this revolt. If they had taken us by surprise, the story might well have been different. This permanent state of uncertainty is the devil’s curse against the Believers. It is almost as if we are destined never to be one against the enemy. None of our philosophers or inscribers of history have been able to answer this question. Let us discuss this problem with our scholars one evening.”
He bent over the saddle to stroke the horse’s neck, an indication that our journey was about to be resumed. Soon we had
left the swarming streets and there, at a distance, were the mounds of the Mukattam range. Here builders like bees were constructing the new citadel. Huge stones were being carried by humans and donkeys. Thousands and thousands of workers were engaged in the building.
I wondered whether anyone else observing the scene was reminded of the ancient monuments in Giza. They must have been built by the ancestors of those who were at work on this great fortress.
The man in charge of the work was the Sultan’s chamberlain, the Emir Qara Kush, the only person Salah al-Din trusted to carry out his detailed architectural instructions and to supervise the building during his long absences. The sight of these labours pleased Salah al-Din. Again he touched his horse below the neck and the large creature bent to his will, galloping off at a pace which only his guards could match.
The three court scribes and myself followed at a more dignified speed. The court scribes, Copts whose fathers and grandfathers had served the Fatimid Caliphs for centuries, smiled at me and made ingratiating conversation. Underneath, I could see, they were burnt by jealousy. They resented my daily proximity to their master.
Salah al-Din suppressed a smile as he saw me dismount. My legs were aching as I walked up a ramp to a newly completed tower. Here the Sultan was discussing the brickwork with the Emir Qara Kush. This giant eunuch, with a fair complexion and hair the colour of coal, had once been one of Shirkuh’s mamluks. He had been freed and made an emir by his master. Shirkuh had greatly valued his administrative skills, and it was the advice of Qara Kush to the Caliph of the Fatimids that had secured the position of Vizir for Salah al-Din.
Qara Kush was describing how some of the stones had been brought all the way from the pyramids of Giza. He showed how well they mingled with the local limestone. The Sultan was clearly pleased and turned to me.
“Write this down, scribe. The reason we are constructing this new citadel is to create an impregnable fortress which can resist any Frankish adventure. But if you look at how the walls and towers have been planned, you will notice that we could also withstand a local rebellion with some ease. I have never forgotten how close we were to defeat when the eunuchs and mamluks organised the Nubians to surprise us. Here we can never be surprised.”