by Tariq Ali
I often ask myself how it has happened that strong rulers usually leave behind weak dynasties. Is it the curse of our faith that Allah has condemned us to a state of permanent instability and chaos? The first Caliphs were not chosen on the hereditary principle, but by a decision of the Companions of the Prophet. The dynasties established by the Umayyads and the Abbasids have led to disasters. Sultans and vizirs nurture the growth of kingdoms for their children, but what if their children are incapable of ruling, as we have seen so many times since the death of our Prophet? I sometimes think we should have a Council of the Wise consisting of men like al-Fadil and Imad al-Din. These wise men should determine the succession. You smile. You think the wise men would, in time, unleash their own dynasties of wise children and grandchildren? Perhaps you are right. Let us continue this discussion some other time. Our friend Shadhi is already fast asleep.
Despite Shadhi’s loud snoring, I resisted this suggestion. I knew that his mind was now totally concentrated on one objective, the reconquest of Jerusalem. The information given him by Bertrand of Toulouse had enhanced his confidence. He now believed that he could overpower Amalric.
I suggested that perhaps we should continue the story of his triumph in Damascus, subduing all his rivals and making himself the most powerful ruler amongst those who swore allegiance to Allah and his Prophet. Soon he would be engaged in new battles. We would have little time, and memories of previous encounters might fade away.
Salah al-Din sighed and nodded in agreement.
“You are too delicate to mention another possibility, Ibn Yakub. I might be killed in battle, and then your story would remain half-finished and untold. Your case has much merit. Let us continue, though there is a danger of which I must warn you. I am now speaking of events which excited a great deal of passion. My enemies spoke of my conquests as acts of personal ambition. I was a lowly mountain Kurd in a hurry. I was only concerned with leaving behind a dynasty and enriching my clan. I say this to you because if ever you feel that I am straying into the land of deceit, you must feel free to question me as you wish. Is that understood?”
I nodded, and he continued.
The most disturbing news from Damascus came one day in the shape of an old soldier. He had left the city of his birth with his family, his herd of camels, and all his belongings, and made his way across the desert to Cairo. It was Shadhi who saw him one day, a supplicant outside the palace. This old man had served with my father and uncle. He was a brave and dependable soldier and had become very attached to my father’s person. Shadhi did not waste time, but brought him in immediately to see me. We found quarters for his family, though he had not come here to ask for favours.
He informed me that the emirs in Damascus had paid a great deal of gold to the Franj to buy their good will. This act of treachery had been multiplied a hundred times over in an exchange of letters in which the Franj had been asked for help against me. Can you imagine, Ibn Yakub? They were so frightened at the thought of losing their own power that they would rather hand their city over to the enemy. The same city where the grief-stricken populace had only recent buried Nur al-Din, who taught us all that the first task was to rid our land of these locusts, who worshipped icons and two pieces of wood stuck together.
I was livid with anger. At that moment I decided that we had to make sure that the Franj never entered Damascus. Fate helped us. Since Nur al-Din’s death, the three great cities—Damascus, Aleppo and Mosul—had become divided. The eunuch who ruled Aleppo kidnapped Nur al-Din’s son and made him a pawn on the chess-board that was once his father’s kingdom. The nobles of Damascus became panic-stricken. They had lost the pawn to their rival. They appealed to Saif al-Din in Mosul, but he was engaged in his own plans and refused to help them.
At that point they turned to me. It was winter. We would have to ride through the night-cold of the desert, never a pleasing prospect. I called my commanders, and we prepared a force of a thousand carefully picked soldiers.
At these critical moments, timing is everything. Even a short delay and victory withers to defeat. We left the very next day and rode as if on our way to heaven. We took a spare horse for every soldier, enabling us to rest the beasts though not ourselves. Often we slept as we rode. Within four days I had reached the gates of Damascus. You see, O trusted scribe, the reason for my speed. Those who had, in desperation, invited me to save them were just as easily capable of changing their mind if another alternative in the shape of the Franj had appeared outside the city walls. I did not want to give them that opportunity.
As we entered the old city I found tears streaming down my face. This was the city of my youth. I went straight to my father’s house. The streets were crowded with people who were cheering our arrival. There were loud acclamations and the nobles, their faces hard as a camel’s behind, bowed before me and kissed my hands. They would have done the same to Amalric, though not in public. Our people would have hidden in their homes if the Franj had ever entered our town. I speak now not simply of the Believers, Ibn Yakub. Your people have always been with us, but even the old Christians of Damascus, who call themselves Copts, were not inclined to welcome the Knights Templar.
It was a joyous day, and many old friends came to see me. Imad al-Din, fearful of the nobles and their self-serving intrigues, had left the city and sought refuge in Baghdad. I sent for him. He is the al-Fadil of Damascus. These two good men are my conscience and my head. If every ruler possessed men like them, our world would be better governed. I left my younger brother, Tughtigin, in charge of Damascus and went to complete the task I had assigned myself, the task of reuniting Nur al-Din’s kingdom.
The winter was getting worse, there were reports of big snowfalls in the highlands. But I was intoxicated by the support of the people of Damascus. I decided not to waste more time. Often our rulers are so busy celebrating one victory, they fail to see that the revelry is costing them their kingdom.
The Sultan stopped speaking suddenly. I stopped writing and looked up at him. Exhaustion had swept his face and he was deep in thought. It was difficult to know what it was that had distracted him. Was it the thought of yet more wars and bloodshed? Or was he perhaps thinking of Shirkuh, whose advice would have been so useful at this stage?
I sat there paralysed, waiting for him to dismiss me, but he had a distant look in his eyes and appeared to have forgotten my presence. I was undecided when I felt Shadhi’s hand on my shoulder. He signalled that I should follow him out of the royal chamber, and both of us crept out quietly, not wishing to disturb Salah al-Din’s reverie. He saw us leaving and a strange, frozen smile crossed his lips. I was concerned for his health. I had never seen him like this before.
When I reached home, I realised that I, too, was debilitated by the day’s work. I had been sitting cross-legged, writing continuously for four hours. My legs and my right arm and hand were in need of care. Rachel heated some oil of almond to massage my fingers. Later, much later, she heated some more to soothe my tired legs and excite what lay, limp and inert, between them.
Fifteen
The causes of Shadhi’s melancholy; the story of his tragic love
“YOU WERE WORRIED LAST evening, Ibn Yakub. You thought Salah al-Din had been taken ill. I have seen that look on his face. It comes when turmoil takes over his mind. Usually this boy is very clear-headed, but he is assailed by doubts. Even when he was very young he could go into a trance, like our Sufis in the desert. He always recovers and usually feels much better. It is as if he has taken a purge.
“Yes, this old fool who you take as an illiterate clown from the mountains knows much more than he reveals, my good friend.”
Shadhi was not his usual ebullient self this morning. He had a sad look in his eyes, which upset me. I had come to feel very close to the old man, who knew his ruler better than anyone else alive. It was clear that the Sultan loved him, but Shadhi, whose familiarity with Salah al-Din puzzled many, including the Kadi, never took advantage of his position. He could have h
ad anything: riches, fiefdoms, concubines, or whatever else had taken his fancy. He was a man of simple tastes. For him happiness lay in close proximity to Salah al-Din, whom he regarded as a son.
I asked him for the cause of his melancholy.
“I am getting older by the day. Soon I will be gone and this boy will have no shoulder on which to shed his tears, no person to tell him that he is being foolish and headstrong. As you know I rarely pray, but today I fingered a few beads and prayed to Allah to give me strength for a few more years so I can see Salah al-Din enter al-Kuds. The fear that this wish might not be granted upset me a little.”
For a while he said nothing, and I was touched by this uncharacteristic silence. His recovery, which was sudden, took me by surprise.
“Salah al-Din will not talk any more of his troubles, when he was subduing the heirs of Zengi and Nur al-Din. I think the memory of those days brings him pain. They were difficult times, but you should not imagine that he was a complete innocent. Hearing him talk to you yesterday one could get the impression that he was surprised by what finally happened. Not true.
“His father, Ayyub, had patiently and prudently prepared him for the day when Nur al-Din would pass away. I recall very well Ayyub warning him that impatience to secure Nur al-Din’s kingdom would be fatal. He had always to act in the dead Sultan’s interests, or that is what he should allow people to feel. He assimilated his old father’s advice and when the time came he acted on it, and acted well. The day when we entered Damascus, and the people of that city wept tears of joy and threw flowers at us, was what decided him that the time was now ripe. He needed to secure these lands and prepare for the great encounter with our enemy.
“It was exactly ten years ago today that he defeated the joint armies of Mosul and Aleppo. We were outnumbered five to one. To buy time, Salah al-Din offered our opponents a compromise, but they imagined that our heads were already in their saddle-bags. They dreamed of showing our Sultan’s head to the people of Damascus. They turned down our offer of truce. Then the Sultan became angry. His face was twisted with contempt for these fools. He spoke to his men, tried and tested veterans from Cairo and Damascus, who had fought many wars against the Franj. He told them that victory today would seal the fate of the Franj. He told them they were to fight against other Believers who were traitors to the cause of the great Nur al-Din. He, Salah al-Din, would take up the black and green colours of the Prophet and cleanse these lands of the barbarians.
“We had taken up a position on the hills known as the Horns of Hamah. Below was the valley watered by the Orontes. Salah al-Din’s voice carried below, as did the acclamation of his soldiers, but the peacocks from Mosul and Aleppo were so sure of success that they took no notice of military tactics. They led their troops through the ravine, and we destroyed them. Many of their soldiers deserted their masters and swelled our ranks. Their defeated leaders pleaded for mercy and Salah al-Din, always mindful of his father’s caution, accepted a truce. It gave him everything he wanted except the actual citadel of Aleppo. That too would belong to him, but later.
“This was no ordinary victory, my good scribe. It made your Sultan the most powerful ruler in the land. It was at this time that he declared himself the Sultan of Misr and Sham. Gold coins were cast in his name and the Caliph in Baghdad sent him the documents which sanctified his new position. He also sent him the robes which he would wear as a Sultan.
“But that was not the end of the story. No, far from it. The wounded pride of the nobles of Aleppo caused them to make one last attempt to rid themselves of this meddlesome Kurd. They sent a message to Sheikh Sinan, the Shiite, who lived in the mountains. The Sheikh was surrounded by a band of men trained in the art of tracking and killing particular individuals. He was a supporter of the Fatimids and had his own good reasons for seeking to dispatch our Sultan.
“The fact that the request came not from the remnants of the Fatimids, but from Sunni nobles, strengthened Sinan’s resolve. Imad al-Din, who I hope you will meet one day soon, informed the Sultan that Sheikh Sinan’s followers were accustomed to smoke a large amount of banj or hashish before they went on their special missions. Only thus intoxicated, and dreaming of other pleasures, could these hashishin kill on the orders of the Sheikh. They made two attempts on the life of the Sultan. On one occasion they overpowered his guards and surrounded his bed. Had an alert soldier not given the alarm, and had not Salah al-Din been wearing his special quilted jacket to protect himself from the cold of the night desert, he would have been dead. Only one dagger touched him before his assailants were taken.
“It was after these assassination attempts that he finally met Sheikh Sinan and agreed a truce. Indeed, on one occasion, when Sinan was threatened by some rival, we even sent soldiers to defend him. He never tried again. All sorts of stories were spread about the truce. Some said that the Sheikh had magical powers and could make himself invisible. Others said that, when surrounded by our soldiers, the Sheikh had the power to defend himself by exerting a mysterious force around himself which protected him against all weapons. These were tales spread by the hashishin to promote myths of their invincibility. But one thing I must tell you, Ibn Yakub. Whether it was the hashish or dreams of paradise, there is no doubt that Sheikh Sinan’s men were extremely efficient and capable of reaching any target. We all sighed with relief, and gave thanks to Allah, after Salah al-Din and Sinan agreed to respect each other.
“A few months later, the Sultan entered Aleppo and was recognised as the Sultan of all the territories over which he ruled. He appointed Nur al-Din’s son, es-Salih, as the governor of Aleppo. He confirmed Salih’s cousin, Saif al-Din, as the ruler of Mosul, and he agreed to keep the peace for six years. I think he took caution too far. He was behaving as his father would have advised, but I thought that he needed more of his uncle Shirkuh’s spirit on this occasion. He should have removed es-Salih and then taken on the dogs of Mosul, men so sly that they would not have hesitated to piss on their own mothers.
“Yes, I told him that, but he smiled, his father’s smile. He had given his word, and that was enough. This Sultan never broke his word, even though his enemies often took advantage of this fact.
“The Franj, for instance, believed, good Christians that they are, that no promises made to infidels were binding on those who had pledged their word. Those arse-fucking icon-worshippers broke treaties whenever it suited them. Our Sultan was too honourable. I think it was his origins. In the mountains, a Kurd’s word, once given, is never taken back. This tradition goes back thousands of years, long before our Prophet, peace be upon him, was brought into this world.
“Amalric, King of Jerusalem, had died and had been succeeded by his fourteen-year-old son Baldwin, a poor boy afflicted with leprosy. Bertrand of Toulouse had given us information about Raymond, the boy’s uncle, the Count of Tripoli. He became the real power in the Kingdom of the Franj. Salah al-Din concluded a two-year peace with Baldwin. He did not want to be outflanked in Misr while he was shoring up Syria.
“The Sultan’s brother, Turan Shah, was left in charge of Damascus, and the Sultan, myself and his bodyguards returned to Cairo. We had been away for two whole years, but there were no problems. The Kadi al-Fadil had administered the state in the Sultan’s absence.
“He had done it so well that Salah al-Din, congratulating him, asked: ‘Al-Fadil, tell me something. Is there a real need for a Sultan? It seems to me that this state runs perfectly well without a ruler!’ The Kadi bowed with pleasure, but reassured the Sultan that without his authority and prestige he, the Kadi, could not have managed anything.
“As for me, Ibn Yakub, I think they were both right. You know something? In the mountains of Armenia, the father of Ayyub and Shirkuh commanded the loyalty of people because they knew he was one of them. He would defend them and their sheep and cattle against raiders from neighbouring villages.
“I know I’m getting very old and I may be simple-minded, but it seems to me that if you can maintain peace and d
efend your people, what title you give yourself is of no great importance.”
I looked at this old man closely. The wrinkles on his face seemed to have multiplied since I had first met him. He had only eight or nine teeth left in his mouth and was totally deaf in his left ear. Yet in his head lay decades of unsuspected wisdom, truths he had learnt through the rich experience which life had brought him. His tongue was always out of control and respected neither Sultan nor mamluk.
It was this capacity to speak whatever came into his mouth that made him indispensable to Salah al-Din, and before him to Ayyub and Shirkuh. It is often assumed that people in positions of power prefer sycophants and flatterers to those who speak unpleasant truths. This only applies to weak rulers, men incapable of understanding themselves, leave alone the needs of their subjects. Good rulers, strong sultans, need men like Shadhi who fear nothing.
As I observed him slowly chewing nuts in the winter sunshine, I felt a surge of affection for him sweep through my whole being. All of a sudden I wanted to know more about him. I knew his pedigree, but had he ever married? Did he have children? Or was he one of those men who always prefer their own sort to the presence of any female? I had wondered about this in the past, but my interest had waned and I had never questioned the old man. Today, for some reason unconnected with him, my curiosity had been aroused.
“Shadhi,” I said, speaking to him in a soft voice, “was there ever a woman in your life?”
His face, relaxed in the sun, acquired an alertness. The question startled him. He glared at me, a frown casting a giant shadow across his face. For a few minutes there was an oppressive silence. Then he growled:
“Has anyone been telling you stories about me? Who?”
I shook my head.
“Dear, dear friend. Nobody has spoken to me of you except with affection. I asked you a question because I wondered why someone as alive and wise as you are never built a family. If the subject is painful, forgive my intrusion. I will leave you alone.”