by Tariq Ali
He smiled.
“It is painful, scribe. What happened took place seventy years ago, but I still feel the pain, right here in my heart. The past is fragile. It must be handled carefully, like burning coals. I have never spoken about what happened all those years ago to anyone, but you asked me with such affection in your voice that I will tell you my story, even though it is of interest to only me and affects nothing. Shirkuh was the only one who knew. I must warn you, it is not an unusual tale. It is simply that what happened burnt my heart and it never recovered. Are you sure you still want to hear me?”
I nodded and pressed his withered hand.
“I was nineteen years old. Every spring my sap would rise and I would find a village wench on whom to satisfy my lust. I was no different from anyone else, except, of course, for those lads who had difficulty in finding women and went up the mountains in search of sheep and goats. You look shocked, Ibn Yakub. Recover your composure. You asked for my story and it is coming, but in my own fashion. When we were children we used to tell each other that if you fucked a sheep your penis grew thick and fat, but if you went up a goat it became thin and long!
“I see that none of this amuses you, but life in the mountains is very different from Cairo and Damascus. The very function of these big cities is to curb our spontaneity and impose a set of rules on our behaviour. The mountains are free. Near our village there were three mountains. We could just lose ourselves there and lie back and watch the sun set, and permit nature to overpower us.
“One day my real father, your Sultan’s grandfather, raided a passing caravan and brought the plunder home. Part of what he had pillaged were a group of young slaves, three brothers aged eight, ten and twelve, and their seventeen-year-old sister.
“They were Jews from Burgos in Andalus. They had been travelling with their family near Damascus, and had been captured by bounty-hunters. The father, uncle and mother had been killed on the road, their gold taken by the traders. The children were being brought to the market in Basra to be sold.
“The sadness in the girl’s eyes moved me as nothing had done before, or has done since. She had clasped her brothers to her bosom and was awaiting her destiny. They were clothed, fed and put to bed. Our clan adopted them and the boys grew up as Kurds and fought many of our battles. As for the girl, Ibn Yakub, what can I say? I still see her before me: her dark hair which reached her waist, her face as pale as the desert sand, her sad eyes like those of a doe which realises that it is trapped. Yet she could smile, and when she smiled her whole face changed and lit the hearts of all those fortunate enough to be close to her.
“At first I worshipped her from a distance, but then we began to talk and, after a while, we became close friends. We would sit near the stream, near where the lilies with the fragrant scent grew, and tell each other stories. She would often start weeping as she remembered how her parents were murdered by the bandits. I could think of nothing else, Ibn Yakub. I asked her to become my wife, but she would smile and resist. She would say it was too soon to make such important decisions. She would say she needed to be free before she could decide anything. She would say she had to look after her brothers. She would say everything except that she loved me.
“I knew she cared for me, but I was annoyed by her resistance. I often became cold and distant, ignoring her when she came up to me and attempted to talk, ignoring her when she brought me a glass of juice made from apricots. I could see her pleading with her eyes for more time, but my response remained cruel. It was hurt pride on my part, and for us men of the mountains, dear scribe, our pride was the most important thing in the world.
“All my friends were aware that I was losing my head over her. They could see me going crazy with love, like characters we used to sing about on moonlit summer nights when we talked of conquering the world. My friends began to mock me and her. This made me even more determined to hurt her and offend her sensitivities and her feelings.
“How many times have I cursed this sky, this earth, this head, this heart, this ugly, misshapen body of mine, for not having understood that she was a delicate flower that had to be nurtured and protected. My passion frightened her. Soon her delight on seeing me turned to melancholy. As I approached, her face would fill with pain. She had become a bird of sorrow. Even though I was only twenty years old myself, I began to feel that I was fatal for all those who are tender and young.
“All this happened a long time ago, my friend, but have you noticed how my hand trembles as I speak of her? There is a tremor in my heart and I am beginning to lose my strength. I want to sink into the ground and die, for which the time cannot be too far away, Allah willing. You are waiting patiently for me to reach the end, but I am not sure if I can today. Now you look really worried. Let me finish then, Ibn Yakub.
“One evening a group of us young men had been drinking tamr, date wine, and singing the khamriyya and becoming more and more drunk and, in my case, unhappy. It was a really warm summer’s night. The sky was glittering with stars and the dull light of a waning moon was reflected in the water. I walked away from my group to the edge of the stream where she and I used to meet and talk. At first I thought I was imagining her presence. But my eyes had not deceived me. Feeling the heat of the evening, she had discarded her clothes. There she was, naked as the day she was born, bathing in the moonlight. The sight turned my head. I felt my senses taking leave of me, Ibn Yakub. May Allah never forgive me for what I did that night.
“I see from your frightened eyes that you have guessed. Yes, you are right, my friend. I was in the grip of an animal frenzy, though most animals are kinder to each other. I forced her against her will. She did not scream, but I could never forget the look on her face, a mixture of fear and surprise. I left her there by the stream, and made my way back to the village. She never returned. A few days later they found her body. She had drowned herself. You would have thought that an animal like me would have recovered, found other women, married and produced fine sons. Yet perhaps with her death the animal in me also died. My heart certainly did, and I think of it as buried near that little stream in the mountains of Armenia. I had discovered and lost a priceless treasure. I never looked at or touched another woman again. Alcohol, too, was banished from my life. Allah has his own ways of punishing us.”
Usually after one of his stories, Shadhi would wait for my reaction, discuss further details, and answer questions. Often we would share a glass of hot water or milk with crushed almonds, but not today. Today he slowly raised himself to his feet and limped away, probably cursing me inwardly for having compelled him to recall painful memories. He had said that the past was always fragile, and as I saw his back recede as he walked away, I thought of how he symbolised those very words in his own person.
I was stunned by his story. Forcing women was not an uncommon occurrence, but the punishment Shadhi had inflicted on himself was truly exceptional. This old man, to whom I was already greatly attached, now grew further in my estimation.
Sixteen
I meet the great scholar Imad al-Din and marvel at his prodigious memory
AS WAS MY HABIT, I entered the palace library to browse while I awaited my call from the Sultan. To my surprise, the person who came to fetch me today was the great scholar and historian Imad al-Din himself. Even though he was approaching his sixtieth year, there were not many white hairs on his head or in his beard. He was an imposing man, a good measure taller than both the Sultan and myself. One of his books, Kharidat al-kasr wa-djaridat ahl al-asr, an enlightening anthology of contemporary Arab poetry, had just been published, to great acclaim.
Usually he preferred to live in Damascus, but the Sultan had summoned him to Cairo, to help in the final preparations of the new jihad. Imad al-Din was regarded as a great stylist. When he recited poetry or read an essay, his reading was punctuated by appreciative remarks or exclamations. I respected his work greatly, but for myself, I prefer the simplicity of the scriptures. Imad al-Din’s constructions were too flowery, t
oo elaborate, too precious and too lacking in spontaneity, to appeal to my slightly primitive tastes.
As we walked through several chambers, he told me that he had heard much good said about me. He hoped, one day, to have the time to read my transcription of the Sultan’s words.
“I hope you improve our ruler’s words even as you take them down, Ibn Yakub. Salah al-Din, may he reign for ever, does not pay much attention to style. That is your job, my friend. If you need my help, please do not hesitate to ask.”
I acknowledged his kind offer with a smile and a nod. Inwardly I was angry. Imad al-Din was a great scholar. Of this there could be no doubt. Yet what right had he to impose his will on the Sultan’s own very personal project, with which only I and no one else had been entrusted? We had reached the Sultan’s chamber, but only Shadhi was present.
“Please sit and relax,” said the old man as he shrugged his shoulders. “Salah al-Din has been called to the harem. It seems that Jamila has created a crisis of some sort.”
There was an awkward silence. Imad al-Din’s inhibiting presence meant that I would not ask and Shadhi would not volunteer any information regarding Jamila. It was well known that Imad al-Din did not care for women in any way. For him true satisfaction, intellectual and emotional, could only be derived from the company of men.
As if aware that we were both tense, Imad al-Din cleared his throat, which I took as indicating that he required the attention due to a person of his standing. Shadhi, no respecter of persons at the best of times, broke wind loudly and deliberately as he left the room, and I was alone with the great master.
As I racked my brains for a way to open a conversation with this illustrious scholar, I felt embarrassed and intimidated. It was said of Imad al-Din that he only need see or hear something once for him never to forget. If one had told him a story several years ago and, forgetting that fact, began to repeat it in his presence, he would remember the original so perfectly that he would immediately point out the discrepancies between the two versions—to the great embarrassment of the story-teller.
He could recall not only the time of day or night when a particular incident had taken place, but all the circumstances as well. Once the Sultan had asked him how he could remember so much. He explained that his method was first to recall details such as the tree under whose shade the listeners were resting when the story was told, or the boat trip they were taking, the sea-shore and the time of day: then everything would become clear. I had been present during this discussion several months before, but had been unable to write it down. I had become so fascinated by Imad al-Din’s way of talking and his soft, enticing voice that I had forgotten all else.
“With respect, O master, it is said that your intention was not to become a secretary in the Sultan’s chancery, but to concentrate your great powers on writing your own works. Would such an assumption be accurate?”
He looked at me coldly, making me feel like an insignificant insect. I regretted having spoken, but his familiar voice reassured me.
“No. It is not accurate. When I studied the texts and letters formulated by al-Fadil in Cairo, I realised that we could do the same in Damascus. I had thought that this might be a difficult task, but Allah helped me. I threw off all the old ways of composing a letter of state and developed an entirely new style. This, my dear young man, astounded rulers such as the Sultan of Persia and even the Pope in Rome. The late Sultan Nur al-Din, may he rest in peace, was so pleased with my work that he made me the mushrif. I was now in charge of the entire administration of the state. This annoyed many people who felt that I had been promoted above their heads. They tried to make my life difficult.
“I recall one occasion. An envoy had arrived from the Caliph in Baghdad with a letter to Nur al-Din. My small-minded enemies had not invited me to the reception for the envoy. The old Sultan noticed that I was not present. He ordered a halt to the entire proceedings till I had been fetched. The Sultan handed me the letter to read, but al-Qaisarini, who was standing in for the Vizir that day, snatched the letter from my hand. I humoured him, but throughout his reading I corrected his mistakes and guided him whenever he went astray. I remember afterwards, when we were alone, Nur al-Din laughed at what had taken place—and this was a Sultan who rarely found time to appreciate a joke. That day he laughed and complimented me on my diplomatic skills.”
He was about to continue, when our conversation was interrupted by the Sultan’s entry. I stood and bowed, but Salah al-Din pushed Imad al-Din’s shoulders downwards to stop him rising.
“You’ve been educating Ibn Yakub?”
“No sir. Not I. I have simply been correcting a historical misapprehension regarding my own past.”
The Sultan smiled.
“You must not tire your memory, Imad al-Din. Sometimes I feel you memorise too much. I need you to be ready for the wars we are about to fight. It is possible that I might fall. You alone will be able to recall each and every detail of the jihad and make sure that it is diffused amongst the Believers.”
The secretary bowed his head, and the Sultan indicated that he could leave. Once we were alone, he began to speak.
“As you know, I appreciate the Sultana Jamila and her enormous intelligence. Yet sometimes I wonder how such a capable woman can create such a mess. It would appear that she and Halima have separated themselves from most of the other women. Jamila has a group of six or seven women, and she educates them and trains them in her own ways. This creates tension and hostility, since neither Jamila nor Halima bother to conceal their contempt for those who prefer to enjoy the pleasures of life by refusing to exercise their minds at all. They live for pleasure and pleasure alone. They are not concerned either with the jihad or the philosophy of Ibn Rushd. For this Jamila seeks to punish them. I was forced to reprimand her and insist that she does not impose her will on the others. She accepted my injunction in front of the others, but with bad grace. I left immediately afterwards, but have no doubt, Ibn Yakub, she will try and bend both your ears and mine before this week is over. That woman never accepts defeat. I am not in the mood to dictate today. We will speak again tomorrow.
“As you leave, could you please ask Shadhi to send al-Fadil, Imad al-Din, and Qara Kush to my chamber? You look surprised. There are important decisions to be made over the next few days.”
I was despondent at being asked to leave, and for the first time I spoke my mind.
“I will do as Your Grace asks, but it would seem more logical if I, too, could stay. It is I who have been chosen to write the Sultan’s memoirs. I will remain silent and take notes, and the accuracy of these could be checked by the Kadi.”
He looked as amused as he would have if his favourite steed had dislodged him from the saddle.
“There are some things, Ibn Yakub, which are best left untold. Do not imagine that I am unaware of your unease when I ask you to leave before meetings where the highest matters of state are discussed. This is as much for your safety as for our security. All my enemies are aware that you see me every day. They are also aware that you are sent out of the chamber when we plan our tactics for the next phase of the jihad.
“Nothing that happens in this palace is secret. Within a few hours the stories reach the harem, and rumours travel swiftly from there to the city. If it became known that you were part of the innermost councils of the state, your life might be in danger. That is the reason. However, tonight’s meeting is completely unplanned. So tonight you can sit at a distance, observe and take notes, but it will not be al-Fadil who checks them for accuracy but Imad al-Din. He will remember everything.”
I bowed to show my gratitude as I left the chamber. I was pleased that I had found the courage to challenge his decision and, for some unfathomable reason, this tiny victory gave me a gigantic amount of pleasure. Outside I met Shadhi and informed him of the Sultan’s directives. He summoned a messenger to inform the three men that they had to return to the palace without further delay. Then he turned to me.
“
And what make you of our great scholar, the noble Imad al-Din?”
“I think highly of him, but perhaps not as highly as he thinks of himself.”
Shadhi laughed.
“That son of a whore, al-Wahrani, has written a new song about him and his lover.”
“Who is his lover?”
“That pretty boy with curly hair. The singer. You know who I mean? I think his name is al-Murtada. Yes, that is his name. Anyway, the song goes like this:
“Our great scholar Imad al-Din knows
that his favourite text is al-Murtada,
but without any clothes.
They fornicate like dogs, each one on all fours,
And drink wine from the navels of slave-girls and whores.”
Even as we were enjoying the joke, Imad al-Din walked past us in animated conversation with the Kadi al-Fadil. The sight of him sobered me immediately, but Shadhi was by now completely out of control. He laughed till the tears ran down his cheeks. I left him in that state as I followed the two men back to the Sultan’s chamber. Behind him I heard the gentle tread of the trusted Qara Kush. I waited for him to catch up, and we walked together to the Sultan’s chamber.
The discussion had clearly been taking place for several days. The main issue to be decided was the Sultan’s departure for Damascus. It was felt that since Cairo and the rest of the country was stable, now was the time for the Sultan to return to Damascus, where there were serious problems which needed attention.
Imad al-Din reported that Salah al-Din’s nephew in charge of Damascus, Farrukh Shah, was not a good administrator. His tastes were lavish, he refused to consider the needs of the jihad as a whole, and made decisions that depleted the funds held by the treasury. Imad al-Din argued strongly for the court to shift from Cairo to Damascus.