by Tariq Ali
Qara Kush resisted the move, but was unconvincing. Unable to give a single serious reason for his argument, he descended to merely singing the praises of the Sultan, arguing that without his serene and noble presence he was fearful that the country might degenerate.
Remarks of this nature irritated the Sultan. He admonished his steward in sharp tones, pointing out that the sole basis for any major decision was the answer to one simple question: would it bring closer the defeat of the enemy and the capture of al-Kuds? He refused to countenance any other criterion.
Then al-Fadil spoke. He explained that if the Sultan’s standard of judgement was to be the only one then the move to Damascus was unavoidable. Al-Kuds would not be taken using Cairo as the centre of operations. At the same time he expressed some worry as to what could happen here in the Sultan’s absence.
Salah al-Din let them speak for a while, before interrupting them with a gesture of the hand.
“I think the arguments for strengthening Damascus and the other cities of Sham are irrefutable. If we are to take al-Kuds, I must be sure that all my cities are in safe hands. We cannot trust either to luck or the hope that the Believers will not betray us. As I never cease telling our people, this has been the curse of our faith. We shall leave exactly ten days from now. You, Ibn Yakub, will come with us to Damascus, together with your wife and daughter, for Allah alone knows how long we shall be away.
“We shall return to Cairo after our tasks, Allah willing, are accomplished, and not before. I am fond of this city. There are good memories to treasure.
“Your job, Qara Kush, is to make sure that, by the time I return, the citadel will be finished. That is where I will stay. As you know, I am not greatly attached to these old palaces.”
Everyone present smiled, but Imad al-Din’s face clouded, and when he spoke there was a trace of anger in his voice.
“That you sleep best in citadels is known to all, O Sultan, but I must plead with you to keep Qara Kush under some control. He is busy selling all the books in the palace libraries. Some of the fools buying them are so ignorant that they purchase according to weight rather than content. I am aware that Qara Kush is contemptuous of learning, but what he has been selling is our heritage. We have the most complete collection on medicine and philosophy in the library of this palace alone and...”
Before he could finish, the Sultan interrupted him.
“Qara Kush! I do not like this. Will you please make sure that Imad al-Din is consulted before any more books are sold.”
Qara Kush nodded to acknowledge the instruction.
“One more thing. Bertrand of Toulouse has expressed a desire to return to his country. He will help us from there, and keep us informed on the movements of the Franj leaders. I want him given a safe-conduct and an escort on a merchant ship. Give him everything he needs. Will you see to this yourself, al-Fadil? I want this knight to return safely to his family.”
The Kadi acknowledged the order, and Salah al-Din clapped his hands. Three attendants, familiar faces to me since they were permanently positioned outside the Sultan’s chamber, entered and prepared the table. They served us a frugal meal, whose contents I had inwardly predicted. As I had suspected it was bread and three varieties of bean stew. No concessions were made to the presence of Imad al-Din, whose tastes in food were well known. His banquets consisted of several courses and always included a new dish that left his guests gasping in astonishment. I watched the face of our greatest living historian. It did not betray a single emotion. Like all of us, he followed the Sultan and dipped his bread in the stew. The Sultan looked at him.
“Does this humble meal meet with your approval, Imad al-Din?”
Answer there was none, but the great man touched his heart to convey his approval and gratitude. It was only as we left the chamber that I heard him whisper to al-Fadil:
“One should only eat with Salah al-Din if afflicted with constipation and an urgent need to move the bowels.”
Seventeen
I arrive home unexpectedly to find Ibn Maymun fornicating with my wife
A CHAMBER HAD BEEN assigned to me at the palace and usually, after a late night, I did not bother to return home. It was well past the midnight hour and, had I not heard al-Fadil grumbling earlier that because of the Sultan’s meeting he had to cut short a consultation with Ibn Maymun, I would have stayed at the palace. Instead I began a brisk walk home. I had not seen Ibn Maymun for a long time, and I wanted him to be present when I told Rachel that we were all moving to Damascus.
As I reached the courtyard inside my house I was surprised to see the lamps still burning. Not wishing to wake either our guest or my family, I crept in quietly. Imagine my surprise when I entered the domed room to see Ibn Maymun lying flat on his back with his robe pulled above his stomach and covering his face while Rachel, my very own Rachel, sat astride him and kept moving up and down as if she were taking a leisurely morning ride on a tame pony. She was stark naked, her breasts moving in rhythm to the rest of her body. I stood paralysed. Anger, shame and fear combined to stun me. I was horrified. Could it be an apparition? A bad dream? Was I still asleep in my palace chamber?
I stood in the darkened corner of the room silently observing the fornication progress. Then I coughed. She saw me first, screamed as if she had caught sight of the devil himself, and ran from the room. I approached our great philosopher, who had just managed to cover his erect penis.
“Peace be upon you, Ibn Maymun. Did Rachel make you welcome? Were you demonstrating a particular section from your Guide to the Perplexed just for her benefit?”
He did not reply, but sat up and hid his face in his hands. Neither of us spoke for a long time. Then his choked voice managed to mutter an apology.
“Forgive me, Ibn Yakub. I beg your forgiveness. It is a lapse for which I deserve to be severely punished. What more can I say?”
“Perhaps,” I asked him in a calm voice, “I should simply cut off your testicles. Honour would then be restored, would it not?”
“None of us are infallible, Ibn Yakub. We are only human. Would you have resisted had Halima invited you into her bed?”
I was startled and angered by his audacity. Before I could control myself, I moved forward, grabbed him by the beard, and slapped his face, first on one side and then the other. He began to weep. I left the room.
Rachel was sitting on the mattress, wrapped in a blanket, as I entered. She was too ashamed to look me in the eye. Anger had dumbed me. I spoke not a word, but removed a blanket and left the room. I entered my daughter’s room and lay down on the floor, beside her mattress. Sleep refused to visit me that night or the next.
Rachel wept for two whole days, pleading with me to forgive her. To my surprise I did so, but I also knew that I did not wish her to go with me to Damascus. I merely informed her that the Sultan had asked me to accompany him and I would be away for an indefinite length of time. She nodded. Then I asked her the question that had been burning my mind since I saw her mount Ibn Maymun.
“Was it the first time? Speak the truth woman!”
She shook her head and began to weep.
“You never forgave me for not giving you a son. Was it my fault that after our daughter was born I could never conceive again? You abandoned me for the Sultan and life in the palace. Ibn Maymun became my only source of consolation. I was lonely. Can’t you understand?”
I was shaken. No reply formed itself on my lips. I was filled with a blind rage and, had I not left the room, would have struck her several blows. I staggered to the kitchen and drank two glassfuls of water in order to calm myself and bring my emotions under control. Then, recalling that this was one of Ibn Maymun’s prescriptions for controlling one’s temper, I smashed the glass on the floor.
For the next week, while I was preparing to leave, I did not speak to her. At first I wanted revenge. I thought of lodging a complaint with the Kadi. I wanted to accuse Rachel of adultery, and Ibn Maymun of being her accomplice. This thought did not st
ay long in my mind. I considered hiring a few men to murder the guilty couple. Then I calmed down. It is strange how fickle emotions of this sort can be, and how anger, jealousy and revenge can rise and fall within the space of a few moments.
I bade a fond farewell to Maryam, my twelve-year-old daughter, who, if the truth be told, I had neglected for far too long. Surprised by my display of affection, she hugged me in turn and wept copiously. I looked at her closely. She was on her way to becoming a beautiful young woman, just like her mother. The resemblances were stark. I could only hope that in a year or two she would find a suitable husband.
It was my last night in Cairo. I broke my silence. Rachel and I sat up and spoke for half the night. We talked of the past. Of our love for each other. Of the day Maryam was born. Of the laughter that used to resound in the courtyard of our house. Of our friends. As we talked, we became friends again. She admonished me for having put the needs of a sultan before my own work. I acknowledged the justice of her criticisms, but explained how my own horizons had expanded through my life at the palace. She had always accused me of leading far too sedentary an existence. Now I was about to travel. She smiled, and there was a special pleading in her eyes. My heart melted. I promised that once Jerusalem had been taken by the Sultan, I would send for her and Maryam. We parted friends.
To his great irritation, the Sultan’s departure from Cairo became the occasion for a mass display of public emotion. Salah al-Din would have preferred an unannounced departure, but both al-Fadil and Imad al-Din insisted, for reasons of state, that it had to be a public event. Courtiers, poets, scholars and sheikhs, not to mention several waves of the local people, had gathered near the old lake to bid their Sultan farewell. Qara Kush and his men were keeping a path open from the palace for the Sultan and his immediate entourage, which included myself and, of course, Shadhi.
The reason for the excitement was obvious. Everyone was aware that Salah al-Din was going away for a long time. He would not return till he had defeated the Franj outside the gates of Jerusalem. The people wanted their Sultan to succeed, but they were also aware that the expedition was full of risks. The Sultan might perish, as he had almost done a year ago in some preliminary skirmishes with the enemy. On that occasion he had found a camel, clambered on its back, and found his way back to the city with a handful of warriors.
The Cairenes liked their Sultan. They knew that his tastes were modest and, unlike the Caliphs of the Fatimids, Salah al-Din had not taxed the people to accumulate a personal fortune. He rewarded his soldiers handsomely. His administrators had made sure that the country had not been plagued by famines. For all these reasons and many others, the people and their poets and musicians wanted Salah al-Din to think of them when he was away. They wanted him to return.
As we rode down the streets from the palace they were shouting: “Allah is Great,” “Victory to the Commander of the Valiant,” “There is only one Allah and Mohammed is his Prophet,” “Salah al-Din will return victorious.” The Sultan was touched by this reception. We were moving slowly, to give ordinary people the chance to touch the Sultan’s stirrup and bless his endeavours.
As we reached the site of the old lake, the nobles of the court were gathered in all their finery. Salah al-Din quickened the pace. It was clear that he was becoming impatient with the ritual. At the heart of the dried lake, he reined his horse to a stop. Farewells were spoken. On a raised platform, a young, cleanshaven poet rose to declaim some lines. The sight was too much for Shadhi, who belched in anticipation of early relief.
The Sultan’s face betrayed nothing as the following lines were recited:
“May Allah never bring you sorrow
May Allah never disturb the tranquillity of your sleep
May Allah never make your life a cup of bitterness
May Allah never melt your heart with grief
May Allah give you strength to defeat all our enemies
We bid you farewell with heavy hearts
Whose load can only be lightened with your return.”
Not to be outdone, an older man, his grey beard sparkling in the hot sun, took the stage and recited:
“Spring is the season that turns the year
Yusuf Salah al-Din’s greatness is our eternal spring
Sincerity rules his heart
Iron rules his mind.”
At this juncture the Sultan signalled to al-Fadil that it was time for him to leave. He saluted his nobles and kissed al-Fadil on both cheeks. There were tears in many eyes and these, unlike the poetry, were genuine. Just as we were leaving, an old man approached to kiss his hand. He was so aged that he did not have the strength to reach the Sultan’s stirrup. Salah al-Din jumped off the horse and embraced his well-wisher, who whispered something in his ear. I saw the Sultan’s face change. He looked at the old man closely, but his face, now wreathed in smiles, taught Salah al-Din nothing. Shadhi rode up to the Sultan.
“What did the old man say?”
Salah al-Din’s face was downcast.
“He said I should bid the Nile a fond farewell since it was written in the stars that I would never see it again.”
Shadhi snorted, but it was clear that the discordant note had eclipsed the preceding good will. Bad omens displease all rulers, even those who claim not to believe in them. Our departure was abrupt. Salah al-Din turned his horse sharply and we rode out of the city.
Our party numbered three thousand men, most of them soldiers who had fought at the Sultan’s side for many years. These were tried and trusted swordsmen and archers, each of them adept on horseback. I noticed three veterans, who had, till our departure, been attached to the School of Sword-Makers. There they had taught both the art of sword-fighting and the skill required to make a sword. All three were from Damascus, and were pleased to be returning to their families.
Jamila and Halima, together with their retinue, had left Cairo three days ago, though many of the former slave-girls who had produced the Sultan’s children were not accompanying him to Damascus. I wondered what he was thinking. The Sultan spoke little while he rode, a habit inherited from his father rather than his uncle Shirkuh who, according to Shadhi, found it difficult to keep his thoughts to himself regardless of the circumstances.
News of our departure was hardly a secret. The Franj were aware of what was happening and had their soldiers on the borderlands waiting to pounce on us. So to avoid an ambush, Salah al-Din had ordered the Bedouins to plan a route which avoided the Franj. He was not in a mood for either a show or a test of strength. He was a man possessed with only one idea in his head. Everything else had to wait till it had been accomplished.
As in the past, however, local rivalries would not permit him to concentrate his energies on freeing Jerusalem.
Later that evening, as we reached the desert and made camp for the night, Salah al-Din summoned the emirs to his tent. Shadhi and I were left free to admire the stars. The old man was in an affectionate mood, but even so I was surprised by the turn our conversation had taken. After talking about his impending death, he suddenly changed tune.
“I hope you have truly forgiven your wife, Ibn Yakub. I know that in Allah’s scale, adultery is never treated lightly, but in our lives you must understand that what took place between her and Ibn Maymun was not of great importance. I’ve startled you. How do I know? One of the Kadi’s spies keeps a watchful eye on the movements of the great physician, for his own protection, you understand. He appears to have watched him a bit too closely. A report was made to the Kadi, who informed the Sultan in my presence. It was Salah al-Din who decided that you should not be informed. He made me swear an old mountain oath to that effect. He values you greatly and did not want you upset. At one stage we even discussed finding you a new woman.”
I was silent. It was cold comfort that these people knew everything about me. I was not concerned about Shadhi. I might even have told him myself, but the Kadi and the Sultan? Why did they know? What right had they to spy on anyone? I was gripped by
anger. Inwardly I cursed Rachel for having betrayed me. Above all, I felt shamed. In their eyes now I was not just a scribe, but also a cuckold. I took my leave of Shadhi and walked for a while. In front of me the desert was like a dark blanket. Above me the stars were laughing in the sky.
And this was just the first day of our journey. There were to be thirty more. I looked back in the direction from whence we had come, but all I could see was the dark and bitter cold of the night desert. I clutched the blanket tightly around my body and covered my head as I bade farewell to Cairo.
DAMASCUS
Eighteen
I meet the Sultan’s favourite nephews and hear them talk of liberating Jerusalem
IT SEEMED AS IF we had arrived in Damascus only a few hours ago. In reality we had already been here for two weeks, but it had taken that long for me to recover from the torment of the four weeks that preceded our arrival. The journey had proved uneventful for everyone else, but not for me. I was now capable of riding and controlling a horse, but the activity was not greatly pleasurable. My face had been badly burnt by the sun and, had it not been for the ointments carried by our Bedouin scouts, the pain alone would have killed me.
I could only thank my stars for having been born a Jew. If I had become a follower of the Prophet of Islam I, too, would have been compelled like the bulk of the soldiers and emirs to turn towards Mecca and say my prayers five times a day, usually in the heat of the desert sun. The Sultan, whom I had never thought of as a deeply religious man, was, in his role as commander of his troops, very insistent on observing the rituals of his religion. The lack of water for the ablutions posed no problem. Sand became an easy substitute. Shadhi pleaded old age to avoid the mass prayers. One day as he saw the Sultan lead the prayers he whispered: “It is just as well there are no Franj in the vicinity. The sight of three thousand good Believers with their arses in the air might prove too easy a target.”