by Tariq Ali
“I had come to this quarter on that particular day for one reason alone. I wanted to catch sight of her coming out of church with her family. We would exchange glances, but that was not the sole reason for my journey to this quarter. If the scarf was white it was bad news, and meant we could not meet later that day.
“If, however, she was wearing a coloured headscarf it was a sign that we would meet later that evening, at the house of one of her married friends. There we might hold hands in tender silence. Any attempt by me to stroke her face or kiss her lips had been firmly rebuffed. Last week she had taken me by surprise, by responding warmly to my lukewarm effort to go beyond holding hands. She had not merely kissed me, but guided my hand to feel her warm and trembling breasts. Having set me on fire, she had refused to put out the flames, leaving me frustrated and in a state of considerable despair.
“‘One citadel at a time, Usamah. Why are you so impatient?’ Having whispered these words in my ear she had fled, leaving me alone to cool myself. It was this change in her attitude that had given this particular day its importance. I was dreaming of conquering the citadel that lay hidden under that perfumed forest of hair between her legs.
“She emerged from the church, wearing a coloured scarf. We exchanged smiles and I walked away, surprised at my own self-control. I wanted to jump up and down and shout to all the other people on the street that exquisite raptures awaited me that afternoon. Happy is the one who has experienced the torments, tempests and passions of everyday life, for only he can truly enjoy the fragile and tender delights of love.
“I waited for her at the house of her friend, but she did not arrive. After two hours a servant-boy came with a letter addressed to her friend. She had made the mistake of confiding her growing love for me to her older sister, who, overcome by jealousy, had informed their mother. She was worried that her parents would now hasten her marriage to the son of a local merchant. She pleaded with me not to act rashly, but to await a message from her.
“I was desolate. I wandered the streets like a lost soul and wandered into the tavern of lofty thoughts with only one thought, namely to drown my sorrows. To my amazement they were not serving wine that day. The innkeeper informed me that they never served wine in his establishment on the Sabbath. I found this odd, since alcohol had always been part of their pagan church ritual, symbolising as it did, the blood of Isa.
“I protested and was informed in a cold voice that the prohibition had nothing to do with religion. It was simply the day designated for lofty thoughts. I was welcome to repair to a neighbouring tavern. I looked around and realised that the clientele, too, was unusual. There were over fifty people, mainly men, but a dozen women. Most of them were old. I think, leaving me aside, the youngest person present must have been forty years of age.
“The arrogance of these people attracted me to them while simultaneously distracting me from my more immediate concerns. I asked whether I could participate in their discussion and was answered by a few affirmative nods of the head, mainly from the women present. The others looked at me with cold indifference, almost as if I were a stray dog desperate for a bone.
“It became a matter of pride. I decided to stay, to melt their coldness and pierce the cloud of aloofness that surrounded them like a halo. From their expressions I could see that they saw me as a shallow youth with nothing to teach them. They were probably correct, but it annoyed me and I became desperate to prove them wrong. This whole business had begun to distract me from the blow I had suffered earlier that afternoon, and for that I was immensely grateful.
“I took my seat on the floor. The subject for that evening’s discussion seemed relevant enough to my problems: ‘The escape from anxiety.’ The speaker was Ibn Zayd, a traveller and a historian from Valencia in Andalus.
“I should have known. Only the Andalusians were capable of dissecting the meanings of concepts and words that we took for granted. The distance from Mecca had given their minds a freedom greatly envied by our own scholars.
“The Sultan may frown, but what I say is acknowledged by all our scholars. Even our great Imad al-Din, who disapproves of my habits and way of life, would confirm this well-known fact. It is true we have had our share of sceptics, and one was even executed on the orders of the Sultan, but not on the scale of Andalus. We can discuss scepticism another day.
“With the Sultan’s permission, I will continue the sad story of my youth. Ibn Zayd must have been in his late forties. Only a few grey hairs were visible in his raven-black beard. He spoke our language with an Andalusian lilt, but despite the strangeness of his accent, his voice was like that of the singer-boatmen of the Nile, both soft and deep at the same time.
“He began by informing us that the talk he was about to give us was not original, but based on the Philosophy of Character and Conduct, by Ibn Hazm, in front of whom even the greatest intellect is abashed. He, Ibn Zayd, had his own criticisms of the master-work, but without it nothing could have been possible.
“He spoke of how Ibn Hazm wrote that all human beings are guided by one aim. The desire to escape anxiety. This applied equally to rich and poor, to Sultan and mamluk, to scholars and illiterates, to women and eunuchs, to those who crave sensuality and dark delights as well as ascetics. They all seek freedom from worry. Few follow the same path in achieving this aim, but the wish to escape from anxiety has been the common purpose of humanity since it appeared on this earth.
“He then took out from his little bag a book with a gilded cover, but which must have been read many times, for it was faded. Ibn Yakub and Imad al-Din will understand that nothing affords a book greater delight than being passed from hand to hand. This was one such book, the Philosophy of Ibn Hazm. He had marked a passage which he now read to us in his quaint Arabic.
“Subsequently I, too, obtained a copy of the book and read that passage many times, with the result that, like passages from our own divine Book, it is now imprinted on my mind:
“‘Those who crave riches seek them only in order to drive the fear of poverty out of their spirits; others seek for glory to free themselves from the fear of being scorned; some seek sensual delights to escape the pain of privations; some seek knowledge to cast out the uncertainty of ignorance; others delight in hearing news and conversation because they seek by these means to dispel the sorrow of solitude and isolation. In brief, man eats, drinks, marries, watches, plays, lives under a roof, rides, walks, or remains still with the sole aim of driving out their contraries and, in general, all other anxieties. Yet each of these actions is in turn an inescapable hotbed of new anxieties.’
“That is all I can recall today, though some years ago I could recite the entire passage. Our traveller from Andalus developed Ibn Hazm’s argument further, and the more we heard the more entranced we became. Before this I had never been exposed to philosophy, and suddenly I could see why the theologians regarded it as pure poison.
“It soon became obvious that Ibn Zayd’s criticisms of Ibn Hazm’s philosophy would never come to light, for the simple reason that he had none. He worshipped the works of Ibn Hazm but thought it prudent to dissociate himself from them, just in case the Kadi had sent a few spies to report on the meeting. The essence of Ibn Hazm’s philosophy lay in his belief that man could, through his own actions alone, rid himself of all anxieties. He did not need any help.”
“Heresy! Blasphemy!” shouted the Sultan. “Where is Allah and his Prophet in this philosophy?”
“Exactly so, my Sultan,” replied Usamah. “That is what the theologians asked as they burnt Ibn Hazm’s books outside the mosques. But that was many years ago, before the Franj polluted our soil. Our knowledge is much more advanced now, and I am sure our great scholars like Imad al-Din would prove Ibn Hazm wrong in the space of a few minutes.”
Imad al-Din glowed with anger, and stared at Usamah with undisguised hatred. He did not speak.
“What was the point of this story, Usamah?” asked the Sultan. “Did you finally get the Christian girl?�
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The old man chuckled. He had put the choicest morsels of Arab philosophy before the Sultan, and all he wanted was the story of the girl.
“I did not get the girl, Commander of the Ingenious, but the ending of that day in the tavern of lofty thoughts took me by surprise, as it will you if I have permission to finish.”
The Sultan nodded his approval.
“At the conclusion of the meeting I asked several questions, partially because the Andalusian had aroused my genuine interest, and partially to show the others present that I was not an ignorant fool intent simply on hedonism. It would be too wearisome to recount my own triumph and, unlike Imad al-Din, I rarely make notes of all my encounters. But let it be said that my remarks made a deep impression on Ibn Zayd. He became more and more animated and soon we repaired to a tavern which served a brew more potent than lofty thoughts. We talked throughout the night. We were both in a state of modest inebriety. At this stage he extended his hand and clasped my penis. The expression on my face surprised him.
“‘You seem anxious, my young friend. Do we not agree that anxiety should be expelled from our spirit?’
“I replied: ‘My anxiety will only be dispelled if you ungrasp my penis immediately.’ He did not persist, but began to weep.
“Out of pity I guided him out of the Christian quarter and back into ours. There I left him, happily occupied in that male brothel which is frequented by many from the citadel. Do you remember the street where it is situated, Imad al-Din? My memory escapes me again. The price of old age.”
Once again Imad al-Din did not reply, but once again the Sultan began to laugh as he congratulated Usamah.
“I think the moral of your story is how easily even men with the most lofty thoughts can degenerate into a debased sensuality. Am I correct, Usamah ibn Munqidh?”
Usamah was delighted with the praise, but refrained from endorsing the Sultan’s view.
“That is certainly one possible interpretation, Commander of the Wise.”
Twenty-Four
The Caliph’s letter and the Sultan’s reply, mediated by Imad al-Din’s diplomacy and intelligence; Jamila’s discourse on love
THE SULTAN, DRESSED IN his formal robes of office, was seated cross-legged on a raised platform, surrounded by the most powerful men in Damascus. I had been summoned earlier, but he had no time to speak with me and I stood in a corner waiting for the ceremony to begin.
The chamberlain clapped his hands twice and Imad al-Din ushered in the ambassador from the Caliph in Baghdad, who fell on his knees before the Sultan. Rising slowly, he presented him with a letter from his master on a little silver platter. The Sultan did not touch it, but signalled to Imad al-Din, who bowed to the ambassador and accepted the royal communication.
Normally any such letter was read aloud before the court so that the message could be made known to a slightly wider public. But Salah al-Din, presumably to express his irritation with Baghdad, dispensed with tradition and dismissed the court. Only Imad al-Din and myself were asked to remain behind.
The Sultan was not in a light mood that morning. He frowned at his secretary of state.
“I suppose you know what the letter contains?”
Imad al-Din nodded.
“It is not a well-written letter, which means that Saif al-Din must be ill or otherwise engaged. The letter is long, and full of inept flattery and clumsy sentences. It refers to you as the ‘Sword of the Faith’ on four separate occasions, but its purpose is expressed in one sentence. The Commander of the Faithful wishes to be informed as to when you intend to renew the jihad against the unbelievers. He also asks whether you will find time to make the pilgrimage to Mecca this year and kiss the Ka’aba.”
The Sultan’s face grew dark.
“Take my reply, Imad al-Din. Write it as I speak. You too, Ibn Yakub, so we have another copy immediately. I know that Imad al-Din will coat my words with honey, and for that reason we shall compare the two versions at my leisure. Are you ready?”
We nodded, and dipped our pens in the ink.
“To the Commander of the Faithful. From his humble servant, Salah al-Din ibn Ayyub.
“You ask when I intend to renew our war against the Franj. I reply when, and only when, I am sure that there is no dissension within our own camp, and when you will use the authority vested in you by Allah and the Prophet to warn all Believers who collaborate with the Franj for petty gain, to desist from their acts which harm our cause. As you know full well, I have been trying to tame some of the princes whose citadels are not far from the Euphrates. On each occasion they have refused to accept your authority, and have gone hands outstretched to plead for money and support from our enemies. If you can keep vermin of this sort under control, I will take al-Kuds within the next year.
“I have fought so many battles in recent years that my cheeks have become permanently scorched by the sun. Alas, many of these wars have been against Believers, which has weakened our cause.
“Reynald, that visitor from Hell, under whose cold and emotionless gaze so many of our women and children have died and whose terror has even silenced the birds, whose name is used to frighten recalcitrant peasants, that Reynald still lives, while his puppet in al-Kuds who they refer to as ‘King Guy’ refuses to honour the terms of the truce. Our soldiers still rot in the dungeons of Karak, in open violation of all that was agreed between both sides.
“I say this so that the Commander of the Faithful realises that it is some of the so-called Faithful who have prevented me from fulfilling our aims this year. Fortunately for us the Franj, too, are divided. The noble Raymond of Tripoli, who, I hope, will one day become a Believer, has sent me much valuable information. Be reassured that the jihad will be resumed very soon, provided the Commander of the Faithful plays his part in the campaign.
“I share your worry regarding my inability, till now, to make the pilgrimage to Mecca. I ask Allah’s forgiveness each time I offer prayers. I am so busy as the ‘Sword of the Faith’ that I have not yet found time to kiss the Ka’aba. I will make up for this lapse soon, after I have taken al-Kuds, and given thanks for our victory to Allah at the Dome of the Rock. I pray for your health.”
The Sultan had barely left the chamber to relieve himself when Imad al-Din exploded.
“This letter is a disgrace, Ibn Yakub. A disgrace. It will have to be rewritten from beginning to end. A letter from the most powerful Sultan in the land to the Caliph, whose authority is great but whose power is weak, must be dignified as befits the position of Salah al-Din.
“What you have transcribed will give offence, but without being effective. It is couched in crude language, its tone is petulant, and it fails to deploy an irony that would deceive the Caliph, while simultaneously alarming his more astute advisers.
“It has one serious factual error. Our Sultan is besotted with Count Raymond of Tripoli. It is true that Raymond has helped us in the past, but precisely because of that he was accused of treachery and collaboration with the enemy. Our intelligence reports suggest that he has now made his peace, sworn an oath of loyalty to the so-called King of Jerusalem, and is pledged to take arms against us. The Caliph must be informed of this fact. The Sultan’s hope of converting Raymond could, in the circumstances, appear as a serious misjudgement. If you don’t object, Ibn Yakub, I will take your copy as well and have a new version prepared tomorrow.”
Despite the Sultan’s express instructions to the contrary, I could not resist the great scholar’s logic. I meekly handed him my copy of the letter. He marched out of the chamber with a triumphant smile, leaving me alone to confront the wrath of my master. When Salah al-Din returned he was, to my pleasure and relief, accompanied by the Sultana Jamila, whose return to Damascus had been reported to me by Amjad the eunuch earlier that day. The Sultan gave me a knowing smile, as if to indicate that he was not surprised at Imad al-Din’s absence. I bowed before the Sultana, whose complexion had fed on the sun. She was much darker now, but the lines of worry that had marke
d her forehead and the space below her eyes had disappeared.
“Welcome back, Princess. The citadel was dark without your light.”
She laughed, and immediately I knew that she had recovered from the pain of Halima’s betrayal. It was her old laugh, and her shoulders shook as she watched me.
“A compliment from you, good friend Ibn Yakub, is as rare as a camel with a scented behind. I, too, am glad to be back. It is wonderful, is it not, how distance from pain can heal our innermost wounds better than anything else?”
The Sultan was clearly pleased by her return, though I was surprised by her openness in his presence. He read my thoughts.
“Jamila and I are now good friends, scribe. We have no secrets from each other. Do you know what this woman has been reading in her father’s palace?”
I shook my head respectfully.
“Blasphemy. Cursed philosophy. Scepticism.”
Jamila smiled.
“He is not wrong this time. I have been devouring the writings of al-Farabi. He has reinforced my instinctive belief that human reason is superior to all religious faiths, ours included. His writings are more convincing than the works of Ibn Hazm.”
The Sultan grimaced and took his leave, but told me to stay.
“I am preparing the orders for the last battle of this jihad, Ibn Yakub, to show that our religious faith is superior to that of the Franj. You are welcome to listen to Jamila’s stories, but I forbid you to be convinced by her. Heads may roll if you do.”
“I am only the storyteller, O great Sultan.”
Jamila had lit a pipe of banj and smiled at my surprised expression.
“I permit myself this indulgence once a week. It was more than that when I arrived at my father’s palace, but it helped to deaden the pain. It relaxes me, yet if I smoke a pipe more than once a week it slows down my brain. I find it difficult to think or concentrate my attention on a book.”