by Tariq Ali
“It is good to hear the Sultana laugh again as she used to in the old days. I hope you are fully recovered, and that the hurt you suffered is now firmly in the past.”
She was touched by my concern.
“Thank you, my friend. I thought of you often while I was away. Once I even had an imaginary conversation with you which was very soothing. It is strange how our deepest and most heartfelt emotions can be so transient. In Arab and Persian literature, if the river of true love is diverted, it must perforce travel through a valley of madness. A lover deprived of his beloved loses his mind. This is sheer nonsense. People love. Their love is rejected. They suffer. Do you know of a single case where any person has really lost his or her mind? Has this ever happened, or is it a poet’s fantasia?”
I thought for a long time before a reply worthy of her question came to mind.
“Love is the music that is first heard by our soul and then transferred slowly to the heart. I have known instances where a deprived lover enters into a deep decline and his entire life-pattern is transformed. He suffers from a dull headache that never leaves him, and his mind is numbed by the sense of loss. One such person was Shadhi, who is now no more.”
She interrupted me.
“I am sad that he is dead, but there are limits, Ibn Yakub. You talk of love as the poetry of the soul, and in the same breath you talk of Shadhi, a crude, uncouth mountain goat. Is this a callous joke? Are you mocking me?”
I told her then of the tragedy that had befallen Shadhi, of how the only woman he had ever loved had taken her own life, and of the price he had paid for his cruel mistake. The tale astonished her.
“Strange how you can see a person every day, but not know his real story. I’m glad you told me, Ibn Yakub. So, the old goat did have a heart, but surely you agree that the permanent loss of his love did not make him go mad. One of the more reassuring things about him was his ability to distance himself from events and individuals and look at both with an indifferent rationality. The sign of a totally sane person.”
“Madness can take many forms, Sultana. Our poets paint a picture of the distressed lover as a long-haired youth, whose hair has greyed prematurely and who wanders the desert talking to himself, or who sits at the edge of a stream and stares endlessly at the water, seeing in it the images of his lost one. In reality, as you know even better than me, madness can make you bent on a cruel revenge. You conceal your feelings by wearing a polite mask. You talk to your friends as if nothing had happened. Yet inside your blood boils with rage, with anger, and with jealousy, and you want to skewer those who have caused you pain and burn them on an open fire. You can only do so in your imagination, though even that helps to ease the torment, and slowly you are able to rebuild your strength.”
She looked at me, and the old sad smile reappeared.
“How many times did you burn Ibn Maymun, my friend?”
She, too, knew my story.
“I was not talking of myself, Sultana. Let me give you another example. The case of our young poet Ibn Umar, all of nineteen years old, yet he produces verses that make grown men weep. The whole of Damascus sings his praises. Cups of wine are drunk in his honour in every tavern. Young men talk to their lovers in Ibn Umar’s language...”
“I know all about this boy,” she said impatiently. “What has happened to him?”
“While you were away, he fell in love with a married woman, several years older than him. She encouraged his attentions and the inevitable tragedy occurred. They became lovers. Her husband was informed of what was taking place and he had her poisoned. Simple solution to a simple problem. Ibn Umar and his circle of friends, however, refused to let the matter rest in the grave. One day, while in their cups, they planned their revenge. The husband, a decent man by all accounts, was ambushed and battered to death on the street. The Kadi arrested Ibn Umar, who confessed everything.
“The city was divided. Those under forty years of age wanted the poet released. The rest demanded his execution. Ibn Umar was indifferent to his fate. He carried on writing, till the Sultan intervened.”
“Ah, yes, the judgement of Salah al-Din,” she said with a laugh. “Tell me about it.”
“Ibn Umar has been sent to join the Sultan’s son in the army which is assembling near Galilee.”
“Typical.” she muttered. “The Sultan has lost interest in poetry. Twenty years ago he could recite whole poems with real passion. Sending poets to fight in wars is like roasting nightingales. I will have that boy returned.”
Twenty-Five
I dream of Shadhi; the Sultan plans his war
“IN THE MOUNTAINS THE cowherds used to suck the vagina of the cow while she was being milked. They claimed it improved the quality and the quantity of the milk. As boys we used to watch them and get excited. Which part of your wife excites you the most, Ibn Yakub? Her breasts or her behind?”
It was typical of Shadhi. He often asked a question without waiting for my reply. This time he began to laugh. Noisy, crude, laughter.
I was dreaming. The only reason I remember this trivial dream is that it was brutally interrupted by a deafening and insistent knocking at the front gate. Rachel was still asleep, but my sudden leap out of bed disturbed her and she began to stir. I opened the shutter. It was still not morning, though signs of dawn were visible on the horizon in the shape of a single, thin stripe of red. I pulled on my gown and hurried through the courtyard to open the gate.
I was greeted by the familiar smile of Amjad the eunuch. His smile, which so often irritated me, now seemed reassuring.
“The Sultan wants you in the council chamber before the day breaks. Should we return together?”
“No!” I replied, my voice harsher than I had intended, something I immediately regretted. “Forgive me, Amjad. I have only just risen from bed and need a few minutes to recover and prepare for the Sultan. I will follow you very soon.”
He smiled and went on his way. It was strange how he rarely took offence. During my first few months in Damascus I had been rude to him for no other reason except that I disliked his facial expressions. Yet Shadhi had liked him, and Jamila trusted him completely. It was this combination that had changed my own attitude.
Rachel was wide awake when I returned to our bedchamber. She was sitting up in bed drinking water. Her nakedness stirred me, and watching her breasts sway as she moved made me laugh. I told her of my dream. She saw the lust in my eyes and, throwing off the sheet that covered the rest of her body, she smiled and extended her arms, offering me an embrace and possibly something more.
“The Sultan is waiting,” I began apologetically, but she interrupted me.
“I can see that for myself,” she replied as she jumped out of bed and put her hand between my legs. “The Sultan is erect and ready to mount for battle.”
Reader, I succumbed.
I ran most of the way to the citadel. The city was still asleep, though the muezzins were clearing their throats as they prepared to call the faithful to prayer. Here and there a dog stood outside a front gate and barked at me as I hurried to the Sultan.
“You are late today, Ibn Yakub,” said the Sultan, but without any note of displeasure. “Your wife’s embrace kept you from us?”
I bowed low before him in silent apology. He accepted it with a smile and indicated with a gesture that he wished me to be seated just below him.
My eyes had been so completely fixed on the Sultan that when I now observed the room I was taken aback by those who were present. This was no ordinary gathering. Apart from the Kadi al-Fadil and Imad al-Din, all the emirs were present who commanded different segments of the Sultan’s armies. No, not all. Taki al-Din and Keukburi were absent. The Sultan had referred to them as his “two arms” without whom he was powerless. It was his way of stating publicly that he trusted both men with his life.
As far as Taki al-Din was concerned this was no surprise. He was Salah al-Din’s favourite nephew and he treated him as he himself had once been treated by his
own uncle Shirkuh. In fact, Taki al-Din’s presence caused the Sultan to shed the instinctive caution he had inherited from Ayyub, his father. He had once told me that in times of crisis there was a battle for his soul between Ayyub and Shirkuh, and it was pure luck as to which of them won. Taki al-Din reminded him of his own youth, and in some ways he wished that this nephew rather than al-Afdal, his own son, could succeed him. This he had confessed, not to me but to old Shadhi, who had eagerly passed on the information. On this question he agreed enthusiastically with Salah al-Din.
Emir Keukburi was a different matter altogether. There had been a time, only three or four years ago, when Salah al-Din had provoked widespread incredulity and ordered his arrest. It was the time when he was consolidating his empire to prepare for the day that had now arrived. It had taken the Sultan three days, with the help of Keukburi and his men, to ferry his troops across the Euphrates. He had then marched on to Harran. There, he had spent a morning playing chogan with his host. When the game was over, the Sultan’s bodyguards had placed the Emir Keukburi under arrest. Pigeons carried the news to Cairo and Damascus.
The Kadi al-Fadil was on one of his tours of inspection around Cairo. He was stunned by the news and immediately wrote a powerful and moving plea to Salah al-Din. He has given me a copy of the letter for my book. It read as follows:
Most Gracious and Generous Sultan:
A letter from Imad al-Din informs me that you are angry with Keukburi and have had him arrested. I remember well the heat and dust of Harran, which affects us all, and I have little doubt that your kindness and generosity will once again prevail over your anger. I know you have Imad al-Din by your side, but if you feel that my presence, too, might be useful or desirable, I will banish my dislike of Harran. I will make way by mule, endure the wretched heat without a tent, and be at your side very soon. I am disturbed and slightly confused by what I hear. I think the Sultan has made an error of judgement.
Emir Keukburi regards you as a father. He has always been loyal and has proved himself by persuading his brother to back you against the Lords of Mosul. He was an example to all who wished to serve your cause. The intimacy you have shown him has undoubtedly gone to his head. He is like a young pup who, when stroked too often by his master, sometimes bites him. Yet the bite expresses an overflowing affection rather than anger. I would be prepared to offer my own head to the executioner’s blade if Keukburi ever betrays our interests. He is young, ambitious, and wants to prove himself in battle by your side.
Imad al-Din writes that you were retaliating because Keukburi had promised 50,000 dinars to the Treasury the day you reached Harran, and then reneged on his pledge, claiming that it had been made by an envoy who had not consulted him. Since the money is for the jihad, I know how angry this must have made you, but your generosity is the source of all the pure, sweet water that flows in our lands. Forgive him and I can assure you that he will have learnt his lesson.
Your humble servant, al-Fadil.
Keukburi was pardoned and never offended the Sultan again. But the cause was not simply the confusion over the payment of 50,000 dinars. The Sultan told me that the matter had been far more serious. Keukburi had been the intermediary between his brother, the Emir of Irbil, and the Sultan. In return for his loyalty, Keukburi had negotiated extra lands for his brother. Once the Sultan was in complete control of the region, Keukburi had suggested that the lands given to his brother should be transferred to his own estate. The proposal had enraged Salah al-Din, for whom family loyalty was a critical test of a person’s character. He had contemptuously rejected the suggestion and begun to doubt Keukburi’s loyalty to himself.
These facts were not divulged to al-Fadil by Imad al-Din for the simple reason that the great scholar had become infatuated with the Emir of Harran. He was, if the truth be told, a strikingly handsome specimen, though not inclined to the pleasures favoured by our worthy bibliophile.
After a few months, Keukburi was pardoned. He was never to fall out of step with Salah al-Din again. He learnt, as al-Fadil had so wisely predicted, that there were some things in this world more precious to the Sultan than all the wealth of China and India. These included keeping one’s word to both friend and foe. On this he could never be challenged, let alone be convinced of an alternative course of action.
Keukburi had earned back his Sultan’s trust, and now, even as we gathered in this assembly, he and Taki al-Din were camped in the valley of Galilee, patiently awaiting Salah al-Din’s arrival. Only then could they finalise their plans.
I realised that I had been invited, for the first time, to observe a council of war. The Sultan had clearly been speaking for some time. The interruption of my late arrival over, he continued to persuade them with a mixture of guile and flattery.
“Our desires are always disappointed by reality. That, as good Imad al-Din will tell you, is a fact of life. There are few of us who can say that everything they wished has come to pass. My enemies, of which there are not a few, say to the Caliph: ‘Salah al-Din prefers to attack us and forget the infidels.’ They say that all I am interested in is establishing my own family in power and amassing wealth. What they accuse me of is what they do themselves. It is much easier, I suppose, to burden me with their guilt. Yet before this year is over, these tongues will be silenced forever.
“I know that some of you are reluctant to attack the Franj at this particular time. Perhaps you are correct to be apprehensive, but those who delay too long, those who only go halfway, usually end up digging their own graves.
“Let me speak plainly. We do not have more time. Allah alone knows how much longer I have in this world. As I look at you, I see men who have fought so many battles that nature has prematurely aged them. I see grey hairs in all your beards. None of us has a great deal of time.
“Our spies report that the Franj have between twelve and fifteen thousand knights and twenty thousand soldiers on foot to defend their Kingdom of Jerusalem. We must prepare an army which will destroy their backbone. An army of Believers that will scale the walls of al-Kuds and ensure that the familiar and reassuring cry, ‘Allah is Great’, is heard once again in that great city.
“This time we must cut them so deep that they leave our lands and never return. Our army is the only army that can achieve this aim. Not because Allah has given us more brains or more strength, but because we alone pursue such an end. It is our determination that will give strength to those who fight under our banners. Soon we will wipe out the stain of our defeat at the hands of these barbarians for ever. I am not given to proud boasts, for they have been the downfall of Believers. Yet I am burning with confidence.
“Our soldiers from Misr and Sham alone could defeat the enemy, but everyone now wants to be on our side. The Emirs of Mosul, Sinjar, Irbil and Harran all want to be represented in our army. The Kurds in the mountains beyond the Tigris are promising us a band of warriors. In the past, they often resented the successes of my father and my uncle Shirkuh. Now they have pledged themselves to join in the battle for al-Kuds or to die in the attempt. Their messenger came yesterday and told me that they will only fight by our side if they are allowed to be the first to take the city. Strange, is it not, Imad al-Din, how the smell of success travels so far and so fast?”
The great scholar, whose eyes had been shut for most of the Sultan’s speech was clearly not asleep.
“It is not simply the scent of victory in their nostrils that sends them to us, O Commander of the Victorious. They feel in their bones that our history is about to be refashioned. They want to tell their children and their grandchildren that they fought with Salah al-Din on the day that is about to happen.”
Salah al-Din, usually deaf to coarse flattery, was not displeased by Imad al-Din’s remarks.
“Tomorrow I leave Damascus to join the army, gathering for our last big effort. We will all leave at different times and by separate routes, just in case the Franj have prepared an ambush. If something happens to me before or during the battle
, I do not wish you to waste any time in mourning. Finish the work that Allah has given us, and never let the enemy think that the death of one single person could disorganise our force. Now leave, and may Allah give you the strength we need for victory. There is only one Allah and Mohammed is his Prophet.”
The emirs dispersed, but not before each of them had come forward to embrace the Sultan and kiss his cheeks. With the ritual over, the Sultan turned to the Kadi al-Fadil, and to Imad al-Din and myself.
“I want all of you to be at my side. Imad al-Din to compose letters demanding total surrender, al-Fadil to ensure that I make no mistakes in dealing with our own emirs, and Ibn Yakub to inscribe everything on parchment. Whatever Allah has decreed for us, be it victory or defeat, our children and their children will never be able to forget what we sacrificed for their future.”
This was the first occasion on which the Sultan had mentioned me in the same breath as al-Fadil and Imad al-Din. To write that I was flattered would be a terrible understatement. He recognised my worth, that alone was sufficient to make me feel I was in heaven. I could not wait to rush home and tell Rachel, but my pace slowed as I realised that this would be another long parting.
Before I could leave the citadel, the light-haired figure of Amjad the eunuch appeared before me. I groaned. He laughed.
“This time the call is from the Sultana Jamila. She requires your presence. Follow me, if you please.”
I never regretted a conversation with Jamila, which usually improved my knowledge of our world and my understanding of human emotions. But on this day, bursting with news of my little triumph, I wanted to share my joy with Rachel. It would have mitigated the sorrow of parting, but I was nothing more than a scribe and I obeyed orders. So, like a faithful dog, I followed Amjad the eunuch to the special chamber where the Sultana met male visitors. Her face was glowing with pleasure, and she smiled as I entered. The smile melted my heart and I felt guilty at having wished to avoid her. This was only the second occasion since her return from the lands in the South, and it confirmed me in my opinion that she was now fully recovered.