The Book of Saladin

by Tariq Ali

  It was not till I reached the platform where the Sultan was seated that I understood why the emirs were angry. What was being finalised by Salah al-Din and his closest family members was the division of the spoils, always a delicate moment after a city has been captured.

  Salah al-Din’s own inclinations were hardly a secret to the emirs. He would have ordered some of the money to be kept for the jihad and the rest shared out equally amongst all those Believers who had marched into the city. But his son reminded him of another tradition followed by rulers during a holy war. Leaving everything to their sons.

  Under great pressure, the Sultan had presented the town and all its estates to al-Afdal. The sugar refinery was a gift to Taki al-Din, and the great man of letters had been given a large house. Al-Afdal had already announced all this to the emirs, which was a mistake. They would have grumbled, but accepted the information with considerably more grace, if the Sultan himself had addressed them. Imad al-Din was hostile to the whole idea, and suggested that everything should be put into the war chest to fund the wars that were still to be fought.

  “Have no doubt, O Sultan,” he whispered to Salah al-Din, “the Franj will send for help across the water and more knights will arrive. We will need money if they launch their third ‘Crusade’!”

  Salah al-Din expressed agreement but shrugged his shoulders in resignation. Then he rose to speak to his emirs. For a moment, the silence was only broken by the cicadas outside.

  “I know what some of you are thinking. You are wondering why I am delaying the march to al-Kuds. Let me explain. I do not ever want al-Kuds to fall to the infidels again. If we took it tomorrow—and we might do so without too much trouble, with Allah’s help, since the Franj have lost their best knights in Hattin—that would be a crude mistake. Think, and you will understand what I’m saying. The Franj still occupy the coastal towns. It is in these towns and harbours that the ships will arrive from their distant homes, with more knights, more weapons, more crosses, more alcohol. They will all gather together with the infidels still here and lay siege to al-Kuds. It is simple.

  “For that reason we will divide our forces and take all the towns on the coast. As you know I am never happy when our army is divided and when emirs divide to lead squadrons in different battles. But that is what we are going to do before we reach al-Kuds. I want to shake the tree so hard that every orange lies on the ground, except one. That one we will pluck as if it were a rare and precious flower. Let us clear the coast of these infidels.

  “For me, Tyre is even more important than al-Kuds. If we take the harbour in that town, we will have the Franj by the throat for ever. The knights who come over the water will feel our fire while still on their ships. You want to know my plan? It is very simple. Listen carefully, for here it is. Ascalon. Jaffa. Saida. Beirut. Jubail, Tartus, Jabala, Latakia, Tyre and then al-Kuds.

  “If the Franj were our only enemy, with Allah’s help we would have driven them out of these lands years ago. We have three enemies apart from the Franj. Time, distance and those Believers who prefer to remain in their towers, observing the battle from afar. Like hyenas in their lair, they are too frightened to come out and watch the tigers fight each other. It is these Believers who have heaped shame, cowardice and disgrace on the name of our Prophet, peace be upon him. Let them know that we will win and that they will be disgraced and despised in the eyes of all Believers. Allah will help us conquer them all.”

  The Sultan’s words surprised the emirs. They were smiling and nodding as he spoke, and once he finished they chanted in one voice:

  “There is only one Allah and He is Allah and Mohammed is His Prophet.”

  Keukburi was the first to speak.

  “Commander of the Victorious, I am sure I speak for everyone present here when I say that truly you are favoured by Allah. I, too, had felt that we should not delay laying siege to al-Kuds. You have convinced me that I was wrong and that impatience is never a useful guide during a war.

  “With your permission I would like to ask you one question.”

  The Sultan nodded his agreement.

  “The only way we can conquer the coast rapidly is by dividing our forces, but...”

  “I know your worries, Keukburi, and I share them. I am always fearful when I dispatch my family or my close companions on expeditions where they are on their own, but this time we truly have no alternative. Speed is essential. I want our soldiers to cover the coast like ants. You, much-trusted Keukburi, must clear the road from Teveriya to here in Acre. Take every village and town, starting with Nazareth where Isa was born. Take the Templars’ castle at al-Fula. Hissam al-Din will take Sebaste and Nablus. Badr al-Din, you will move south and take Haifa, Arsuf and Kaisariya. Taki al-Din will march on Tibnin and Tyre, and I will take Beirut and Saida. Imad al-Din has worked hard and will give each of you an estimate of the resistance you are likely to meet in each of these towns. I think Nablus, where Believers outnumber the Franj by one hundred to one, is the only place where they might surrender. The Franj know of our successes, and elsewhere they might prefer to prolong their agony. In such cases give no quarter. Where they wish to negotiate a surrender, you must be generous, for it is not just Franj lives that are at risk. Allah be with you. We leave tomorrow.”

  On the following day, Salah al-Din, attired in a robe of honour and with a necklace of black and white pearls around his neck, made his way out of the city in a great procession. He was accompanied by all his emirs, who had come to say farewell before their own departures. The Sultan had selected his swordsmen, lancers and archers. They were men who had fought with him for several years. Imad al-Din and I rode by his side. Outside the gates of Acre we paused so that the Sultan could exchange a few last words with the emirs. Taki al-Din and Keukburi rode up to him, dismounted and kissed his robe. His expression became tender at the sight of these two young men, who had grown up before his eyes and who he trusted as much as he trusted himself. He smiled and told them to be on their way.

  “We shall meet the next time outside the gates of al-Kuds.”

  Then his son, young al-Afdal, dressed in full armour and preening himself as seventeen-year-old boys are wont to do, came galloping on a coal-black steed. He had some difficulty in reining in the horse, and that amused his father, who suppressed a smile. Al-Afdal leapt off the beast and kissed his father’s robe in an exaggerated fashion.

  “Allah guide you to rule this city well, al-Afdal,” said his father. “One day you and I will make the pilgrimage to Mecca together, but only after we have al-Kuds. Now go back to your city, but remember, we are all mortal, and rule only because the people let us rule. Avoid greed and never display ostentation. Rulers who behave thus only betray their own insecurity. I have placed my hopes in you, al-Afdal, and my biggest hope is that you will never disappoint me.”

  With these words the Sultan raised his right arm, and our army marched away from Acre.

  Thirty-Three

  Salah al-Din is hailed as the great Conqueror, but he decides not to take Tyre, despite Imad al-Din’s advice to the contrary

  WE MARCHED IN COMFORT. The Sultan did not wish to tire his soldiers without cause. Villages and towns fell without a struggle and he added them to his conquests, which began to appear like a garland of pearls. Everywhere the inhabitants, be they Believers or Christians, or indeed of my own faith, would gather to stare at him with inquisitive eyes. Often children were brought to him so that he could bless them with a touch on their tiny heads. The Believers rejoiced, but there was no gloating. I have noticed how common it is for the populace to hurl curses at those who have been defeated, and to sing songs of praise in honour of the victors. This is a rule of war. It is the way in which the people defend themselves against uncertainties.

  Yet in each village and town there are always those whose triumph rings false. In exhibiting their loyalty to the new conqueror, they defile the name of the old ruler, make tasteless jokes, and offend his reputation, like carrion to stray dogs. These are
usually those very people who never offered resistance to the Franj, but, in the wake of their defeat, have become loud-mouthed avengers, creating new identities for themselves.

  One would boast of how he found an isolated Franj knight near a stream and decapitated him so that the water ran red. Another would rival this tale with one even taller. He would speak of how, one night, he had caught a Franj knight violating the honour of a maiden, naturally a Believer, and driven his sword through the heart of the offender and then removed his testicles and fed them to the dogs.

  After a few experiences of this nature, the Sultan ordered that any who lied about their exploits would be publicly whipped. Word spread that this Sultan did not look kindly on liars, and the number of boasters dwindled. Salah al-Din was angered by the sight of worthless braggarts climbing on the corpses of those who, whatever their faults, had at least fallen in battle.

  As we approached Tyre, there was dissension in our ranks. Imad al-Din was of the opinion that the city should be taken immediately, despite its fortifications and although it would offer stiff resistance. He was backed by most of the emirs. They argued that since the Sultan himself had convinced them that the capture of Tyre was more important even than Jerusalem, it did not make sense to delay the attack.

  I well remember that evening as we set up camp in the midst of orange groves and wild flowers. Their scent overpowers me even as I recall that night. There were dark clouds in the sky as Salah al-Din walked up and down the camp. He spoke to nobody. Occasionally he would pluck an orange from the tree, peel the skin, and consume the fruit. The sound of distant thunder distracted him. As he looked up, the rain began to fall.

  He had been on his own for over an hour, while the emirs and Imad al-Din waited outside his tent. Now they all rushed in to take shelter.

  What was he thinking? He looked at their faces for a long time. He knew what they were thinking. Then he walked purposefully to the door of his tent and peered outside. It was still raining. He came back in and informed them that he had decided, on this occasion, to bypass Tyre. We would march to Saida, and later move on to Beirut. Tyre would have to wait till our return journey to Jerusalem.

  The disappointment was plain on every face, but nobody questioned the Sultan’s judgement. Even Imad al-Din, who was normally outspoken in the extreme, was silent. He told me later that though he knew the decision was wrong, he did not feel that he possessed the degree of military competence necessary to challenge the Sultan. The Sultan’s resolve had little to do with the needs of the jihad. It was an atypical act of pure sentimentality.

  “I know they think I am wrong, Ibn Yakub,” he confessed that night, soon after we had dined on his favourite bean stew. “The fact is that my old friend Raymond of Tripoli hides in the citadel in Tyre. I let him escape at Hattin. His pride will not let him surrender, and I still do not wish to kill him. Fate has conspired to make us enemies, but, for my part, I still feel close to him. Friendship is a sacred trust. My father and uncle taught me that when I was still a boy, and I have never forgotten. Now my head tells me I am wrong, but my heart will not permit a breach of trust. Do you understand? Or have you, too, like Imad al-Din, become so completely absorbed by our victories that trust and friendship have become empty words that no longer matter to you? It is always the same. We who do the fighting understand its limitations better than you who stay in your tents and scribble.”

  I took the opportunity he had so kindly provided to differentiate my opinions from those of Imad al-Din, but I told him that it was not just the great scholar who was upset. The emirs, and some of the soldiers as well, felt it was a mistake not to take Tyre. At this he became quietly thoughtful again, dispensing with my services for the rest of the evening.

  There was a gentle breeze as I walked out of his tent into the night. The rain had stopped. The clouds had cleared and a carpet of stars hung in the sky. Suddenly, all my senses were assailed by a mixture of scents in that orange grove. Wild flowers. Jasmine. Oranges. Herbs. The wet earth. Each exuded its own special fragrance, but it was the combination that was overwhelming. I decided to go for a walk, but Imad al-Din would not permit me to enjoy the solitude. His retainer had been waiting for me to leave the Sultan’s tent, and informed me that his master anxiously awaited my presence. What choice does a humble scribe have in the face of such powerful pressure? I gave up my walk and followed the retainer to Imad al-Din’s tent. He was in a tetchy mood. Wars and the rough life of a camp did not suit the great man. He missed his comforts, his boys, his wine, his food and his Damascus. He growled as I appeared.

  “Well?”

  I feigned puzzlement at the question.

  “Why in Allah’s name has Salah al-Din decided to ignore Tyre? It is a very foolish decision!”

  I smiled and shrugged my shoulders.

  “I am only his scribe, master. He does not confide in me.”

  “You are a sly, lying son of a...”

  I begged him not to complete the sentence.

  “When, long years ago in Cairo, the Sultan decided to employ me, he made it clear that everything said to me was confidential. He also kept me out of the meetings of his war council because he feared that the Franj might kidnap me and torture me to learn the secrets of his war plans. I have no idea as to the military reasons for not taking Tyre.”

  Imad al-Din stood up, lifted his right leg, and passed wind very loudly.

  “You have become a bit too clever for your own good. There is no military reason. It is sentiment that dictates this decision. His friend, Raymond of Tripoli, is in Tyre. We all know. If Raymond was his lover, I would still be critical of his decision, but my disapproval would be veiled with understanding. Friendship has no place in the midst of a jihad where the very future of our faith is at stake. His instincts misled him. His decision was misguided. The great Nur al-Din would never have tolerated such nonsense!”

  “Perhaps what you say is correct,” I replied. “Yet surely the fact is that the devout Sultan Nur al-Din, despite all his longing to do so, could not take Jerusalem. Our Sultan will not fail.”

  “I hope so,” said Imad al-Din, “and I pray that what you say will happen, but I am not so sure. There are no certainties in history.”

  Two days later, Saida surrendered and we marched into the city. For the moment, the question of Tyre seemed forgotten. The Sultan was pleased that no lives had been lost. He wanted to leave a small force in the city, and then to march on towards Beirut the same afternoon. But he was prevailed upon by the nobles to grace their town, if only for a single night.

  Salah al-Din had been reluctant to accept the invitation—he disliked these empty formalities—but Imad al-Din was horrified at any such thought. He bent down and whispered in the Sultan’s ear. To turn down the offer would be offensive in the extreme. As in other matters of diplomacy, the Sultan sulked at the advice, but finally agreed. Everyone sighed with relief. The soldiers were hot and tired, and Saida was a seductive town.

  The Sultan and his emirs, and Imad al-Din and myself, were taken to rest at the citadel. From there we could see the soldiers running to the edge of the water, removing their clothes and immersing themselves in the cool waves of the sea. The baths provided in the citadel were lukewarm and cramped by contrast.

  That evening, while the Sultan retired early, Imad al-Din and I dined as guests of the notables of Saida. It was a magnificent feast. I had not eaten so many different varieties of fish since we left Cairo. The fish from the Nile, though cooked in different ways, tended to be from the same family. That night in Saida, the diversity of the sea was displayed in all its splendour. These dishes were not alone. The ever-full flasks of wine were served by beautiful young women who made no attempt to conceal their charms. Of course they left Imad al-Din unmoved, but they had a turbulent impact on the three emirs from Damascus. Soon they were dreaming of the enjoyment to come, and the night that lay ahead. I, too, would have liked to share in their pleasure, but the great scholar had no time for frivolities o
f this nature. Once the meal was over and we had sipped hot water flavoured with the essence of orange blossom, he rose, thanked our hosts and insisted that I accompany him to his chamber.

  “I am sorry to disturb your evening, Ibn Yakub. I could see the lust in your eyes as you looked at those serving wenches, but I need to discuss something important with you tonight. In fact, I need your help. I am worried about Salah al-Din.”

  I had always assumed that Imad al-Din regarded me as nothing more than a lowly Jewish scribe who had somehow insinuated his way into the closed circle of the Sultan. In the past his tone was usually sarcastic or condescending. What could have brought about this change in him? I was puzzled, but also flattered by being treated as an equal.

  “Why are you worried about the Sultan?”

  “His health concerns me. He suffers from colic and Allah could take him from us any day. If he delays too long in taking al-Kuds, the prize might elude us forever. Once he dies, most of the emirs will be at each other’s throats. The common enemy will be forgotten. This is the curse of my religion, Ibn Yakub. It is as if Allah, having guided us during the life of the Prophet, is now punishing us for our greed. I have told the Sultan, and al-Fadil has backed me strongly on this, that after we take Beirut he must not waste any more time on the coast. He must take al-Kuds. I want you to give the same advice.”

  I was stunned. Was he suggesting that I was the third member of the trinity?

  “No time for modesty, Ibn Yakub. We know the Sultan values your advice greatly. Do not let us down.”

  Two days later we were camped in sight of the walls of Beirut, overlooking the sea. It was a humid day and the weather affected the Sultan. He was irritable and impatient. Imad al-Din, too, was ill. He reported severe pains in the stomach, followed by nausea. Marwan, the Sultan’s physician, put him on a diet. He was treated with herb infusions and vegetables. Meat was denied him and his condition began to improve. But on the second day after the treatment the pains returned. Marwan suggested to the Sultan that the sick man be sent to Damascus. There his symptoms could be observed at leisure and properly treated. Marwan himself was a specialist in treating flesh wounds.