by Tariq Ali
Salah al-Din, always more concerned about the health of his close friends than his own state, ordered a squadron to carry the ailing secretary to Damascus. Imad al-Din protested weakly, but I could see that he was delighted. As I bade him farewell he winked at me.
“Solitude, Ibn Yakub. I yearn for solitude. The jihad is necessary, but my work suffers. It is not easy to contemplate our past when the present appears so uncertain and death stalks us in the shape of the Franj. My absence will annoy the Sultan, but try your best.”
I nodded and muttered a few sympathetic noises about seeing him soon, fully recovered, in Damascus. Yet as he was borne away in a litter, the voice of Shadhi echoed in my head.
“Doesn’t like life in a war camp, does he? Needs solitude, does he? I’m surprised. That arse-lender and taker has been through so many young soldiers that I’ve lost count. His illness is over-indulgence, nothing more.”
The Sultan had assumed that Beirut, like its coastal counterparts, would surrender happily and peacefully, but a messenger we had dispatched returned with bad news. The Franj were determined to fight.
Salah al-Din sighed.
“I had hoped that we would see no more corpses till we reached the ramparts of al-Kuds. Why do these fools want to fight, Ibn Yakub?”
Imad al-Din or al-Fadil would have had a ready reply to this question, but I was so used to listening to him and recording his thoughts that I rarely ventured my own opinion unless he pressed me. He frowned.
“Well? Have you no explanation?”
I smiled weakly and shook my head.
His voice rose.
“These fools imagine that if they put up a brief resistance against me, and sacrifice a few of their knights, they will be rewarded by their leaders. They want to show that they did not surrender easily. Send them a reply from me, Ibn Yakub. Tell them that unless they surrender immediately they shall suffer the wrath of Allah. We shall rain fire upon them and destroy their city. Tell them that their impertinence does not incline us to offer generous terms.”
I bowed and retired to my tent. There I began to compose the Sultan’s letter. I was honoured to have replaced Imad al-Din, but I was not sure whether to imitate the master’s style or to develop my own. Imad al-Din had become so adept at writing the Sultan’s letters that when Salah al-Din read them he was convinced that they had actually been written by him. He would, rather uncharacteristically, delight in the flattery that often followed the receipt of such a missive. Only al-Adil, his younger brother, dared tease him. Several months ago, after the evening meal, al-Adil asked Imad al-Din what he thought of the letter the Sultan had that very day dispatched to Raymond of Tripoli. The scholar thought for a moment and replied:
“It is not one of the Sultan’s finer compositions.”
While Salah al-Din looked surprised, al-Adil retorted: “Come now, Imad al-Din, modesty does not suit you.”
I spent the whole night composing the terms of surrender. The document was short enough, but I rewrote it several times until I was convinced it was perfect. The Sultan saw it after the morning prayers and frowned.
“Too flowery. Too pedantic. Takes too long to get to the conditions we are offering them. Seal it and dispatch now.”
I was hurt by his criticisms, but I knew they contained more than a grain of truth. I realised that I should not have attempted to copy Imad al-Din’s style. Further reflections on this matter were however to be rudely interrupted by the approach of a messenger from the enemy. Our generous terms were rejected. The Franj nobles refused to surrender Beirut.
The Sultan’s anger lit up the entire army. He ordered an immediate attack on the city, and siege towers began to be pushed forward, closer to the walls of Beirut. I was riding next to him, the first time that he had granted me this privilege, but I learnt little of what was passing through his mind. He was silent. Our tactics were tried and tested. The emirs in charge of the squadrons knew perfectly well what had to be done. Once again the defenders surprised us. Instead of staying inside the city and attempting to repel our advance from within, the Franj opened the gates and came out to fight us in front of the outworks. They were fearful of our sappers and wanted to prevent the mining at all costs.
Salah al-Din did not need to engage in the battle himself. His emirs inflicted heavy casualties and drove the defenders back behind their walls. This development had a disastrous effect on the morale of the populace. They thought that we had entered the town. This led to a crazed rush for the harbour and the safety of the sea. In the town itself, looting and general confusion reigned.
The Franj leaders, divided till now between the tigers, who wanted a brawl, and the sheep, who wished to surrender, realised that the sheep had been wise all along. Their messengers arrived, accepting the terms of surrender that I had drafted some days ago. The Sultan could have punished them for wasting our time, but he smiled benignly and accepted the city.
“Well, Ibn Yakub, it seems that the Franj were less critical of your document than me.”
We rode into yet another conquered city, but the population here was largely sullen and silent. They were angry at the unnecessary deaths and the damage which was, in reality, the fault of their own leaders. But they preferred to burden us with the blame.
The town crier could be heard in the streets proclaiming the disaster.
“The great Sultan Yusuf Salah al-Din ibn Ayyub has entered our city. Listen now to the terms of surrender...!”
That evening, after he had bathed and rested, the Sultan and I stood on the ramparts of the citadel, watching the waves beat on the rocks below. The sun was about to set. His eyes looked at the horizon. The majesty of the sea had calmed him and he was deep in thought. For what seemed then to be a long time neither of us spoke. Then he turned to me with a strange, faraway look in his eyes.
“Do you know something, Ibn Yakub? If Allah permits the conquest of this coast, and once we have regained al-Kuds, I shall divide our empire. I shall leave it to my brothers and sons. I shall then visit Mecca for the pilgrimage, and take my leave of Allah.
“Then I shall prepare to cross this turbulent sea, whose calm, Ibn Yakub, is deceptive. I will go to the lands where the Franj live, and I will pursue these scoundrels till all of them acknowledge Allah and his Prophet. I will do this even if I die in the attempt. It is important, because others will then pick up my sword and finish what I could not achieve. Unless we strike at the roots of the Franj, they will continue to eat our flesh, like locusts that darken the sky and devour our crops.”
Thirty-Four
Halima dies in Cairo: ugly rumours hold Jamila responsible
THE SULTAN HAD NOT rested in Beirut. Once the Franj were disarmed, he nominated one of his emirs and several hand-picked squadrons to control the city. The rest of us rode on to Damascus with only the stars as our guide. We entered the city as dawn broke. I bade farewell to Salah al-Din as he rode up the incline to the citadel, and made my way home.
Rachel was not in our room. For a moment my heart began to race as I recalled that fateful day in Cairo, but our retainer, rubbing his sleep-filled eyes, set my mind at rest. She was with our daughter, and had not been expecting me back for many months.
I dispatched him to fetch Rachel, while I washed myself from the well in the courtyard. I was exhausted by the all-night ride. Even though I was now used to the horse, I could never fully relax like the Sultan. My backside was sore and my thighs were stiff with pain. The water helped. I went inside and lay on our bed.
It was midday when a small child’s gurgle near my face startled me. I sat up to see the smiling faces of my wife and daughter. The boy was big and healthy, but he screamed when I lifted him to my face and kissed his cheeks. Rachel rescued him as I first hugged his mother and then her mother, who whispered in my ear: “This child is our reward for years of pain and trouble. You are alive and well. God be praised.”
“Perhaps, but the Sultan’s victories helped a little to keep me alive.”
We laughed. Then she spoke again.
“Maryam and I were thinking it would be nice to visit our house in Cairo and spend the winter there this year. Her husband would come as well. He has many friends in Cairo and has never seen the city. We were waiting for your permission.”
“You have my permission, of course. I only wish I could accompany all of you, but we leave in a few days for Jerusalem. The Sultan will not delay any longer. He will pray at the al-Aqsa mosque before the month is over, and I shall visit the site of the old synagogue. Afterwards, if he releases me for a few months, I will join you all in Cairo.”
Rachel smiled. She had always thought, because of what I had said a long time ago, that because of my unhappy associations with the domed room, I never wished to set foot in that house again. But there is a limit to jealousy. If I had forgiven Rachel, and even forgotten the scale of Ibn Maymun’s betrayal, how could I still bear a grudge against the house? The fault lay not within the stones that formed those walls, but in ourselves. Later that afternoon, when we were alone, I said all this to Rachel and much more. Serenity had returned. We lay entwined in each other’s arms and felt that the past had finally been buried.
Alas, there was sad news awaiting me when I arrived at the citadel that same evening. Amjad the eunuch had been impatiently awaiting my arrival and he rushed and hugged me warmly. It was when he moved away that I noticed the wetness on my cheeks.
“Halima died in Cairo a few days ago. The Sultan was mildly upset. He has asked Ibn Maymun to conduct an investigation and send us a report before the week is over.”
The news stunned me. Halima had never known a day’s illness in all the time I had known her. What could have struck her down? Images of her fluttered through my mind in rapid succession. I saw her face pale and motionless beneath the shroud. I wept.
“How did Jamila react to the news?”
Amjad remained silent.
I repeated the question.
“I broke the news to her. She looked straight into my eyes, but remained completely calm. Completely. Her face showed no emotion. Nothing. Perhaps she was wearing a mask to hide her pain. Perhaps.”
The news of Halima’s truncated life had stolen all my powers of concentration. I sat through the meeting of the council of war in a daze. The Sultan’s soft voice, Imad al-Din and al-Fadil’s impassioned interventions, the sense of excitement and expectation that radiated from every emir, were like background noises as far as I was concerned. I was desperate to see Jamila, to condole, to share common memories of Halima, to weep, to find out what she really felt at the death of someone who had meant so much to her and whose life she had greatly affected.
For the first time since I had been employed by the Sultan I did not fulfil the duties that kind ruler had assigned to me. Reader, I did not take any notes of that crucial meeting which decided the fate of Jerusalem. On that subject my notebook is a blank.
Later, I reconstructed that evening with the aid of Imad al-Din, but, as was his wont, he assigned the decisive role to himself and claimed that till he had spoken, the Sultan had been indecisive. I know for a fact that this was not the case, and for that reason I dismissed the great scholar’s testimony as self-serving and unworthy of him. What did become clear in the weeks that followed was that there had been unanimity amongst all those who had comprised the council on that fateful night. They would take Jerusalem.
My mind was still tormented by the death in Cairo. I had asked to see Jamila, but it was not until two days later that she agreed to my request. An unusually sad and silent Amjad came to my house to fetch me.
She was waiting for me in the usual antechamber, the room where I had often met Halima. For a moment Jamila’s features faded and mixed with those of the dead woman, but I clasped my hands so firmly together that they hurt. I was back in the present. I looked at her face and recalled Amjad’s description. There was not a trace of sadness in her eyes.
“It was you who wished to see me, Ibn Yakub.”
My only reply was to weep. I thought I saw her eyes flicker, but she recovered rapidly. She looked at me with a strange gaze.
“Sultana, I came to express my sorrow at her death. I know that your parting was grief-stricken, but...”
She interrupted me with an angry flash of her eyes.
“We parted without recriminations. She wished us to be friends. That was not possible, but we agreed to banish enmity and bitterness. You think I’m cold and unfeeling?”
I sighed.
“There are times when grief is useless, Ibn Yakub. Her death is painful. Her face appears to me, but is soon washed away. Hearts can turn to stone. Let me surprise you, Ibn Yakub. News of her death moved me in a strange way. It helped me discover an inner happiness. I thought you would be shocked, but it is the truth. I feel at ease with myself again. A painful chapter is now definitively over. All that remains are memories. Some of them are happy, most are sad. So you see, my friend, now I have a choice. What I think of her depends on me alone, on my mood, and that, I assure you, is a great relief. Ever since Halima and I parted, I found it difficult to write. Now I have started writing again, and one day I will let you read my manuscript.”
Her callousness startled me. How could she be so indifferent to Halima’s fate? She saw the question on my face and her eyes narrowed.
“I know what you are thinking, Ibn Yakub. You see me as a heartless creature, a woman without pity. You forget that, for me, Halima died a long time ago. I wept a great deal for her, and the pain of separation hurt me for many months. Sleep used to avoid my path completely. All that disappeared some time ago. When Amjad the eunuch, with streaming eyes, came to tell me of her death, I felt nothing. Do you understand?”
She looked into my eyes and smiled.
“I understand, Sultana, but for me what is real is the fact that she is no more. She is buried underneath the earth. We will never hear her laugh again. Surely this is different from the death imposed by your brain on your heart.”
I had aroused her anger.
“No! Imposed by my heart on the brain. The last news of her that I received from Cairo revealed that she had once again abandoned the embraces of men. She had found a younger woman, closer to her own age than mine, and, or so my informants wrote, the two of them had become inseparable. A wave of jealousy and anger passed through me, but that was all. Nothing more. For me she was finished for ever. Dead. I am told that she was poisoned on the orders of her last male lover, a poor, deluded mamluk. He will suffer even more if Salah al-Din ever discovers the truth...”
Jamila’s information turned out to be accurate. Ibn Maymun had performed an autopsy and his conclusion suggested a large dose of poison. Everyone pointed their finger in the direction of the mamluk, who pleaded his innocence, but he was executed on the orders of the Kadi. Only Amjad the eunuch was unconvinced.
“She was poisoned, Ibn Yakub. The poor woman was poisoned, but who gave the order? We will never know the truth. That poor mamluk was just like me, used by her to satisfy her physical needs. Nothing more. If she had been poisoned in Damascus they might have executed me! So I feel some sympathy with the poor man. In my heart I feel that Jamila dispatched the poison together with the instructions.”
“Enough of this loose talk, Amjad! Your thought is worse than the poison that killed Halima. Expel it from your wicked heart before it kills you.”
The eunuch’s face paled.
“I have not confided my suspicions in any other living person. I needed to share them with you, but your advice is wise. If I do not quell these thoughts, I myself will perish. Rest assured, Ibn Yakub, I will quell them. No strain of martyrdom pollutes my blood.”
Try as I might I could not banish Amjad’s words from my own thoughts. That embittered eunuch had planted a poisonous seed in my mind as well. Could it be true? Could Jamila have ordered the poisoning of her detached ex-lover? The very idea seemed outrageous. After a few hours of agony I came to the conclusion that Jamila was innocent. Grief had po
isoned Amjad beyond redemption.
I was interrupted by the familiar tones of Imad al-Din.
“You look preoccupied, scribe. I was hoping you would join me this evening in visiting the rooms of the purest Damascene nightingale. Remember? Zubayda? The woman who conquered Salah al-Din’s heart when he was a mere boy, but refused to offer him her body?”
“How could I forget her?” was my reply. “You have caught me at an inopportune moment. I was mourning the tragic death of the Sultana Halima.”
Imad al-Din’s face became grave.
“There are ugly rumours floating on the Nile. Al-Fadil tells me that the mamluk who was executed for the crime insisted on speaking to him alone. When he agreed the condemned whispered in al-Fadil’s ear: ‘I administered the poison, but it was sent me by the Sultana Jamila, and she has pledged to look after my family.’ Naturally, al-Fadil has not told the Sultan or anyone else apart from me. I tell you only because both women were close to you.
“Love has the capacity to drive us all mad. Jealousy is its most savage child. What Jamila did is unforgivable, unthinkable, and yet, if I am to be honest with you, I am not shocked by the news. To understand Jamila one has to have suffered the loss of a lover. Alas, you are a cold-water fish, Ibn Yakub. You never will. Come with me to hear the nightingale sing. Zubayda will make you forget everything.”
I agreed to accompany him, but it was an oppressive evening and I begged his leave to return home so that I could bathe and change my clothing. Since Zubayda’s house was not far from where I lived, he agreed to collect me within the hour. The cool of the night was yet to come and the lack of a breeze made me sweat profusely as I walked home. I told Rachel the story of Halima’s death without naming the royal poisoner. I stripped in the courtyard and poured bucketfuls of fresh, cold water from the well on my head. Then Rachel brought me a towel.