The Book of Saladin

by Tariq Ali

  The Sultan smiled.

  “I think we should ask our friend to return to our side. He is an astute thinker. This letter makes the capture of Tyre our most important objective. Are we agreed? Have you noted all this down, Ibn Yakub?”

  I nodded.

  The next afternoon, as I was preparing to accompany John of Jerusalem to the site of the old Temple, where others of our faith who had returned to Jerusalem were gathering to offer prayers of thanksgiving for the return of the city to the Sultan, a retainer surprised me by his insistence that Salah al-Din was awaiting my presence. I was surprised, since he had explicitly given me his blessing to participate in the ceremony. Nonetheless I followed the retainer to the royal chamber.

  He was sitting on his bed, his face lined with worry. He must have been informed before everyone else. As I entered he rose from his bed and, to my amazement, embraced me and kissed my cheeks. His eyes had filled with tears. I knew that something terrible must have happened to my Rachel.

  “We received a dispatch from Cairo, Ibn Yakub. The news is bad and you must be brave. A small party of Franj knights, enraged by the loss of this city and drunk on anger, rode into Cairo and raided the quarter where your people live. They burnt some houses and killed old men, before the alarm was given and our soldiers captured all of them. They were all executed the next morning. Your house, my friend, was one of them. Nobody survived. I have instructed al-Fadil to make arrangements for you to be taken to Cairo tomorrow morning. You may stay there as long as you wish.”

  I bowed and took my leave of him. I returned to my quarters. For over an hour I couldn’t weep. I sat on the floor and stared at the wall. A calamity had been inflicted on me. Anguish dumbed me. Neither words nor tears could express the pain that had gripped all of me. I thought of Rachel and Maryam, her child clasped close to her bosom, all three sleeping peacefully as the barbarians set our house on fire.

  It was as I began to pack my clothes that I found myself weeping loudly. I thought of all the things I had thought, but not said to Rachel. She had died not knowing the depths of my unspoken love for her. And my little Maryam, who I had wanted to live without misfortune and raise her children in peace with her husband.

  I did not sleep, but went outside and walked on the battlements, watching the eternal movement of the stars and shedding silent tears. I felt bitter and angry. I wanted revenge. I wanted to roast Franj knights on a slow fire and laugh loudly at their death agony.

  As we left early next morning I heard the oriole’s mournful song and my face was wet again. I have no recollection of that journey from Jerusalem to Cairo. I know not how many times we stopped or where we slept. All I remember is the kind face of the Sultan’s courier, who offered me a skin flask containing water which I drank and also used to wash the dust off my face. I remember also that at some stage during that pain-filled expedition I suddenly wanted to return to the Sultan. I felt there was no point in raking over the embers of the tragedy. I wanted to forget. I did not wish to see the charred remains of that old house with the domed room. It was too late.

  Ibn Maymun was waiting for me at the ruins of the house. We embraced each other and wept. No words were spoken. Grief had melted old animosities and resentments. He took me to his house. For many months I lived in a daze. I lost all sense of time. I had no idea what was taking place in the world outside. Later I began to accompany the great physician to Cairo. He would attend to his patients in the palace. I would revisit old friends in the library, books I had read when I first became the Sultan’s scribe. Sometimes the books would stir painful memories and Rachel would occupy my mind. Fresh tears would dissolve my concentration.

  Ibn Maymun treated me as a friend and a very special patient. He fed me on fresh fish from the Nile, grilled on charcoal and served on a bed of brown rice. He made me drink herbal concoctions every night which soothed my shattered nerves and helped me to sleep. There were days when I did not speak a word to anyone. I used to walk to the stream near Ibn Maymun’s house and sit on a stone, watching the young boys with their strings trying to catch fish. I always left when they laughed too loudly. I found their mirth disturbing.

  I was lost to the world. All sense of time had disappeared. I lived from day to day, expecting nothing and giving nothing. As I write these lines I have no recollection of what I did every day apart from reading books in Ibn Maymun’s large library and becoming fascinated by the treatises on medicine. I read Galen and Ibn Sina many times and always discovered hidden meanings in their work. If I failed to comprehend the meaning of what these masters had written I would consult Ibn Maymun, who would compliment me on my learning and suggest that I become a physician and help him in his work.

  Many months passed. I lost touch with the world of the Sultan. I did not know what was happening on the field of war and I no longer cared.

  One day Ibn Maymun informed me that a new party of Franj had landed on the coast and were determined to take back Jerusalem. His eyes filled with tears.

  “They must never be allowed to take that city away from us again, Ibn Yakub. Never.”

  Perhaps it was the urgency in my friend’s voice that revived my interest in the world. Perhaps my recovery was complete in any event. Whatever the cause, I felt myself again. The sense of loss was still present in me, but the pain had gone. I sent a letter to Imad al-Din, asking him whether I could rejoin the Sultan.

  Four weeks later, as spring came to Cairo like a burst of soft laughter, a messenger arrived from Dimask. The Sultan ordered me to return to his side without further delay. I was sitting in the courtyard enjoying the sun, underneath a gnarled tree with twisted twigs. It remained the same through all the seasons and I had become greatly attached to it because it reminded me of myself. I, too, did not feel the delights of spring.

  I bade Ibn Maymun farewell. It was an emotional parting. We, who had once been so close, were together again. A small slice of happiness had been recovered from the heart of the tragedy that had befallen me. We agreed never to lose contact again. I had no real desire to carry on inscribing the story of Salah al-Din’s life, but Ibn Maymun was panicked by such a thought. He advised me to carry on and, “if it helps you, Ibn Yakub, write everything to me. I will keep your letters safe here, next to these notebooks with which you have entrusted me.”

  LETTERS TO IBN MAYMUN

  Thirty-Eight

  The Sultan welcomes my return; Richard of England threatens Tyre; Imad al-Din is sick with love

  DEAR FRIEND,

  I WISH you were here so that we could speak with each other instead of relying on the courier service, which is not always reliable. As you know I was nervous at the thought of returning to Damascus, but everyone made me welcome. Some of the emirs went so far as to say that they regarded my return as an omen of good luck, for whenever I had been with the Sultan he had never lost a battle.

  Everything has changed. Fortunes fluctuate like the price of diamonds in the Cairo market. When I left his side, nearly two years ago, the Sultan had conquered every pinnacle. His eyes were bright, the sun had given colour to his cheeks and his voice was relaxed and happy. Success dispels tiredness. When I saw him this morning he was clearly pleased to see me, and he rose and kissed my cheeks, but the sight of him surprised me. His eyes had shrunk, he had lost weight and he looked very pale. He observed my surprise.

  “I have been ill, scribe. The war against these wretched infidels has begun to exhaust me, but I could cope with them. It is not simply the enemy that worries me. It is our own side. Ours is an emotional and impulsive faith. Victory in battle affects Believers in the same way as banj. They will fight without pause to repeat our success, but if, for some reason, it eludes us, if patience and skill are required rather than simple bravery, then our men begin to lose their urge. Dissensions arise and some fool of an emir thinks: ‘Perhaps this Salah al-Din is not as invincible as we had thought. Perhaps I should save my own skin and that of my men’, and thinking these ignoble thoughts he deserts the field o
f war. Or another few emirs, demoralised by our lack of success, will think to themselves that during the last six months they and their men have not enjoyed the spoils of war. They imagine that it is my brothers, sons and nephews who are benefiting and so they pick a quarrel and go back to Aleppo. It is a wearying business, Ibn Yakub.

  “I have to fight on two fronts all the time. That is why I did not take Tyre all those months ago, when you were still at my side. I thought the men would not be able to sustain a long siege. It turned out that I was wrong. I overestimated the size of the Franj presence in the city, but if I had been confident of my own soldiers I would have taken the risk. The result, my friend, is a mess. The Franj kings are arriving from across the water with more soldiers and more gold. They never give up, do they? Welcome back to your home, Ibn Yakub. I have missed your presence. Al-Fadil left for Cairo this morning and Imad al-Din has not been to see me for a week. He claims he has a toothache, but my spies tell me that what aches is his heart. Remember Shadhi? He always used to refer to Imad al-Din as the swallower of a donkey’s penis!”

  He laughed loudly at the memory, and I joined him, pleased that my return had lightened his mood.

  Later that afternoon, I did call on Imad al-Din, who received me graciously. The Sultan’s informants had been correct. The great master was undergoing the pain associated with spurned love. He complained bitterly that the treasury had not paid his salary for many months and it was for that reason that he had decided not to visit the Sultan.

  I was surprised, but when I pressed further he decided to confess the true reason for his state. He inflicted his troubles on me. There is nothing more tedious, Ibn Maymun, than listening to a grown man droning on about his shattered heart as if he was fifteen years old and had just discovered heartbreak. Since I had gone to see him it was difficult to bring my visit to an end.

  You will, I’m sure, recall a certain Copt translator I once mentioned to you, by the name of Tarik ibn Isa. The one who caught our great scholar’s lewd eye in Jerusalem, soon after we entered the city. The Sultan was pleased by the boy’s abilities and, on Imad al-Din’s advice, the Copt became part of Salah al-Din’s retinue. That is how Tarik came to Damascus. Here Imad al-Din, desperate to vent his lust on the youth, pursued him without shame. He wrote couplets in his honour, he hired minstrels to sing quatrains outside his window on moonlit nights, he even threatened to have the boy dismissed from the Sultan’s service unless he was willing to serve all the needs of Imad al-Din. Now this youth has disappeared, to the consternation of the entire court, and the great man is inconsolable.

  This is not, of course, how the Sultan’s most learned secretary views the emotional landscape. He tells his story differently and let your wisdom, Ibn Maymun, be the judge.

  Speaking in those sonorous tones I have come to know so well, and which were pleasing to my ears solely because I had not heard them for so long, he told me:

  “What I simply could not understand, Ibn Yakub, was the obstinate resistance of this shallow youth. You raise your eyebrows? I know what you’re thinking. Perhaps this boy was not attracted to men. I thought so, but you would be wrong to make that assumption. I had him followed and discovered that he was in love with a man not much younger than myself, but with this important difference.

  “Tarik’s lover was a heretic, a blasphemer, a sceptic. He came from Aleppo, but preached his evil in this our purest of cities. He claimed to be descended from Ibn Awjal. You know our faith well, Ibn Yakub. You have heard of Ibn Awjal? No? I must say you surprise me.

  “He lived in Kufa, a hundred years after the death of the Prophet. He had converted to our faith from yours, but he was desperate to be famous. He wanted to be a big man. So he published four thousand hadith and was regarded as a scholar, but these hadith were completely false. He had invented each and every one, and put blasphemous and erotic language into the mouth of our Prophet. It is said that one of his hadith claimed that the Prophet had stated that any woman who permitted a man to see her in a state of undress, even by accident, was obliged to give herself to that man, and if she refused the man had a right to take her against her will. May Allah burn that son-of-a-whore in hell forever. There were others of this sort, even worse. In one of them Ibn Awjal claimed prophetic lineage for the remark: ‘Fornicate with your camel by all means, but never on the open road.’ Another hadith claimed that provided the Angel Gabriel ratified the deed, a Believer could satisfy his carnal desires in any way he wished. On another occasion he wrote that the Prophet had told his son-in-law Ali to bare his arse before no person and claimed that two words were missing from the original hadith. These crazed imaginings could not be left unpunished. To abuse our Prophet in such a way was unacceptable. Ibn Awjal was arrested by the Kadi of Kufa. He admitted manufacturing the hadith. Justice was swift. He was executed immediately after the trial.

  “Tarik’s lover claimed descent from Ibn Awjal and began to tell his followers that many of the hadith published by his blaspheming forebear were genuine. When I heard this news I refused to believe my informant, who had insinuated his way into the intimate circles of this heretic. I informed the Kadi, who had all of them arrested, except Tarik. Unlike his more courageous ancestor, this pig of a sceptic denied all knowledge of what had been stated by my informant in the court. He had the audacity to claim that I had forged false evidence to put him out of the way for reasons best known to myself. The Kadi showed no mercy. The Sultan gave his approval. He was executed. That same day Tarik disappeared for ever. Nobody has sighted him, but there are rumours that he took his own life and some say his body was seen floating down the river.

  “They tell me that your friend, Jamila, was enraged when she heard of the execution. She stormed into Salah al-Din’s chamber and lashed him with her fiery tongue. That woman is never ambiguous or discreet, is she? She sent me a letter denouncing me as an evil fornicator and lecher and suggesting that this city would be cleaner if I were castrated. These are the real reasons for my gloom, Ibn Yakub, though it would be false if I denied to you that the Treasury seems to have forgotten my existence and this fact has caused me considerable irritation.”

  I was in a reflective mood as I left Imad al-Din’s dwelling. I was walking back slowly to my own house and dreading the silence that would greet me as I entered the courtyard. This house is suffused with memories of Rachel, and I think I should remove my belongings from here and shift to the citadel. I was formulating a letter along these lines in my head to dispatch to the steward when I was approached by the familiar figure of the Nubian mute, who handed me a note from the Sultana Jamila demanding my presence. Nothing had changed in the city. I smiled weakly and followed the mute back to the citadel. It is strange, is it not, Ibn Maymun, how one can return to a place after a long absence and find that all the old routines are still in place? The Sultan fights his wars, Imad al-Din sulks in his house and the Sultana summons me for a conversation.

  She greeted me like a valued friend. For the first time she touched me. She stroked my head and expressed her sorrow at the loss of my family. Then she whispered in my ear: “We have both lost loved ones. This draws us closer to each other. You must not leave us again. The Sultan and I both need you now.”

  Unsurprisingly, she had heard of my visit to Imad al-Din. Nothing escapes her. Even the most trivial conversation involving the Sultan or those close to him is reported to her. This makes her one of the best-informed people in the kingdom. Her authority is such that few deny her the information she craves.

  Jamila wanted a detailed account of our conversation. I was about to speak when I realised she was not alone. Seated on a stool behind her was a young woman of striking beauty, whose face, with its sad expressive eyes, was strangely familiar. The young woman was dressed in a yellow silk gown and a matching scarf covered her head. She wore kohl to enhance the beauty of her eyes—not that anything about her needed enhancing. Surprised by the presence of this attractive stranger, I looked inquiringly at Jamila.

&nbs
p; “This is Zainab. She is my scribe. She takes down my words so rapidly that my thoughts have to race to keep up with her. Her speed puts you to shame, Ibn Yakub. Now speak. What did that old charlatan tell you?”

  I recounted my conversation with Imad al-Din, during the course of which the two women exchanged looks on a number of occasions. Then Jamila spoke with anger in her voice, though her language surprised me.

  “Shadhi was not wrong about that swallower of a donkey’s penis! Everything he has told you is a lie. He had an innocent man executed, a man whose only crime was that of being a sceptic, but then so am I, so is Imad al-Din, and even you have been known to express heretical thoughts. Only simpletons refuse to doubt anything. A world without doubt could never move forward. When Salah al-Din was young, he too was a sceptic. It surprises you? Why do you think he never made the pilgrimage to Mecca? Now he is desperate to appease his Maker, but when he had the chance he refused. Imad al-Din ordered the execution because he was jealous. An old man who could not bear the thought of being rejected and went looking for a sacrificial goat. It disgusts me, and I told your Sultan to have his secretary castrated. No boy in Damascus is safe when the sap rises in that old trunk.”