The Book of Saladin

by Tariq Ali

The Sultan stroked his beard thoughtfully, but was unconvinced by Imad al-Din’s logic.

  “The power of their Pope or our Caliph may well be challenged, Imad al-Din. That much I grant you, but where I disagree is your assumption that all this flows from the worship of images and icons. You have not proved your case, but the subject interests me nonetheless. Speak with the chamberlain and let us have a conference of scholars next week to discuss this matter further. I will detain you no longer. I am sure that somewhere in the heart of Damascus a beautiful young creature is waiting patiently for you to enter his bed.”

  The secretary did not reply, but permitted himself a smile and kissed the Sultan’s cloak before he departed. It was not late, but Salah al-Din was tired. Two attendants, laden with sheets, soaps and oils, came to accompany him to the bath. He looked at me with a weak smile.

  “Jamila will be angry I have kept you so long today. She is desperate to speak with you. Like me she has grown to value your friendship. Your presence reassures her. Better spend the day with her tomorrow.”

  I bowed as he left, resting his arms on the shoulders of the attendants. Both of them were holding lamps in their right hands and as he walked out positioned delicately between them, the soft light shone on his face. For a moment it appeared as a light from another world. From paradise. He talks sometimes of the unexpected gifts bestowed on him by kind Fate and speaks of himself as a mere instrument of Allah. He is only too well aware of his mortality. He is not well, Ibn Maymun, and this makes me sad.

  The next day I followed the Sultan’s instructions and went to pay my respects to the Sultana Jamila. She received me alone and bade me welcome in the most affectionate fashion. She handed me a manuscript, and as I leafed through its pages I began to tremble for her and for myself. Both of us could be beheaded: she for writing the offending pages and I for reading them dispassionately and not reporting her to the Kadi. Her work contained blasphemies so flagrant that even the Sultan would have found it difficult to protect her from the wrath of the sheikhs. I will discuss these with you when we meet again, Ibn Maymun. I am fearful of confiding them in a letter which will be carried by a messenger. It is perfectly possibly that our letters are opened, read by prying eyes, their contents reported to al-Fadil and Imad al-Din and then resealed and dispatched.

  I pleaded with Jamila to burn the manuscript.

  “The paper might burn, scribe,” she retorted with fire in her eyes, “but my thoughts will never leave me. What you do not understand is that something terrible has happened to me and I want to go south forever. I can no longer smile. The wind has burnt my lips. I wish to die where I was born. Till that day arrives I will continue to transfer my thoughts to paper. I have no intention of destroying this manuscript. It will be left in a safe place, and it will be read by those who understand my quest for truth.”

  Even though I could read the answer in her eyes, I asked the nature of the calamity that had befallen her. She had grown tired of the beautiful Copt girl. Her surfeited heart had felt sudden disgust. She offered no reason and I asked for none. She was searching for Halima and had not found her in the Copt. Would the search continue when she returned south, or had she resigned herself to a life of scholarship? I was about to ask her, when she startled me with an unexpected offer.

  “Your life too, Ibn Yakub, has been affected by misfortune. You have won respect and praise from everyone, but you and I are like beggars. We have nothing. It is true I have two strong sons, but they are far away and they will die fighting, defending some citadel in this cursed war. I doubt that they will even provide me with grandchildren to help my old age. I foresee an empty life after the Sultan goes, and so do you. Why not accompany me to the South? The library in my father’s palace has many rare manuscripts, including some from Andalusian sceptics. You will never be short of reading matter. What do you say, scribe? You need time to think?”

  I nodded, while expressing my gratitude to her for thinking of me so kindly. The truth is, Ibn Maymun, that I would much rather return to Cairo, find a small room somewhere and be close to you.

  Your loyal friend,

  Ibn Yakub.

  Forty-Two

  Farewell to the Sultan

  DEAR FRIEND,

  THERE IS a winter mist over the citadel as I write these lines, but it is as nothing compared with the dark clouds that have covered our hearts for the last seven days. He, who was accustomed to war, now rests in peace, in the shadow of the Great Mosque.

  My own future is uncertain. The Sultan’s son, al-Afdal, has succeeded him and wants me to stay here as his scribe. Jamila is preparing to depart for the South and wishes me to accompany her. I think I will plead ill-health and return to Cairo to recover my thoughts and reflect for some time on the life of this man, whose departure has left us all in darkness.

  His health, as I wrote you before, had not been good. During our last weeks in Jerusalem he would sigh and complain of lack of sleep, but insist on fasting, which his physicians warned him was unnecessary. The fast would weaken him further and I would often see him, his head hanging wearily as he stared at the ground.

  But the return to Damascus had revived him, and his death was all the worse for being so unexpected. For the last month he had spent much time with his brother al-Adil and his sons. His health appeared to have recovered. He ate well and there was colour in his cheeks again. Much laughter was heard as they rode out of the city to enjoy the hunt.

  Once we were sitting in the garden and his oldest boy, al-Afdal, came to pay his respects. The Sultan, who had been talking to me of his love for his dead nephew, Taki al-Din, fell silent as al-Afdal came and kissed his father’s hands. The Sultan looked at him sternly.

  “I am leaving all of you an empire that stretches from the Tigris to the Nile. Never forget that our successes were based on the support we received from our people. If you become isolated from them, you won’t last long.”

  On another occasion I heard him plead with al-Adil to safeguard the interests of his sons. He knew, as did his brother, that amongst the mountain clans there is no particular regard for heredity. The clan chooses the strongest from within its ranks to lead it and defend its interests. The Sultan’s younger brother, al-Adil, bore a strong resemblance to their uncle Shirkuh and his character and appetites, too, were not unlike his uncle’s. Salah al-Din knew, as did his brother, that if his retainers and soldiers were given the choice they would choose al-Adil to be their Sultan. He pleaded with al-Adil to protect Afdal, Aziz and Zahir against all conspiracies. The younger brother bent and kissed the Sultan’s cheeks, muttering: “Why are you in such low spirits? Allah will take me away long before you. He needs you to clear the infidels off our shores.”

  When al-Adil spoke those words I agreed with him. The Sultan was in high spirits and reminded me of those early days in Cairo when he was learning the art of statecraft. But the Sultan must have had a foreboding.

  Early one morning he ordered me to be woken up and join him. Having failed to visit Mecca he wanted to go and greet the returning pilgrims outside the city walls. I think he truly regretted his own inability to make the pilgrimage. During his youth it had been an act of defiance, but as he grew older he felt it as a loss. However, the war against the Franj had occupied him for two score years, and of late he was simply too exhausted to make the journey. Imad al-Din had prevented him by utilising the Caliph’s rivalry as a motive, but in reality the secretary had confessed to me that he feared the Sultan would not survive the journey. His physicians confirmed that this was indeed the reason why they had forbidden the exertion. He accepted all this with bad grace, and his desire to greet the returning pilgrims was by way of making up for his own failure.

  As we rode it began to rain. The downpour had struck without warning and it was cold winter rain, which froze our faces. I saw him shiver and realised that he had come without his quilted jacket. I took my cloak and attempted to put it round his shoulders, but he laughed and threw it back at me. It amused him that
I, who he regarded as a weakling, was trying to shield him from the weather.

  The rain fell with such force that the road became divided by wild streams and virtually impassable. The horses began to slither in the mud, but he continued to ride and we continued to follow him. I can see him now, his clothes and his beard splattered with mud as he caught sight of the rain-soaked pilgrims and greeted them.

  When we returned the rain had stopped and the sky had cleared. The people of Damascus, in all their finery, came out on to the streets to cheer the Sultan and welcome the caravan from Mecca. We avoided the crowds and took a small path back to the drawbridge.

  Late that night he was possessed by a raging fever. I doubt whether a physician even of your skill would have been able to save him, Ibn Maymun. The fever grew worse and the Sultan was barely conscious. He saw his sons and al-Adil every day. I never left his side, thinking he might recover to dictate his last testament, but on the tenth day he fell asleep and never woke again. He had just passed his fifty-fifth birthday.

  The city wept for three whole days. No instructions had been sent, but the shutters remained drawn over the shops and the streets were deserted. I have never seen such mass grief so openly displayed. The whole city was present as we accompanied his body to its last resting place, walking in absolute silence. His physician Abd al-Latif, himself an old man, whispered in my ear that he could recall no other instance where the death of a Sultan had so genuinely tormented the hearts of the people.

  Imad al-Din, his face disfigured by pain and tears pouring down his cheeks, prayed aloud: “Ya Allah, accept this soul and open to him the gates of Paradise, and thus give him his last victory for which he always hoped.”

  When we returned to the citadel all was silent. It seemed as if emirs and retainers alike could not even bear to listen to the sound of their own voices. The Sultan’s son, al-Afdal, came and embraced me, but no words were exchanged.

  That same evening I suffered an attack of nausea and was sick. I was shivering. My body seemed to be on fire. I consumed three flasks of water and then I fell asleep.

  When I woke the next morning, the sickness had gone, but I felt weak and overcome by a foreboding of disaster. I sat up in my bed and realised that the disaster had already occurred. The Sultan was dead.

  My task is complete. There is nothing more to write.

  Peace be upon you, till we meet,

  Your loyal friend,

  Ibn Yakub

  (Scribe to the late Sultan Salah al-Din ibn Ayyub)

  Glossary

  Andalus Islamic Spain

  atabeg high dignitary

  banj hashish

  chogan polo

  dar al-hikma public library

  Dimask Damascus

  Franj Franks or Crusaders from the West

  ghazi Islamic warrior

  hadith sayings of the Prophet Mohammed; the body of traditions about his life

  hammam baths

  hashishin assassins; members of the Shiite sect of that name

  Ifriqiya Africa

  Isa Jesus

  Ka’aba the sacred stone in Mecca

  Kadi a Muslim judge with extraordinary powers to preserve law and order in a city

  al-Kuds Arab name for Jerusalem

  khamriyya Bacchic ode to the joys of wine

  khutba the Friday sermon in the mosque

  labineh yoghurt or yoghurt-based drink

  maidan flat land for a playing field or a parade ground

  mamluk slave

  Misr Egypt

  mi’zar a large sheet-like wrap worn both as a mande and by pre-Islamic Arabs as a long loin cloth

  Musa Moses

  mushrif a controller of finances

  qalima the word of Allah

  Rumi Roman

  saqalabi a white slave

  Sham Syria

  tamr date wine

  Yunani Greek

  About the Author

  Tariq Ali is a novelist, journalist, and filmmaker. His many books include The Clash of Fundamentalisms: Crusades, Jihads and Modernity; Bush in Babylon: The Recolonization of Iraq; Conversations with Edward Said; Street Fighting Years: An Autobiography of the Sixties; and the novels of the Islam Quintet. He is the coauthor of On History: Tariq Ali and Oliver Stone in Conversation and an editor of the New Left Review, and he writes for the London Review of Books and the Guardian. Ali lives in London.

  Turn the page to continue reading from the Islam Quintet

  ONE

  The summer of 1899; Nilofer returns home after an enforced absence; Yusuf Pasha’s exile; Iskander Pasha suffers a stroke

  MYTHS ALWAYS OVERPOWER TRUTH in family histories. Ten days ago, I asked my father why, almost two hundred years ago, our great forebear, Yusuf Pasha, had been disgraced and sent into exile by the Sultan in Istanbul. My son, Orhan, on whose behalf I made this request, was sitting next to me shyly, stealing an occasional look at his grandfather, whom he had never seen before.

  When one first arrives here after a long absence, through the winding roads and the green hills, the mixture of scents becomes overpowering and it becomes difficult not to think of Yusuf Pasha. This was the palace of his exile and its fragile, undying beauty never fails to overwhelm me. As children we often travelled from Istanbul in the dust-stifling heat of the summer sun, but long before we actually felt the cooling breeze on our skins, the sight of the sea had already lifted our spirits. We knew the journey would soon be over.

  It was Yusuf Pasha who instructed the architect to find a remote space, but not too distant from Istanbul. He wanted the house built on the edge of solitude, but within reach of his friends. The location of the building had to mirror the punishment inflicted on him. It was both very close and far removed from the site of his triumphs in the old city. That was the only concession he made to the conditions imposed on him by the Sultan.

  The structure of the house is palatial. Some compromises had been made, but the house was essentially an act of defiance. It was Yusuf Pasha’s message to the Sultan: I may have been banished from the capital of the Empire, but the style in which I live will never change. And when his friends arrived to stay here, the noise and laughter were heard in the palace at Istanbul.

  An army of apricot, walnut and almond trees was planted to guard his exile and shield the house from the storms that mark the advent of winter. Every summer, for as long as I can remember, we had played in their shade; played and laughed and cursed and made each other cry as children often do when they are alone. The garden at the back of the house was a haven, its tranquillity emphasised whenever the sea in the background became stormy. We would come here to unwind and inhale the intoxicating early morning breeze after our first night in the house. The unendurable tedium of the Istanbul summer was replaced by the magic of Yusuf Pasha’s palace. The first time I came here I was not yet three, and yet I remember that day very clearly. It was raining and I became very upset because the rain was wetting the sea.

  And there were other memories. Passionate memories. Anguished memories. The torment and pleasure of stolen moments during late-night trysts. The scents of the grass in the orange grove at night, which relaxed the heart. It was here that I first kissed Orhan’s father, “that ugly, skinny Dmitri, Greek school inspector from Konya” as my mother had called him, with a stern and inflexible expression that hardened her eyes. That he was a Greek was bad enough, but his job as an inspector of rural schools made it all so much worse. It was the combination that really upset her. She would not have minded at all if Dmitri had belonged to one of the Phanariot families of old Constantinople. How could her only daughter bring such disgrace to the house of Iskander Pasha?

  This attitude was uncharacteristic of her. She was never bothered by family trees. It was simply that she had another suitor in mind. She had wanted me to marry her uncle Sifrah’s oldest son. I had been promised to my cousin soon after my birth. And this most gentle and even-tempere
d of women had exploded with rage and frustration at the news that I wanted to marry a nobody.

  It was my married half-sister, Zeynep, who told her that the cousin for whom she had intended me was not interested in women at all, not even as engines for procreation. Zeynep began to embroider tales. Her language became infected by the wantonness she was describing and my mother felt her elaborate descriptions were unsuitable for my unmarried ears. She painted my poor cousin in such dark and lecherous colours that I was asked to leave the room.

  Later that day my mother lamented bitterly as she kissed and embraced me. Zeynep had convinced her that our poor cousin was a merciless monster and my mother was weeping in self-reproach at the thought that she might have forced her only daughter to marry such a depraved beast and thus have become the direct cause of my lifelong unhappiness. Naturally, I forgave her and we talked and laughed about what might have been. I’m not sure whether she ever discovered that Zeynep had invented everything. When my much-maligned cousin became ill during a wave of typhoid and died soon afterwards, Zeynep thought it better if the truth was concealed from my mother. This had one unfortunate result. At her nephew’s funeral in Smyrna and to the great consternation of my uncle Sifrah, my mother found it difficult to display any signs of grief and when I forced myself to squeeze out a few tears she looked at me in shocked surprise.

  All that lay in the past. The most important truth for me was that after nine years of exile I was back again. My father had forgiven me for running away. He wanted to see my son. I wanted to see the Stone Woman. Throughout my childhood my sister and I had found hiding places among the caves near an ancient rock which must once have been a statue of a pagan goddess. It overlooked the almond orchards behind our house and, when we saw it from a distance, it looked most like a woman. It dominated the tiny hillock on which it stood, surrounded by ruins and rocks. It was not Aphrodite or Athena. Them we recognised. This one bore traces of a mysterious veil, which became visible only when the sun set. Her face was hidden. Perhaps, Zeynep said, it was a local goddess, long since forgotten. Perhaps the sculptor had been in a hurry. Perhaps the Christians had been on the march and circumstances had compelled him to change his mind. Perhaps she was not a goddess at all, but the first carved image of Mariam, the mother of Jesus. We could never agree on her identity and so she became the Stone Woman. As children we used to confide in her, ask her intimate questions, imagine her replies.