Barry Unsworth - The Ruby In Her Navel

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If one had the misfortune to be born in the 12th century, then Sicily was the place to be. The Normans had conquered the island, finding it effectively divided in two, inhabited partly by Arabs, partly by Greeks. From the outset, they had given both these communities major responsibility in the government. As well as Latin and Norman French, Greek and Arabic were official languages of the developing state; and when in 1130 that state became a kingdom under Roger II, it was already an example to all Europe of cultural and religious toleration. The chief minister and head of the all-important navy was always a Greek (our word admiral derives through Norman Sicily from the Arab title of emir), while the treasury was entrusted to Arabs, whose mathematics were better than anyone else's.
Roger himself was as unlike a Norman knight as it is possible to be. Brought up in Palermo by an Italian mother in a world of Greek and Muslim tutors, he was a southerner – indeed, an oriental – through and through; and the chapel that he built in the Royal Palace is one of the wonders of the world. The ground plan is that of a western basilica; but the walls are encrusted with Byzantine mosaics as fine as any in existence, while the wooden roof, in the classical Islamic style, would do credit to Cairo or Damascus. Here as nowhere else the Norman achievement is given visual expression.
But of course it was all too good to last. The independent Norman kingdom of Sicily endured only 64 years, ending soon after the death of the last legitimate king, William the Good. But perhaps that kingdom, swallowed up by the Holy Roman Empire, carried within itself the seeds of its own destruction. It was too heterogeneous, too eclectic, too cosmopolitan. It hardly tried – or perhaps it had no time – to develop any natural traditions of its own. And it paid the price.
Here, then, is the tragedy that forms the backdrop to the Booker-longlisted The Ruby in her Navel. Nowadays the story of Norman Sicily is largely and undeservedly forgotten; knowing it and loving it as I do, I picked the book up with some trepidation (which, I may say, was hardly diminished by its appalling title). But I have long admired its author, so I plunged in – and was instantly, and almost literally, transported. Now, it is not easy to transport a reader 1,000 years into the past, into a country and cultural climate 1,000 miles away from his own; I can only say that Unsworth succeeded triumphantly. His hero, born in England of a Norman father but brought to Sicily as a child, tells his story in the first person. It begins with him working as a civil servant in the office of a high-ranking Arab; he is sent on a mission to Calabria, where he meets a troupe of travelling dancers from eastern Anatolia (one of them the owner of the eponymous navel) and where he is accidentally reunited with a childhood sweetheart, now unhappily married. There follows a somewhat picaresque story of love, betrayals and attempted regicide, all of it set against the constant rivalries of Latin and Greek, Christian and Muslim – the latter further exacerbated by the recent catastrophic second crusade.
It is a good story, which holds the attention from start to finish; but its real strength lies in the power of the author's historical imagination. He made me feel what it was actually like to live, work and travel in Norman Sicily. There is no whitewashing; almost all the characters, including the narrator himself, are to a greater or lesser degree unpleasant. But life, one feels, was never dull, if one had the misfortune to be born in the 12th century.

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This had to be answered quickly, before he was launched on the grievances of the Arabs. "You are right, you show the wisdom you are everywhere known for, the secret lies in limits. The extortion of money from the Jews, the threat of insult to their dead, these go beyond the limits, I think we are agreed on that. Let Arab quarrel with Arab and Jew with Jew. That is natural and belongs to the order of things. You are here in La Kalsa, the Greeks are in their district of the Martorana, the Lombards in the Albergheria, and so on. We do not pray together, but we can live together."

"Thurstan the Viking, tell me, is it worse for one Arab to kill another than for an Arab to kill a Jew?"

"It is worse in its results, it is worse in the degree of harm to our realm. I do not make a judgement about the wickedness of it."

"A wise reply. We cannot make such a judgement, do you not agree? No two killings could ever be exactly alike in all particulars, even to the temper of the blade or the knotting of the silk. And how can degrees of provocation be compared? As it has been truly said, though clouds in the sky are constantly changing, two might be the same for the briefest of moments. However, this moment can only be witnessed by God, the All-Seeing."

"True," I said, "true." I did not know whether this was a verse from the Koran, the words of an Arab sage, or merely an invention of Muhammed's own. But I did know that he was seeking to draw me away into one of the discussions he so much enjoyed, interminable, abounding in metaphor, always inconclusive. "Our great King has given us an example to follow,"

I said. "In his Assizes at Ariano he made a code of laws and in this he laid it down that all the subject people within his realm should live under the laws and customs of their fathers."

I heard Muhammed sigh, which was what he intended. "In which court, and by whose custom and tradition would it be tried if those disputing were a Roman Christian, a Norman let us say, and a Moslem? Thurstan, I have a place for you in my heart, but we must speak of things as they are, not as we would wish them to be. This is a lesson you have yet to learn. The balance is changing – this balance you speak of with such eloquence.

Every day brings new numbers of Franks and Lombards, people differing in degree but all of the Latin Rite. The King gives grants of Arab land to Lombard farmers, who turn our people into serfs, he founds monasteries for the Latin clergy, he gives fiefs to the Norman knights, as he did to your father."

"How do you know this?" I had never spoken of my father to him, and it was almost fourteen years now since our estates had been made over to the Church.

"As it has been truly said, a man with many friends is like a fortunate fisherman. He casts his net wide and the catch is always good."

"Yes, I see." I did not want to talk of this with Muhammed; the loss of the land had seen the end of my hopes of knighthood, and it was still bitter to me. "It is true that many have come from the north to make their homes with us," I said. "When the balance is threatened, there is the more need for care."

Muhammed sighed again. "We do not like the Jews," he said. "They do not respect this balance, they lend money at exorbitant rates to our people and send violent men to frighten them if payment is delayed."

"But you also have your moneylenders, is it not so? Their rates must be even higher, if your people go to the Jews."

"Palermo is getting richer," Muhammed said, looking at me very steadily.

"And the sign of this is that everyone wants to borrow money. We do not like the Greeks any better. Greek cripples put on turbans and beg in our streets, using our own language, because they know that our religion enjoins charity on us. Where is the balance in that? It is deceitful and shows a low level of morality. Some of them are not even true cripples.

The Sicilians of Palermo we do not like. They want to take everything into their own hands, they are not interested in sharing. They kill our people and try to take over our trade with our fellow-Moslems. Tell me, Thurstan the Viking, where is the balance in that?"

He was talking now about the trade in drugs, the hashish that came from North Africa and the opium from Anatolia. This last was costly: the caravans from the poppy fields of Mersin passed through Byzantine lands on their journey westward and so were subject to high dues, which greatly increased the price on the streets of Palermo and Messina.

"You cannot answer," he said. "Answer there is none. There are also the Normans."

He paused for a long moment on this. Then he said, "We like the Normans, our King is a Norman, we live under his rule. We call him the Powerful Through God. You yourself have Norman blood. But this is Sicily, the Normans of Sicily have lived in the sun. Thurstan, I will say this to you because we are friends, we speak our minds to each other. They have lived in the sun, their brains are not damaged by ice. This freezing of the brains in cold climates was remarked first by Said al-Andalusi. In his writings on the subject of Europe he says that the cold winters stunt the brains of the Franks, and his words have been proved true before the walls of Damascus."

I knew what was coming now, knew it from the extreme gravity that had appeared like a mask on Muhammed's face. It was impossible during these months to talk to any Moslem about events in the world without becoming aware of the secret joy they felt at the disastrous failure of the Second Crusade, which had ended some months before in the ignominious defeat of the Christian army. It might be cloaked by an air of grave moral reflection, it might be concealed beneath an appearance of regret, but it was always there.

"They sat in counsel together and decided to attack Damascus," Muhammed said, shaking his head and pursing his lips. "O, what a catastrophe! O, what a terrible mistake! The Burids of Damascus were their natural allies against the power of Nur ed -Din. And where did they set up their camp? In the orchards below the walls? No, on the plain before the city, where there was no water, no shade. In this situation the only thing was to attack at once, but no, they sat there for four days, quarrelling among themselves, dying like flies. On the fifth day they abandoned the siege. They set off back to Palestine without even making the assault!

The greatest army the Franks have ever put in the field. O, what a calamity! O, what a humiliation! And just think – before that they were considered invincible."

As on similar occasions before I found that the best response to this was silence. And in fact Muhammed, who understood the need for dignity, clearly did not expect a reply. After a moment, in changed tones, he said, "It is not my people who have desecrated the graves of the Jews and used threats to extort money from them. But you have come to me and we are friends. We will find out who these people are and we will speak sharply to them."

"These words of yours afford me great pleasure," I said. "Yusuf ibn Mansur will also be delighted."

"God's blessings on his head. They will not be able to walk without sticks for a week or two. So we keep our paradise, eh?"

He looked at me with a humorous narrowing of his eyes. I sensed that our conversation was coming to a close and began to rise. I heard Hafiz shift his feet and after a moment saw him come into view. Muhammed rose also; his, as the person of greater consequence, would be the final words on parting.

"No, rest assured, Thurstan the Viking. We cannot repay the money, it will all be spent by now on harlots and evil courses. But we will talk to them. To offend against the natural human respect for the dead! What animals! The fault lies in their upbringing, they are not taught respect. Young men of good instruction, if such an intention had formed in their minds, what would they do? Would they not come to discuss the matter, ask our permission?"

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