Bensalem Himmich - The Polymath

As Barquq was making his way back to Egypt, the people of Cairo heard that his Mamluks had been released from prison and had pounced on the Citadel where they had expelled Mintash’s followers and, in anticipation of their master’s return, gained control of the Ablaq Palace under the command of the Mamluk, Bata.

I have dozens and dozens of blank pages just waiting for me to find the time to write down the finer details of recent events in the history of this Mamluk dynasty to which I have been witness. However, I don’t have the energy to retrieve them from my mind and memory. At this point, my life hangs by a solitary thread. It is one that the returning sultan can easily sever with a single blow of his sword since he is bound to take the dimmest possible view of the fact that I signed that false fatwa against him along with all the other judicial authorities. Is there any chance of reason getting the upper hand, or that maybe he’ll take mitigating circumstances into account; the fact, for example, that the signatures were obtained under duress? The answers to all those possibilities must be left to God to decide and to the extent to which the sultan feels inclined to show mercy and forgiveness.

While waiting for the situation to become clearer and for decision day to arrive, I spent my days going from house, to mosque, to college, to school. I also found myself preoccupied with two other things: Maghribi documents on the one hand, and the composition of a poetic plea for mercy addressed to Barquq on the other.

Whenever I found myself with time to spare, I made my way to the Zuwayla quarter, which was near the one where I lived, or else I would meander my way around the Kitama quarter near al-Azhar Mosque or the Musadama quarter alongside the Elephant Lake. By now the Maghribi quarters in these various parts of the city have vanished, but they can still provide the historian with a reminder of the Fatimi ‘Ubaydi dynasty, which relied on Maghribi Berbers for support just as much as the body does on its spinal column. The reason for my visits to those districts was undoubtedly a desire to smell the sweet breeze of my homeland and slake my intense feelings of nostalgia. Who knows, any time soon I might be forced to pick up and move back to Tunis or Fez.

I worked on the poem for Barquq at night. Next morning I would refine its phraseology and check on the rhymes. The poem was so full of hyperbole and entreaty that it weighed on my heart like a ton of lead. Poetry without any genuine feeling or buried fire is useless verbiage, no more. That much I have learned about every line I’ve composed throughout my life. This particular poem, with its very particular audience, found me powerfully aware of the unconvincing artistry and affectation I was using. I saw myself as sticking and patching verses together, letting things go their own way until such time as I felt like piecing them all together into some kind of coherent entity. Here’s part of it:

My lord, when people think well of you

And your hands are guarantors of every wish ,

Neglect me not; with regard to you

I have neglected neither pledge of love nor beautiful hands .

Keep me close by. Fate has been unkind .

Dispatching its steeds against me .

A foreigner has seen approval and ease combined

To inure him to sorrow and estrangement .

Just before dawn I leapt out of bed and filled a page with yet more verses for recital:

Our foes have crafted calumnies

Every one among them fatally flawed;

About me they have circulated bizarre falsehoods

Set up as snares to their own interests .

So accept our excuses. Today by the life of the sultan

We are begging you to accept them .

To confront the onset of days, accept the help of a foreigner

Who complains about the barrenness of his life .

Your neighbor is your guest, one who enjoys your protection;

And the generous man never neglects his guests .

These verses and others like them were the products of many long hours that I spent in the early morning. They so exhausted me that I felt totally wrung out.

Half way through the year 792 Barquq re-entered Cairo in triumph, to the accompaniment of all the trappings of pomp and victory. According to many accounts (some of which I gathered at the council at Hammam al-Sufiyya), Sultan Barquq had barely defeated Mintash before he got the judges to depose Amir Hajji. He then received an acknowledgment from the ‘Abbasi caliph in Baghdad that he was indeed ruler of Egypt. No sooner was he restored to his position than he named his Mamluk, Bata, as his dawadar , then summoned the prisoners from Alexandria. After upbraiding them for their conduct, he restored them all to their former positions. Among those who were treated this way were al-Nasiri and al-Jubani who were re-appointed governors of Aleppo and Damascus respectively. I will not conceal the fact that these developments made me feel a lot better and suggested that things might work out well for me. The only thing that gave me pause was when I learned that a decree had been issued promoting Sudun to the position of viceroy in the sultan’s office. As far as the post of controller of the Baybars Convent was concerned, I came to realize that my chances of getting it back were nil since Sudun harbored a special hatred for me because during my time as a judge I habitually opposed his corrupt requests. My dismissal from the Baybars Convent coincided with the day when I was summoned to the sultan’s presence. He spared me nothing in his condemnation of the fact that I had signed the fatwa authorizing his deposition. He then let me go, but without even accepting my excuses.

When I returned home, I started hugging my wife and child as hard as I could. I felt as if I had just escaped certain death and slid my way out of Izra’il’s clutches.

When night fell, I sat down to look over my apologetic poem, filling in blank passages, changing the order of phrases, and adding new lines. These are some of the new lines I added:

How is it that the college has been taken from me

When no crime was committed or misdemeanor?

Nay, it is a position I have worn with pride

Appointed by noble decree and duly draped gown .

I had hoped for another ,

One that by its promise would be granted .

I used it as a base for future hopes ,

Assuming its boons would be unending .

As I put the final touches to the poem, it occurred to me that it might be a good idea to send it to my old friend, Altunbugha al-Jubani, viceroy of Damascus, and ask him to intercede with the sultan on my behalf. I concocted a few more verses on that theme, then sent it to Damascus in safe hands. After much waiting and procrastination, the poem — along with its references to waters returning to their normal courses and so on — seems to have done the trick. I found myself gradually forgiven by the sultan and returned to his grace and favor.

The Baybars Convent had been snatched away from me, but my income from teaching and the Fayyum farm was enough to meet household expenses. Actually, there was enough to allow my wife and I to take our daughter, now one year old, out for a stroll in the public park, to look at the rams butting and the cocks squawking, and even to watch the shadow play. God be praised for the boons He let us enjoy!

Poking one’s nose into matters that are liable to occur without warning or forethought, getting involved in situations whose only function is to show one how little choice and how little discretion over his own future he has, these are just some of the many snares that may entrap those religious scholars who find themselves seduced by the attractions of politics. They have no experience whatsoever in the hothouse atmosphere of political life, nor do they possess the know-how needed to keep rulers at arm’s length. Their only resort is to pack their bags and run from one ruler to the next.