Bensalem Himmich - The Polymath

His wife trilled three times in sheer delight. “Where do I start?” she kept saying as she paced around the rooms. “Sha‘ban, help me!”

The old servant looked sadder than a raven. “Worries are half the burden of old age, sir,” he said, “With your departure, my old age has finally arrived for good. The happiest days of my life have been spent in your service. How can I stand the thought of your leaving?”

‘Abd al-Rahman had no idea how to talk to his faithful servant. He gave him a distracted look full of affection, but left it to his wife to come up with the right reply.

“You’re one of us, Sha‘ban. When we go, you can come with us.”

“For me, Umm al-Batul,” Sha‘ban replied, “the world’s boundaries stop at Fustat and Cairo. Even when I was in the prime of life, I’ve never left my homeland. How can I possibly do it now when my back is bent by old age? If you have to leave, then do it slowly and deliberately out of kindness to me.”

‘Abd al-Rahman immediately set about calming Sha‘ban down. He told his wife to think about the idea and to take things slowly. With that, he went up to his study to read and write.

The next day, ‘Abd al-Rahman received a visit from the dawadar Yashbak al-Sha‘bani. After welcoming him warmly, he told his visitor that he intended to return to his homeland, saying merely that he longed to go back. However, his visitor immediately revealed the reason for his visit.

“Wali al-Din,” he said, “I’ve just spent more than a month in Syria, keeping track of news about Timur. I’ve been consulting with the amirs and also with the viceroy of al-Ghiba. If I’d been in Cairo, no one, not even the sultan in person, would have been able to harm you. Aqbay, the chamberlain, is stupid and dishonest; his only virtue is that he sided with Faraj during the recent revolt. As soon as I got back to Cairo and heard you’d been put in prison, I immediately went and told him about the documents I had written down when you had met with his father, the late Sultan Barquq. That made him shed bitter tears. He has asked me to apologize to you on his behalf and to offer you a Maliki teaching post at the endowment of Umm Salih. Then, so help me God, if Aqbay were not already heading for a downfall, I would ask that he be ordered to beg your forgiveness and to walk from the chamberlain’s office on foot, just as he made you do when he summoned you.”

‘Abd al-Rahman burst into a smile.

“May God reward you well, Yashbak,” he said earnestly, yet humbly. “God bless you for all your efforts on my behalf. Walking, I would remind you, is healthy exercise, warmly recommended by doctors and physicians. For old people like me it has well documented benefits. The primary damage resulted from the type of prison I was in before you returned from Syria. In my view there are two types of prison: one is an object of pride, the other a source of humiliation and degradation. I savored the first type when I was young. I served two years in prison in Fez during the reign of the Marini sultan, Abu ‘Inan. The second type I have had to endure for totally unjust reasons at the beginning of the reign of a sultan who is still a minor and whose father I had served loyally. But let’s not waste time talking about a trial that many people hoped would totally humiliate me, but now they’ve been proved wrong. I survived it in one piece, all because I spent much time contemplating the Mighty and Infinite One and the collected wisdom of India, Greece, the Arabs, and the Persians. I gave my memory a free hand and opened the gates to the spiritual inspiration of the mystical path. The Sufis of Islam gave me the benefit of their choicest moments. Al-Karkhi was watching over me as we both intoned: ‘Sufism involves grasping genuine truths; despair what is in mortals’ hands.’”

“What about the new post you’re being offered, Wali al-Din?”

“I do not need it. Tell them to sell it off as they did with my judgeship. The state treasury needs all the money it can get for the war against the Tatars. Beyond that, the Maliki rite has now become an orphan in this land of Egypt, rendered irrelevant by the corruption of centuries-old customs and spurned by the influential and wealthy classes. But tell me, Yashbak, what news of Timur?”

“Very bad, very bad indeed. Timur has occupied Anatolia and destroyed Siwas. Today he’s making his way across Syria toward Damascus itself. The situation is dangerous, Wali al-Din, and extremely critical. In my role as dawadar and army marshal I’ve advised the sultan to send his army to Damascus to prevent it falling into Mongol hands. Damascus is in effect our easternmost gateway. If it falls — God forbid — Egypt is wide open to the final catastrophe. Several army commanders share this view, but not the majority of them. The entire situation now is marked by dithering; I’m doing my very best to get things changed, so help me God! I’ve suggested to Faraj that he take judges with him in his retinue, with you at the very head of the list.”

“I’m grateful to you for your consideration, but my age no longer permits me to travel long distances.”

“The place we’re heading for is not far away, Wali al-Din. No one is going to view your non-participation with any sort of compassion or understanding. Take the next two days to think things over carefully. That’s all the time you have before the middle of the month of the Prophet’s birthday; that’s when we’re scheduled to leave. Once you’ve made up your mind, let me know.”

That said, the dawadar got up to leave and bid ‘Abd al-Rahman farewell with a great deal of affection and respect.

When ‘Abd al-Rahman brought up this subject with his wife, there was much wailing. Umm al-Batul begged her husband to stay by her side. War, she said, was for soldiers. How was he supposed to explain to her that he longed to meet the Mongol lord and talk with him? How could he convince her of the significance of the coming battle and his desire to witness its different phases? All his eloquent phrases came up against her simple, naïve expressions of concern. He reminded her that she was bound to obey him. In response she threatened that, if he left them and went to war, she would take their daughter back with her to Fez. It was eventually left to Sha‘ban to bring the dispute to an end. He was the only one who knew how to calm Umm al-Banin’s worries and persuade his master to treat his wife gently.

Many were the hours that ‘Abd al-Rahman spent thinking about the attraction he felt toward the Timur phenomenon, in spite of all the dangers and hardships involved. Lying in bed he decided that, if he were to travel to Damascus as part of al-Nasir Faraj’s retinue (assuming that it actually happened), his motivation would not be a desire to support the Mamluk dynasty but simply his own intellectual curiosity and an eagerness on his part to be an eyewitness. Once the era of the Rightly-Guided Caliphs had come to an end, any notion of legitimate hegemony had been sheer fancy and pretense. It had all been activated on the tips of swords and spears. Only people willing to be duped by professional manipulators and genealogical trickers would ever be taken in by it. He had said as much many years earlier, and he continued to weigh its validity as he observed the ‘Abbasi caliphate today, in all its feeble finery, being preserved by the Mamluks in fancy cages. There would be times when he felt that aspirants to monarchical rule need no longer be either white- or yellow-complexioned; neither round- nor slanty-eyed, just so long as everyone claimed to be a Muslim and to be protecting its essence and sanctum. So then, here he was, ready to travel to the very frontiers of raging conflict with neither weapon nor cause, on his way to assess the heat of history in one of its more troublesome byways; going with the primary intention of providing a portrait of the conflict and plotting its course on the chart of cataclysms and transformations in kingdoms and thrones.