Bensalem Himmich - The Polymath

In every corner of the mosque people were reciting the prayer for mercy, asking for release and compassion. After washing and praying, ‘Abd al-Rahman joined them in the recitation. He then went over to the Companions’ prayer niche where prayers were led by someone of the Maliki rite. There he found worshippers preparing to conduct a funeral which people said was for the chief judge in Syria, Burhan al-Din al-Shadhili al-Maliki, who had been maryred during a skirmish between the Mamluks and Mongols. No sooner was the funeral finished than ‘Abd al-Rahman sat in a corner of the mosque to rest his feet and frame. His mind was troubled by any number of conflicting ideas, and he suddenly felt the need to get together with his two friends, Yashbak and Ibn Muflih, so he could stay in contact and remove the veil of obscurity that he felt was clouding both mind and soul.

Yashbak welcomed the master to his residence in Yalbugha Dome Square with great affection and an optimistic mood. “Our situation vis-à-vis the Mongols has improved, Wali al-Din,” he said. “Our last skirmish with them provided our cavalry commanders with a real picture of the Mongol army that is not based on fairy tales. The fighting lasted two whole days and finished yesterday. We engaged them with just two thousand horsemen in a valley a few miles to the west of the Dome. A number of men from their vanguard and main column were either killed, wounded, or captured. Left and right flanks were forced to retreat and take flight. We lost about one hundred soldiers. Among the victims you know was one of the Syrian judges, Burhan al-Din al-Shadhili al-Maliki, and the Maliki judge, Sharaf al-Din ‘Isa was wounded.”

Yashabk suddenly fell silent, as though he became aware of the way that his colleague’s expression reflected a disdainful view of the significance of such a limited success in the context of a broader conflict.

“You should be aware, my friend,” he went on, “that the decisive battle has not yet happened; true victory has yet to be won. Even so, I have to seize any light that I can, even though it may be just a glimmer. Our soldiers badly need to have their spirits raised and their mettle fired. Enthusiasm’s what we need, Wali al-Din, enthusiasm, even if it means that we have to inflate the profits somewhat.”

“Is there any other good news?”

“Sultan Husayn has come over to our side. He’s claiming to have broken with his uncle, Timur. Am I supposed to regard that as good news? I’m keeping an eagle eye on him till I can be sure whether he’s telling the truth or not.”

“If I weren’t so exhausted, Yashbak, I’d want to meet this sultan and some of the others prisoners as well. I could question them about Timur’s intentions.”

“They’re all saying the same thing: every day Timur’s situation is going from bad to worse. He’s thinking of packing up camp and returning to his campaigns further north or even to Samarkand — which seems the most likely.”

“But what if those stories are just a few of Timur’s many tricks?”

“Wali al-Din, there are situations in which knowing what’s the real truth is virtually impossible. Are we supposed to torture prisoners to make them talk, then torture them again to make them say what we want to hear?”

“That’s not what I meant. I’m merely saying that we shouldn’t rely solely on suspect information.”

“You’re absolutely right, my friend. As soon as certain amirs heard that Timur might possibly be packing up to leave, they were calling for us to return to Egypt. I spent much of the night with loyal commanders reminding the sultan and others who were eager to go home that Timur is a past master at such stratagems.”

“The burden of years weighs heavily on my shoulders. But for that, my good friend, I’d be there at every battle, assessing the data for myself.”

“God prolong your life, friend! We’re much in need of you, but in the realms of knowledge and sound advice, not bloody conflict and the heat of battle.”

“Bearing in mind my exhaustion and advanced age, your words are fair enough. Dear friend, I feel that I’m burning the last set of candles for my involvement in such things. The time is fast approaching when I’ll no longer pay any attention to news, however significant it may be. It’s the voice of life eternal that now beckons me.”

“I’ve never known you to be so depressed, Wali al-Din. How are your wife and family?”

“I’ve not heard from them. There’s been no reply to my letter.”

“Give me a letter now, and I’ll have it sent by carrier-pigeon. If you’d like to return to Egypt or to have your family brought here, just let me know.”

“May you be rewarded for such kindness, my friend! Where is Burhan al-Din ibn Muflih?”

“That man’s exercising jihad in his own unique way. He keeps going from one Syrian city to another, creating what he is calling ‘defense groups’ to protect land and people, then bringing them to Damascus. He is making plans and operating as if the Egyptian army is definitely going to leave Syria, in which case the final confrontation will be between the Mongols and the people of Syria.”

“Were I his age, I’d be doing the same.”

‘Abd al-Rahman asked for some paper, wrote a letter to his wife, and sealed it. He stood up and handed it to Yashbak. The commander embraced him and went on to say that ‘Abd al-Rahman should move into the citadel if he received notice to that effect.

For the remainder of Jumada al-Awwal, ‘Abd al-Rahman kept getting news that boded no good. Students no longer came to class, and people — like rats in a basement — ran around in circles, seeking refuge in mosques, backalleys, and shrines. The soldiery involved themselves in an unusual and never ending sequence of maneuvers, watching the gates of Damascus, guarding the road to the citadel, and conducting patrols into quarters and streets.

Weather and atmosphere, physical and mental, turned oppressive, and the summer heat settled in for the season. The sun was a series of burning-hot metal bars that radiated their heat till the first part of night. Air, or what little was left of it, smelled foul and was mingled with the stench of rotting corpses. Even the clear blue sky was polluted by the black color of hovering crows, which made it look as if it were afflicted by a strange kind of flickering. The air was terribly hard to breathe. With such a disgusting cocktail of foul and noxious fumes it was a miracle it didn’t burst into flames.

Was the Mongol hurricane about to descend on them all?

‘Abd al-Rahman was turning over that very question in his mind when the mail brought him a letter. He assumed it was from his wife, Umm al-Batul, and that lifted his spirits. However, when he opened it, he discovered that it was actually from his friend, Ibn Muflih. He sat down and read his friend’s words with considerable pleasure. In fact, it contained a very clear answer to the question as to whether the Mongol hurricane was about to descend on them. After the “In the name of God” and greetings, here is what Ibn Muflih had to say:

Dear Friend, I swear to God that the only thing keeping me away is that I have been traveling to Syrian cities, making every effort to form defense groups to protect land and people. I have only started doing this after receiving clear proof that the Egyptian army proposes to wash its hands of Damascus and leave its people to face the Mongol menace on their own without either army nor equipment. Every day that goes by sees the departure of this amir or that commander. I am almost certain that Sultan Faraj himself will soon join them, fearing for his own life at the hands of Timur and hoping to counteract the activities of conspirators in Egypt itself .