Bensalem Himmich - The Polymath

‘Abd al-Rahman sat down on a wide rock, read the prayer of mercy, and thought. With the first rays of the sun he stood up, went over to a lookout point, and asked the guard what he could see outside the walls. “There’s nothing like seeing for yourself, Shaykh,” the man replied. “Climb the ladder, stand beside me, and see for yourself.”

Below the ramparts to north and west, lines of donkeys and mules were moving to and fro carrying loads, while columns of men and boys were busy digging trenches and filling them with scrap, straw, kale, and any other type of combustible material. In the distance there was a good deal of dust with horses charging about. The last of the fires were consuming the rest of the tents and catching the straw between the lofty palms; they reached as far as the banks of the Barada and other rivers.

“Who ordered the men to dig these trenches below us?” ‘Abd al-Rahman asked the guard, who was a tall and sturdy youth.

“Not the Egyptian army; they’ve all left. Nor Sultan Faraj either; he’s supposed to have gone too. The people who ordered these trenches dug were a group of fellow Muslims, authorized by the commander of this citadel.”

“Do you happen to know Burhan al-Din ibn Muflih?”

“Do I know him? Who doesn’t know the head of the Hanbalis in al-Salihiya? I’m sure he’s with his lads, training them to fight and set traps. If you go down to the base of the citadel hill, you’ll probably find him there.”

‘Abd al-Rahman thanked the guard, then went down the hill to look for his friend. He was sure that Burhan al-Din would have the most accurate information. He had hardly made his way through the west gate of the citadel and mingled with the trench-diggers before he found Burham al-Din without the slightest difficulty. Everyone knew him, as though he were a general or imam. The two friends embraced each other warmly. Burhan al-Din immediately started describing some of the armed contingents.

“We’re doing everything we can, Wali al-Din,” he said. “Everything else is left to the Great Organizer. Come to al-’Adiliya with us. We’ve an appointment with the senior administrators there.”

The two men sat face to face in one of the houses of the deserted school, relaxing a bit and enjoying the quiet. They prayed the morning prayer together, then spent some time reading the Qur’an and reflecting.

“I received your last letter,” ‘Abd al-Rahman said. “I’d like to confirm with you now that the impression I got from it was correct. Is there no avoiding the Mongol attack now? Have the sultan and his army really withdrawn?”

Burhan al-Din looked at him in amazement. “My letter must have arrived late then! My dear friend, didn’t you hear that the Mamluks have all fled? It was a full week ago they all left for Egypt under cover of night. Their last battle with the Mongols was a crushing defeat. Timur had fed them false information that his army was retreating in disorder, so the Mamluks dispatched some of their brigades to a valley specifically chosen by Timur. Once there, the Egyptians were crushed from every side by flame-throwers and the elephant corps.”

“So where’s Yashbak?”

“That courageous man managed to convince me that there really was a danger of rebellion in Egypt and asked me for my advice. I agreed with his opinion that he should stay with the sultan so as to bolster his regime and continue to advocate the defense of Syria. However, when he suggested that he take you back with him, I disagreed. My argument was that you wanted to stay with the judges so that you could negotiate with Timur as you had promised.”

“You did well, friend, really well! Then what happened? In spite of my old age I can still bear hearing the rest of it.”

Burhan al-Din smiled, as though procrastinating a little. The two men spent a short time in contemplation and silent prayer, then a group of jurists joined them, with a shaykh in Sufi garb at their head. They extended their greetings and joined the two judges. ‘Abd al-Rahman was introduced to everyone there, although he seemed to have met some of them already. The chief judge, the Hanafi Mahmud ibn al-‘Izz, made ready to begin the discussion as senior member of the group. At that point, the assembly was forcefully interrupted by the arrival of Azdar, the officer in charge of the Citadel, accompanied by his escort. He seemed very angry.

“Your assembly, gentlemen,” he said, hand on sword, “is illegal and unacceptable to the sultan.”

Burhan al-Din decided that he had no alternative but to face down the officer. “firstly, Azdar,” he said in a determined and threatening tone, “you are to salute these distinguished men with God’s proper greeting. Then you can control your anger.”

“No greeting is due to anyone who wishes to hand over the city to the tyrant.”

“If you have received specific orders from the sultan, then show us the papers or else get the secretary of Judge Nasir al-Din Abu Tayyib who is here with us to witness them. If you really wish to protect the Citadel, then stay there along with your rich, influential friends.”

“If you hand over Damascus — Heaven forbid! — you will be placing the Citadel in the direst jeopardy. You’re well aware of that, Judge, and you all know as well that Timur has neither faith nor morals. He may give you a pledge of safe-conduct today, but he’ll break it whenever he feels like it.”

“Yes, we’re aware of all that. And we’re also aware that futile resistance to overwhelming military force is a brand of sheer stupidity, something that is certain to bring destruction down on our heads. The purpose of these good men gathered here is to persuade Timur not to harm people and to save the lives of unarmed civilians inside the city. If you have some other plan, then go ahead!”

“Stick to the high places, gentlemen. That’s what an eagle with a broken wing does when it’s surrounded by ravenous beasts. Our situation is exactly like the eagle’s. Our only recourse is to stick things out to the bitter end. That’s the only way that the enemy will give up, raise the siege, and go away.”

After a moment’s thought, ‘Abd al-Rahman decided to say something that might calm Azdar’s temper and lend support to Burhan al-Din’s point of view.

“Okay, Officer,” he said, “suppose Damascus were to fall after a period of resistance — God forbid — and the Mongols started pounding the Citadel with mortars from raised positions they’ll construct. Would there be any other recourse besides negotiation?”

“I’ve thought about all the worst possibilities. After all, I’m a soldier and strategist. In my view, everything can be handled, just so long as the sultan comes back to fight the Tatars as soon as he has dealt with the rebellion in Egypt.”

“That’s pure speculation. If these judges had the slightest guarantee that Faraj would be coming back, they would be taking an entirely different approach to the situation,” said ‘Abd al-Rahman.

“If we resist to the bitter end, it will encourage the sultan to make every possible effort to rescue us.”

“But just imagine that Timur takes the city by storm and enters through the gates before the alleged return of the sultan. What will the people in the city be able to do?”

“The Citadel is impregnable; it’ll be our last resort. We have enough food and water stored for two months or more. That’s more than enough time for help to arrive from the Egyptian army.”

At this point, Burhan al-Din decided to raise the discussion to a new level in case some of the other jurists were swayed by Azdar’s arguments.

“Gentlemen,” he said, “the officer forgets the gruesome fate already suffered by many cities in Iraq and Syria without the Mamluks lifting a finger to help. Now he’s trying to use speculations based on sheer fancy to convince us. Tell us, Azdar, if things get to a crisis point, will you open the Citadel gates to all the citizens who are scared for their own lives, even though they be poor and indigent?”