Bensalem Himmich - The Polymath

In his quest for means of escape, ‘Abd al-Rahman decided to lay the groundwork for his flowery presentation by proffering some symbolic gifts to the Great Khan: a lavishly decorated copy of the Qur’an, a superb carpet, and a copy of al-Busiri’s famous poem, The Mantle Ode , along with some boxes of Egypt’s famous sweetmeats. As he walked through the book markets, he became aware of the extent to which taxes imposed by the Mongols had destroyed the livelihood of so many merchants. “Their stomachs are bottomless,” one of them told him. “Every time I feed them, they ask for more.” “We’ve become their slaves in chains,” another said. “We starve so they can eat. We suffer so they can have a good time.” As ‘Abd al-Rahman listened to complaints like these, all he could do was to recommend patience and promise that the calamity would eventually come to an end.

“My life proceeds through God’s blessings. O God, let the paces of this faithful mule be enveloped in a process of release and rescue. O God, endow me with Your kindness. O Merciful and Compassionate One, clear the path before me and do not make things difficult!”

In the grand arcade of al-Ablaq Palace, ‘Abd al-Rahman presented his gifts to Timur. He watched as the Great Khan got up from his chair and put the Qur’an in front of him. He then sat on the carpet and looked pleased with it. When ‘Abd al-Rahman presented the copy of The Mantle Ode , he asked the translator to give the khan a few details about the work and its author. Lastly, he himself ate some of the sweetmeats to convince his host that they were safe to eat, whereupon Timur took some and swallowed them. He then gave ‘Abd al-Rahman an inquisitive stare.

“Where’s the report on the Maghrib, Wali al-Din?” the translator hastened to ask, putting the khan’s expression into words. “Where’s the report?”

“The report? Oh my!” replied ‘Abd al-Rahman in some confusion. “However forgetful can one be. . the report, yes indeed, the report. It is only the Devil who has made me forget to remember it . Here it is, straight from the warm inside of my burnous to the hand of the Great Khan.”

Timur put the pile of paper on top of his hand as though weighing it. “ Khub, khub ,” he commented in a desultory fashion. He then addressed some remarks to the translator, the gist of which was that the text should be translated into Mongolian. ‘Abd al-Rahman took a deep breath and waited for the appropriate point at which to say what was really on his mind. The senior officials in attendance were sitting by the door to the arcade, reacting to their leader’s comments with gestures of support and approval. As they all watched, bleary-eyed, Timur, his mouth full of sweetmeats, started to make a speech involving much groaning, along with raising and lowering of his voice. Once finished, he ordered the grandees and commanders to leave. He then instructed the chamberlain to bring in two sturdy boys to meet the great scholar, Ibn Khaldun. The historian was told that these were Timur’s sons, Miran Shah and Shah Rukh. They greeted him, then left.

When ‘Abd al-Rahman made it clear that he was anxious to understand what Timur had said, Ibn al-Nu‘man leaned over and translated for him: “What the Great Khan said with his voice lowered was that he was very upset to hear about the outrages to which Damascus and its citadel had been exposed. He was particularly saddened to hear about the fire that had destroyed part of the Umawi mosque. How could he not be affected when he had specifically recorded in his memoirs: Ί have made a great effort to avoid pillage and excessive force, because such deeds only cause famine and various other disasters that can wipe out entire races.’ But what was he supposed to do when his specific instructions to his army to take a gentle approach were not always obeyed in the heat of the battle and the ravages that followed? If he forced his army generals to restrain their soldiers and forbid them taking spoils as the result of fierce battles in which they had risked life and limb, they might well cause him a lot of trouble. These were the rules of warfare; nothing could either prevent or change them. When the khan spoke out loud, it was to say that the Syrians had deserved the treatment they received at the hands of the Mongol army as punishment for the crimes they and the Umawis had committed against ‘Ali and his two sons — may God sanctify their spirits.”

Assuming that Ibn al-Nu‘man’s translation was accurate, ‘Abd al-Rahman had not expected to hear such a statement from Timur. Seizing the opportunity he asked Ibn al-Nu‘man to express his own criticism of the way the army had behaved in ways contrary to the laws of Islam and the spirit of Islamic conquests. However, the translator refused to translate any critical remarks for fear of the consequences. At this point a young boy of Arab appearance was brought in; he had a pale face and inscrutable gaze. The Great Khan muttered something about him, and Ibn al-Nu‘man hastened to translate: “since I have taken up residence in this palace, this boy has kept pestering me. He claims to be the ‘Abbasi caliph of this era and demands that the caliphal throne in Baghdad be legally restored to him. I’ve consulted a few judges on the matter, and they’ve all dismissed the claim. But then I told myself I wouldn’t make up my mind until I’d consulted the great historian, someone who’s well acquainted with dynastic trees and other aspects of the case. So, Ibn Khaldun, I’m giving you a very important commission. It’s a singular honor, something to make you forget all about the ravages that Damascus has suffered. Should I reinstall this young man who has come begging to me on his throne or not? This is a major issue, and I’m entrusting the decision on the matter to you. I will then carry out your decision.”

It took ‘Abd al-Rahman no time at all to determine that the issue was actually trivial. “I’ve written a great deal on the caliphate, O Great Khan,” he replied. “Since the very beginnings of the Umawi caliphate some five centuries ago, I’ve come to regard it as an old, worm-eaten tree, retaining a mere smattering of its blessed aura, or else as an aged woman whose features evoke distant memories of a beauty long past and a vigor that exists no more. Today, more than in any previous era, the caliphate is a form with no meaning, a shape with no structure. Sultans make use of its legitimizing effects and adopt it as a kind of symbol and ensign. The ruler in this particular era who has latched on to it in the personage of the would-be caliph, al-Wathiq bi-Llah, is the Mamluk sultan Faraj. The institution resides in Cairo because it was transferred there from Baghdad by the founder of the Bahri Mamluk dynasty, Rukn al-Din Baybars, in about 660. The story of that particular sultan is very well-known. That is the extent of my knowledge about the current state of the caliphate. Above every knowledgable person is the All-Knowing .

Timur let out a terrifying laugh, then belched and spat in the face of the young boy kneeling in front of him. He started tweaking his ears and cuffing him on the neck.

“You fraud!” he yelled via his translator. “Did you hear the great scholar’s verdict? Out of my sight with you, and forget about the caliphate! Make sure you never come back to me again with your requests for protection and thrones. Be gone. I don’t like people pestering me. So, Ibn Khaldun, do you think I’ve done enough in response to your verdict? So help me, if you’d asked me to kill the boy, I would have done it. Is there any other favor I can do for you?”

‘Abd al-Rahman’s response was full of nostalgia and sadness. “In this land I am a stranger twofold. First, from the Maghrib which is my homeland and birthplace; second, from Egypt where my family lives. While I thrive in the shadow of your presence, I beg you to consider what grieves me in my exile.”