Tariq Ali - A Sultan in Palermo

The mehfil at the Ayn al-Shifa mosque in Palermo. Philip is convinced that the Barons and Bishops are plotting a massacre or possibly two.

IDRISI BREAKFASTED ALONE THE next morning. He had been looking forward to the presence of Khalid and Ali but it was not to be. His daughters had departed, ignoring his request that his grandsons be left with him. Ibn Fityan relayed his daughters’ message to the effect that the boys were desperate to return to their fathers. Even the servant smiled as he delivered it. But Idrisi was angered by their disobedience. How those wretched girls must dread his influence, fearing he might transfer his love of books to Khalid and Ali. As he ate the freshly plucked figs he looked out to sea. No breezes lifted the waves. Once this island was under water, of this Idrisi was convinced: the congealed shells he had discovered on mountain tops and the skeletal shapes of giant fish were enough proof of what once was and might be again. It would be fitting punishment for the Bishops and Barons.

The irksome thought of his daughters returned to him. Why had Allah punished him with them? How could idiocy overpower all else? After today, he no longer cared. He would try and ensure that he saw his grandsons regularly. As for the fruit of his loins, it must have been rotten-ripe from birth. But the discovery of Elinore changed everything, like catching sight of a rich and fertile coast, with pure sandy beaches the colour of gold and a green mist rising from the rich forest of palms that lay behind. The barren rocks and dust-laden shrubs withering in the summer heat were soon forgotten.

Ibn Fityan, returning with his morning coffee, whispered close to his ear, ‘The news from the palace is not good. They say that Philip has fallen out of favour and the Bishops are demanding his head. Could this be true, master? If Philip falls, who will protect us?’

Idrisi was not at all surprised that the worried palace eunuchs were spreading the news. He shook his head in despair.

‘The Sultan is unwell. He thinks that offering Philip’s head to the Nazarenes on a platter will ensure a safe succession. He thinks that William is a weak boy and will need much help from the Bishops and the Barons. That is why he is prepared to sacrifice Philip, a person whose loyalty to him cannot be challenged.’

The steward looked at him with hurt eyes. ‘Treachery. And you have accepted it?’

Idrisi did not answer till he had finished eating the honey-flavoured sheep’s milk curds. ‘I will go to the mosque today and listen to the sermon, but after the Friday prayers are over. You may accompany me as long as you keep your dagger hidden. I don’t want it said that Idrisi is frightened of the populace.’

Ibn Fityan smiled. It was what he wanted to hear. ‘Not the populace, Commander of the Book, but a Nazarene stoked to fury by the monks who resent your closeness to the Sultan. The vile rumours they spread about you are truly unbearable and…’

Idrisi interrupted him. ‘If I can bear them you must try and do the same.’ He understood the fear that the news had unleashed. He had known hunger, thirst, bodily weariness, and emotional anguish; sometimes, the thought of Mayya imprisoned in the harem induced a terrible misery. All this, but never fear. Now, he had to admit that the news of Philip’s fall from favour had shaken even his self-confidence.

As they walked through the crowded streets to the mosque Idrisi noticed the silence of the multitude, straining to hear the words of the sermon, mutilated excerpts from al-Quran. Entering the mosque, the Believers made way for him so he could sit at the front, but he declined with a grateful gesture and sat in the open courtyard under the glare of the sun. He looked around to estimate the size of the gathering. There were at least three thousand people assembled, probably more. The qadi would speak for a long time today, overwhelming the faithful with a confusing mixture of dogmatic counsels and endless rhetoric, which flowed like a stream. When the crowd expressed appreciation of a particular phrase with cries of wa-allah, he would repeat it, enunciating each word carefully, his gaze directed towards heaven.

Idrisi stopped listening and recalled one of his earliest meetings with Philip in the palace. The Sultan was questioning his victorious Amir al-bahr on the pattern of a city built by Believers. Why the water? Why the gardens? Why the row of straight trees?

‘Bountiful Sultan,’ replied Philip, ‘the garden is heaven on earth, the water must be kept pure and clear in canals, the trees must be planted in rows. The reason is simple. It helps us to develop pure and clear conceptions and guard against false illusions. The builders create cities like this everywhere to stress the universality of the Prophet’s faith. And it is this that pushes the soldiers of the Prophet towards expansion and the enemies of this faith towards surrender.’

The Sultan smiled and nodded. ‘When you speak like this I sense something. In your heart you remain a Believer in your Prophet. The conversion to my faith was a pretence. I do not blame you, but I would be happier if you admitted this and then you and Master Idrisi can pray together.’

Philip had paled, but apart from that his expression betrayed nothing. ‘I am grateful to the Sultan. I pray in the large church built by your father.’

Suddenly Idrisi became aware that Philip’s name had been spoken by the qadi. The other listeners had already succumbed to the preacher. Now Idrisi, too, strained to hear every word.

‘It has been reported to us that Philip al-Mahdia, the great Amir al-bahr and a worthy successor to the late George, may Allah bless his memory, is the victim of falsehoods. The Nazarene monks charge Philip with treason because they say that when he conquered Mahdia he refused to torture and kill Believers or rape the women. Is this a crime? May the stars rain on the head of the Nazarenes and may they be forced to drink their own blood for making this charge. Sultan Rujari is our protector and we must not do anything to shake his throne. Hear me, O Believers. This Sultan has defended us against the madness of his monks. The Sultan and his family will guard us against all catastrophes and for that reason let us pray to Allah to guide the Sultan and urge him to spare the life of Philip.’

Idrisi joined in the prayer, cupped his hands and looked upwards. A collective ‘Amen’ rent the air and the sermon was over. As the faithful surrounded him, they shouted questions from every direction: Is what the qadi said true? Do you think Filib will die? Will our world end? Should we not resist now instead of waiting for the executioner’s axe?

He smiled at them with sad eyes and allowed himself to be taken deep into the heart of the mosque, into a narrow room where the others had assembled. As his eyes became accustomed to the semi-darkness, he felt a lightning bolt. Philip, attired in long white robes, was seated on the floor with the rest of them. He rose to his feet and embraced Idrisi, kissing him three times. The others did the same. Apart from the qadi, Philip and himself, there was the Chief Eunuch from the palace and two young men who introduced themselves as Philip’s captains in charge of their own ships of war. Philip had taught them all they knew and they would die for him. Once the introductions were over, a silence fell.

It was Philip who spoke first. ‘What the qadi said today was true. There is a conspiracy being prepared against us. So much is certain. It is in its early stages, but our choices are limited. Any resistance at this moment would be easily crushed. The Barons and monks are hoping that when I am burnt at the stake, there will be an uprising.’