Tariq Ali - A Sultan in Palermo

At the palace in Palermo he and Mayya had been nervous. Here they relaxed and the Amir, aware that his retainers were all-seeing, dismissed them from the dining chamber with an imperious gesture. The food had been served. Large earthenware jugs containing fresh orange juice, lemonade and unfermented date wine were placed on the table. The Amir did not permit alcohol to be served in his palace except when the Sultan himself was visiting.

Now that they were on their own, Mayya lost any inhibition: ‘Elinore, what do you think of your father?’

Elinore, who knew her mother better than anyone else, did not bother to reply.

‘Mayya, please…’ her sister attempted to restrain her and the Amir, pleading matters of state, took his leave. He was, if truth be told, a little bit frightened. What if news of this reached the Sultan? Might he not be held responsible?

Idrisi burst out laughing. ‘Mayya,’ said Idrisi, looking straight into her eyes and then letting them travel all over her body. ‘You will never change and I will never stop loving you.’

‘Should the rest of us leave?’ asked Elinore, as the black pupils of her deep-set eyes sparkled mischievously.

‘No,’ answered her mother. ‘I will spend the night with your father. So you can stay till then.’

‘Mayya,’ her sister pleaded, ‘nothing can be kept secret here. If news reaches Rujari that you and Ibn Muhammad were here together, he might…’

‘He might nothing. He simply does not care that much about women,’ Mayya interrupted. ‘We are there to produce children. Nothing more. Rujari’s intimates are all men, including the great geographer who honours us with his presence tonight. There were times when I thought that Rujari wanted to raise his friendship with the great Master Idrisi to a higher level, from a spiritual to a physical union. After all, they spend a great deal of time together and it would only be natural, but the thought enraged me. I would have hated them spending a night together, but before I could…’

Idrisi made an effort to control his temper, but the insinuation that he and Rujari were lovers was not confined to Mayya. During the early years of his friendship with Rujari, enemies at court enjoyed circulating the calumny. It used to drive him mad, but he always maintained an admirable self-control. Now the suppressed, cumulative anger burst forth as he half-rose from the chair.

‘It was never true, Mayya. You know that perfectly well. It was your inflamed imagination. That’s all.’

She was delighted that she had managed to provoke him. ‘Better my inflamed imagination than your inflamed arse.’

Balkis covered her mouth to hide a smile, but Idrisi rose from the table in anger. ‘Mayya, this is unacceptable. My tolerance has its limits.’

‘I’m happy that you’re my father,’ said Elinore, stepping in rapidly to mend the breach. ‘It’s not that I don’t love the Sultan. But I think deep inside he knows perfectly well I am not his daughter. He talked of you and your work together on the book with so much intensity…’

‘How could he possibly know that, child? He chose your name, he insisted you were baptised, he supervised your education,’ interjected her mother.

‘I can tell by the way he sometimes looks at me that he is not at all sure I am his daughter. And even though I never told you, Mother, the number of times he mentioned his friend, the great scholar Ibn Muhammad al-Idrisi, was slightly strange. It was as if he was trying to interest me in my real father. Ever since you told me who my real father is, I’ve been thinking of many things the Sultan said to me. Now it’s clear.’

‘It was not at all strange,’ replied her mother. ‘The Sultan and your father spent a great deal of time together looking at the stars and questioning sailors from strange parts of the world. That’s why he mentioned him a lot. Your imagination is far too strong, child. Try and curb it.’

‘I think Elinore is right,’ said Idrisi. ‘The Sultan questioned me about you, Mayya. He knew we were from neighbouring villages, that our families knew each other well, and sometimes I got the feeling that he knew about us and wanted me to confess so he could forgive me and perhaps even hand you over to me as a gift.’

‘Then why didn’t you?’ came the response from his lover.

Before he could reply, their daughter interrupted once again. ‘Since you will have my father alone to yourself for the rest of the night, Mother, perhaps I could ask him three questions before you retire.’

‘Ask,’ said her father.

‘When did you realise that I was your child?’

‘A few days ago at the palace in Palermo. Your mother had told me long before — in fact soon after you were born — but I was not sure whether to believe her or not.’

Mayya screamed. ‘Muhammad! You traitor. How dare you admit this?’

Idrisi ignored the outburst.

‘And are you pleased with what you see, Father? I know you have four other children.’

‘More than you could ever imagine, child. Of my other children the one closest to me is Walid. The rest? There is nothing to say.’

‘We should retire,’ Balkis muttered softly.

‘One more question, please. Do you prefer Strabo to Ptolemy?’

Idrisi’s surprise was visible. ‘Who told you about them?’

‘The Sultan. He said he preferred Ptolemy but that you modelled your work on Strabo.’

‘Not completely true,’ replied her father. ‘Strabo was completely gripped by the location of places, their customs, crops, animals and the like. He wanted to compile the most accurate map of the known world. Ptolemy was more interested in the stars and the sky and the shape of the earth and the moon and how all this affected the change in seasons. They were both great masters and I have learnt much from them. In my heart I wished to pursue and develop the arguments advanced by Ptolemy, but I realised the dangers. It was a difficult path and in that direction lay trouble. Where others looked up and spoke of the poetry of the stars, I noted in great detail how close the ancients had come to solving the mysteries of the universe. Close, but they could not move further. I noticed that everything moved, how each night the movement was repeated and yet never the same till twelve months had passed. Yes, my child. Everything moved. If what I thought was true, the Book was wrong and if the Book was mistaken was it Allah or his Messenger who made the mistake? I did not let these thoughts settle in my mind. They were flashes of lightning that illuminated the future. I am sure that one day discoveries will be made that will challenge the teachings of all the Prophets, including our own. It will be a brave man who publishes such findings. It might cost him his life.’

‘Isn’t the search for knowledge always dangerous?’

‘Perhaps, Elinore, I will return to the subject again before I die. Are you interested in the stars?’

‘Yes, but not their poetry.’

‘I’m tired,’ said Balkis, yawning demonstratively and looking nervously in the direction of her older sister. ‘And perhaps, Mayya, we should retire to our own chambers. Once the servants have left, Ibn Muhammad can explain the movement of the stars or the blemishes on the moon to you. I would suggest he does so from your balcony. The view is clearer.’

It was a warm night. Mayya had discarded her sleeping robe and opened the doors that led to the balcony. The full moon had begun to wane while they were drinking their fill of each other. Afterwards, as they lay silent on her bed, each buried in memories, a soft, refreshing sea breeze arose and brushed their naked bodies.

‘Are there any blemishes on the moon?’ she inquired.

‘None,’ he replied as he stroked her back gently, resting his hands on her softness. ‘These two half-moons remain unchanged. They are exactly as they were ten years ago. You must bathe them in asses’ milk.’