Tariq Ali - A Sultan in Palermo

‘They’re softer bathed in your sweat. And I’m not satisfied with just once. Will not the young cock crow once more and hide in my nest again?’

‘He is not as young as once he was, but why not ask him?’

She did and the response pleased them both.

They talked the night through and not just of the past they had not been able to share. That they had discussed many times as her refusal to leave the palace. He knew the reasons well and after a few years he stopped seeing her. They would exchange messages, but nothing more. His travels kept him away, but it was more than that: he did not wish to see her as long as she was a creature of the harem.

She knew the most intimate details about his life and had questioned him closely as to how he had managed to produce four children with his wife. It had made her angry: ‘There is no difference between you and a donkey. You mount, ejaculate and plant your seed. Nothing more.’ He agreed with her, but would she prefer him to take another wife, someone who might meet with her approval? That was usually enough to end the conversation.

He had written down the dates that Rujari had visited her bedchamber in the harem. There were not many, but it was a torment that he could not bear and after each of the royal visits he would not contact her for many months. She was astounded when he told her. She had not realised the efficiency with which information was conveyed out of the palace. He told her it caused him great pain, but she would shrug her shoulders and refuse to discuss the matter. It was not her fault that he had married someone else. Why had he not resisted? Was the joining of two estates more important than their love? And, of course, he had no reply. It had been deference to his dying father’s wishes rather than cowardice that had decided the matter, but he had suffered enough. Was that not sufficient punishment?

Strange how these memories no longer pained them. The ten-year absence had been sufficient punishment and neither wished to prolong the agony. Nothing hurt any longer. Elinore was the balm. Elinore, who bore little resemblance to him in her features, but whose expressions and hand movements were extraordinarily similar. She was the product of their loins. If only…

‘Muhammad?’

‘Yes.’

‘I was thinking. If we could have another child, a brother for Elinore…’

He sat up in bed, startled by the symmetry of their thoughts. ‘How strange. I was thinking the same. I was also thinking that after the Sultan dies, I should take you as my wife. We could live together.’

The suggestion irritated her. ‘Everything must wait till he dies. The resistance of our people as well as our wedding. Was that Philip’s recommendation as well?’

He held her close and kissed her lips and then her eyes. ‘Why did you get angry?’

‘Because I hate your plans. Why can’t we just do as we wish? Why must everything be linked to death?’

‘You know me better than anyone else. You know why I control myself.’

She calmed down and began to stroke his head. ‘I know you rage inwardly, trying hard to repress your anger. You worry lest it damage those close to you. I know that, but I don’t want to wait for anyone to die. Our love is not dependent on that, is it? Perhaps I will be with child after tonight. What then? This time Rujari will know it’s definitely not his. Does the thought frighten you?’

He buried his head between her legs and muttered:

‘What kind of musk is this? What scent? From this magic others are created.’

Afterwards, she held him close and whispered, ‘Who wrote the zajal ? Not you. Not Rujari. Is it Ibn Quzman? Tell me now.’

‘It is his verse. Poor Ibn Quzman. I hear he is in trouble with the new Sultan in Qurtuba.’

‘Why can’t he come here? Should I ask Rujari?’

‘No. Ibn Quzman travels where he wishes. He has admirers in every city of al-Andalus. When he is in trouble in Qurtuba, he rushes to Gharnata. If his verse offends the Sultan in that city he flees to Ishbiliya or al-Marriya. Once he spent six months in Balansiya. That’s where I met him.’

‘You met him?’

‘I did.’

‘Why did you not tell me at the time?’

‘I was away from Palermo for two years. When I returned the sight of you made me forget all else.’

‘Did Ibn Quzman recite a zajal for you?’

‘He did that too, but he had consumed a great deal of wine that day and was not sure whether it should be written down or even repeated.’

Mayya held his face in her hands. ‘Recite it to me now. Now!’

He did as she asked.

‘My failures in life so far you know,

How will I spend the rest of it?

Only among people who appreciate sodomy or adultery;

Of this I am certain: I like both.’

Mayya clapped her hands in delight. ‘And you kept that from me all these years? Why? Could it be that you, too, prefer the company of sodomites and…’

His hand covered her mouth.

She fell asleep just as the stars were beginning to fade. Admiring her sleeping form in the morning light, he covered her with a sheet. Then he put on his tunic and went to the balcony, the only one in the palace that was not overlooked. Thoughtful Balkis. Why can’t it be like this always? The muezzin drowned all else. Idrisi left Mayya’s bedchamber and hurried to his own, but he cursed as he saw his attendant in the corridor outside, his head touching the ground as he said his morning prayers. Idrisi slipped into his chamber and, soon after, clapped his hands to summon the man outside.

‘The bath is prepared, sir.’

A few hours later a message from Elinore summoned him to a game of chess. He rarely took part in amusements and could not recall the last occasion he had played. His father had patiently taught him the rules and even though he became a competent player, he had never enjoyed the contest. Perhaps the avalanche of laughter from assembled relatives that had greeted his defeat when he was ten or eleven had discouraged him. Rujari was a keen player, but the scholar had declined to take part in palace tournaments. As he followed the attendant to the library where Elinore awaited him he wondered whether she had ever played with the Sultan. Who else could have taught her?

She greeted him noisily, abandoning the pose of a young lady.

‘Wa Salaam, Abu.’

‘Wa Salaam, daughter.’

‘I told my mother I wanted to be alone with you. It was she who suggested a game of chess.’

‘She doesn’t play either,’ replied her father and both began to laugh.

Elinore plied him with questions. Nothing could stop her onward rush. She did not wait for him to reply: it was her way of making him listen to her and understand her preoccupations. There was nothing false about her and he was filled with pride.

Her mode of speech, the way she emphasised some words and not others, her ever-alert eyes, the use of her hands and the way she touched her hair reminded him of Mayya. Suddenly she stopped. ‘Well, what do you think? You haven’t been listening?’

‘On the contrary, I’ve been listening closely and carefully. Which part of your questioning requires a reply?’

‘The Hauteville family. Were they as heroic as the Sultan told us each year?’

‘Did the stories change at all with the years? Did you detect an increase in heroism as you grew older?’

‘No, they were always the same. By the time I was ten I could recite them myself.’

‘In that case, they were probably true. The men who left the northern part of the barbarian icelands in their sailing ships and came to burn and steal from the Franks were undoubtedly brave. They were masters of war and skilled in cruel combat. Finally the King of the Franks gave them a portion of the land and hoped they would live in peace with him. This they did, but as their settlements grew and families became larger, there was not enough food to feed them all and not enough land to share. So they began to travel again. One of their Barons, William, conquered a neighbouring island and Allah help them, Elinore, it is a cold and miserable land on which the sun never shines in the winter. Cold and dark, it rains and rains. For months it is impossible to see the sky or the stars.’