Tariq Ali - A Sultan in Palermo

‘She is still young, so there is time, but she should consider a walk in a storm when the angels are in flight from earth to heaven. I’m sure the Amir would greet it as a gift from Allah and Balkis would be happy. She would not be cuckolding him in the usual way.’

‘Really? Your knowledge never ceases to surprise me. So, she should accost a stranger and extract his seed. Interesting. I will pass on your advice. Though I always thought that conjugal treachery leaves a bitter aftertaste.’

Idrisi smiled. ‘Only in cases where the couple is young and passion still strong. For older and more mature men, it is different.’

‘All this talk is raising my temperature. It may be time to pitch your own tent once again and follow me. I will test your maturity with great pleasure. Or is it time for the prayer?’

‘To know and sleep is better than to pray and be ignorant.’

Idrisi is overpowered by memories of an enchanted island. A first meeting with the Trusted One, who preaches open rebellion against Palermo.

IT WAS NOT YET midsummer, the hour was still early, but he could tell that the day would be blazing hot and unpleasant. He sighed loudly, wishing he had not agreed to ride with his son-in-law to his estate. It was not a short journey and there would be no shade. The earth that, only a few months ago, was verdant and carpeted with wild flowers would be parched and barren, intensifying the rays of the sun. The thought of what lay ahead exhausted him. Perhaps it was not too late to change his mind. But when, a few minutes later, Abu Khalid’s presence was announced and the young man entered the chamber, Idrisi’s uncertainties vanished. The pleasure on the young man’s face was visible. He could not control his excitement.

Abu Khalid had organised a covered cart for the older man, but Idrisi knew it would double the length of the journey and so he insisted on riding. ‘My health is not delicate. I feel as robust as an ox.’

Abu Khalid and Idrisi rode side by side out of the city, each carrying skin flasks filled with water and followed by three retainers armed with weapons. It was as he had expected, the air dry, still and lifeless. The half-naked boughs of the stunted trees with their parched, withered leaves were all that remained of the spring. The sun glistened on the rocks.

After an hour on horseback it was difficult to tell whether the horse or the rider was sweating more. They stopped to drink some water and wet the cloths on their heads. When the journey resumed, Idrisi could not concentrate on the path or its abrupt elevations. Once he thought he saw a lake in the distance and was about to suggest that they stop and bathe when he realised his eyes were playing tricks, as they often did at sea. The glow shed by the small hills was deceptive and it was at that moment that a memory he kept firmly locked in the cellar, but that had been revived by the sight of Balkis, took hold of him. An image of an ancient Greek temple he had once seen on a mysterious island appeared.

He had just started work on his book and, with the eagerness of a novice, he would instruct the sailors to stop at each and every island. His curiosity was boundless. He would make detailed notes on the plants and the rocks and the shape of the coast. They had been at sea for some weeks when the island was first sighted. At first they thought it was uninhabited and the excitement of discovery cheered his spirits. It was when the sailors went in search of fresh water that they discovered the small lake and then saw the old Greek temple that decorated the shore. A sailor was despatched to inform the scholar.

The first thing that Idrisi noticed was that the temple was not a ruin. He wanted to study the building on his own and uninterrupted. The men were despatched to replenish their supplies of water and search for goats, usually in plentiful supply on uninhabited islands. He took the quills, ink and paper from his attendant and instructed him to return to the ship and find the old map of the region in the trunk that lay underneath the bed in the cabin.

He had seen many ruined temples in Djirdjent and Siracusa and had imagined what they must have been like when filled with worshippers, but this was different. In scale it was not as large as most of the wrecked temples he had seen in Siqilliya and the coastal cities of the great sea, but its structure was exactly the same. The pillars at the entrance led to a chamber and here he saw for the first time a giant statue of Aphrodite. To his astonishment it was not made of white marble. A light brown stone had been used. The sculptor had left little to the imagination. This Aphrodite had large red nipples and the same colour stone had been used to depict her mound. Could these be precious stones? If so, the men would insist on stealing them. He would not permit it, but it was best to avoid conflict. He would try and keep them distracted. And then he noticed that surrounding the goddess of love on each side were three graces. Just below the feet of the statue the sculptor had placed a high priestess. All were clothed in tunics and their throats, like white jewels, gleamed in the darkness. They appeared small in comparison to Aphrodite, but were in fact life size. He shivered as if an impetuous current had suddenly passed through him.

Everything appeared as if it was regularly washed, but there was still no trace of any person. Perhaps this was a secret temple where descendants of those who once worshipped the old gods gathered at special times of the year to preserve their traditions. The thought excited the scholar. If this were the case why had they chosen Aphrodite? Could this be the island where Homer’s hero had found the enchantress Circe? And could that be the reason for this temple?

As he turned away and prepared to leave the temple, he heard what sounded like a gentle clearing of a throat behind him. He froze. It must be his imagination. He turned around and walked back to the statue. This time he looked closely at the smaller statues. There could be no mistake. He could actually hear the high priestess breathing. He went close and felt her face. Tears poured down her cheeks. He was dumbfounded and ecstatic. His hands felt the rest of her body. She was human.

‘Who are you?’ he whispered in the Siqilliyan Greek he had learnt at court.

‘I am Eleni, the high priestess of this temple, and these are my priestesses.’

He was surrounded by seven women.

‘Do you live here? Is this island inhabited?’

‘Yes,’ replied Eleni. ‘Our families live behind the rocks where they are not visible from the sea. You are the first visitor for two years. The seafarers who came before you were not interested in the island. They just wanted some water, which as you can see is plentiful. Then they left. Will you leave soon?’

He nodded. ‘But who are you?’

‘We belong to families who started worshipping our old gods during the time of the Great Emperor. After he died the Nazarenes began to capture and kill us, so some families boarded a ship and sailed away from Byzantium, which the Nazarenes call Constantinople.’

Idrisi was bewitched. ‘Which Great Emperor?’

‘Julian. We named this island after him. This is Julian’s island and Aphrodite is our goddess.’

He told them who he was and from where he came. They had heard of Palermo and knew the Arabs ruled there. As far as they were concerned the Nazarenes were the worst but the followers of Moses and Muhammad were no better. He was not in the mood for a philosophical debate on the virtues of one Allah against the stone gods of the ancients.

They told him of the rites they performed each spring, of the food they grew on the island, of how their numbers continued to decline. The men tended to leave and that is why they wished to entertain him and his men to a feast that night. They made no secret of their desires or intentions.