Tariq Ali - A Sultan in Palermo

‘He’s such a decent and honourable soul that you dragged me into his bed and kept me there till your passion flowed. Now you talk as if nothing had happened. If you really want us never to repeat this then we won’t, but I don’t believe you. I’ve held you in my arms and I know you felt exactly the same as me. The situation is difficult, but solutions can always be found.’

‘And what about your sister?’

‘We’ll agree to share you. She can have you for the first two days and me for the next three.’

‘I thought there were seven days in a week.’

‘After I’ve had my way, you’ll have earned two days’ rest.’

He began to laugh. ‘You are impossible.’

Her eyes filled with longing. ‘Why. It’s quite normal, except that Mayya and I are half-sisters.’

‘Balkis, you are married to someone else.’

‘He will divorce me if I ask him. We can discuss this on the journey to Palermo.’

‘You’re coming with me? This is foolish.’

‘Why? My sister and husband are already there. I will stay in the palace, not with you. There are no children to keep me here.’

‘Balkis, listen carefully. You can travel with me, if you insist, but the ship is a public place and decorum must be preserved. If our weakness triumphs the whole of Palermo will know that the Amir is a cuckold even before you reach the palace.’

‘Muhammad ibn Muhammad al-Idrisi, my Sultan of love, I will do as you say. Balkis will be the most modest and demure passenger your vessel ever carried.’

‘I had a presentiment that it would end like this.’

‘Surely you mean begin like this.’

A few hours later they were on the sea for Palermo. The veiled lady was sitting in a cabin sipping tea while the scholar-lover was pretending to make notes.

‘I know they can see us, but surely we can talk.’

‘Of course we can talk.’

‘Then tell me about Abu Nuwas.’

‘Balkis!’

‘What? Just talk about him. If you don’t I’ll walk up to you in full view of the men and kiss your lips.’

‘You promised…’

‘Yes, but only if you behave normally as well, agree to speak with me and answer my questions. Surely we’re not going to make this journey in total silence. It’s not often that a humble woman like me has the chance to travel with a great scholar. So perhaps we could start with the poetry of Abu Nuwas.’

Despite himself, Idrisi was amused and impressed by her.

‘Abu Nuwas was born in Basra, a hundred years after the death of our Prophet. He moved from there to Kufa to study, Basra and Kufa being the cities where even well-educated scholars enhance their learning. Kufa was famous at that time for its grammarians and Abu Nuwas arrived to perfect his knowledge of our language. Later he moved to Baghdad, but this was largely for employment and pleasure.

‘He was a poet much favoured by the Caliph and became the subject of story-tellers in the bazaar. According to one story, Shahrazad is late one evening and enters the Caliph’s bedchamber to find him sprawled on his front with Abu Nuwas riding him like a horse. Shahrazad feigns horror. Abu Nuwas withdraws and stands up naked. She slaps his face. He replies: “We’re just proud and penetrating men, Princess.” She threatens to inform the qadi unless the Caliph releases her from her side of the bargain. He agrees, but pleads with her not to stop telling her stories. From that day onwards he pays her ten gold dirhams for each of her stories, which get better.’

A discreet giggle interrupted his flow. ‘Muhammad, is that true?’

‘It’s a story they tell in the bazaar of Baghdad. It fulfils two functions. It informs us that Abu Nuwas and the Caliph liked men even though al-Quran forbids such acts on pain of death. Secondly, the story is designed to appeal to an important section of the audience, the street-traders. For Shahrazad to be paid for her daily labour would seem natural to them. And the fact that the stories improve is a hint that voluntary labour is better than slavery. The Zanj would have liked that.’

‘I’m more interested in his poetry.’

‘I have read it, of course, but can’t recall it. I’m more familiar with the work of Ibn Quzman, my friend in al-Andalus. He is a disciple of Abu Nuwas and his verses are sung in many cities, especially after a few flasks of wine.’

‘Is it true that Abu Nuwas has written of a perfect religion in which it is obligatory to make love five times a day instead of praying?’

‘It’s true but impractical.’

‘Not for you.’

‘Balkis!’

‘I’m sorry.’

‘What I meant was that the older men get the more difficult it becomes. Abu Nuwas was unaware of this problem, but old men would have to be pardoned their inability to perform five times. What would they do instead?’

‘Dissemble as so many do now when they pray.’

‘Let me finish the story of Abu Nuwas. The real subject of his poetry was the joys of wine. He was the link between the world that existed before our Prophet received the message and what was created afterwards. Wine was the substance that linked all worlds. It was timeless and universal. And many a time did Abu Nuwas inquire politely why, if wine and young boys were permitted in paradise as written in al-Quran, were they forbidden this enjoyment on earth. So he made fun and he had fun.

‘Another time he developed an unusual interpretation of jihad. He wrote that the main obligation of jihad should be to permit the drinking of an amber-coloured wine that sprays fire when lit and, more importantly, have sex with young boys who had not yet sprouted beards as well as with old men. There was only one reward for victory in this jihad. Paradise.’

Balkis clapped her hands in delight. ‘That also explains why the five obligatory fornications could work with old men. Once young boys are hilal, old men would have few problems in meeting their obligations. They could do so in a passive mode. Am I upsetting you?’

Before he could reply the agitated commander of the boat entered the cabin and bowed. ‘Forgive the intrusion, Amir al-kitab, but an armed vessel has signalled us to stop. Their commander wishes to speak with you.’

‘Who are they?’

‘It is one of the Sultan’s ships. It was once the favourite vessel of Amir Philip.’

Idrisi looked at Balkis who failed to hide her concern.

‘There is no need to worry, Lady Balkis. I know the men on that ship well. They are completely trustworthy. While I’m away, think carefully of your five obligations and how you will fulfil them in Palermo.’

Idrisi followed the commander to the deck. The moment the men from the armed ship saw him they fired a cannon in his honour. Long years ago he had travelled with them to Ifriqiya. Now he waited as the elaborate ritual of transferring a distinguished personage from one vessel to another took place. A boat was lowered with Idrisi and two armed sailors, who rowed him to the adjacent vessel. A giant catapult was then lowered with a man casually clinging to it. He secured the scholar and then both were rapidly lifted to the deck at great speed.

Ahmad Ibn Rumi, the Amir al-bahr, had replaced Philip as commander of the fleet. He was a haughty man with an independent air about him. He often conveyed the impression of being impenetrable, to ward off sycophants and time-servers, but Idrisi, who knew him reasonably well, knew it was a mask often worn by Amirs with real power. Philip had been the same. The two men embraced and Ahmad conducted his guest to his cabin. The first thing Idrisi noticed on the table was one of his maps. After admiring his handiwork, he turned to face Ahmad. The man was sitting weeping silently. In a world where many would have viewed the removal of an Amir with eager and greedy eyes, Ahmad Ibn Rumi was deeply wounded by Philip’s fall from favour. Idrisi spoke softly. ‘Ahmad, dear friend, I too am upset, but there is nothing we can do. Philip insists we let him die. He says we are not yet ready to win and we should wait till Sultan Rujari passes away.’