Tariq Ali - A Sultan in Palermo

A cloistered nun unlocked her convent,

and we were her night visitors.

The fragrance of a liquor brought us to her,

one that revealed to your nose her secrets…

I placed my silver on her scale,

and from the jug she poured her gold.

We offered betrothal to four of her daughters,

so that pleasure might deflower their innocence.

I want to know what you think about this and his Siqilliyan poems.

Muhammad, last night I was told an awful story and could not sleep. My husband came to see if I needed anything and with him was his awful sister who you and I spoke of once before. She is very tall with a large cucumber of a nose, breasts the size of water-melons and a loud, grating voice and I’ve always wanted to suggest to her that she join a band of wandering hermaphrodites and enjoy life. She came in, looked at my son on my breast and said, ‘Praise be to Allah for this miracle.’ It was on the edge of my tongue to say, ‘Praise be to Muhammad’ but I restrained myself. Then I began to feel a pain in my insides and I screamed at her to leave my chamber. The maid rushed in from next door, but it was nothing. My husband came back later to apologise for his sister. I said she was a serpent nourished by Satan. And then he sat down and told me this story, which horrified me:

‘She is my half-sister, Balkis, and please understand she has had a hard life. My parents did not get on with each other and my mother must have been in a state of permanent sadness. When I was eight years old my father left Siracusa and went to live in Noto for six months. My mother was far from heartbroken, as you can imagine. She committed an indiscretion with a cousin and became pregnant. When my father returned he asked whose child it was but she did not speak. He never spoke to her again. That child was my sister who you hate so much. She was not treated well in our household. I don’t think my father even s poke her name. Not once. As a result, she became our mother’s favourite. This annoyed the rest of us and we were all unpleasant to her. When many years later my father left for Palermo to conduct some business, my mother’s cousin who had fathered my half-sister returned to the house. My half-sister was seventeen years old. One night in a drunken frenzy the cousin forced himself on his daughter. She became pregnant. My mother had her lover thrown out of the house. As I remember, he was actually stoned. My brothers and I lived in that large house but had no idea what had taken place till later. They tell me herbal concoctions were used to get rid of the child and they succeeded, but she never recovered. When I heard the story from a cousin, I confronted my mother. She wept and admitted it was true. She blamed my father’s coldness and cruelty and I’m sure there is some truth in that, but I always recall my father as dark visaged, tall, dignified and simple in his tastes. In any event, after learning of this tragedy, I went out of my way to be nice to my half-sister. Like you, my brothers cannot bear the sight of her, which is unjust. She is our only sister. I don’t expect you to like her, but try and understand. She’s perfectly harmless.’

Muhammad, my dearest and closest, isn’t that upsetting. The problem is that the woman is malicious and evil and I still hate her. I try and imagine what you would say in this situation.

It would probably start with my kind and considerate husband….

Muhammad, your son was born on the day the Sultan died. We have named him Hamdis ibn Aziz. This should ensure he never writes poetry. My breasts are overflowing. If your throat aches again come to me.

Balkis

Reading her letter agitated him and he began to rub both hands on the silk tunic. That evening he declined both food and the hammam, but Mayya assumed he was deep in his work and did not wish to be disturbed. He retired early to his bedchamber and began to pace furiously. Till then he had thought that his passion for her would gently fade and they would see each other once, perhaps twice a year. Now it suddenly struck him that it was his heart that would not tolerate such long absences.

Perhaps he would return to Siracusa with the Amir after the Sultan’s funeral. The more he thought about it, the better this idea seemed. Elinore, Mayya and Afdal could come as well. He would go and see his grandsons near Noto, perhaps visit the village where the Trusted One had performed miracles and, above all, Balkis would not be far away. The thought improved his spirits, but still he would not take off the tunic and when, late that night, there was an urgent knock on the door he was still dressed.

Ibn Fityan apologised for waking him up, but he wanted him to know that an incident had taken place in the gardens that evening. The young son of a Baron from Messina, barely twenty years old himself but accompanied by two or three older soldiers, had gone in search of young boys in the gardens. They were about to dishonour a boy when they found themselves surrounded by fifty men carrying short daggers and axes. The Franks fought fiercely and decapitated one opponent, but they were badly outnumbered and were overwhelmed. They were executed on the spot and the bodies were taken away and thrown into the sea.

‘Why is this considered serious enough to wake me early in the morning?’

‘When the son did not return, the Baron went in search of him. Naturally he didn’t find him and he has demanded that unless the qadi produces his son, he will take hostages from the city back to Messina.’

‘Intolerable and unacceptable.’

‘They want you to tell William that if this were to happen the city would explode and delay his coronation indefinitely.’

‘I will speak with him after the funeral. Ibn Fityan, was this ambush carefully prepared?’

‘It would appear so.’

‘Is there any possibility that someone might reveal the truth?’

‘Nobody knows who organised and carried out this attack. It is a secret organisation and they are all sworn to secrecy.’

‘Remarkable.’

‘Would you like me to help you undress?’

Idrisi looked at himself and laughed.

‘I think I can manage. Peace be upon you.’

Wide awake and alert, Idrisi undressed and made his ablutions. He began to compose a reply to Balkis in his head, but it was only half finished when he fell fast asleep. He was woken by Ibn Fityan to prepare himself for the funeral.

The cathedral was filled and a few people had gathered on the streets, but the spectre of the martyred Philip hung over the proceedings. The Archbishop of Palermo, who conducted the obsequies, appeared to be so delighted with his role that he almost forget that it was supposed to be a sad occasion. William paid his father a glowing tribute, with more than a few of the phrases he had heard the previous day from Idrisi. Later, the new ruler summoned his old tutor to the palace. A wake had been organised and the great hall that had witnessed the humiliation of Philip was now lavish with food and wine.

Idrisi was present for one reason alone: in detaching William from the clutches of fawning courtiers, he informed him of the situation in the old city. The young man was greatly angered at the thought of his coronation being subverted because of baronial excesses and summoned the Archbishop. The prelate, delighted at being singled out at such a distinguished gathering, nodded sagely and disappeared to do his ruler’s bidding. ‘Tell the qadi he need not worry any longer. And, Master Idrisi, I have discovered it was the Amir of Catania who farted on both occasions. Remarkable man.’

* Plato