Tariq Ali - A Sultan in Palermo

Your obedient son,

Walid ibn Muhammad

A waterfall of emotions descended on him — relief, joy, love, anger, sadness all flowed together as he wiped the tears from his eyes. Unasked questions and unspoken bitternesses would continue to weigh down his heart unless… He would ask the Sultan for permission to visit Venice.

Siqilliyan whispers. The Sultan in the palace informs Idrisi of the fate awaiting Philip al-Mahdia. Idrisi’s encounter with Mayya and Elinore makes him forget all else.

AFTER THE FORMALITIES HAD been concluded and the two grandsons presented to Sultan Rujari, who gave each of them a little silk bag with freshly minted coins, the audience was over. The boys bowed and were escorted home by Ibn Fityan. The rest of those present were asked to leave the two men alone.

Idrisi was taken aback by how much weight the Sultan had lost over the last three months. His robust, vigorous, handsome friend had aged. The dark red hair of which he was so proud and which he had inherited from his mother, Adelaide of Savona, had now turned completely grey. The same fate must have befallen his beard, and was probably why he had had it removed. Appearances mattered to this Sultan. Idrisi looked at Rujari, who averted his eyes. Both men knew that death was not far away.

Just as Idrisi was about to speak, a young woman, not more than seventeen or eighteen years of age, ran into the room and embraced the Sultan, resting her head in his lap. As soon as she realised he was not alone, her face coloured and she muttered an apology. The moment Idrisi saw her he knew who she was and the beats of his heart increased. Her eyes and lips were an exact replica of her mother’s at that age.

Rujari smiled. ‘My daughter, Elinore, but then you recognised her, did you not? She is like her mother. Except for her thick, dark hair. That was my contribution. I think.’

She looked at him carefully now and whispered in her father’s ear. ‘How would he know my mother?’

‘Master Idrisi, she wants to know how you knew her mother. You grew up in the same village, did you not? I think I first met her in your uncle’s house in Palermo. You were there?’

Idrisi nodded.

‘I must speak with your mother’s friend, my child. He is the greatest scholar in our kingdom but he is rarely in Palermo. Tell your mother he’s here. If she wishes, she may share our midday meal.’

Like a gazelle, Elinore ran out of the room, turning once to look back and smile.

‘I hear you have news of your son.’

‘Your spies are quick, Exalted One. And, on this occasion, they tell the truth. And your health?’

‘See for yourself. I lie here in the palace of your Sultans, broken by cruel old age and the loss of my sons. You know how that can feel. Your boy disappeared on a vessel and I remember you could not eat for many days. Three of my boys have been taken away from me. Rujari I loved more than anyone else. He was learning fast. You taught him. Don’t you remember? He was a healthy sapling, then shot up quickly like a young tree. I loved him, Idrisi. I tended him carefully. He was the pride of my orchard. God is cruel. Then Tancredi went, followed by Alfonso. Now there is Guillaume or “William the Conqueror”, as his brothers used to tease him. He is a sweet boy, of even temperament, but ungifted and lacking in both wisdom and virtue. The crown will weigh heavily on his head and I fear he will rely too much on the sword. The sword, as you know better than most, is an essential defence against enemies at home and abroad, but must be used with care. If I had thought that all his brothers would die before him I would have ensured he was given the chance to govern or to work for the Diwan. His interests are limited to Arab poetry, discussions on love, consuming wine and fornicating. He has imbibed so much of your culture that I think he feels and thinks like an Arab. This is dangerous, Idrisi, and will anger the nobles. I want you to speak with him, teach him and help him. He could lose this kingdom as easily as my father won it. If he does, I hope your people will regain it, but I doubt their capacity to do so. There is a deep-seated weakness in your statecraft. You overestimate the power of the Word and the sword, but underestimate the necessity of law, especially in relation to property. Don’t misunderstand me: the law is only an instrument to be used by the ruler as he wishes, but it creates the basis for stability. I would hate the Popes to take Sicily, or the English or the Crusaders. If they do, everything we have created will be destroyed. It will be the end. I was hoping that my young and beautiful wife might bear me a new son, but she has produced a girl and that is unhelpful.’

There were times when Idrisi had misgivings about himself and his position in the Court. He often imagined how, with his knowledge of Siqilliya and the world, he could guide his people to victory. But a lengthy conversation with Rujari usually dispelled his doubts. There was no other Sultan like him, either in Ifriqiya or al-Andalus, the two worlds that he understood so well. But the Sultan was too harsh in his judgements.

‘I think you do William an injustice. It’s because you have never been fond of him that he has retreated into his own world, but he is an intelligent boy. His knowledge of literature and philosophy is remarkable. It is true that he is too addicted to the pleasures of the salon and the cup, but I will do as you ask and give him some lessons in statecraft. Let us hope Your Highness lives for a long time. Have the physicians diagnosed your ailment?’

‘The learned men from Salerno — and they have all been here — tell me there is no cure for my disease. They know I am dying. They recommend herbs and fruits and much else, but when I ask how long do I have they have no answer. They do not know. So let us speak today at length, my friend. There is much to discuss. I am glad you have news of your boy and am even happier that your book is completed. Your book will not make my English cousins happy. You describe England as a land of perpetual winter in the Ocean of Darkness. It’s true. It’s true. Even the priests the English send me to intrigue against your people and the Greeks know this well. Why else would so many of them come here to seek warmth in the arms of young men? It’s not their fault, but yours. Why did an Arab army not arrive and build on what the Romans had left behind? Once you reached the Atlantic coast, you could easily have taken England as well and the island to its north. Those small Saxon churches we hear much talk of could then have been rebuilt as beautiful mosques and, later, the Banu Hauteville would have consecrated them as cathedrals. My cousins complained bitterly of having to build everything themselves. Castles, palaces and churches. I’m told that all their structures are perpetual winter.’

He smiled and looked at his friend. This was how their conversations had proceeded when both were young and became close friends. Their intimacy had led to a great deal of gossip in the streets, encouraged by the palace eunuchs. The Sultan waited for his response. Idrisi obliged.

‘It was too cold to be conquered by us and even Allah has problems in changing the climate of a country. In al-Andalus and Siqilliya we could still smell the desert and grow our dates and lemons and pomegranates. But in England the cold would have killed the palms and those who carried the seeds. That island was meant for your people, not mine. Though what you say is true. We would have shone the light of learning on them. It would have spared Adelard of Bath the long journey here simply to learn Arabic. And we would have taught them the joys of food. They think and eat like barbarians. But I think your master-builders, too, like to work according to their own plans, not ours. The church you built in Cefalu could never have been built on the foundations of a mosque.’