Tariq Ali - The Book of Saladin

“She is the younger sister of Sayed al-Bukhari, one of our most respected and venerable sheikhs. It is a story, Commander of the Valiant, that fills my heart with sadness. The final decision rests with you. The sheikh al-Bukhari awaits your decision. I took the liberty of bringing him with me. It is best that you hear the story from his lips rather than mine. His words will carry greater weight if spoken by him. What is the Sultan’s pleasure?”

Salah al-Din remained silent. He was thinking. What could he be thinking? Probably making up his mind whether this affair was best handled by the Kadi, so that it was al-Fadil who took the blame for what might not be a popular decision.

“Send for al-Bukhari. We will hear his case.”

A few minutes later, a tall, well-built man, too proud to dye his white hair, was brought to the chamber. He fell on his knees and touched the Sultan’s feet with his head.

“I am sorry we meet in these conditions, al-Bukhari,” said the Sultan, in a remarkably soft voice. “I remember well your presence at our evening discussions several years ago. I valued what you said then, and it is for that reason that I have agreed to hear your story myself. Explain to me why your sister should not be punished, as our merciful Kadi has decreed.”

The sheikh looked at his ruler gratefully. A sad smile appeared on his face as he began his story.

“If anyone should be punished, O merciful Sultan, it is not my unfortunate sister, but me.

“I alone am to blame for the terrible misfortune that has befallen her.

“Some five years ago, a mysterious visitor entered the crowded room where I used to provide my interpretation and commentaries on the hadith that were written down by my great forebear. May Allah forgive me, for I had no idea that I was about to dishonour my ancestor.

“The new arrival attracted the attention of all those who were present. He was a young man with striking features. His sparkling grey eyes illuminated his pale face. His hair was the colour of wheat. A silent question appeared on the faces of the Believers. Who was he?

“He had come to Cairo as a child, on a trading vessel from the land of the Franj. His father, a merchant from Genoa, had died suddenly. The sailors on the ship refused to accept any responsibility. It was bad luck to sail with an orphan. The superstitions of these people were primitive. The boy, who was seven or eight years at the time, was adopted by a merchant in the street of sword-sellers. This man’s first wife, who was childless, lavished great care on the boy and he grew up, Allah be praised, as one of the sons of the family. Naturally he had to be circumcised, and his new family obtained the services of Your Excellency’s own barber, Abu Daniyal, to perform the rites.

“They called him Jibril, which pleased him greatly since it was the original version of the name that he had been given on birth — Gabriel. Once he spoke our language, his adoptive mother often talked to him of his real mother and his sisters, whom he missed greatly. They promised him that when he grew up they would ensure his return to Genoa. The education he received was so refined that soon it became difficult to say that he had ever been anything else but one of us.

“He grew up to be an extremely intelligent logician, much attracted to the writings of our friends in Andalus. It was his interest in logic that caused his friends to send him to my lectures. They thought I might cure him of his addiction to heresy. Indeed I might have done, but for the fact that he was a very beautiful young man. His sudden arrival had unsettled me.

“He would arrive twice a week and sit at my feet, drinking in every word I uttered with his shining, attentive, but always questioning eyes. Was it just my imagination, or did I, on occasion, catch a glimpse of torment in those grey eyes?

“At the end of my talk, while others asked polite questions to help me elaborate on certain points, this young Jibril would question me in such a way that to even reply to him would have demolished the architecture of my thought.

“One day, they all came late to my class. When they arrived, I was stunned. They were intoxicated, and Jibril was completely naked. His colleagues were laughing, but he did not seem to understand that he was the cause of their mirth. When I asked him to explain himself, he replied that they had all tried to sharpen their memories by drinking a strong dose of a fermented infusion of cashew-nuts. The others, he continued, had lost control of their wits. He alone had remained sane. I covered him with a sheet and put him to bed.

“I cannot lie to the Sultan or his great Kadi. I must confess that I was bewitched by the demeanour of this young man. When he was present, I spoke as if he was the only one in the room.

“I was in the grip of the old disease brought to our world by the idol-worshipping Yunanis and the accursed Rumis. Jibril, through no fault of his own, became the fountain of all my misery. His absences gave me the most unbearable headaches. I would fall on my knees and pray: ‘Ya Allah, why are you punishing your slave in this cruel fashion?’

“One day he came when I was alone in the house. My face must have expressed all the emotions that my heart was trying to repress. He reacted well, and declared his feelings for me. May Allah forgive me, but we became lovers. The flowering of his passion aroused me in such a way that I was transported to the sixth heaven. We had tasted the forbidden fruits. Our conscience had become a fathomless abyss. Nothing else mattered any longer.

“I see from the face of our venerable Kadi that my frankness is only arousing feelings of disgust. I will not continue in this vein much longer.

“I am what I am, but I am still one of you. Please try and understand.

“Soon I could not bear to be without him. I began to think of how I could live with Jibril forever. The idea came to me one day when I saw him talking to my sister. She is a beautiful girl, and it was clear to me that her feelings for Jibril were no different to mine. Why should he not marry her? Then he could live in our house quite openly, without fear of cruel tongues. To tell you the truth, I would not have even objected to sharing him with my sister.

“Jibril accepted the plan. The wedding took place. He moved in to our house, but from the very first week it was obvious that my sister was unhappy. Jibril gave her cold comfort. He felt no attraction for women. Not even a tiny spark. Therein lay the real cause of this tragedy. My sister took a lover. Jibril and I enjoyed much happiness.

“We lived just for ourselves. Our selfishness, instead of receding, grew by the hour. Nothing seemed to affect us. The khamsin would blow sand in our hair. Our throats would become parched. Stars would chase each other in the night sky. My sister would sit quietly, gazing patiently at the window, waiting for the next message from her lover. Autumn came and went, followed by a rainy winter. We never felt the night cold. The barking of stray dogs never disturbed our peace. He knew how to love and he taught me the virtues of submissive tenderness.

“It was only when the merciful Kadi, may Allah give him inner strength, sent for me one morning that my heart was seriously troubled. The rest you know.

“I place my head at your feet, Commander of the Merciful. Do with it whatsoever you wish, and I will accept whatever punishment you decree, but, in the name of Allah, I plead with you to spare my sister further humiliation. She has suffered enough for my sins.”

The Sultan stared at the ground in silence. He had appeared to be moved by the intensity of the love described by the sheikh. The Kadi and I looked at each other. How would he decide this particular case? Would he ask to see Jibril and keep him as an attendant at the palace?