Tariq Ali - The Book of Saladin

“One thing is clear to me, Sayed al-Bukhari. Your sister deserves no punishment. Al-Fadil will make sure that she is freed today. The Kadi will also make sure that the man she loves will marry her in the sight of Allah and with his blessing. As for you and Jibril, this is a more difficult decision. As a scholar, perhaps you could give me some help. Is there anything in the hadith that could help me decide your case? I have studied most of the hadith myself, and I cannot think of any precedents in this regard.

“While you give my request further thought, and consult other scholars, I think the time has come for Jibril’s family to honour their pledge to him and send him on a journey to his place of birth. Let him meet his sisters. And let it be a long absence. Is my meaning clear?”

Our bearded scholar had come to the palace determined to save his sister from the stone-throwers. He had come fully expecting to sacrifice his own head, and possibly even that of his young lover. As he realised that the Sultan had, in effect, pardoned him, tears of gratitude slid down his cheeks like a torrent, drenching his beard. He bent down and kissed Salah al-Din’s feet.

After the departure of the bearded scholar, a man much relieved, none of us spoke. It was time for the midday repast and I rose to take my leave. To my surprise, the Sultan asked me to stay and eat with him and al-Fadil.

We walked out of the cool semi-darkness of the audience chamber into a blinding sun and a gust of hot wind, harbingers of the miseries that lay ahead. The Cairo summer was not far away.

We entered the eating room to be greeted by Afdal, the oldest son of the Sultan. He rushed forward to embrace his father, before bowing to the Kadi and me. Salah al-Din put on a stern face.

“Why did you not go riding today?”

“I was fast asleep. The others left without me.”

“That is not the story I heard. I was told that when Shadhi and Othman came to arouse you, all they got was a shower of abuse. True or false?”

Afdal started laughing.

“True and false. Othman tried to wake me up by pouring cold water on my head, while Shadhi stood behind him and bared his gums. In these circumstances, Abu, it was difficult for me either to restrain my tongue or to go riding with them.”

The alert eyes of the twelve-year-old were sparkling with mischief. Afdal looked straight at his father to determine the reaction. Salah al-Din smiled and stroked the boy’s head.

“This evening you will ride with me to the citadel.”

“When will it be finished, Abu?”

“When I am dead and, Allah permitting, you sit in my place. You will celebrate its completion. Do you understand?”

Afdal’s face clouded. He clutched his father’s hand and nodded. The Sultan hugged and gently guided him out of the room.

The food laid on the floor before us could by no means be described as a feast. The Sultan’s austere tastes were highly praised by the people, since the contrasts with the Caliphs in Baghdad or his predecessors in Cairo could not have been more pronounced. This admiration was not universally shared. The Sultan’s household and his brother al-Adil in particular, mocked his simplicity and often declined to eat with him. He ate only one full meal a day, and that was in the evening.

We were served some wheat bread to dip in a modest bean stew, a plate full of fresh cucumbers, onions, garlic and ginger, and nothing else. The Kadi suffered from chronic indigestion and, on Ibn Maymun’s instructions, was not permitted to eat beans. These, as is well known, only served to exacerbate his problem. While the Sultan and I ate the stew with relish, the Kadi broke some bread, nibbled a cucumber, and drank a glass of tamarind juice.

As we ate, it became obvious that the Kadi was somewhat displeased. The Sultan asked him if it was the lack of variety in the food which upset him.

“The Sultan knows that I am under the medical instructions of Ibn Maymun. He has prescribed a very strict diet and obliges me to reduce the amount of food I eat. No, it is not the food that worries me, but Your Highness’s excessive generosity.”

The Kadi was unhappy with the pardoning of Sayed al-Bukhari. He felt it established an unfortunate precedent. The Sultan heard his complaint in silence. The table was cleared and a large bowl of fruit was placed before us. The Sultan had still not replied, and none of us spoke. The Kadi felt the weight of the silence. He bowed and took his leave. The minute he had left the room, Salah al-Din roared with laughter.

“I have come to know all his tricks. He’s not worried about al-Bukhari. In fact he is pleased with our decision. Did you know, Ibn Yakub, that al-Fadil often attended al-Bukhari’s lectures? He was close to him. But if people complain that the sheikh was let off too lightly, the Kadi will sigh, agree with his interlocutors, and tell them that the problem is our Sultan. There are times when he is too soft-hearted. He will also insist that the next case is dealt with severely so that our authority is reaffirmed.

“Now tell me something, Ibn Yakub, and speak the truth. Was the food we have just consumed sufficient or would you have preferred, as is your wont, to compete with Shadhi as to which of you can bite more meat off a leg of lamb? Speak the truth!”

I decided to lie.

“It was more than sufficient, Commander of the Generous. It was a meal which could have been prepared by Ibn Maymun himself. The only function of food, in his eyes, is to keep us healthy in mind and body. When he stays with us, my wife never serves meat.”

Salah al-Din smiled.

The young Salah al-Din is abandoned by his mistress for an older man and gets drunk in the tavern; his uncle Shirkuh decides to divert him by taking him on a short mission to conquer Egypt; Salah al-Din becomes the Vizir at the court of the Fatimid Caliph

I DID NOT WANT to leave Damascus. Can you believe that, Ibn Yakub? I had grown to love the city. Despite my father’s injunctions to the contrary I had explored every quarter and every street, usually on my own, but sometimes with my brother. We used to pay a few street-pedlars to sell us their clothes. This simple disguise was our armour against most would-be assassins. In this fashion I wandered the city at will.

On a summer’s night I have seen the full moon light up the dome of the Umayyad mosque. I have watched bare-footed labourers carrying bricks on planks, precariously perched on their heads. They might have been building a five-storied house for some merchant or other. I loved throwing stones in those ancient ditches outside the old walls of Damascus. And I have seen women with translucent eyes, the colour of sea-water, bought and sold for bagfuls of dinars in the market-place. I am attached to Cairo, but make no mistake, Damascus is the heart of our world. Its fears and worries have become mine.

Till now, Baalbek had been my favourite home, but it was displaced, and you know precisely why, don’t you, my good scribe? Shadhi told you of my first love. You look embarrassed. It was better left to him than me. My own memory is now hazy. What I remember well is the day she left me, not because of the parting, but because something much more important than our puny lives was taking place outside the city walls.

She was a woman some ten years older than me, possibly more. She gave me great pleasure and taught me how to enjoy a woman’s body. One day we had arranged to meet just after sunrise, but when I rode to the glade by the river she was not there. I waited and waited. Still no sign of her. I was about to leave when she arrived, out of breath and with a puffy face. She had been crying. I realised that this idyll, too, had come to an end. She kissed my cheeks and then my eyes. She had found a man closer to her own age and, by contrast, I must have seemed a bit dull.