Tariq Ali - The Book of Saladin

Ibrahim was the oldest Rabbi in the city. I used to see him nearly every day as I made my way to the synagogue, behind which his library was situated. On most days he could be found there. Old age had not yet affected his mental faculties. On the few occasions when I needed to ask him for some advice, he revealed the splendours of his mind, making me feel somewhat sad and inadequate. He had heard a great deal of the intellectual prowess of the man I have no desire to mention again, and one day he sat me down and wanted to know everything I could tell him about Ibn Maymun.

The spell is broken. The accursed name has again darkened these pages. And yet…And yet, I could not deny Ibrahim ibn Suleiman the information for which he yearned with all the eagerness of an eighteen-year-old scholar.

So, against my will, and to please this great and generous old man, I talked of Ibn Maymun and of the work on which he was engaged. I mentioned why he was writing The Guide to the Perplexed, and, as I spoke, the wrinkled map that was Ibrahim’s face was suddenly wreathed in a smile so pure that I was shaken by the change. This was the face of true wisdom.

“I will the happy now, Ibn Yakub. Another has done what I wanted to, but could never achieve. I will write to Ibn Maymun, and give you the letter. You can use your position as the Sultan’s favoured scribe to have it sent to Cairo immediately. I will also enclose with the letter some of my own work on the subject which he might find of some use. How well do you know him?”

How well did I know him? The question echoed and re-echoed in my mind. A deep pain, which I thought I had transcended, gripped my insides once again, as the memory of that awful night burst like a thunderstorm that drowned me in the moment. I did not realise that tears were pouring down my face. Ibrahim wiped them with his hands and hugged me.

“He brought you grief?”

I nodded.

“You may tell me if you wish, even though I may not be able to help.”

And so my heart poured out its long-repressed agony to this patriarch in his robes. He sat listening, as Musa must once have listened to the troubles of his children. When I had finished, I realised that the pain had disappeared. This time I felt it had gone forever. It would never return.

The comfort Ibrahim offered was written on his face. His alert, intelligent eyes did not flicker. He understood. He did not need to say anything. I understood. In the scale of suffering that our people had undergone, my personal experience was a grain of sand. Nothing less. Nothing more. All this had been suggested by his presence alone. As if through a miracle my head had suddenly cleared. The residual pain had disappeared. My inner balance was restored. Everything could be seen through a different, centuries-old perspective. I wanted to laugh out loud, but restrained myself. He noted the change.

“Your face has cleared, Ibn Yakub. The lines on your forehead have evaporated. I hope the dark clouds inside your head have once again given way to the sun.

I nodded my head. He smiled.

As I made my way back to the citadel, the sun was at its zenith, piercing the black muslin robe that I wore. I was beginning to sweat and feel uncomfortable. The minute I had reached my destination, I headed straight for the baths. I lay in the cold water for a long time. Slowly the heat and discomfort in my body gave way to a cool calm. I dried myself and returned to my chamber fully restored. I drank some water and lay down to rest. My dreams were very clear, as they usually are during the afternoon sleep. Because one is sleeping lightly, the memory is clearer. I was dreaming of the domed room in Cairo, and I saw my wife and daughter sitting in front of a vessel containing water, which they were pouring over each other. How the dream would have developed, I do not know. I felt myself being shaken out of my slumber, and raised my eyelids to see the grinning face of Amjad the eunuch.

“The Sultana wishes to see you now, Ibn Yakub.”

I sat up in bed and glared angrily at him, but he remained unaffected.

“Which Sultana?” I asked.

He refused to reply, as was often his wont, merely indicating with an arrogant gesture that I should follow him. In some ways he reminded me of the eunuch Ilmas in Cairo, who had come to a bad end.

It was Jamila who awaited me in the antechamber which led to the harem. She dismissed Amjad with a flicker of an eye. She was not her usual ebullient self; her languid eyes were unhappy. She had been crying, and had clearly not slept well for many a night. What could have upset this woman whose piercing intelligence and strength of character had dazzled the Sultan himself? She stared at me for a long time without speaking.

“The Sultana appears distracted. Can a humble scribe help in any way?”

“Your old friend Halima has betrayed my trust, Ibn Yakub. In her I thought I had found a worthy friend. She shared my criticisms of the way we lived. For many months, as you know, we were inseparable. We lost count of the days we spent together. She learnt to appreciate Andalusian philosophy and the satirical poetry of our wits in Cairo and Damascus. We used to laugh at the same things. Even our animosities were matched. For fear of offending your delicate sensitivities, I will not describe our nights together, but believe me, Ibn Yakub, when I say that they move me still. We played together like the flute and the lyre. Need I say more? When, looking at me, she used to smile, her face flowed like a freshwater spring, radiating goodness and tempting one to bend down and drink its refreshing waters. When she smiled it was as though the world smiled with her.

“Since the birth of her son, something has transformed her completely. She behaves in a strange fashion. She shuns my company. She listens to the ravings of superstitious old witches whose only task is to frighten us into submission. Amjad tells me that some of the old maids in the harem have filled her head with nonsense of every sort. He says that they told her that the Sultan favoured her son over my boys; that her son could become Sultan one day, but only if she broke away from me. They told her that I was a malign influence, that I had led her astray, away from the true path decreed by Allah and his Prophet. They filled her ears with falsehoods about my past. All this Amjad told me, and his sources are always accurate.

“Halima has begun to believe that the world is full of demons. The other day I heard her anxiously asking a maid whether the udar ever attacked children. Do you know what the udar is supposed to be, Ibn Yakub? It is a creature the Bedouin invented centuries ago to frighten away their rivals in the desert.

“The udar is supposedly a monster who rapes men and leaves them to roast in the desert, but only after he has made sure that worms have built nests in their anuses! If an uneducated person believed in all this rubbish I would simply laugh, but I have spent months teaching the finer points of philosophy to Halima. I thought she understood. Instead she now thinks that the udar is real and Ibn Rushd and Ibn Sina are false. It is as if her brain has been eclipsed by a dark cloud, which refuses to be blown away.

“When I try and speak with her she looks at me with fear-filled eyes, as if I was a demon or a witch. She refuses to let me pick up her child. She will not let me touch her. Three nights ago she told me that everything we had done together was evil, sinful and repulsive. She said that Allah would punish us by throwing us to the mercy of djinns and other demons. I wanted to scream at her, to pull her hair, to shake her roughly till she saw sense again, but I contained myself, trying instead to understand what had happened to her.

“Only once, when I surprised her alone in the bath, did she seem like her old self. She was on her own and I, too, slipped off my clothes and entered the bath beside her. Neither of us said a word. I took a piece of cloth and began to gently massage her tender, slender shoulders. It must have stirred some memories.