Tariq Ali - The Book of Saladin

When one is cut off from what is happening in the world beyond the citadel, then events like the transformation of Halima acquire an importance that is undeserved. The minute the couriers, their clothes and faces coloured by a red dust, arrived with dispatches informing us that Aleppo had fallen without a battle, I recovered completely. Everything fell into place. The first courier who brought the good news was embraced by everyone. The fool who had resisted the Sultan had been forced by the populace to flee and return to Shinshar, the city of his birth.

Outside Aleppo, the soldiers who had guarded the city rode past the Sultan with their heads lowered in tribute. The people of Aleppo had loved Nur al-Din, and remained loyal to his successors, but they knew that in Salah al-Din they had found a conqueror who would both defend them and their city and also refuse to let anything stand in the way of the jihad.

The fall of Aleppo sent a wave of excitement through Damascus. There were celebrations on the streets. The taverns in all quarters of the city were packed with young men determined to drink their fill. It was as if our whole world had changed with the news. People felt this in their bones. Our Sultan was now the most powerful ruler in the land.

The next day my joy was circumscribed by the news that an inimitable voice had fallen silent. Ibrahim had died peacefully in his sleep. Our friendship was new, but I wept for him as one does for a father. Even the most hardened faces were wet the next day at his funeral. He had left me a small collection of books from his private library. They were accompanied by a note. I did not read it till later that evening in the privacy of my own chamber.

“The service of great kings may carry its own rewards, but the service of truth goes unrewarded and is, for that very reason, worth far more.”

Jamila leaves Damascus and, hoping to regain her serenity, returns to her father’s palace; Salah al-Din falls ill and I hasten to his side

TWO DAYS LATER, AMJAD the eunuch brought me a letter from Jamila. He was neither grinning nor eager to offer information. He simply placed the letter in my hands and left the chamber.

I was startled by the beauty of her handwriting. I had never seen such exquisitely crafted letters except in the calligraphy of the great masters of the art. Whoever had taught her to write like this must have been a master or the descendant of one. As I write these lines I have the letter in front of me. Even as I transcribe her words I can once again hear her clear voice the way I heard it that day when Halima first introduced me to her. Her voice echoes in my ears, and her strong features appear in my mind’s eye.

Good friend, Ibn Yakub,

This is to let you know that I am leaving Damascus for a few months, perhaps longer. I am returning for a while to my father, who is now nearly eighty years of age and has not been well for some time. I wish to see him before he dies, and the Sultan, bless his heart, has never placed any impediments against my desire to travel.

Once many years ago I spent some time in Baghdad. That was a visit to improve my mind. I went to listen to the teachings of a great philosopher and poet. It was he who taught me the importance of reason. I can still see him stroking his white beard as he made me learn the following exchange between our Prophet and Mu’adh ibn-Jabal, the Kadi of al-Yaman.

Prophet: How wilt thou decide when a question arises?

Mu’adh: According to the Book of Allah.

Prophet: And if thou findest naught therein?

Mu’adh: According to the sunnah of the messenger of Allah.

Prophet: And if thou findest naught therein?

Mu’adh: Then shall I apply my own reasoning.

When I returned, I reminded Salah al-Din of this and he began to use it a great deal, especially when he was dealing with the theologians of the Fatimid Caliphs in Cairo. I felt then that I had achieved something, and that journey always stayed with me.

Now I leave in order to restore my state of mind. I have suffered a terrible blow, and I am convinced that in Dhamar I will not be troubled by the memories of Cairo and Damascus.

I want to smell once again the fragrance of the blossoms in the unique garden created by my grandfather, surrounded by the most beautiful wall that I have ever seen, a wall out of which grow the most lovely plants and flowers. I always used to think that heaven would be like our garden. Here I used to spend many hours in the silence among the trees, watching the birds coming down from the wall to drink water from a stream that had been contrived to create the impression that it was natural.

It was here that dreams were formed. I used to sit there in the shade for hours and dream, wondering what the world must be like outside Dhamar. Merchants would talk of Baghdad and Cairo and Damascus, of Basra and Calicut, and the strange and wonderful things that happened in these cities, and I would rush to my father and insist that I be allowed to become a merchant when I grew up so that I could go as far as China.

When I was fourteen, I often rode with my father. Sometimes we would go and watch the sea. How calming it is to watch the gentle waves and admire the work of nature. My father, too, used to pull up his horse next to mine, leaving our retinue of attendants way behind. Most of them were frightened of the water, which they believed was inhabited by djinns in the shape of giant fish, who ate humans. I remember galloping in the sand and then riding my horse through the shallow water, which splashed me as well.

My father would look at the sea and say: “Here, everything will outlast us and those who come after us. This same breeze will be felt by people several hundred years from now and they will marvel at nature just as we do. This, my child, is the voice of eternity.”

I did not fully understand what he meant till much later. Then I realised how lucky I was to have a father not given to believing that the world would end before his children grew old. Many people genuinely believed that Allah would bring the world to an end, and that the angels would open their ledgers and read out an account of our lives. My father was very different.

I was sad to leave my home and my friends, but I had no choice in the matter. Nor did Salah al-Din. It was an alliance deemed necessary by his father and mine, and blessed by the great Sultan Nur al-Din, may he rest in peace. I liked Salah al-Din’s company, but I never enjoyed the pleasures of union. I bore him two sons and after that he never troubled me again. We became friends, and I discouraged him from spending the night with me. This is only my personal experience, and perhaps I would have reacted to any other man in the same way. Perhaps my body was never intended to be defiled by a man. Pure love and happiness I found only with Halima, but you know that old story well.

When Nur al-Din’s widow, Ismat, married Salah al-Din, she was for many months in a state of total disbelief. I think after the ascetic Nur al-Din, who probably mounted her out of duty, she found Salah al-Din as frisky as an untamed horse. I remember the day she told me that she had never realised that coupling could actually give her pleasure.

I say this so that you do not judge your Sultan’s performance in this field solely on the basis of my experience. That would be unfair to him. Ismat’s version is much more reliable, and borne out by the reports of many others in the harem. Halima, like me, was an exceptional case. For her the memory of Messud was so strong that she was quite open. She admitted to me that when the Sultan first took her she shut her eyes and imagined it was Messud, simply to ease the burden.

Perhaps I will not stay long in Dhamar. Perhaps it is futile to search for a lost past or imagine that one can cure the pain of the present by reliving one’s childhood and youth. There are aspects of life in Dhamar which displease me. The constant glorification of the old way of life of the desert tribes leaves me cold. The exaggerated stories of Bedouin triumphs against nature and their human enemies leave me completely unmoved. My father, too, never encouraged any of this. Yet it exists and the courtiers indulge themselves by writing bad poetry in praise of the unwearied pace of pure-bred camels, or a Bedouin encampment being surrounded by wolves and hyenas, or hunger and drought and the delights of camel milk.