Tariq Ali - The Book of Saladin

If any of this goes on for too long, I will return soon to Damascus cured forever. But there are people I want to see. My mother’s sister who brought me up after my mother’s death and who became a close friend. She would confess all her worries and secrets. In return, I would tell her of my worries. She came once to visit me in Cairo, but I was so enamoured of Halima in those days that I had no time for my poor aunt. She went back unhappy, thinking, no doubt, that I had become arrogant and inconsiderate. Now I wish I had taken her into my confidence and explained the state of my mind at the time.

It is not good to be trapped by one’s emotions, Ibn Yakub. Do you not agree? And yet it is difficult to break free of them. From that point of view my return to Dhamar will be helpful, and I will return to Damascus restored and my old self again. Then we shall sit, you and I, and discuss philosophy and the history which we are living through every day. If Salah al-Din embarks on another adventure while I am away, tell him that Jamila insisted that he leave you behind. Peace be upon you.

I had barely had time to reflect on Jamila’s letter when Shadhi limped into the room. I hid the letter from him simply to avoid answering any lewd questions, but he cackled.

“Amjad the eunuch has already alerted me to the contents of her letter. It is not of great interest. So she’s going. Perhaps she has another woman in Dhamar. Salah al-Din will probably be relieved, since her harsh tongue always frightened him a little. I have displeased you?”

Before I could reply, the chamberlain who had crept in on us unnoticed spoke in his booming voice.

“I bring sad news, Ibn Yakub. I’ve come to tell you to pack your belongings and your pen and inks and writing books. The Sultan was on his way back, but was taken ill in a village two days’ distance from here. It is not good. He has summoned both of us. We leave in a few hours.”

Shadhi began to weep, insisting that he, too, would accompany us to the village where the Sultan lay ill, but he looked so frail that we had to refuse the request. I promised to keep him informed as I hurried away to pack my belongings. I had now become accustomed to riding a horse, but the thought did not give me great pleasure.

We rode out of Damascus in the hush of the twilight, when all was quiet save the noise of the cicadas. Our party consisted of twelve riders, eight of whom were soldiers sent for our protection. The other two, apart from the chamberlain and myself, were retainers who carried the food for our journey.

What worried me was the failure of the Sultan’s physicians to have him carried to Damascus, where he would be in greater comfort and other physicians could attend on him. The only possible reason for this was that he was too ill to be moved. I was also puzzled as to why he had sent for me, since Imad al-Din had been with him throughout this last campaign. If he wanted to dictate a testament, the great scholar would have been better qualified than me to take down his master’s last wishes.

It was late in the night when we stopped to make camp in a tiny oasis. I was too tired to eat or converse with the chamberlain, whose great loyalty to the Sultan was not matched by his intelligence. In fact it was painful listening to him, since his only interests were horses and brothels, neither of which held any attraction for me.

Earlier on the journey he had described a strange Damascene brothel, to the delight of the soldiers. Here, according to the chamberlain, prostitutes were tied with chains and whipped by their customers before being freed and inflicting the same pain on them. This alone provided immense gratification to all concerned. I looked at the chamberlain closely. His ugly smile confirmed the question forming in my mind. He had been there himself. I made a mental note to question Shadhi as to the suitability of the chamberlain on my return.

We woke early, well before sunrise, and resumed our journey. To my surprise we reached the village when the sun was at its zenith. I had assumed that we would be riding for at least another six hours, but two of the soldiers were from this village and had brought us here along a much shorter route.

Our arrival had been eagerly awaited, and we were taken immediately to a small house. Here the Sultan lay, covered in white muslin sheets, with two attendants keeping the flies away from his face. His eyes were shut, but I was startled at how thin his face had become. His voice was weak.

“I know what you’re thinking, Ibn Yakub, but the worst is over. Your journey was unnecessary. I am feeling much better again, and tomorrow I will ride back with you. Imad al-Din is in Aleppo and when I summoned you I thought I would not live long. I wanted to set out my exact plans for the jihad so that my successor could carry through what Allah in his infinite Mercy had decided was now beyond me. Fortunately the Almighty changed his mind and I am still alive. We buried four emirs in this village only a week ago. I think I have survived simply by dint of sucking the juice out of the lemons which hang from the tree outside. I cannot think of any other reason, for I was as ill as those who died. Do you think the lemon has curative qualities? My physician thinks I am cured because he bled me, but he bled the emirs who died. Write to Ibn Maymun and ask him for his opinion. And from now on I must always have lemons wherever I go.”

The Sultan smiled as he sat up in the bed. His eyes looked clear. He had survived. I had taken all this talk of lemon juice to be nothing more than delirium, brought about by the fever, but now I wondered whether it could all be true.

He wanted to know what was going on in Dimask and questioned me in great detail, appearing irritated when I could not answer all his questions. I tried to explain that in his absence I was not present at the meetings of the council, and therefore my knowledge was limited to what had been reported to me directly. This increased his annoyance, and he summoned the chamberlain to demand why, despite his express instructions to the contrary, I had been excluded from meetings where important decisions of state were taken.

The chamberlain had no excuse and bowed his head in a shamed silence. The boastful frequenter of special brothels had suddenly lost his tongue. The Sultan dismissed him with an angry gesture.

The next day, when the sun was beginning to set, we began our return journey to Damascus. The size of our party had increased a hundredfold. When we camped for the night, the Sultan sent for me and questioned me first about the state of Shadhi’s health. When I had reassured him that all he was now suffering from was the rigours of old age, he asked after Halima and Jamila. I was taken aback. Should I simply mutter a few half-truths about both of them being in good health, to face his wrath when he subsequently discovered my deception, or should I confess all that I knew?

Unfortunately, he was more alert than I had expected and noticed my slight hesitation. He spoke in a stern voice as his eyes, shining in the light of ten candles, fixed on mine.

“The truth, Ibn Yakub. The truth.”

I told him.

The Sultan declares his undying hatred for Reynald of Châtillon; the death of Shadhi

SALAH AL-DIN WAS NOT a vindictive or cruel man. He did not harbour grudges. He usually counselled against vengeance. I heard him say once that to act purely out of revenge was always dangerous, like drinking an elixir which becomes a habit. It was impolitic and did not differentiate Believers from the barbarians. He expressed these views often, though quietly, but when his commanders or emirs defied his advice and could not control their baser emotions, he never punished them. Instead he would sigh and shake his head in bewilderment, as if to indicate that the ultimate arbiter was not the Sultan, but Allah and his angels.