Tariq Ali - The Book of Saladin

“The Sultan sent an urgent dispatch to his brother al-Adil in Cairo. It contained one sentence: the criminals must be punished. He did as he was asked, and most of the criminals were captured and taken to Mecca and publicly beheaded. An exemplary punishment for those who dared violate our holy places, and a warning to those who attempted such a sacrilege again. Alas, Reynald, one of the most accursed and wicked among the Franj, had escaped us again.

“To my surprise the Sultan smiled when this fact was reported to him. ‘Allah is saving the devil for me, Imad al-Din. I will kill him with my own hands.’

“Does that answer your question, Ibn Yakub?”

“More thoroughly than it could ever have been answered by anyone else in the whole kingdom, O learned master.”

He was pleased by the flattery, but not enough to prolong my audience and so, after thanking him again, I took my leave. As I reached the door, his voice arrested me.

“I have just prepared an order for the gratuity you are now due from the Treasury and which will be paid to you regularly till you die. The Sultan instructed me to prepare it many weeks ago, before he fell ill, but it was in the midst of war, and I was so busy taking down the names and details of the prisoners we had captured, that your case escaped my mind. Forgive my neglect.

“There is another surprise awaiting you today. I think it will please you, and that, too, is the result of an order issued directly by the Sultan. If you see the chamberlain on your way out, he will provide you with the details. Your welfare concerns the Sultan. He must be pleased with you.”

Was there a slight touch of envy in the way he spoke those last words, or was it just my imagination? I had little time to think of Imad al-Din and his sensitivities, for the chamberlain’s news stunned me into such speechlessness that I had to sit down and drink some water. The Sultan’s motives were pure, but I wish he had consulted me in advance.

My wife and daughter, together with all our possessions and my library, had been transported from Cairo to Damascus. A small house, not far from the citadel, had been provided for our use, and a retainer was leading me in its direction. I walked in a daze, like those who have inhaled more banj than their bodies can contain. The retainer from the citadel left me just outside the house. The door was open and the courtyard glistened in the afternoon sun.

It was Maryam who saw me first from a window and rushed down to hug me. I had not seen her for nearly four years. Tears wet my beard as I held her close to me and then pushed her gently away so I could see how she had changed. She had matured, but not beyond recognition. For what I saw before me was a beautiful young woman of sixteen, her eyes the colour of honey. Her pitch-black hair nearly touched the ground. I had seen this before.

She was the exact image of her mother Rachel when I had first espied her walking with her friends to fetch water from the well. As I drank in the sight, I felt a touch on my shoulder, which burnt me. I turned to embrace Rachel. She had aged. Her face was lined and there were streaks of grey in her hair. My heart missed a beat, but all the poison had gone and I kissed her eyes. It was wise of the Sultan not to have asked me before sending for them. I might have refused and suffered a great deal as a consequence.

It would be strange living in a house again. I had become accustomed to the luxury of the citadel, where all my elementary needs had been satisfied. The permanent proximity to power had stimulated me. Yet I was not displeased with the opening of a new phase in my life. Maryam would be married soon. Rachel and I would be alone again as we had been for four years, before Maryam was born. In those days we were so desperate for children that we fornicated at every possible opportunity. All that labour had produced only Maryam. A son was denied me. What would we do after Maryam had left home?

It was strange that this question arose in my mind so soon after Rachel’s arrival, but I was distracted by a messenger from the citadel. I was to return immediately. Rachel smiled patiently.

“It will be just as it was in Cairo. Go, but do not stay long. It is our first night together for many years, and last night in the desert caravan I saw the most beautiful crescent moon.”

I did not return home that night. I had been summoned to Shadhi’s bedside. The old man lay dying. He smiled weakly as I entered his chamber.

“Where is my Salah al-Din? Why is my boy not with me in these last hours?”

I held his hand and stroked it gently.

“The Sultan is fighting the Franj, my good friend Shadhi. Please don’t leave us yet. Just a few more months.”

“Allah has finally summoned me, but listen to me now. Just listen. When al-Kuds falls and you enter the gates next to my boy, think of me, Ibn Yakub. Imagine I am riding next to the Sultan, whispering encouragement in his ear just as I did when he fought his first battle. It was not granted to me to see my boy’s victory, but I am sure it will come. As sure as I am that I will not be there by his side. His name will live forever. Who will remember Shadhi?”

“He will,” I whispered, the tears cascading down my cheeks. “And I will. We shall never forget you.”

He did not reply. His hand went cold in mine. My throat was tight with fear. Shadhi had gone. This old man in whose company I had spent countless hours, who had enriched my life immeasurably, was dead.

I remembered our first meeting. I had been a bit frightened of him, not knowing how to respond to his disregard for authority. Yet even on that day, at the end of our first conversation, I was praying for a second one. I had realised that he was an invaluable source for the secret history of Salah al-Din and the House of Ayyub.

Shadhi was no longer with us, but he would live inside me. There could be no permanent separation. I tried to peer into the future. His voice, his laughter, his mocking tones, his spirit often clouded by arrogance, his refusal to tolerate fools or pompous religious scholars, his bawdy jokes and the tragic story of his own love. How could I ever forget him? I would hear his voice as long as I lived. Memories of him would guide me as I completed the chronicles of the Sultan Salah al-Din and his times.

We buried him early the next morning. The Sultan’s oldest son, al-Afdal, led the mourners, who had been restricted to the Sultan’s immediate family. Amjad the eunuch and I were the only outsiders. Amjad had looked after Shadhi, tended his needs during the last few months. He, too, had fallen under his spell and was sobbing uncontrollably. As we comforted each other, I felt close to him for the first time.

I had not slept all night. After the funeral prayers were over I went home. I thanked my stars for having my wife and daughter in Damascus. It would ease the pain of Shadhi’s loss.

Rachel knew what Shadhi had meant to me. I had talked of him often enough during the first weeks of my employment in Cairo. She knew that he had been my only true friend in the Sultan’s entourage. Words were unnecessary. I fell asleep weeping in her lap.

A traitor is executed; Usamah entertains the Sultan with lofty thoughts and lewd tales

TEN DAYS AFTER SHADHI’S death, Salah al-Din returned to Damascus. A courier had informed him of the event, and since receiving the news he had, uncharacteristically, not spoken to anyone after giving the orders to lift the siege and return home. He insisted on being completely alone when he stopped to pray at Shadhi’s grave before entering the citadel.

I was summoned to his chamber in the afternoon. To my amazement he hugged me and wept. When he had recovered his composure he spoke, but in a voice heavy with emotion and barely audible.