Tariq Ali - The Book of Saladin

“One night during the siege the sky grew dark and it began to rain. As we covered our heads with blankets, several soldiers approached me holding a tall, dark man captive. The prisoner, who was groaning, had insisted on pleading his case before me. My men had little alternative but to agree to his request, since my battle orders are very firm on this question. Any prisoner condemned to death has the right to appeal directly to the Sultan. I asked them why they were intent on killing him. A short soldier, one of my best archers, replied: ‘Commander of the Brave, this man is a Believer. Yet he betrayed us to the enemy. If it were not for him we would have taken Reynald’s castle.’

“I looked at the prisoner, who stared down at the earth. The rain and the wind had stopped, but the evening was still black. No stars had appeared in the sky. I looked at his bloody, bearded face and became angry.

“‘You are an apostate, wretch. You betrayed the jihad, you betrayed your fellow-Believers to this devil, this butcher who has killed our men, women and children without mercy. You dare appeal to me for your life. By your actions you have forfeited my grace.’

“He remained silent. Once again I asked him to explain himself. He refused to speak. As the executioner was preparing the sword to decapitate him, the traitor whispered in my face: ‘At the exact moment that your swordsman removes my head from my body, someone very dear to you will also die.’

“I was enraged and walked away, refusing to dignify his death with my presence. I am told, Ibn Yakub, that Shadhi died that same evening, leaving us alone to count the empty days that lie ahead. He was more than a father to me. Long years ago he never left my side during a battle. It was as if I possessed two pairs of eyes. He guarded me like a lion. He was friend, adviser, mentor, someone who never shied from telling me the truth, regardless of whether or not it gave offence. Now he has fallen victim to death’s cruel arrow. Men like him are rare and irreplaceable. I wish we could bring him back to life with our tears.

“How had that blasphemer, punished before the eyes of Allah, known that Shadhi, too, would die? It was as we were riding back to Damascus that one of the soldiers told me that the prisoner we had executed had turned to treachery because Reynald had raped his wife before his eyes and had threatened to invite a hundred others to do the same before he killed her. Naturally I was sad on hearing this tale, but I did not regret the punishment. During a war, good scribe, we have to be prepared for every sacrifice. And yet I respect him for not recounting his wife’s ordeal himself. Reynald, too, will be punished. I have taken an oath before Allah.

“Death has become a garland round my neck.

“I want to be distracted tonight, scribe. Send for Usamah and let him entertain us or, at the very least, stimulate our brains. A session. Let us have a session tonight after sunset. I do not wish to sleep. Let us remember Shadhi by doing something that always pleased him. He loved testing his wit against that of Usamah. Is the man in Damascus or has he deserted us for the delights of Baghdad? He’s here? Good. Send a messenger, but please eat with him on your own. I am not feeling in a mood to watch him devouring meat like a wild beast. You look relieved.”

I smiled as I bowed myself out of the royal chamber. Not sharing the Sultan’s meal was indeed a relief. I dispatched the chamberlain to fetch Usamah ibn Munqidh as the Sultan had directed, but I wondered whether the old man might not be too tired for a sudden exertion. Usamah was born not long after the Franj first came to these lands. He was ninety years of age, but as well preserved and as solid as ebony. He showed no trace of infirmity, though his back was bent and he walked with a slight stoop. He spoke in a deep, strong voice. I had last seen him in Cairo in the company of Shadhi.

He had been in his cups while we had sipped an infusion of herbs, pretending to keep him company. Usamah had consumed a whole flask of wine, all the while smoking a pipe filled with banj. Despite the stimulation he had not taken leave of his senses and regaled us for most of the night with anecdotes relating to his Franj friends, who were numerous. They often invited him to stay with them and Usamah would return with a sackful of strange and wonderful stories.

That night in Cairo he had discussed the Franj’s filthy habit of not shaving their pubic hair. He described a scene in the bath when his Franj host had called in his wife to observe Usamah’s clean-shaven groin. The couple had marvelled at the sight, and there and then summoned a barber to shave off their unwanted hair. “Did not the sight of a naked woman, having the hair below her belly removed, excite you, my Prince?” Shadhi had asked. The question appeared to have puzzled him. He puffed on his pipe, looked straight at Shadhi and replied: “No, it didn’t. Her husband was far more attractive!”

Shadhi and I had roared with laughter till we saw his surprise at our mirth. Usamah was in total earnest.

Usamah was a nobleman with an ancient lineage. His father was the Prince of Shayzar, and so the son was brought up as a gentleman and a warrior. He had travelled widely and was in Cairo when Salah al-Din became Sultan. The two had become friends from that time onwards, but all of Salah al-Din’s attempts to draw on Usamah’s age and experience to acquire an understanding of Franj military tactics ended in failure.

The Sultan was genuinely perplexed, till one day Usamah confessed that he had never fought in a single battle, and that all his training had come to nought. He was, he said to the Sultan, a traveller and a nobleman, and he liked to observe the habits and customs of different peoples. He had been taking notes for thirty years and was working on a book of memories of his life.

Later that evening I was still recalling the past, when Usamah arrived and greeted me with a wink. I had been waiting to eat with him, but he had already taken his evening meal. I gave up mine and we walked slowly to the Sultan’s audience chamber later that evening. His stoop had become more pronounced, but otherwise he had changed little over the last few years. He acknowledged Imad al-Din’s presence with a frown — the two men had always disliked each other — and bowed to Salah al-Din, who rose to his feet and embraced him.

“I am sad that Shadhi died before me,” he told the Sultan. “At the very least he should have waited so that we could go together.”

“Let us imagine he is still with us,” replied Salah al-Din. “Imagine him sitting in that corner, listening to every word you utter with a critical smile. Tonight I really need your stories, Usamah ibn Munqidh, but no tragedy, no romance, only laughter.”

“The Sultan’s instructions are difficult, for there is never a romance that is not preceded by laughter, and why is a tragedy a tragedy? Because it stops laughter. So with great respect I must inform the Sultan that his desires cannot be fulfilled. If you insist simply on laughter then this tongue will fall silent.”

It was a useful opening move by the old magician. The Sultan raised his hands to the heavens and laughed.

“The Sultan can only propose. Ibn Munqidh must dispose as he chooses.”

“Good,” said the old storyteller, and began without further ado.

“Some years ago I was invited to stay with a Franj nobleman, who lived in a small citadel near Afqah, not far from the river of Ibrahim. The citadel had been constructed on the top of a small hill, overlooking the river. The hillside was a cedar forest and the whole prospect afforded me great pleasure. For the first few days I admired the view and relished the tranquillity. The wine was of good quality and the hashish even better. What more could I want?”