Tariq Ali - The Book of Saladin

I thought for a long time before a reply worthy of her question came to mind.

“Love is the music that is first heard by our soul and then transferred slowly to the heart. I have known instances where a deprived lover enters into a deep decline and his entire life-pattern is transformed. He suffers from a dull headache that never leaves him, and his mind is numbed by the sense of loss. One such person was Shadhi, who is now no more.”

She interrupted me.

“I am sad that he is dead, but there are limits, Ibn Yakub. You talk of love as the poetry of the soul, and in the same breath you talk of Shadhi, a crude, uncouth mountain goat. Is this a callous joke? Are you mocking me?”

I told her then of the tragedy that had befallen Shadhi, of how the only woman he had ever loved had taken her own life, and of the price he had paid for his cruel mistake. The tale astonished her.

“Strange how you can see a person every day, but not know his real story. I’m glad you told me, Ibn Yakub. So, the old goat did have a heart, but surely you agree that the permanent loss of his love did not make him go mad. One of the more reassuring things about him was his ability to distance himself from events and individuals and look at both with an indifferent rationality. The sign of a totally sane person.”

“Madness can take many forms, Sultana. Our poets paint a picture of the distressed lover as a long-haired youth, whose hair has greyed prematurely and who wanders the desert talking to himself, or who sits at the edge of a stream and stares endlessly at the water, seeing in it the images of his lost one. In reality, as you know even better than me, madness can make you bent on a cruel revenge. You conceal your feelings by wearing a polite mask. You talk to your friends as if nothing had happened. Yet inside your blood boils with rage, with anger, and with jealousy, and you want to skewer those who have caused you pain and burn them on an open fire. You can only do so in your imagination, though even that helps to ease the torment, and slowly you are able to rebuild your strength.”

She looked at me, and the old sad smile reappeared.

“How many times did you burn Ibn Maymun, my friend?”

She, too, knew my story.

“I was not talking of myself, Sultana. Let me give you another example. The case of our young poet Ibn Umar, all of nineteen years old, yet he produces verses that make grown men weep. The whole of Damascus sings his praises. Cups of wine are drunk in his honour in every tavern. Young men talk to their lovers in Ibn Umar’s language…”

“I know all about this boy,” she said impatiently. “What has happened to him?”

“While you were away, he fell in love with a married woman, several years older than him. She encouraged his attentions and the inevitable tragedy occurred. They became lovers. Her husband was informed of what was taking place and he had her poisoned. Simple solution to a simple problem. Ibn Umar and his circle of friends, however, refused to let the matter rest in the grave. One day, while in their cups, they planned their revenge. The husband, a decent man by all accounts, was ambushed and battered to death on the street. The Kadi arrested Ibn Umar, who confessed everything.

“The city was divided. Those under forty years of age wanted the poet released. The rest demanded his execution. Ibn Umar was indifferent to his fate. He carried on writing, till the Sultan intervened.”

“Ah, yes, the judgement of Salah al-Din,” she said with a laugh. “Tell me about it.”

“Ibn Umar has been sent to join the Sultan’s son in the army which is assembling near Galilee.”

“Typical.” she muttered. “The Sultan has lost interest in poetry. Twenty years ago he could recite whole poems with real passion. Sending poets to fight in wars is like roasting nightingales. I will have that boy returned.”

I dream of Shadhi; the Sultan plans his war

“IN THE MOUNTAINS THE cowherds used to suck the vagina of the cow while she was being milked. They claimed it improved the quality and the quantity of the milk. As boys we used to watch them and get excited. Which part of your wife excites you the most, Ibn Yakub? Her breasts or her behind?”

It was typical of Shadhi. He often asked a question without waiting for my reply. This time he began to laugh. Noisy, crude, laughter.

I was dreaming. The only reason I remember this trivial dream is that it was brutally interrupted by a deafening and insistent knocking at the front gate. Rachel was still asleep, but my sudden leap out of bed disturbed her and she began to stir. I opened the shutter. It was still not morning, though signs of dawn were visible on the horizon in the shape of a single, thin stripe of red. I pulled on my gown and hurried through the courtyard to open the gate.

I was greeted by the familiar smile of Amjad the eunuch. His smile, which so often irritated me, now seemed reassuring.

“The Sultan wants you in the council chamber before the day breaks. Should we return together?”

“No!” I replied, my voice harsher than I had intended, something I immediately regretted. “Forgive me, Amjad. I have only just risen from bed and need a few minutes to recover and prepare for the Sultan. I will follow you very soon.”

He smiled and went on his way. It was strange how he rarely took offence. During my first few months in Damascus I had been rude to him for no other reason except that I disliked his facial expressions. Yet Shadhi had liked him, and Jamila trusted him completely. It was this combination that had changed my own attitude.

Rachel was wide awake when I returned to our bedchamber. She was sitting up in bed drinking water. Her nakedness stirred me, and watching her breasts sway as she moved made me laugh. I told her of my dream. She saw the lust in my eyes and, throwing off the sheet that covered the rest of her body, she smiled and extended her arms, offering me an embrace and possibly something more.

“The Sultan is waiting,” I began apologetically, but she interrupted me.

“I can see that for myself,” she replied as she jumped out of bed and put her hand between my legs. “The Sultan is erect and ready to mount for battle.”

Reader, I succumbed.

I ran most of the way to the citadel. The city was still asleep, though the muezzins were clearing their throats as they prepared to call the faithful to prayer. Here and there a dog stood outside a front gate and barked at me as I hurried to the Sultan.

“You are late today, Ibn Yakub,” said the Sultan, but without any note of displeasure. “Your wife’s embrace kept you from us?”

I bowed low before him in silent apology. He accepted it with a smile and indicated with a gesture that he wished me to be seated just below him.

My eyes had been so completely fixed on the Sultan that when I now observed the room I was taken aback by those who were present. This was no ordinary gathering. Apart from the Kadi al-Fadil and Imad al-Din, all the emirs were present who commanded different segments of the Sultan’s armies. No, not all. Taki al-Din and Keukburi were absent. The Sultan had referred to them as his “two arms” without whom he was powerless. It was his way of stating publicly that he trusted both men with his life.

As far as Taki al-Din was concerned this was no surprise. He was Salah al-Din’s favourite nephew and he treated him as he himself had once been treated by his own uncle Shirkuh. In fact, Taki al-Din’s presence caused the Sultan to shed the instinctive caution he had inherited from Ayyub, his father. He had once told me that in times of crisis there was a battle for his soul between Ayyub and Shirkuh, and it was pure luck as to which of them won. Taki al-Din reminded him of his own youth, and in some ways he wished that this nephew rather than al-Afdal, his own son, could succeed him. This he had confessed, not to me but to old Shadhi, who had eagerly passed on the information. On this question he agreed enthusiastically with Salah al-Din.