Tariq Ali - The Book of Saladin

The Sultan silenced them with an irritated gesture.

News spread quickly that the Sultan had decided to take Teveriya, the city that the Romans called Tiberias. There was no shortage of volunteers to take this Franj stronghold. Situated on the southern tip of the Lake of Galilee, it had been left alone in the past because of the truce agreed between Salah al-Din and Count Raymond of Tripoli. Now that Raymond had joined the Franj forces in Saffuriya, we were free to take the city.

The eagerness of the men to fight was motivated not so much by the greater cause, the need to combat error and defend truth, the desire to crush the infidel and to strengthen the Believers, as by the hope of a quick victory. They hoped above all that some of the riches of this perishable world might fall into their hands. Salah al-Din did not accept volunteers. He picked his own tried and tested soldiers.

“They are the burning coals of our faith. With them I will take Teveriya by surprise.”

While he marched to take the old Roman fortress, Keukburi crossed the river. After a few hours he set up camp, ten miles to the east of the Franj encampment, on a small plateau, south of a village which bore the name of Hattin. To my considerable annoyance, I had been instructed by the Sultan to stay with the main army. I can only assume that he did not want any unnecessary baggage and wished to limit his strike force to seasoned warriors. I could appreciate the logic, but it did not deaden my disappointment.

The decision to camp here had been taken two days earlier following reports received from the advance scouts. They spoke of two large streams bubbling with cool fresh water and surrounded by fruit and olive orchards. We arrived here with the sun at the zenith. The heat had exhausted man and animal alike. Sweat poured off the Emir Keukburi’s face and merged with the lather of his steed.

As soon as we had reached the site, Keukburi stripped bare, drinking some water before entering the stream. He shut his eyes as the water travelled over his body. We watched, desperate to follow his example, but whereas the Sultan would have gestured to the whole army to join him, his favoured commander maintained his reserve. After a long time, or so it seemed on that day, he put his head under the water and then quickly re-emerged and clambered up the bank. Two retainers draped his body in white cloth and dried him from head to foot. He retired to his tent, which had been pitched in the fragrant shade of orange trees.

The minute he disappeared from sight there was a muffled cry of relief. We did not wait for permission. Everyone headed towards the water, to soothe their parched throats, to lie in the path of the flowing stream, and to recover from the rigours of the journey. A fair proportion of the new soldiers had not yet lived to mark their sixteenth or seventeenth year. It was reassuring to observe their carefree frolicking. Sounds of laughter mingled with the comforting noise of the water.

The more experienced veterans of the jihad bathed silently, keeping their thoughts to themselves, trying, no doubt, to avoid too many thoughts of the future. Many were not yet thirty years of age, but they had seen enough horrors to last them in this life, and beyond. Some had seen the destitute inhabitants of town and village, ruined and driven out of their homes by the Franj knights. They had experienced battles whose final memory was the bodies of their companions piled high upon each other before the mass burial. They had seen a close friend struck down by an arrow, his liver torn in two. Many had lost brothers and cousins and uncles. Others had witnessed sons crying for their fathers and fathers weeping for their sons.

Having bathed and dried myself, I was sitting in the shade of an olive grove thinking stray thoughts. My daughter was expecting a child. Would it be a boy? Jamila must be safe in the citadel in Damascus. Had she become embittered with Amjad the eunuch, and how was she punishing him? As always, Shadhi occupied my mind, and we were about to commence an imaginary discussion when a retainer coughed politely. My master demanded my presence.

Before separating from us earlier that afternoon Salah al-Din had given his soldiers a brief period to prepare themselves for the journey. As he drank water and half-heartedly chewed some dried dates, he appeared thoughtful. I also detected a touch of sadness in his eyes. He had told me on previous occasions that after Shadhi’s death a loneliness would often grip his soul, a loneliness that remained even when he was in the company of men who stimulated his mind. I knew this mood.

“What does Allah have in store for us, Ibn Yakub? Battles are rarely won by the superiority of arms or men. It is the motivation, a sense of belief in being engaged in Allah’s mission, that is decisive. Do you think the soldiers realise the importance of the next few weeks?”

I nodded.

“Commander of the Victorious, let me tell you what Shadhi would have told you. He always wanted to be with you on this day. He knew it would come, and what you would ask, and this was his reply: ‘I know our soldiers,’ he said. ‘They understand only too well what it means to retake al-Kuds. They are prepared to die for this cause.’ I have listened to them talking to each other, and Shadhi would not wish me to change a word.”

The Sultan smiled and stroked his beard.

“That is the impression that I, too, have gained. Let us hope that their belief in the righteousness of our cause will be sufficient. Let us pray that the cruelties of fate and random misfortunes do not unite to aid the Unbelievers. Tell Keukburi to make sure that the men are fed well tonight.”

There had been no need to pass on this message to the Emir Keukburi. Unlike his commander, he loved eating. He was capable after a single mouthful, or so it was faithfully reported, of discerning every herb and spice that had been used to flavour the meat. He had already instructed the cooks, and just before sunset the scent of cooked meat wafted through the camp, inflaming our appetites. Even the Sultan, whose aversion to meat was well-known, remarked on the unusual fragrance of the aroma.

The cooks had prepared a beef sikbaj, a stew much favoured by the boatmen on the Euphrates. It was sweet and sour, cooked with fresh herbs soaked in vinegar and honey. Its effects were soporific. Even the Kurds with their addiction to grilled meat were forced to admit that the sikbaj they ate that night had been prepared in heaven.

A drumroll awoke us next morning. The exhaustion had disappeared and the soldiers seemed relaxed. Keukburi, to the great relief of most of the men, did not insist on morning prayers. He wanted to join the Sultan in Tiberias. He refused to wait for the supplies to be loaded, and left the camp with a thousand horsemen and myself in attendance.

We had been riding for under half an hour when a cloud of dust moving towards us made everyone tense. Keukburi sent two of his scouts to ride out, to ascertain the number and strength and the banners of the approaching horsemen. If they were Franj knights, we would have to give battle and send out another scout to inform Salah al-Din. We waited, but the scouts did not return. The dust moved steadily in our direction.

Keukburi and three of the emirs who rode at his side conferred with each other, and divided our force into three wedges. Suddenly we heard loud cries of “Allah o Akbar”. Everyone smiled and began to breathe again. Those approaching were friends. Then our scouts galloped back, to inform the Emir that Salah al-Din had taken Tiberias and was riding back to join us.

Keukburi roared with delight, and we rode forward to meet the conqueror of the city that had just fallen. The dust subsided. Keukburi jumped off his horse and rushed to the Sultan to kiss his robe. Salah al-Din, moved by the gesture, dismounted and embraced the young Emir with a fierce tenderness. The triumphant chants of the Believers rent the air around the two men.