Tariq Ali - The Book of Saladin

Yet in each village and town there are always those whose triumph rings false. In exhibiting their loyalty to the new conqueror, they defile the name of the old ruler, make tasteless jokes, and offend his reputation, like carrion to stray dogs. These are usually those very people who never offered resistance to the Franj, but, in the wake of their defeat, have become loud-mouthed avengers, creating new identities for themselves.

One would boast of how he found an isolated Franj knight near a stream and decapitated him so that the water ran red. Another would rival this tale with one even taller. He would speak of how, one night, he had caught a Franj knight violating the honour of a maiden, naturally a Believer, and driven his sword through the heart of the offender and then removed his testicles and fed them to the dogs.

After a few experiences of this nature, the Sultan ordered that any who lied about their exploits would be publicly whipped. Word spread that this Sultan did not look kindly on liars, and the number of boasters dwindled. Salah al-Din was angered by the sight of worthless braggarts climbing on the corpses of those who, whatever their faults, had at least fallen in battle.

As we approached Tyre, there was dissension in our ranks. Imad al-Din was of the opinion that the city should be taken immediately, despite its fortifications and although it would offer stiff resistance. He was backed by most of the emirs. They argued that since the Sultan himself had convinced them that the capture of Tyre was more important even than Jerusalem, it did not make sense to delay the attack.

I well remember that evening as we set up camp in the midst of orange groves and wild flowers. Their scent overpowers me even as I recall that night. There were dark clouds in the sky as Salah al-Din walked up and down the camp. He spoke to nobody. Occasionally he would pluck an orange from the tree, peel the skin, and consume the fruit. The sound of distant thunder distracted him. As he looked up, the rain began to fall.

He had been on his own for over an hour, while the emirs and Imad al-Din waited outside his tent. Now they all rushed in to take shelter.

What was he thinking? He looked at their faces for a long time. He knew what they were thinking. Then he walked purposefully to the door of his tent and peered outside. It was still raining. He came back in and informed them that he had decided, on this occasion, to bypass Tyre. We would march to Saida, and later move on to Beirut. Tyre would have to wait till our return journey to Jerusalem.

The disappointment was plain on every face, but nobody questioned the Sultan’s judgement. Even Imad al-Din, who was normally outspoken in the extreme, was silent. He told me later that though he knew the decision was wrong, he did not feel that he possessed the degree of military competence necessary to challenge the Sultan. The Sultan’s resolve had little to do with the needs of the jihad. It was an atypical act of pure sentimentality.

“I know they think I am wrong, Ibn Yakub,” he confessed that night, soon after we had dined on his favourite bean stew. “The fact is that my old friend Raymond of Tripoli hides in the citadel in Tyre. I let him escape at Hattin. His pride will not let him surrender, and I still do not wish to kill him. Fate has conspired to make us enemies, but, for my part, I still feel close to him. Friendship is a sacred trust. My father and uncle taught me that when I was still a boy, and I have never forgotten. Now my head tells me I am wrong, but my heart will not permit a breach of trust. Do you understand? Or have you, too, like Imad al-Din, become so completely absorbed by our victories that trust and friendship have become empty words that no longer matter to you? It is always the same. We who do the fighting understand its limitations better than you who stay in your tents and scribble.”

I took the opportunity he had so kindly provided to differentiate my opinions from those of Imad al-Din, but I told him that it was not just the great scholar who was upset. The emirs, and some of the soldiers as well, felt it was a mistake not to take Tyre. At this he became quietly thoughtful again, dispensing with my services for the rest of the evening.

There was a gentle breeze as I walked out of his tent into the night. The rain had stopped. The clouds had cleared and a carpet of stars hung in the sky. Suddenly, all my senses were assailed by a mixture of scents in that orange grove. Wild flowers. Jasmine. Oranges. Herbs. The wet earth. Each exuded its own special fragrance, but it was the combination that was overwhelming. I decided to go for a walk, but Imad al-Din would not permit me to enjoy the solitude. His retainer had been waiting for me to leave the Sultan’s tent, and informed me that his master anxiously awaited my presence. What choice does a humble scribe have in the face of such powerful pressure? I gave up my walk and followed the retainer to Imad al-Din’s tent. He was in a tetchy mood. Wars and the rough life of a camp did not suit the great man. He missed his comforts, his boys, his wine, his food and his Damascus. He growled as I appeared.

“Well?”

I feigned puzzlement at the question.

“Why in Allah’s name has Salah al-Din decided to ignore Tyre? It is a very foolish decision!”

I smiled and shrugged my shoulders.

“I am only his scribe, master. He does not confide in me.”

“You are a sly, lying son of a…”

I begged him not to complete the sentence.

“When, long years ago in Cairo, the Sultan decided to employ me, he made it clear that everything said to me was confidential. He also kept me out of the meetings of his war council because he feared that the Franj might kidnap me and torture me to learn the secrets of his war plans. I have no idea as to the military reasons for not taking Tyre.”

Imad al-Din stood up, lifted his right leg, and passed wind very loudly.

“You have become a bit too clever for your own good. There is no military reason. It is sentiment that dictates this decision. His friend, Raymond of Tripoli, is in Tyre. We all know. If Raymond was his lover, I would still be critical of his decision, but my disapproval would be veiled with understanding. Friendship has no place in the midst of a jihad where the very future of our faith is at stake. His instincts misled him. His decision was misguided. The great Nur al-Din would never have tolerated such nonsense!”

“Perhaps what you say is correct,” I replied. “Yet surely the fact is that the devout Sultan Nur al-Din, despite all his longing to do so, could not take Jerusalem. Our Sultan will not fail.”

“I hope so,” said Imad al-Din, “and I pray that what you say will happen, but I am not so sure. There are no certainties in history.”

Two days later, Saida surrendered and we marched into the city. For the moment, the question of Tyre seemed forgotten. The Sultan was pleased that no lives had been lost. He wanted to leave a small force in the city, and then to march on towards Beirut the same afternoon. But he was prevailed upon by the nobles to grace their town, if only for a single night.

Salah al-Din had been reluctant to accept the invitation — he disliked these empty formalities — but Imad al-Din was horrified at any such thought. He bent down and whispered in the Sultan’s ear. To turn down the offer would be offensive in the extreme. As in other matters of diplomacy, the Sultan sulked at the advice, but finally agreed. Everyone sighed with relief. The soldiers were hot and tired, and Saida was a seductive town.

The Sultan and his emirs, and Imad al-Din and myself, were taken to rest at the citadel. From there we could see the soldiers running to the edge of the water, removing their clothes and immersing themselves in the cool waves of the sea. The baths provided in the citadel were lukewarm and cramped by contrast.