Tariq Ali - The Book of Saladin

Then Messud, with eyes like almonds and lips as sweet as honey, entered my life. He told me tales of Damascus, and how he had fought by the side of Sultan Yusuf Salah al-Din ibn Ayyub. I could not resist him. I did not wish to resist him. What I felt for him was something I had never experienced before.

That is my story, O great Sultan. I know that you will live without misfortune, you will win great victories, you will rule over us, you will pass judgement, and you will make sure your sons are brought up as you wish them to be. Your success has put you where you are. This benighted, blind and homeless creature puts her trust in you. Allah’s will must be done.

While Halima had been talking, Salah al-Din had drunk in every word, observed every gesture, and noticed every flash of the eyes. She had the look of a wild, but cornered, cat. Now he inspected her with the steady, emotionless gaze of a Kadi, as though his face were made of stone. The intensity of the Sultan’s gaze unnerved the girl. This time, it was she who averted her eyes.

He smiled and clapped his hands. The ever-faithful Shadhi entered the chamber, and the Sultan spoke to him in the Kurdish dialect, which I could not understand. The sound struck some deep chord in Halima. Hearing them talk in their tongue startled her, and she listened carefully.

“Go with him,” the Sultan told her. “He will make sure you remain safe, far away from the Kadi’s stones.”

She kissed his feet, and Shadhi took her by the elbow and guided her out of the chamber.

“Speak frankly, Ibn Yakub. Your religion shares many of our prescriptions. In my place, would you have allowed such a beautiful creation to be stoned to death outside the Bab-el-Barkiya?”

I shook my head.

“I would not, Your Highness, but many of the more orthodox within my religion would share the view of the great Kadi.”

“Surely you understand, my good scribe, that al-Fadil did not really want her to be killed. That is what all this business is about. He wanted me to take the decision. That is all. Had he wished, he could have dealt with the whole matter himself — and then informed me when it was too late to intervene. By asking me to listen to her story, he knew that he was not consigning her to the cruel uncertainties of enigmatic fate. He knows me well. He would have been sure I would keep her alive. If the truth be told, I think our Kadi, too, fell under Halima’s spell. I think she will be safe in the harem.

“Now, it has been a tiring day. You will break some bread with me, I trust?”

A eunuch kills the great Sultan Zengi and the fortunes of Salah al-Din’s family take a turn; Shadhi’s story

THE FOLLOWING MORNING, I arrived at the palace at the agreed time and was taken to the library by Shadhi. The Sultan himself did not appear. I busied myself with volumes hitherto unknown to me.

At noon I was told by a messenger, with Shadhi trailing behind him, that matters of state were occupying the Sultan and that he had no time that day.

I was about to leave when Shadhi winked at me. I was wary of this stooped old man, who was still vain enough to dye his white beard with henna and whose well-oiled bald head glistened dangerously in the sun. My face must have registered confusion.

“Matters of state?”

The old man laughed, a rasping, loud, vulgar, sceptical laugh, as if to answer his own question.

“I think the Defender of the Weak is not inspecting the citadel as he should be at this hour. Instead, he is exploring the cracks and crevices of the girl with red hair.”

I was slightly shocked, not even sure myself whether I was disturbed more by the words that Shadhi had spoken or by the message they conveyed. Could it be true? The Sultan’s speed on horseback was legendary, and I wondered whether this same impatience had characterised his movements in the bedchamber. And Halima? Had she yielded willingly, without a struggle or, at the very least, a verbal plea for patience? Was it a seduction, or a violation?

The report was probably accurate. I was desperate for more information, but I refrained from comment, not wishing to encourage Shadhi further. This irritated him. He was trying to develop a familiarity with me by sharing a secret, and he took my lack of response as a snub.

I hurriedly took my leave of him and returned home.

To my surprise, when I returned the next morning, I found the Sultan waiting for me in the library. He smiled at my entrance, but wanted to begin immediately, wasting no time in pleasantries. In my mind’s eye, I thought I caught a brief glimpse of Halima, before the Sultan’s familiar tones forced me to concentrate my attention on his words. My hand began to move on the paper, pushed as if by a force much greater than me.

Spring always came to Baalbek like a traveller with stories to tell. At night the sky was like a quilt sewn with stars. During the day it was an intense blue, as the sun smiled on everything. We used to lie in the grass and inhale the fragrance of the almond blossom. As the weather grew warmer, and summer approached, we would compete with each other to see who would dive first into the small freshwater lake, endlessly supplied by several little streams. The lake itself was hidden by a clump of trees, and we always treated its location as our little secret, though everyone in Baalbek knew of its existence.

One day, while we were swimming, we saw Shadhi racing towards us. He could run in those days, though not as well as in his youth. My grandmother used to talk of how Shadhi could run from one mountain village to another, over distances of more than twenty miles. He would leave after the morning prayer and return in time to serve breakfast to my grandfather. That was a long time ago, in Dvin, before our family moved to Takrit.

Shadhi told us to get out of the water and run as fast as we could to the citadel. Our father had summoned us. He swore at us, threatening vile punishments if we did not obey his instruction immediately. His face was taut with worry. On this occasion, we believed him.

When my older brother, Turan Shah, inquired as to the reason for such haste, Shadhi glared, telling him that it was for our father to inform us of the calamity that had befallen our faith. Genuinely alarmed, we ran as fast as we could. I remember Turan Shah muttering something about the Franj. If they were at the gates, he would fight, even if he had to steal a sword.

As we approached the citadel, we heard the familiar sound of wailing women. I remember clutching Turan Shah’s hand, and looking at him nervously. Shadhi had noticed this and correctly interpreted my anxiety.

As he lifted me onto his shoulders, he whispered soothing words in my ear.

“Your father is alive and well. In a few minutes you will see him.”

It was not our father but the great Sultan Zengi who had died. The Defender of the Faith had been murdered by a drunken eunuch while he slept in his tent by the Euphrates.

He was fully engaged in the Holy War against the Franj. My father had been put in command of Baalbek by Sultan Zengi, and now he was worried that we might have to pack our tents and move again.

It was Zengi who had defeated the Franj and, after a month’s siege, taken the city of al-Ruha, which they called Edessa. The city had become a jewel set in the dagger of our faith, as we looked with longing towards al-Kuds and the mosque of Caliph Omar.

I still remember the words of the poet, often sung in Baalbek by both soldiers and slaves. We used to join them, and I think if I begin to sing, the words will come back:

He rides in a wave of horsemen,

They flow o’er the earth like a flood,

His spears talk to the enemy

Like tongues encrusted in blood.