Tariq Ali - The Book of Saladin

The Franj leaders, divided till now between the tigers, who wanted a brawl, and the sheep, who wished to surrender, realised that the sheep had been wise all along. Their messengers arrived, accepting the terms of surrender that I had drafted some days ago. The Sultan could have punished them for wasting our time, but he smiled benignly and accepted the city.

“Well, Ibn Yakub, it seems that the Franj were less critical of your document than me.”

We rode into yet another conquered city, but the population here was largely sullen and silent. They were angry at the unnecessary deaths and the damage which was, in reality, the fault of their own leaders. But they preferred to burden us with the blame.

The town crier could be heard in the streets proclaiming the disaster.

“The great Sultan Yusuf Salah al-Din ibn Ayyub has entered our city. Listen now to the terms of surrender…!”

That evening, after he had bathed and rested, the Sultan and I stood on the ramparts of the citadel, watching the waves beat on the rocks below. The sun was about to set. His eyes looked at the horizon. The majesty of the sea had calmed him and he was deep in thought. For what seemed then to be a long time neither of us spoke. Then he turned to me with a strange, faraway look in his eyes.

“Do you know something, Ibn Yakub? If Allah permits the conquest of this coast, and once we have regained al-Kuds, I shall divide our empire. I shall leave it to my brothers and sons. I shall then visit Mecca for the pilgrimage, and take my leave of Allah.

“Then I shall prepare to cross this turbulent sea, whose calm, Ibn Yakub, is deceptive. I will go to the lands where the Franj live, and I will pursue these scoundrels till all of them acknowledge Allah and his Prophet. I will do this even if I die in the attempt. It is important, because others will then pick up my sword and finish what I could not achieve. Unless we strike at the roots of the Franj, they will continue to eat our flesh, like locusts that darken the sky and devour our crops.”

Halima dies in Cairo: ugly rumours hold Jamila responsible

THE SULTAN HAD NOT rested in Beirut. Once the Franj were disarmed, he nominated one of his emirs and several hand-picked squadrons to control the city. The rest of us rode on to Damascus with only the stars as our guide. We entered the city as dawn broke. I bade farewell to Salah al-Din as he rode up the incline to the citadel, and made my way home.

Rachel was not in our room. For a moment my heart began to race as I recalled that fateful day in Cairo, but our retainer, rubbing his sleep-filled eyes, set my mind at rest. She was with our daughter, and had not been expecting me back for many months.

I dispatched him to fetch Rachel, while I washed myself from the well in the courtyard. I was exhausted by the all-night ride. Even though I was now used to the horse, I could never fully relax like the Sultan. My backside was sore and my thighs were stiff with pain. The water helped. I went inside and lay on our bed.

It was midday when a small child’s gurgle near my face startled me. I sat up to see the smiling faces of my wife and daughter. The boy was big and healthy, but he screamed when I lifted him to my face and kissed his cheeks. Rachel rescued him as I first hugged his mother and then her mother, who whispered in my ear: “This child is our reward for years of pain and trouble. You are alive and well. God be praised.”

“Perhaps, but the Sultan’s victories helped a little to keep me alive.”

We laughed. Then she spoke again.

“Maryam and I were thinking it would be nice to visit our house in Cairo and spend the winter there this year. Her husband would come as well. He has many friends in Cairo and has never seen the city. We were waiting for your permission.”

“You have my permission, of course. I only wish I could accompany all of you, but we leave in a few days for Jerusalem. The Sultan will not delay any longer. He will pray at the al-Aqsa mosque before the month is over, and I shall visit the site of the old synagogue. Afterwards, if he releases me for a few months, I will join you all in Cairo.”

Rachel smiled. She had always thought, because of what I had said a long time ago, that because of my unhappy associations with the domed room, I never wished to set foot in that house again. But there is a limit to jealousy. If I had forgiven Rachel, and even forgotten the scale of Ibn Maymun’s betrayal, how could I still bear a grudge against the house? The fault lay not within the stones that formed those walls, but in ourselves. Later that afternoon, when we were alone, I said all this to Rachel and much more. Serenity had returned. We lay entwined in each other’s arms and felt that the past had finally been buried.

Alas, there was sad news awaiting me when I arrived at the citadel that same evening. Amjad the eunuch had been impatiently awaiting my arrival and he rushed and hugged me warmly. It was when he moved away that I noticed the wetness on my cheeks.

“Halima died in Cairo a few days ago. The Sultan was mildly upset. He has asked Ibn Maymun to conduct an investigation and send us a report before the week is over.”

The news stunned me. Halima had never known a day’s illness in all the time I had known her. What could have struck her down? Images of her fluttered through my mind in rapid succession. I saw her face pale and motionless beneath the shroud. I wept.

“How did Jamila react to the news?”

Amjad remained silent.

I repeated the question.

“I broke the news to her. She looked straight into my eyes, but remained completely calm. Completely. Her face showed no emotion. Nothing. Perhaps she was wearing a mask to hide her pain. Perhaps.”

The news of Halima’s truncated life had stolen all my powers of concentration. I sat through the meeting of the council of war in a daze. The Sultan’s soft voice, Imad al-Din and al-Fadil’s impassioned interventions, the sense of excitement and expectation that radiated from every emir, were like background noises as far as I was concerned. I was desperate to see Jamila, to condole, to share common memories of Halima, to weep, to find out what she really felt at the death of someone who had meant so much to her and whose life she had greatly affected.

For the first time since I had been employed by the Sultan I did not fulfil the duties that kind ruler had assigned to me. Reader, I did not take any notes of that crucial meeting which decided the fate of Jerusalem. On that subject my notebook is a blank.

Later, I reconstructed that evening with the aid of Imad al-Din, but, as was his wont, he assigned the decisive role to himself and claimed that till he had spoken, the Sultan had been indecisive. I know for a fact that this was not the case, and for that reason I dismissed the great scholar’s testimony as self-serving and unworthy of him. What did become clear in the weeks that followed was that there had been unanimity amongst all those who had comprised the council on that fateful night. They would take Jerusalem.

My mind was still tormented by the death in Cairo. I had asked to see Jamila, but it was not until two days later that she agreed to my request. An unusually sad and silent Amjad came to my house to fetch me.

She was waiting for me in the usual antechamber, the room where I had often met Halima. For a moment Jamila’s features faded and mixed with those of the dead woman, but I clasped my hands so firmly together that they hurt. I was back in the present. I looked at her face and recalled Amjad’s description. There was not a trace of sadness in her eyes.

“It was you who wished to see me, Ibn Yakub.”

My only reply was to weep. I thought I saw her eyes flicker, but she recovered rapidly. She looked at me with a strange gaze.