Tariq Ali - The Book of Saladin

“Sultana, I came to express my sorrow at her death. I know that your parting was grief-stricken, but…”

She interrupted me with an angry flash of her eyes.

“We parted without recriminations. She wished us to be friends. That was not possible, but we agreed to banish enmity and bitterness. You think I’m cold and unfeeling?”

I sighed.

“There are times when grief is useless, Ibn Yakub. Her death is painful. Her face appears to me, but is soon washed away. Hearts can turn to stone. Let me surprise you, Ibn Yakub. News of her death moved me in a strange way. It helped me discover an inner happiness. I thought you would be shocked, but it is the truth. I feel at ease with myself again. A painful chapter is now definitively over. All that remains are memories. Some of them are happy, most are sad. So you see, my friend, now I have a choice. What I think of her depends on me alone, on my mood, and that, I assure you, is a great relief. Ever since Halima and I parted, I found it difficult to write. Now I have started writing again, and one day I will let you read my manuscript.”

Her callousness startled me. How could she be so indifferent to Halima’s fate? She saw the question on my face and her eyes narrowed.

“I know what you are thinking, Ibn Yakub. You see me as a heartless creature, a woman without pity. You forget that, for me, Halima died a long time ago. I wept a great deal for her, and the pain of separation hurt me for many months. Sleep used to avoid my path completely. All that disappeared some time ago. When Amjad the eunuch, with streaming eyes, came to tell me of her death, I felt nothing. Do you understand?”

She looked into my eyes and smiled.

“I understand, Sultana, but for me what is real is the fact that she is no more. She is buried underneath the earth. We will never hear her laugh again. Surely this is different from the death imposed by your brain on your heart.”

I had aroused her anger.

“No! Imposed by my heart on the brain. The last news of her that I received from Cairo revealed that she had once again abandoned the embraces of men. She had found a younger woman, closer to her own age than mine, and, or so my informants wrote, the two of them had become inseparable. A wave of jealousy and anger passed through me, but that was all. Nothing more. For me she was finished for ever. Dead. I am told that she was poisoned on the orders of her last male lover, a poor, deluded mamluk. He will suffer even more if Salah al-Din ever discovers the truth…”

Jamila’s information turned out to be accurate. Ibn Maymun had performed an autopsy and his conclusion suggested a large dose of poison. Everyone pointed their finger in the direction of the mamluk, who pleaded his innocence, but he was executed on the orders of the Kadi. Only Amjad the eunuch was unconvinced.

“She was poisoned, Ibn Yakub. The poor woman was poisoned, but who gave the order? We will never know the truth. That poor mamluk was just like me, used by her to satisfy her physical needs. Nothing more. If she had been poisoned in Damascus they might have executed me! So I feel some sympathy with the poor man. In my heart I feel that Jamila dispatched the poison together with the instructions.”

“Enough of this loose talk, Amjad! Your thought is worse than the poison that killed Halima. Expel it from your wicked heart before it kills you.”

The eunuch’s face paled.

“I have not confided my suspicions in any other living person. I needed to share them with you, but your advice is wise. If I do not quell these thoughts, I myself will perish. Rest assured, Ibn Yakub, I will quell them. No strain of martyrdom pollutes my blood.”

Try as I might I could not banish Amjad’s words from my own thoughts. That embittered eunuch had planted a poisonous seed in my mind as well. Could it be true? Could Jamila have ordered the poisoning of her detached ex-lover? The very idea seemed outrageous. After a few hours of agony I came to the conclusion that Jamila was innocent. Grief had poisoned Amjad beyond redemption.

I was interrupted by the familiar tones of Imad al-Din.

“You look preoccupied, scribe. I was hoping you would join me this evening in visiting the rooms of the purest Damascene nightingale. Remember? Zubayda? The woman who conquered Salah al-Din’s heart when he was a mere boy, but refused to offer him her body?”

“How could I forget her?” was my reply. “You have caught me at an inopportune moment. I was mourning the tragic death of the Sultana Halima.”

Imad al-Din’s face became grave.

“There are ugly rumours floating on the Nile. Al-Fadil tells me that the mamluk who was executed for the crime insisted on speaking to him alone. When he agreed the condemned whispered in al-Fadil’s ear: ‘I administered the poison, but it was sent me by the Sultana Jamila, and she has pledged to look after my family.’ Naturally, al-Fadil has not told the Sultan or anyone else apart from me. I tell you only because both women were close to you.

“Love has the capacity to drive us all mad. Jealousy is its most savage child. What Jamila did is unforgivable, unthinkable, and yet, if I am to be honest with you, I am not shocked by the news. To understand Jamila one has to have suffered the loss of a lover. Alas, you are a cold-water fish, Ibn Yakub. You never will. Come with me to hear the nightingale sing. Zubayda will make you forget everything.”

I agreed to accompany him, but it was an oppressive evening and I begged his leave to return home so that I could bathe and change my clothing. Since Zubayda’s house was not far from where I lived, he agreed to collect me within the hour. The cool of the night was yet to come and the lack of a breeze made me sweat profusely as I walked home. I told Rachel the story of Halima’s death without naming the royal poisoner. I stripped in the courtyard and poured bucketfuls of fresh, cold water from the well on my head. Then Rachel brought me a towel.

I was distracted. There was only one person I wished to see that night. Jamila. I wanted to confront her with the accusations of Amjad and al-Fadil and Imad al-Din. I wanted to shout them in her face and observe her reaction. I wanted the truth, but I did not want to lose Jamila’s friendship. I wanted her to spit in the face of those who spread such vile slanders. I wanted her to proclaim her innocence to me. After I was dressed I wrote a quick note and dispatched it to her, asking for an audience the next day.

Imad al-Din’s retainer knocked on the door. I offered the great man some tea, but he touched his left cheek and shook his head. I had not noticed the swelling earlier that evening, but he appeared to be in pain.

“It is a bad tooth, Ibn Yakub,” he groaned. “I have been sucking cloves to numb the pain, but it will have to be removed tomorrow. To tell you the truth I am not in a mood for anything tonight except the solitude of my bedchamber. Yet Zubayda has not sung for many years. It is an experience you will never forget, something you will tell your grandchildren.”

The town crier preceded us on the narrow streets, often clearing a path through hordes of families and noisy children desperate for some air.

“Make way, make way for the great Imad al-Din, counsellor to the Sultan Yusuf Salah al-Din ibn Ayyub.”

We saw familiar faces outside Zubayda’s house. The Sultan’s personal guards were on duty, swords raised as we approached, but lowered as they recognised us. The Nubian mute, who had been with the Sultan as long as me, grinned at our arrival and hastened to unfasten the door that led to the courtyard. It was to be an outdoor occasion. The courtyard was lit by lamps and the floor covered in rugs and cushions. There were no more than fifteen people present — among them, to my amazement, the Sultana Jamila. She smiled pleasantly to acknowledge my arrival. My heart quickened its pace.