Tariq Ali - The Book of Saladin

The next morning the Sultan handed me a piece of paper containing a tribute to his fallen nephew. In Imad al-Din’s absence he wished me to cast an eye on the verse and improve it before dispatching it to his brothers and nephews. The great scholar was often brutal in dealing with the Sultan’s handiwork, but I lacked the authority or the self-confidence to make any changes. Truth is, Ibn Maymun, I rather liked the verse and sent it to many parts as it was written. Do you agree?

In the desert alone, I

count the burnt-out lamps of our youths.

How many have been claimed by these execution-grounds?

How many more will die?

We can never call them back with the sound of the flute or the songs we write,

But every morning at sunrise

I will remember them all in my prayers.

Death’s cruel arrow has claimed Taki al-Din and

the harsh walls of this world have closed in around me.

Darkness rules.

Desolation reigns.

Can we illuminate the path again?

Your friend,

Ibn Yakub

(Personal Scribe to the Sultan Salah al-Din ibn Ayyub)

The Lion-Arse returns to England and the Sultan retires to Damascus

GOOD FRIEND, IBN MAYMUN,

We were in a state of great perplexity. There was so much dissension amongst the emirs that had Richard laid siege to Jerusalem, who can say that he would not have succeeded? There were times when the Sultan used to go to al-Aqsa and moisten the prayer mats with his tears. He, too, was not confident that his emirs and soldiers would be able to resist the onslaught.

At one council of war, an emir addressed Salah al-Din in harsh language and insisted: “The fall of Jerusalem would not damage the faith. After all we have survived many years without Jerusalem. It is only a city and there is no shortage of stones in our world.” I had never before seen the Sultan so angry in public. He rose and we all rose with him. Then he walked up to the emir who had spoken thus and looked him straight in the eyes. The emir averted his gaze and fell on his knees. The Sultan did not speak a single word. He returned to his place and said in a soft voice that Jerusalem would be defended to the last man, and that if it fell he would fall with it, so that in times to come their children would remember and understand that this was no ordinary city of stone, but a place where the future of our faith was decided. Then he left the chamber. No one spoke. Slowly, the room emptied.

Left on my own I sat there and reflected on the tumultuous events of the last few years. We had grown too confident after our victory in Jerusalem. I loved the Sultan as I would my own father, but there was a flaw in his character. At times when he needed to be decisive, to make unpopular choices, to be alone in the knowledge that his instincts were correct, at such a time he weakened and allowed himself to be swayed by lesser men than he. Often I wanted to transcend my position and speak to him as a friend, just as you have so often spoken to me. Are you wondering what I would say? I’m not sure myself.

Perhaps I would whisper in his ear: “Don’t lose your courage if some emir deserts you now, or if the peasants disregard your instructions and supply the Franj with grain. Your instincts are good. You are usually right, but the guarantee of our final victory lies in nothing but an extreme unwillingness to yield, the strictest straightforwardness when speaking to our soldiers and the rejection of all compromises with vacillators in our own ranks. It was in this directness, this quality as of a javelin in flight, that lay the secret of your uncle Shirkuh’s victories.”

Fortunately for us, Richard too was frightened of defeat. He feared the sun. He feared the poisoned wells. He feared our wrath, but above all, he feared the Sultan. He was also anxious to return home. One of the few occasions when I have heard the Sultan laugh was when one of our spies reported serious dissensions within the enemy camp. Richard and the French King did not agree on any single issue. Their hatred for each other grew so fierce that it began to outweigh their desire to defeat us.

“Allah be praised,” the Sultan had laughed, “it is not only our side that is divided by petty conflicts and rival ambitions.”

He thought this was a good time to conclude a peace. The Franj could keep their coastal towns. Let them have Tyre, Jaffa, Ascalon and Acre. These are nothing compared to what we now control, and though we have not driven them into the sea, time is on our side. That is how the Sultan reasoned, and in this he was correct.

Richard has left our shores. He stayed for two years, but failed to take the Holy City. His expedition came to naught. He may have taken pleasure in executing helpless prisoners, but his crusade failed and therein lies our victory.

Our Sultan remains the only sovereign ruler of this area. I know you will not be surprised to hear that no sooner had Richard bade farewell to our shores than we began to receive deputations of Franj nobles, desperate to seek the protection of the Sultan against each other. They wish to buy their security by agreeing to become his vassals.

And this is how we returned to the citadel in Damascus, from where I am writing these lines. I now have three large rooms at my disposal and am treated as a guest rather than a servant. The chamberlain visits me regularly to ensure that my needs are not ignored. He does so on the express instructions of his master. It is as if Salah al-Din has decided to reward my diligence over the years by ensuring that my last years are pleasurable and not lacking in comfort.

I see the Sultan every day. He talks often of his father and uncle, but the person he misses the most is our old friend, Shadhi, the Kurdish warrior who was also his uncle by blood and who never hesitated to speak the truth. Yesterday he reminded me of “Shadhi’s capacity to turn rhetoric into logic” and we both laughed, not as ruler and servant, but as two friends mourning the loss of something precious.

I worry about him a great deal, Ibn Maymun, and sincerely wish you could travel to this city and be his physician. He needs care. His face is lined and shows signs of real weariness. White hairs dominate his beard. Exertions tire him and he finds it difficult to sleep through the night. Could you recommend some herbal infusions?

Yesterday, after his afternoon rest and on a pure whim, he sent for Imad al-Din. The great man did not arrive till much later, long after we had finished our evening meal. He apologised for this, claiming that he had only been informed of the Sultan’s message half-an-hour ago. Salah al-Din smiled and did not challenge the falsehood. It is known everywhere that Imad al-Din avoids eating with the Sultan, because of the latter’s frugal taste in food.

“What did you eat tonight, Imad al-Din, and where?” asked the Sultan without a smile.

The secretary was shaken by this unexpected question. His drooping eyelids lifted and his entire posture became alert.

“It was a modest repast, O Commander of the Brave. A little grilled lamb, followed by one of my own recipes, quails cooked in curds from sheep’s milk and flavoured with salt and garlic. That’s all.”

We laughed, and he joined in. Then after an exchange of pleasantries the Sultan announced his wish to make the pilgrimage to Mecca and asked Imad al-Din to make the necessary plans. The secretary frowned.

“I would not recommend it at the moment. The Caliph is already envious of you. He knows the people love you. He will regard your visit to Mecca as an indirect challenge to his authority in Baghdad.”

“That is the talk of the insane, Imad al-Din,” the Sultan interrupted his chief adviser on protocol. “It is the duty of a Believer to visit Mecca once a year.”