The Book of Saladin (11 page)

Pleased with himself, the Sultan burst out laughing. Naturally, I had heard him laugh before, but always in a restrained fashion as befitted a prince. Now it was uncontrolled. The saying of the Prophet, at best mildly amusing to myself, made him laugh and laugh. Tears poured down his face. When he recovered, and had wiped away the tears from his face and beard, he explained himself.

“You look surprised, scribe. I just thought of what could have made the Prophet say such a thing, and an image flashed past my mind of the early Believers who had come to pray. Trusting in the power of Allah, they left their camels outside, only to discover that they had been stolen. This could not have enhanced their faith in Allah, could it, scribe? Enough for today. I have to discuss the late collection of the taxes with al-Fadil, who thinks that this could lead to a national calamity.”

I pleaded for one more hour. “The line contained in the Sultan’s narrative today is very straight and clear. I fear that if we stop now we might never return to this part again. Could Your Highness not finish with the fall of Shawar and your return to Cairo?”

Salah al-Din sighed and then a frown crossed his forehead. Finally he nodded and continued, but not in his usual relaxed fashion. He began to gallop, and my fingers had to race to keep up. Usually there are at least five scribes present to note the words of the Sultan. After he has finished, they compare notes and we end up with one agreed version. I was alone.

Shirkuh never forgot Shawar’s treachery. He burned for revenge. He would often remark: “That goat-fucker Shawar used us to win power, and used the Franj to neutralise us.”

It was time, Nur al-Din said one day as he addressed a council of war, for Shirkuh and Salah al-Din to return to Misr. This was the first time he had mentioned me in the presence of all the emirs. My chest expanded with pride. My father, too, was much pleased, though his face, as usual, showed no emotion. Shirkuh bowed.

And so began our great adventure. Our spies reported that Shawar had concluded a deal with Amalric against us. This, dear friend, was the state of our world. Believers joined infidels against other Believers. Shawar and Amalric had joined forces and were waiting for us just outside Cairo. Shirkuh, who taught me everything I know about making war, was a brilliant commander. He refused to fight on the ground they had chosen. Instead we crossed the Nile. We marched northwards from Cairo and set up our tents near the pyramids of Giza. The great river separated us now from the enemy.

From this position Shirkuh sent Shawar a message. I see him now, roaring like a lion, as he reads the message first to our own soldiers. “The Frankish enemy is at our mercy. They are cut off from their bases. Let us unite our forces to exterminate them. The time is ripe and this opportunity may not rise again for a long time.”

Our men roared their approval. For a long time, or so it seemed that day, there were loud cries of Allah o Akbar, so loud that the pyramids appeared to shake. Every soldier volunteered to take the message to Shawar. Every eye was strained. Who would Shirkuh pick?

His choice fell on his favourite bodyguard, Nasir, a young Kurdish archer whose sharp eyes had saved Shirkuh’s life on more than one occasion.

Shawar received the message and showed it immediately to his ally, Amalric. To prove his loyalty to the Franj, he had Nasir executed. His head, wrapped in filth, was returned to Shirkuh. I don’t think I have ever seen my uncle so angry as he was that day. The sun was setting and soldiers were making their ablutions before the evening prayers. Shirkuh interrupted them. He was naked except for a piece of cloth that covered his loins. He grabbed Nasir’s head and ran like a madman, showing it to everyone. Nasir was a much-loved man, and tears filled so many eyes that evening that the level of the Nile itself must have risen.

Loud cries rent the camp. Shirkuh, still holding the head, climbed on his stallion. The last rays of the sun caught his hair as he screamed in rage: “I swear on the head of this boy, who like me came from the mountains. I swear that Shawar’s head will fall. Nothing can keep him alive. Neither his Franj, nor his eunuchs, nor his Caliph. I swear this in front of you all, and may my soul rot in Hell if I fail.”

There was complete silence as we drank in the import of his words. For a long time none of us spoke. We were thinking of Nasir’s death, of cruel fate, and of how far we were from home. We were also thinking of ourselves. Shawar had declared war. Who would win this war? Even as we were thinking, the plaintive sounds of a flute floated through the air and, following it, the voices of the Bedouin who sang a lament for Nasir. The Nile rose again.

That night, after we had finished our meal, my uncle Shirkuh could be seen pacing up and down outside his tent, like a man possessed. I was sitting on the sand, dreaming of Damascus and watching the shooting stars. I have never seen such a sky as one glimpses lying at the feet of the pyramids. A messenger interrupted my dreams. It was a summons from Shirkuh.

The emirs and commanders were already assembled when I arrived. Shirkuh pointed to an empty place on the floor. I sat down not knowing what to expect. To everyone’s amazement, Shirkuh told us that he was not going to confront Shawar and Amalric outside Cairo, or even here where we had set camp. He was planning to take the port-town of Alexandria instead. Everyone gasped at the audacity. By the light of lamps, Shirkuh sketched out his plan in the sand, giving each of us detailed instructions. He was aware that Amalric was marching to encircle and destroy us. Shirkuh knew that we had to fight a battle before reaching Alexandria. I was given command of the centre and ordered to retreat the minute the enemy charged. Unlike me, Shirkuh left nothing to chance. That is why, Ibn Yakub, I still believe that he was the greatest of our military leaders. I am nothing as compared to him. Nothing. Nothing.

We met the enemy at al-Babyn. When Amalric and his knights charged towards me, I feigned fear and led a retreat. The Franj unfurled their banners and accepted the challenge. The chase began. They had not realised that the left and right flanks of our army had been placed to circumvent a Frankish retreat. At a given signal, I stopped our forces, turning round to confront the knights. Soon they realised how exposed and isolated they were, but it was too late. Very few managed to escape, Amalric, alas, one of them.

Shirkuh did not permit us to celebrate the victory. That same day we began our march northwards across Misr, in the general direction of Alexandria. It was the first time I had seen the sea. I could have sat there for hours, breathing in its air and drinking its beauty. Shirkuh had given us no quarter. We were exhausted in body and mind. The sight of all that water soothed our nerves. I felt calm again. A few days later we entered Alexandria. We were showered with flowers and greeted with great acclaim by the people of the city. They had strongly resented Shawar’s alliance with the Franj.

The pride in Shirkuh’s face, the tears on mine, and the joy, the sheer joy of being greeted as saviours, these are what I remember. Shirkuh did not speak for long that day. He knew we didn’t have much time. Yet the whole city had gathered to welcome us. He had to offer them a message of hope. His face was tired. He had not slept for two nights, just managing to catch the odd nap while he rode. The sight of the people aroused him. He stood on a wall outside the citadel. The crowd fell silent. Shirkuh spoke.

“Looking at you now, I can count the stars on your foreheads. What I am doing, what we are doing, everyone is capable of doing. Once our people understand this simple truth, the Franj are lost. I speak to all of you, not just the Believers. You are all under my care, and we will defend you. But the Franj are already on their way. Let us celebrate, but let us also prepare.”

This was my uncle who had taken Alexandria. This was my uncle who had spoken these simple but meaningful words. I was overcome by emotion. As he stepped down, I hugged him and kissed his cheeks. He spoke a few kind words in my ear, telling me that he was getting old and soon I would have to fight in his place. Telling me that he was proud of how I had fought. What else would he have told me had not messengers arrived with news of the Frankish response?

Shawar and Amalric were shaken by the speed with which we had travelled from south to north. They were mustering a large army to crush us. Now Shirkuh missed my father’s presence. He needed someone to plan the defence of the city, to take measures to withstand the Frankish siege, to ensure that food was saved and equally distributed, to make certain that flame-throwers were stationed in the port—to deter Frankish vessels from disembarking knights behind our backs. In my father’s absence, I was assigned all these tasks.

As you know, Ibn Yakub, that siege has now entered our books of history. I have nothing more to add, except to confess to you that I was prepared for death. Fear, which haunts us all, had disappeared completely. We were surrounded by Frankish ships behind us, and their knights were outside the city walls, their catapults hurling fire and stones. I wanted to die a noble death, as did our army. I did not want us destroyed by famine or diseases, both of which were spreading as the city was paralysed. Once again it was Shirkuh who refused to contemplate either surrender or a thoughtless battle in which, hopelessly outnumbered, we would all die.

Shirkuh’s daring had no equal. He placed me in command of the city and then, taking two hundred of our best fighters, he left under cover of darkness, galloped at full speed through the surprised ranks of the enemy, and headed for Cairo. Shadhi went with him and used to tell of Shirkuh going to villages, appealing to the peasants in a language they understood and appreciated—describing Shawar and Amalric as camel and horse droppings and making them laugh. In this fashion, he convinced the younger men among them to join his army.

The Franj, worried by this diversion, agreed to lift the siege, and we left Alexandria without losing a single soldier. The Franj, too, withdrew. Shirkuh, realising we were outnumbered, took us all back to Damascus. In his report to Nur al-Din, delivered in my presence, he predicted that within a year Shawar and Amalric would be at each other’s throats. That, he suggested, would be the best time for us to return.

And it happened, just as he had said. Shawar refused to pay Amalric the booty he had been promised, and the Franj decided to teach him a lesson.

One day a messenger reached us from Cairo. He was a spy that Shirkuh had planted in Shawar’s ranks. He had been present at the negotiations between Amalric and Shawar’s son. The Franj had demanded Bilbais in return for the help he was prepared to provide Shawar for use against us.

Shawar’s son, angered by this outrageous request had shouted: “Do you think Bilbais is a piece of cheese for the eating?” to which Amalric had responded: “Yes, it is cheese, and Cairo is the butter.”

These proved to be more than empty words. Amalric took Bilbais, killed and enslaved its population, and burnt it to the ground. Then he marched onwards to capture Cairo. To delay his old friends, Shawar burnt the old city to the ground. The people fled to where we are now, the new centre of Cairo. The fire raged for one whole month. Shawar again tried to appease Amalric. He offered him gold and a free hand in the rest of the country, but still there was no change.

At this point the Caliph al-Adid sent a messenger to our Sultan. Nur al-Din summoned me, and told me what was taking place. He sent me to Horns to fetch Shirkuh. When we returned, Nur al-Din ordered us to return to Cairo. I was reluctant. I could still see the suffering on the faces of the people at Alexandria. I did not want to experience another siege. Shirkuh took me aside.

“Are you the son of my brother or the son of a dog? Do you think I enjoy suffering? This time we will take Cairo. I need you at my side. Go and prepare your horses.”

I did as he asked. On hearing of our departure, Amalric had decided to withdraw. He had already seen that the Cairenes would resist him all the way despite the manoeuvres of Shawar. It was winter 1169 when we entered the city. As in Alexandria the previous year, we were welcomed, and the horses on which my uncle and I rode into Cairo were fed the most amazing dishes. We met Shawar in this very room, Ibn Yakub. He rose as Shirkuh and I entered, and pretended to welcome us, but his eyes would not meet my uncle’s. He fell on the floor and kissed Shirkuh’s feet. We asked whether the Caliph was expecting us, and Shawar nodded mutely.

“Then take us to him, you goat-fucker,” said Shirkuh with a cruel laugh.

He led us to the Caliph’s palace, through vaulted hallways and an endless number of ornamented chambers, each of them empty. Brightly coloured birds from Ifriqiya were making a terrible noise. We passed through a garden which contained tame lion cubs, a bear and two black panthers tied to a tree. Shirkuh was unmoved by all this, yet it was difficult not to be impressed. I tried to mimic my uncle and pretended that I, too, was unaffected. Then we entered a large room with a vaulted ceiling. It was divided by a thick silk curtain of the deepest red, on which circles of pure gold had been sewn, and jewels the size of eggs.

Shawar bowed before the curtain and laid his sword on the floor. We did not follow suit. Slowly the curtain rose and al-Adid emerged.

So, I thought to myself, this pathetic and frightened figure, barely eighteen years of age, his dark eyes shadowed by the signs of over-indulgence, surrounded by eunuchs and a great display of inordinate wealth, this was the Caliph of the Fatimids. The Caliph asked Shawar to leave his presence, and the defeated vizir slunk away like a smelly animal.

Shirkuh did not waste time. “You requested us to save Cairo. We are here. Before anything else, I ask for Shawar’s head. It is he who has brought death and destruction to our people.”

The Caliph of the Fatimids nodded. He spoke in a strange choked voice as if he too, like most of those who surrounded him, had been castrated.

“We welcome you to Cairo. We take great pleasure in appointing you as our vizir.”

Shirkuh bowed his acceptance, and we left the palace. The very next day, with the written permission of their Caliph, I personally separated Shawar’s head from his shoulders, throwing it on the ground at Shirkuh’s feet. My heart trembled, but my hand was strong.