The Book of Saladin (15 page)

I was thinking of this as I rode in his entourage through the city. He had placed experienced horsemen on either side of me, just in case the animal I was riding took it in its head to bolt. It did nothing of the sort, and soon I even became used to the unpleasantness of the experience. I knew my backside would be sore at the end of the day, but I was pleased to ride with him.

He rode without effort.

This was not his battle-horse, but a lesser steed. Yet even for this horse, Salah al-Din’s movements had become a habit. He let the horse move at its own pace, neither too fast, nor too slow. With a slight flicker of the Sultan’s heel, the horse increased his pace, obliging all of us to keep up with him. Sometimes it seemed as though the horse and its rider were one creation, just like the make-believe creatures of which the old Greeks sang in their poetry.

We rode out of the Bab al-Zuweyla and were soon passing through streets thronged with people. They interrupted their labours to bow or salute their ruler, but he did not encourage servility and preferred to speed through the city. He wanted to avoid the supplicants and sycophants from the layer of merchants who dominated most of the streets.

Soon we passed the burnt ruins of the Mansuriya quarter, where the Nubian soldiers of the eunuch Nejeh had made their last stand before being driven from the city. The Sultan had ordered that the quarter should remain demolished, as a grim warning to all those who might contemplate treachery in the future.

Without warning, he reined in his horse. Our entire party consisted today of myself, three court scribes to take down the Sultan’s instructions for transmission to the Kadi al-Fadil, and twenty carefully chosen bodyguards—carefully chosen, that is, by Shadhi, who, if the truth be told, only trusted Kurds or members of the family to guard his Sultan, who now beckoned me to join him. He was laughing.

“It pleases me to see you ride, Ibn Yakub, but I think that Shadhi should give you some lessons. Your good wife will need to rub special ointments tonight to ease your behind. I hope this journey does not impair any of your functions.”

He laughed loudly at his own remark, and I nodded my agreement. He managed a generous smile. Then he surveyed the buildings of the burnt quarter and his mood changed.

“We were lucky to survive this revolt. If they had taken us by surprise, the story might well have been different. This permanent state of uncertainty is the devil’s curse against the Believers. It is almost as if we are destined never to be one against the enemy. None of our philosophers or inscribers of history have been able to answer this question. Let us discuss this problem with our scholars one evening.”

He bent over the saddle to stroke the horse’s neck, an indication that our journey was about to be resumed. Soon we had left the swarming streets and there, at a distance, were the mounds of the Mukattam range. Here builders like bees were constructing the new citadel. Huge stones were being carried by humans and donkeys. Thousands and thousands of workers were engaged in the building.

I wondered whether anyone else observing the scene was reminded of the ancient monuments in Giza. They must have been built by the ancestors of those who were at work on this great fortress.

The man in charge of the work was the Sultan’s chamberlain, the Emir Qara Kush, the only person Salah al-Din trusted to carry out his detailed architectural instructions and to supervise the building during his long absences. The sight of these labours pleased Salah al-Din. Again he touched his horse below the neck and the large creature bent to his will, galloping off at a pace which only his guards could match.

The three court scribes and myself followed at a more dignified speed. The court scribes, Copts whose fathers and grandfathers had served the Fatimid Caliphs for centuries, smiled at me and made ingratiating conversation. Underneath, I could see, they were burnt by jealousy. They resented my daily proximity to their master.

Salah al-Din suppressed a smile as he saw me dismount. My legs were aching as I walked up a ramp to a newly completed tower. Here the Sultan was discussing the brickwork with the Emir Qara Kush. This giant eunuch, with a fair complexion and hair the colour of coal, had once been one of Shirkuh’s mamluks. He had been freed and made an emir by his master. Shirkuh had greatly valued his administrative skills, and it was the advice of Qara Kush to the Caliph of the Fatimids that had secured the position of Vizir for Salah al-Din.

Qara Kush was describing how some of the stones had been brought all the way from the pyramids of Giza. He showed how well they mingled with the local limestone. The Sultan was clearly pleased and turned to me.

“Write this down, scribe. The reason we are constructing this new citadel is to create an impregnable fortress which can resist any Frankish adventure. But if you look at how the walls and towers have been planned, you will notice that we could also withstand a local rebellion with some ease. I have never forgotten how close we were to defeat when the eunuchs and mamluks organised the Nubians to surprise us. Here we can never be surprised.”

As we were talking, Qara Kush pointed down to the dust created by the speed of two horsemen riding in our direction. He was not expecting anyone, and was irritated by this unplanned intrusion. He frowned and instructed two of the Sultan’s guards to await the horsemen at the foot of the citadel. Salah al-Din laughed.

“Qara Kush is so nervous. Do you think our old friends from the mountains have sent someone to dispatch me?”

Qara Kush did not reply. When the horsemen arrived, he waited impatiently for the guards to question them and bring them to him. The Sultan’s light-hearted reference to previous assassination attempts had failed to distract the chamberlain. As the riders approached, we all relaxed. They were the Kadi al-Fadil’s special messengers, trained to ride like lightning and supplied with a special breed of racing horses for this purpose. They were used only in urgent circumstances, and the relief at knowing their identity was coloured by worry at the message they might be carrying.

Finally they arrived at the platform where we were standing. They carried a letter for the Sultan from the Kadi. As Salah al-Din began to read the message his face became animated, and his eye began to dart about like a fish in the Nile. He was clearly pleased. The messengers and the guards were dismissed. He showed us the letter. It read:

A Knight Templar has just arrived in Cairo and asked for refuge. He comes from Amalric’s camp and has much information regarding their movements and plans. The reason for his defection is mysterious, and he refuses to divulge his secrets to anyone in the absence of Your Highness. Judging by his demeanour I am convinced he is genuine, but the Emir Qara Kush, who is the best judge of human character and failings, needs to speak with him before you meet him. I await the Sultan’s instructions. Your humble al-Kadi al-Fadil.

Salah al-Din’s immediate response was to grab Qara Kush and myself by the arms, and to run down the mud-strewn path to the place where the horses were tethered. He was truly excited, behaving like a man possessed by demons. He mounted his horse and began to race back to the palace with his guards, who were barely able to keep up with him.

To my immense delight, the Emir Qara Kush was not an expert horseman, and he permitted me to accompany him and his entourage as we rode back. I had never spoken to him before, and his enormous knowledge of Cairo and the wealth contained in its libraries was impressive. He told me that the task I was performing would be of great benefit to historians, and I was pleased that he, unlike al-Fadil, took my work seriously.

The Sultan was waiting for us when we arrived. He wanted both Qara Kush and myself to be present when he questioned the Frank. He clearly had no desire to delay the proceedings, but the sun was already setting. He ordered us to repair immediately to the palace
hammam
to cleanse ourselves, and then to return to the audience chamber. Since we were both aware that Salah al-Din disliked the grandiose nature of this chamber, we smiled. It was obvious that on this day he wished the Frankish knight to be impressed by the majesty of his court.

Refreshed by the bath, I made my way slowly back, through rooms where mamluks held torches to illuminate our way, to the audience chamber. Here sat Salah al-Din, dressed unusually in his robes of state with the Sultan’s turban on his head, glistening with rare stones. I bowed and was assigned a place, just below the Sultan’s throne. He was flanked on one side by Qara Kush and on the other by al-Fadil.

Seated in a semicircle on the floor were the most distinguished scholars of the city, including, to my delight, Ibn Maymun. At a signal from Qara Kush, a mamluk left the room. A few minutes later I heard a drumbeat indicating that the foreigner was on his way. We all fell silent. The Frank, preceded by a guard carrying a scimitar, entered and walked straight to the throne. He placed his sword at the feet of the Sultan and bowed low, not raising his head till permission had been granted. Qara Kush indicated that he should sit down.

“The Sultan is pleased to receive you, Bertrand of Toulouse.”

The lips enunciating these words were familiar enough, but the soft-spoken voice had disappeared. The Kadi spoke with a firmness and authority that surprised me. This, I thought to myself, is how he must speak when he is handing down justice and awarding punishments to the guilty.

“You are in the presence of Yusuf ibn Ayyub, Sultan of Misr and the Sword of the Faithful. We are pleased that you speak our language, albeit in a primitive fashion. We are all eager to hear why you are here.”

Bertrand of Toulouse was of medium height, with an olive-coloured skin that made him a few shades darker than our Sultan. He had dark hair and brown eyes, but an ugly scar across his left cheek had left his face badly disfigured, making it temporarily awkward to concentrate on his other features. The wound, probably the mark of a sword, could not have been more than a week old.

Bertrand was about to respond, when the Sultan spoke. His voice, I was pleased to hear, was normal.

“Like the others, we too are anxious to discover the reasons for your presence. But before you proceed, I want to know if, in my absence, you were made welcome. Have you broken bread?”

Bertrand nodded, with a slight bow.

“Then we offer you some salt.”

An attendant proffered a silver plate with salt. Bertrand took a pinch and placed it on his tongue.

“Now you may speak, Bertrand of Toulouse,” said the Sultan, simultaneously signalling that the Frank should be seated.

Bertrand spoke Arabic in a harsh, guttural voice, but the smiles soon disappeared as his impressive command of our language became clear to all present.

“I am grateful to Your Majesty for receiving me so soon after my arrival, and for taking me on trust. I am indeed Bertrand of Toulouse, a member of the Order of the Knights Templar, and for the past five years I have been with my Order in Jerusalem, which you call al-Kuds. We were under the command of our King Amalric, who is as well known to the Sultan as you are to him.

“What you are all wondering is why I have twice risked my life to escape from my kingdom and to enter yours. The first time was by fleeing from my Order under cover of darkness two nights ago. I was nearly captured, and the price of freedom is this wound on my face. The sword which marked me belonged to a knight who was close to the Grand Master himself. The second risk was to be killed by your men, who might not have been patient enough to either ask questions or to wait for my response. Speaking your language, even though I do so imperfectly and with much hesitation, helped me to survive the journey and to reach your court safely.

“Let me begin my story with a confession. In the eyes of my Church, I am a heretic. If heresy is another way of expressing the struggle for the real God, then I am a heretic and proud of the fact.

“I come from a small village near Toulouse, and it was there that I came under the influence of a preacher who denounced our Church and preached a new vision of God. He used to say that churches lacked congregations, that congregations lacked priests, that priests lacked reverence and virtue and, lastly, that Christians lacked Christ. He used to say that there were two Gods, a good God and an evil God, and that there was a permanent struggle between these two powers which were both eternal and equal.

“He used to say that the Holy Trinity of the Christians was a manifestation of evil; the Holy Ghost represented the spirit of evil, the Son was the son of perdition, and the Father was none other than Satan himself. He used to say that there were two Christs. The Christ in the celestial spheres was good, but the Christ on earth was evil. He used to say that Mary Magdalene was the earthly Christ’s concubine, and that John the Baptist was a forerunner of the Anti-Christ. The Devil was Christ’s younger brother and the cross was God’s enemy, a symbol of pain and torture. As such, it was an icon that should be destroyed rather than worshipped.

“Our entire village, some three hundred souls in all, joined this preacher and helped spread the word to neighbouring villages. To their amazement, they discovered that others had been there before them. We soon learnt that the Counts of Toulouse were sympathetic to these ideas, and this knowledge strengthened our village’s resolve. When I was fifteen years old, almost exactly fifteen years ago to this month, we tore down every cross we could find. We either set them on fire or used the wood to fashion tools that could be of use to the village. This single act made us worse than demons and vampires, for these creatures of the dark are supposedly frightened by the cross, whereas we heretics were brazen beyond belief.

“In our sect, there are three stages of becoming a True Believer. We start off as Listeners, imbibing the new Truth and learning the dual art of debate and dissembling in relation to our Christian opponents. The next stage is that of a Believer. Now we have to prove ourselves by winning new adherents to our cause. After we have won fifty new Listeners, we become known as the Perfecti and can participate in the election of a Council of Five, which makes all the important decisions.