The Book of Saladin (21 page)

“Was it the first time? Speak the truth woman!”

She shook her head and began to weep.

“You never forgave me for not giving you a son. Was it my fault that after our daughter was born I could never conceive again? You abandoned me for the Sultan and life in the palace. Ibn Maymun became my only source of consolation. I was lonely. Can’t you understand?”

I was shaken. No reply formed itself on my lips. I was filled with a blind rage and, had I not left the room, would have struck her several blows. I staggered to the kitchen and drank two glassfuls of water in order to calm myself and bring my emotions under control. Then, recalling that this was one of Ibn Maymun’s prescriptions for controlling one’s temper, I smashed the glass on the floor.

For the next week, while I was preparing to leave, I did not speak to her. At first I wanted revenge. I thought of lodging a complaint with the Kadi. I wanted to accuse Rachel of adultery, and Ibn Maymun of being her accomplice. This thought did not stay long in my mind. I considered hiring a few men to murder the guilty couple. Then I calmed down. It is strange how fickle emotions of this sort can be, and how anger, jealousy and revenge can rise and fall within the space of a few moments.

I bade a fond farewell to Maryam, my twelve-year-old daughter, who, if the truth be told, I had neglected for far too long. Surprised by my display of affection, she hugged me in turn and wept copiously. I looked at her closely. She was on her way to becoming a beautiful young woman, just like her mother. The resemblances were stark. I could only hope that in a year or two she would find a suitable husband.

It was my last night in Cairo. I broke my silence. Rachel and I sat up and spoke for half the night. We talked of the past. Of our love for each other. Of the day Maryam was born. Of the laughter that used to resound in the courtyard of our house. Of our friends. As we talked, we became friends again. She admonished me for having put the needs of a sultan before my own work. I acknowledged the justice of her criticisms, but explained how my own horizons had expanded through my life at the palace. She had always accused me of leading far too sedentary an existence. Now I was about to travel. She smiled, and there was a special pleading in her eyes. My heart melted. I promised that once Jerusalem had been taken by the Sultan, I would send for her and Maryam. We parted friends.

To his great irritation, the Sultan’s departure from Cairo became the occasion for a mass display of public emotion. Salah al-Din would have preferred an unannounced departure, but both al-Fadil and Imad al-Din insisted, for reasons of state, that it had to be a public event. Courtiers, poets, scholars and sheikhs, not to mention several waves of the local people, had gathered near the old lake to bid their Sultan farewell. Qara Kush and his men were keeping a path open from the palace for the Sultan and his immediate entourage, which included myself and, of course, Shadhi.

The reason for the excitement was obvious. Everyone was aware that Salah al-Din was going away for a long time. He would not return till he had defeated the Franj outside the gates of Jerusalem. The people wanted their Sultan to succeed, but they were also aware that the expedition was full of risks. The Sultan might perish, as he had almost done a year ago in some preliminary skirmishes with the enemy. On that occasion he had found a camel, clambered on its back, and found his way back to the city with a handful of warriors.

The Cairenes liked their Sultan. They knew that his tastes were modest and, unlike the Caliphs of the Fatimids, Salah al-Din had not taxed the people to accumulate a personal fortune. He rewarded his soldiers handsomely. His administrators had made sure that the country had not been plagued by famines. For all these reasons and many others, the people and their poets and musicians wanted Salah al-Din to think of them when he was away. They wanted him to return.

As we rode down the streets from the palace they were shouting: “Allah is Great,” “Victory to the Commander of the Valiant,” “There is only one Allah and Mohammed is his Prophet,” “Salah al-Din will return victorious.” The Sultan was touched by this reception. We were moving slowly, to give ordinary people the chance to touch the Sultan’s stirrup and bless his endeavours.

As we reached the site of the old lake, the nobles of the court were gathered in all their finery. Salah al-Din quickened the pace. It was clear that he was becoming impatient with the ritual. At the heart of the dried lake, he reined his horse to a stop. Farewells were spoken. On a raised platform, a young, cleanshaven poet rose to declaim some lines. The sight was too much for Shadhi, who belched in anticipation of early relief.

The Sultan’s face betrayed nothing as the following lines were recited:

“May Allah never bring you sorrow

May Allah never disturb the tranquillity of your sleep

May Allah never make your life a cup of bitterness

May Allah never melt your heart with grief

May Allah give you strength to defeat all our enemies

We bid you farewell with heavy hearts

Whose load can only be lightened with your return.”

Not to be outdone, an older man, his grey beard sparkling in the hot sun, took the stage and recited:

“Spring is the season that turns the year

Yusuf Salah al-Din’s greatness is our eternal spring

Sincerity rules his heart

Iron rules his mind.”

At this juncture the Sultan signalled to al-Fadil that it was time for him to leave. He saluted his nobles and kissed al-Fadil on both cheeks. There were tears in many eyes and these, unlike the poetry, were genuine. Just as we were leaving, an old man approached to kiss his hand. He was so aged that he did not have the strength to reach the Sultan’s stirrup. Salah al-Din jumped off the horse and embraced his well-wisher, who whispered something in his ear. I saw the Sultan’s face change. He looked at the old man closely, but his face, now wreathed in smiles, taught Salah al-Din nothing. Shadhi rode up to the Sultan.

“What did the old man say?”

Salah al-Din’s face was downcast.

“He said I should bid the Nile a fond farewell since it was written in the stars that I would never see it again.”

Shadhi snorted, but it was clear that the discordant note had eclipsed the preceding good will. Bad omens displease all rulers, even those who claim not to believe in them. Our departure was abrupt. Salah al-Din turned his horse sharply and we rode out of the city.

Our party numbered three thousand men, most of them soldiers who had fought at the Sultan’s side for many years. These were tried and trusted swordsmen and archers, each of them adept on horseback. I noticed three veterans, who had, till our departure, been attached to the School of Sword-Makers. There they had taught both the art of sword-fighting and the skill required to make a sword. All three were from Damascus, and were pleased to be returning to their families.

Jamila and Halima, together with their retinue, had left Cairo three days ago, though many of the former slave-girls who had produced the Sultan’s children were not accompanying him to Damascus. I wondered what he was thinking. The Sultan spoke little while he rode, a habit inherited from his father rather than his uncle Shirkuh who, according to Shadhi, found it difficult to keep his thoughts to himself regardless of the circumstances.

News of our departure was hardly a secret. The Franj were aware of what was happening and had their soldiers on the borderlands waiting to pounce on us. So to avoid an ambush, Salah al-Din had ordered the Bedouins to plan a route which avoided the Franj. He was not in a mood for either a show or a test of strength. He was a man possessed with only one idea in his head. Everything else had to wait till it had been accomplished.

As in the past, however, local rivalries would not permit him to concentrate his energies on freeing Jerusalem.

Later that evening, as we reached the desert and made camp for the night, Salah al-Din summoned the emirs to his tent. Shadhi and I were left free to admire the stars. The old man was in an affectionate mood, but even so I was surprised by the turn our conversation had taken. After talking about his impending death, he suddenly changed tune.

“I hope you have truly forgiven your wife, Ibn Yakub. I know that in Allah’s scale, adultery is never treated lightly, but in our lives you must understand that what took place between her and Ibn Maymun was not of great importance. I’ve startled you. How do I know? One of the Kadi’s spies keeps a watchful eye on the movements of the great physician, for his own protection, you understand. He appears to have watched him a bit too closely. A report was made to the Kadi, who informed the Sultan in my presence. It was Salah al-Din who decided that you should not be informed. He made me swear an old mountain oath to that effect. He values you greatly and did not want you upset. At one stage we even discussed finding you a new woman.”

I was silent. It was cold comfort that these people knew everything about me. I was not concerned about Shadhi. I might even have told him myself, but the Kadi and the Sultan? Why did they know? What right had they to spy on anyone? I was gripped by anger. Inwardly I cursed Rachel for having betrayed me. Above all, I felt shamed. In their eyes now I was not just a scribe, but also a cuckold. I took my leave of Shadhi and walked for a while. In front of me the desert was like a dark blanket. Above me the stars were laughing in the sky.

And this was just the first day of our journey. There were to be thirty more. I looked back in the direction from whence we had come, but all I could see was the dark and bitter cold of the night desert. I clutched the blanket tightly around my body and covered my head as I bade farewell to Cairo.

I
T SEEMED AS IF
we had arrived in Damascus only a few hours ago. In reality we had already been here for two weeks, but it had taken that long for me to recover from the torment of the four weeks that preceded our arrival. The journey had proved uneventful for everyone else, but not for me. I was now capable of riding and controlling a horse, but the activity was not greatly pleasurable. My face had been badly burnt by the sun and, had it not been for the ointments carried by our Bedouin scouts, the pain alone would have killed me.

I could only thank my stars for having been born a Jew. If I had become a follower of the Prophet of Islam I, too, would have been compelled like the bulk of the soldiers and emirs to turn towards Mecca and say my prayers five times a day, usually in the heat of the desert sun. The Sultan, whom I had never thought of as a deeply religious man, was, in his role as commander of his troops, very insistent on observing the rituals of his religion. The lack of water for the ablutions posed no problem. Sand became an easy substitute. Shadhi pleaded old age to avoid the mass prayers. One day as he saw the Sultan lead the prayers he whispered: “It is just as well there are no Franj in the vicinity. The sight of three thousand good Believers with their arses in the air might prove too easy a target.”

Leaving aside the physical rigours of the journey, I had been compelled on several evenings to sit in the Sultan’s tent and listen to Imad al-Din’s monotonous voice recite the stories of the Caliphs of Baghdad. This became a torture of the mind for me, since the tales he was repeating had been lifted from works with which I was only too familiar.

To be fair to Imad al-Din, he did not attempt to claim the
Muraj al-Dhahab
and the
Kitab al-Tanbih
as his own works. He credited al-Masudi, the author, but it was his own style of recitation which imparted a false sense of authority. Perhaps it was all in my imagination. Perhaps I was so exhausted by the day that having to listen to stories I had already read did not appeal to me greatly at the time.

Two weeks of total rest in this most beautiful of cities revived me completely. The joy of being able to bathe every day, the delight of the food that was served by the kitchens in the citadel, and the respite from the sun was all that I needed.

The Sultan, bless his heart, took a great deal of interest in my recovery. He, too, was pleased to be in Damascus, but for reasons that were different to mine. This had been his home for many years. It was here that he had learnt the arts of war and the delights of a woman’s bedchamber. He felt safe in this city, and his appearance at the great Umayyad Mosque on the previous Friday had demonstrated how much he had grown in stature in the eyes of the ordinary people. Shadhi had told me that he had seen by the Damascenes as a raw youth, given to the pleasures of the wine-cellar and fornication. News of his conquests had reached them from afar, and now they barely recognised their Sultan. He had become an even greater leader than the pious and much-loved Nur al-Din.

I could detect the excitement on the faces of many during the Friday congregation. The white-bearded scholar who had taken the pulpit had called on Allah to give Salah al-Din a long life and help him drive the Franj into the sea. He had referred to the Sultan as the “sword of Islam” to the acclaim of the assembly, which responded with one voice: “There is only one Allah and Mohammed is his Prophet.”

The citizens here seemed to be more deferential, less audacious than their equivalents in Cairo. In my city it was not uncommon to hear criticisms of the Kadi or even the Sultan, and the shadow-players usually spoke for a much larger public. I was reflecting on the differences between the two cities, and the temperament of their inhabitants, when a person unknown to me knocked on the door and entered my room.

From his dress, he appeared to be a retainer, and yet the look on his face expressed a certain familiarity which surprised me. He bowed and introduced himself as Amjad al-Islam. He was tall, very tall, extremely well-fed and cleanshaven. He informed me that he had been in the service of the Sultan since he was ten years old. He claimed that “Uncle” Shadhi had taught him all he knew of this world.