The Book of Saladin (25 page)

“I also wonder whether what you really miss is the love and friendship, or something else. Perhaps what truly upsets you is that you have lost something that you regarded as a possession. Halima was always precious, but she had rough edges. In smoothing those down, and giving her a vision of a world much larger than the palace or even the city, an exciting world of ideas where nothing was forbidden, you brought out the best in her. All those who saw you together, including the Sultan, marvelled at the close affinity that marked your friendship. In other words she became your proudest possession, and possessions are not permitted to run away. Could it be this that has really upset you?”

Her eyes flashed fire, transcending the misery, and I saw the old Jamila once again.

“Listen to me scribe. Neither you nor that toothless old dog, Shadhi, nor those wretched eunuchs who report to him, have any idea of what it was like between Halima and me. It was not a one-sided friendship. I learnt a great deal from her, about other worlds and about the way people less privileged than me lived, but even that is unimportant.

“You and your beloved Sultan live in a male world. You simply cannot understand our world. The harem is like a desert. Nothing much can take root here. Women compete with each other for a night with the Sultan. Sometimes they ease the pain of their frustrations by finding eunuchs who will crawl into their rooms at night and fondle them. The lack of a penis does not always impair the capacity of the eunuch to provide pleasure.

“In these conditions it is impossible for any woman to have a serious friendship with a man. My father was very exceptional in this regard. After my mother’s death he became a true friend with whom I could discuss a great deal. As you know full well, I’m fond of Salah al-Din. I know that he takes me seriously. I’m not simply a mound of flesh on which he occasionally fornicates. He recognises the existence of my mind. Despite this, I could not in honesty pretend that ours is a profound relationship. How could it be in these times and in these conditions? With Halima I enjoyed something that was complete on every level. It has nothing to do with possession. After all, we are all possessions of the Sultan.

“You see, Ibn Yakub, I still think that she will return one day. Not to me, but to her senses. That will be sufficient. My hope is that one day she will teach other women what I have taught her, so that our time together will not have been wasted. Now I want nothing more from her. Nothing more! Her heart no longer responds to my voice. Everything is over. She is dead to me and for me. I will grieve alone. Sooner or later, solitude brings its own calming wisdom. My serenity will return and I will be happy again. Do you understand?”

I nodded, and a small, sad smile appeared on her face as she left the chamber slowly, with measured steps, almost as if she did not wish to return to the site of her pain.

I thought of Jamila a great deal after that meeting. If our world had been different, we could have become close friends, and it would have been me who benefited from the experience. She, more than any other woman I have met, exemplified Ibn Rushd’s complaint to the effect that the world of those who believed in Allah and his Prophet was disabled by the fact that half its people, namely the women, were excluded from functioning in the field of commerce or the affairs of state.

When one is cut off from what is happening in the world beyond the citadel, then events like the transformation of Halima acquire an importance that is undeserved. The minute the couriers, their clothes and faces coloured by a red dust, arrived with dispatches informing us that Aleppo had fallen without a battle, I recovered completely. Everything fell into place. The first courier who brought the good news was embraced by everyone. The fool who had resisted the Sultan had been forced by the populace to flee and return to Shinshar, the city of his birth.

Outside Aleppo, the soldiers who had guarded the city rode past the Sultan with their heads lowered in tribute. The people of Aleppo had loved Nur al-Din, and remained loyal to his successors, but they knew that in Salah al-Din they had found a conqueror who would both defend them and their city and also refuse to let anything stand in the way of the jihad.

The fall of Aleppo sent a wave of excitement through Damascus. There were celebrations on the streets. The taverns in all quarters of the city were packed with young men determined to drink their fill. It was as if our whole world had changed with the news. People felt this in their bones. Our Sultan was now the most powerful ruler in the land.

The next day my joy was circumscribed by the news that an inimitable voice had fallen silent. Ibrahim had died peacefully in his sleep. Our friendship was new, but I wept for him as one does for a father. Even the most hardened faces were wet the next day at his funeral. He had left me a small collection of books from his private library. They were accompanied by a note. I did not read it till later that evening in the privacy of my own chamber.

“The service of great kings may carry its own rewards, but the service of truth goes unrewarded and is, for that very reason, worth far more.”

T
WO DAYS LATER, AMJAD
the eunuch brought me a letter from Jamila. He was neither grinning nor eager to offer information. He simply placed the letter in my hands and left the chamber.

I was startled by the beauty of her handwriting. I had never seen such exquisitely crafted letters except in the calligraphy of the great masters of the art. Whoever had taught her to write like this must have been a master or the descendant of one. As I write these lines I have the letter in front of me. Even as I transcribe her words I can once again hear her clear voice the way I heard it that day when Halima first introduced me to her. Her voice echoes in my ears, and her strong features appear in my mind’s eye.

Good friend, Ibn Yakub,

This is to let you know that I am leaving Damascus for a few months, perhaps longer. I am returning for a while to my father, who is now nearly eighty years of age and has not been well for some time. I wish to see him before he dies, and the Sultan, bless his heart, has never placed any impediments against my desire to travel.

Once many years ago I spent some time in Baghdad. That was a visit to improve my mind. I went to listen to the teachings of a great philosopher and poet. It was he who taught me the importance of reason. I can still see him stroking his white beard as he made me learn the following exchange between our Prophet and Mu’adh ibn-Jabal, the Kadi of al-Yaman.

Prophet: How wilt thou decide when a question arises?

Mu’adh: According to the Book of Allah.

Prophet: And if thou findest naught therein?

Mu’adh: According to the sunnah of the messenger of Allah.

Prophet: And if thou findest naught therein?

Mu’adh: Then shall I apply my own reasoning.

When I returned, I reminded Salah al-Din of this and he began to use it a great deal, especially when he was dealing with the theologians of the Fatimid Caliphs in Cairo. I felt then that I had achieved something, and that journey always stayed with me.

Now I leave in order to restore my state of mind. I have suffered a terrible blow, and I am convinced that in Dhamar I will not be troubled by the memories of Cairo and Damascus.

I want to smell once again the fragrance of the blossoms in the unique garden created by my grandfather, surrounded by the most beautiful wall that I have ever seen, a wall out of which grow the most lovely plants and flowers. I always used to think that heaven would be like our garden. Here I used to spend many hours in the silence among the trees, watching the birds coming down from the wall to drink water from a stream that had been contrived to create the impression that it was natural.

It was here that dreams were formed. I used to sit there in the shade for hours and dream, wondering what the world must be like outside Dhamar. Merchants would talk of Baghdad and Cairo and Damascus, of Basra and Calicut, and the strange and wonderful things that happened in these cities, and I would rush to my father and insist that I be allowed to become a merchant when I grew up so that I could go as far as China.

When I was fourteen, I often rode with my father. Sometimes we would go and watch the sea. How calming it is to watch the gentle waves and admire the work of nature. My father, too, used to pull up his horse next to mine, leaving our retinue of attendants way behind. Most of them were frightened of the water, which they believed was inhabited by djinns in the shape of giant fish, who ate humans. I remember galloping in the sand and then riding my horse through the shallow water, which splashed me as well.

My father would look at the sea and say: “Here, everything will outlast us and those who come after us. This same breeze will be felt by people several hundred years from now and they will marvel at nature just as we do. This, my child, is the voice of eternity.”

I did not fully understand what he meant till much later. Then I realised how lucky I was to have a father not given to believing that the world would end before his children grew old. Many people genuinely believed that Allah would bring the world to an end, and that the angels would open their ledgers and read out an account of our lives. My father was very different.

I was sad to leave my home and my friends, but I had no choice in the matter. Nor did Salah al-Din. It was an alliance deemed necessary by his father and mine, and blessed by the great Sultan Nur al-Din, may he rest in peace. I liked Salah al-Din’s company, but I never enjoyed the pleasures of union. I bore him two sons and after that he never troubled me again. We became friends, and I discouraged him from spending the night with me. This is only my personal experience, and perhaps I would have reacted to any other man in the same way. Perhaps my body was never intended to be defiled by a man. Pure love and happiness I found only with Halima, but you know that old story well.

When Nur al-Din’s widow, Ismat, married Salah al-Din, she was for many months in a state of total disbelief. I think after the ascetic Nur al-Din, who probably mounted her out of duty, she found Salah al-Din as frisky as an untamed horse. I remember the day she told me that she had never realised that coupling could actually give her pleasure.

I say this so that you do not judge your Sultan’s performance in this field solely on the basis of my experience. That would be unfair to him. Ismat’s version is much more reliable, and borne out by the reports of many others in the harem. Halima, like me, was an exceptional case. For her the memory of Messud was so strong that she was quite open. She admitted to me that when the Sultan first took her she shut her eyes and imagined it was Messud, simply to ease the burden.

Perhaps I will not stay long in Dhamar. Perhaps it is futile to search for a lost past or imagine that one can cure the pain of the present by reliving one’s childhood and youth. There are aspects of life in Dhamar which displease me. The constant glorification of the old way of life of the desert tribes leaves me cold. The exaggerated stories of Bedouin triumphs against nature and their human enemies leave me completely unmoved. My father, too, never encouraged any of this. Yet it exists and the courtiers indulge themselves by writing bad poetry in praise of the unwearied pace of pure-bred camels, or a Bedouin encampment being surrounded by wolves and hyenas, or hunger and drought and the delights of camel milk.

If any of this goes on for too long, I will return soon to Damascus cured forever. But there are people I want to see. My mother’s sister who brought me up after my mother’s death and who became a close friend. She would confess all her worries and secrets. In return, I would tell her of my worries. She came once to visit me in Cairo, but I was so enamoured of Halima in those days that I had no time for my poor aunt. She went back unhappy, thinking, no doubt, that I had become arrogant and inconsiderate. Now I wish I had taken her into my confidence and explained the state of my mind at the time.

It is not good to be trapped by one’s emotions, Ibn Yakub. Do you not agree? And yet it is difficult to break free of them. From that point of view my return to Dhamar will be helpful, and I will return to Damascus restored and my old self again. Then we shall sit, you and I, and discuss philosophy and the history which we are living through every day. If Salah al-Din embarks on another adventure while I am away, tell him that Jamila insisted that he leave you behind. Peace be upon you.

I had barely had time to reflect on Jamila’s letter when Shadhi limped into the room. I hid the letter from him simply to avoid answering any lewd questions, but he cackled.

“Amjad the eunuch has already alerted me to the contents of her letter. It is not of great interest. So she’s going. Perhaps she has another woman in Dhamar. Salah al-Din will probably be relieved, since her harsh tongue always frightened him a little. I have displeased you?”

Before I could reply, the chamberlain who had crept in on us unnoticed spoke in his booming voice.

“I bring sad news, Ibn Yakub. I’ve come to tell you to pack your belongings and your pen and inks and writing books. The Sultan was on his way back, but was taken ill in a village two days’ distance from here. It is not good. He has summoned both of us. We leave in a few hours.”

Shadhi began to weep, insisting that he, too, would accompany us to the village where the Sultan lay ill, but he looked so frail that we had to refuse the request. I promised to keep him informed as I hurried away to pack my belongings. I had now become accustomed to riding a horse, but the thought did not give me great pleasure.

We rode out of Damascus in the hush of the twilight, when all was quiet save the noise of the cicadas. Our party consisted of twelve riders, eight of whom were soldiers sent for our protection. The other two, apart from the chamberlain and myself, were retainers who carried the food for our journey.