The Book of Saladin (36 page)

“You did well, Taki al-Din.”

Now it was Keukburi’s turn.

“Commander of the Victorious, we have captured most of their knights. Their so-called King Guy and his brother, Humphrey of Toron, Joscelin of Courtenay and Reynald of Châtillon are among our prisoners. Guy wishes to speak with you.”

The Sultan was moved. He nodded appreciatively.

“Pitch my tent in the heart of the field where this battle was won. Place our banners in front of the tent. I will see Guy and whoever he chooses to accompany him in that tent. Imad al-Din! I want an exact tally of how many men we have lost and how many were wounded.”

The great scholar nodded sagely.

“It will not take too much time today, O great Sultan. Compared to the Franj whose heads cover the ground like a plague of melons, our casualties are light. We have lost Emir Anwar al-Din. I saw him go down when the Franj charged us just before their final collapse.”

“He was a good soldier. Bathe his body and send it back to Damascus. None of our men should be buried in Hattin, unless they belonged to this region.”

“Who would have thought,” continued Imad al-Din in a more reflective mood, “that the success of your military tactics would transform Hattin, this little insignificant village, into a name that will resound throughout history?”

“Allah decided the fate of the Franj,” was the Sultan’s modest reply.

Imad al-Din smiled but, uncharacteristically, remained silent.

In the distance, we observed the Sultan’s tent established on the plain below. He spurred his horse and our whole party—al-Afdal and a hundred guards, with Imad al-Din and myself bringing up the rear—galloped past corpses already beginning to rot in the sun and stray arms and legs to the place where the tent had been pitched.

Such was the feeling of euphoria that had gripped us all that the only thought to cross my mind was that the wild beasts would be having a feast tonight.

Imad al-Din as his chief secretary and I, the humble chronicler of his life, sat on either side of his chair. He told a guard to inform Keukburi that he was now ready receive the “King of Jerusalem”. And so it happened. Guy, accompanied by Reynald of Châtillon, was brought in by Keukburi, who spoke now with a formality which surprised me.

“Here, Commander of the Victorious, is the self-styled King of Jerusalem and his knight, Reynald of Châtillon. The third man is their interpreter. He has just decided to become a Believer. I await your orders.”

“I thank you, Emir Keukburi,” replied the Sultan. “You may give their King some water.”

Offering Guy hospitality was the first indication that he would not be beheaded on the spot. Guy drank eagerly from the cup, which contained cooled water. He passed the cup to Reynald, who also took a sip, but the Sultan’s face became livid with anger. He looked at the interpreter.

“Tell this King,” he said in a voice filled with contempt and disgust, “that it was he, not I, who offered this wretch a drink.”

Guy began to tremble with fright and bowed his head to acknowledge the truth of Salah al-Din’s words. Then the Sultan rose and looked into Reynald’s blue and ice-cold eyes.

“You dared to commit sacrilege against our Holy City of Mecca. You further compounded your crimes by attacking unarmed caravans and by your treachery. Twice I swore before Allah that I would kill you with my own hands, and now the time has come to redeem my pledge.”

Reynald’s eyes flickered, but he did not plead for mercy. The Sultan drew his sword, and drove it straight through the prisoner’s heart.

“May Allah speed your soul to Hell, Reynald of Châtillon.”

Reynald collapsed on the ground, but he was not yet dead. The Sultan’s guards dragged him outside and, with two blows from their swords, they removed his head from his shoulders.

In the tent there were wrinkled noses as a terrible stench arose. The Franj King, frightened by the fate of his knight, had soiled his clothes.

“We do not murder kings, Guy of Jerusalem,” said the Sultan. “That man was an animal. He transgressed all codes of honour. He had to die, but you must live. Go now and clean yourself. We will provide you with new robes. I am sending you and your knights to be shown to the people of Damascus. I will set up camp outside al-Kuds tonight, and tomorrow what your people once took by force will be returned to the People of the Book. We shall sit where you sat. Yet unlike you we shall dispense justice and avoid tasting the elixir of revenge. We shall repair the injuries that you did to our mosques and to the synagogues of the Jews, and we shall not desecrate your churches. Under our rule, al-Kuds will begin to flourish again. Take the prisoner away, Keukburi, but treat him well.”

Thus it was that Guy and his chief nobles left for Damascus. Even as they were being led away, they could see three hundred knights of the two military orders of the Hospital and the Temple being led to their execution.

They must die, the Sultan had decreed, for if we let them live they will only take arms against us once again. It was the deadly logic of a conflict that had long poisoned our world. All I could think of was the moment we would enter Jerusalem.

S
ALAH AL-DIN PERMITTED ONLY
a modest celebration on the night of our great victory. Couriers were dispatched to Baghdad and Cairo, carrying news of the battle that had been won. The count of the Franj dead had revealed that they had lost 15,000 men. Imad al-Din confirmed the figure, and wrote that the prisoners numbered 3,000 nobles, knights and soldiers.

The letter to the Sultan’s brother al-Adil in Cairo also carried a command. He was to bring the army of Egypt to Palestine, where it was needed to complete the jihad.

The Sultan was happy, but, as always, he permitted nothing to overwhelm his caution. He told Taki al-Din that Hattin was not a decisive victory. A lot more needed to be accomplished, and he warned against overestimating our strength.

He was worried that the Franj would regroup and rally outside the walls of Jerusalem, and he embarked on a careful plan. A great sweep along the coast would destroy every Franj garrison. Then the Holy City would fall into his lap like a ripe plum from a tree that is gently shaken.

The soldiers were drunk with victory. They cheered when the Sultan rode through their ranks and told them of his new plans. They dreamed of the treasure that was waiting to be taken.

Only Imad al-Din and myself, exhausted by the encounters of the last few days, were desperate for the Sultan to grant us leave. We had both spoken of returning to Damascus—we would rejoin the swollen army once it marched in the direction of Jerusalem—but the Sultan was not inclined on this occasion to indulge our wishes.

“Taken together,” he told us, “you are both sincere, learned, eloquent and generous men. You, Ibn Yakub, are cheerful and without arrogance and false pride. Imad al-Din is cheerful and easygoing. On account of these merits I need you both by my side.”

He wanted Imad al-Din to write letters of state, and he wished me to observe and note his every move. Earlier he had promised me that every night after the battle he would dictate his impressions of the day. In the event, this proved impossible, for he spent hours engaged in discussions with his emirs before bathing and retiring to bed.

Four days after our victory at Hattin, the Sultan’s armies stood outside the walls of Acre, a wealthy citadel held by the Franj ever since they had first polluted these shores. He was sure that the city would surrender, but he gave them but a single night in which to make up their mind. From their ramparts the Franj saw the size of the army and sent envoys to negotiate a surrender. Salah al-Din was not a vindictive man. His terms were not ungenerous, and they were accepted on the spot by the envoys.

When the Sultan entered the town, the city appeared lifeless. Imad al-Din commented that it was always the same when new conquerors entered a town. The people, overcome by fear of reprisals, normally stayed at home. Yet there could have been another reason. That day the sun was unrelenting, and those of us who rode through the gates of Acre felt its pitiless heat and sweated like animals.

It was a Friday. The Sultan, his son al-Afdal riding proudly by his side, rode with his emirs to the citadel. As he dismounted, Salah al-Din looked towards the heavens and cupped his hands. While we stood silent, he recited the following verses from the Koran:

You give power to whom You please,

and You strip power from whom You please;

You exalt whom You will,

and You humble whom You will.

In Your hand lies all that is good;

You have power over all things.

Afterwards they bathed and changed their clothing. Then with smiling eyes and dust-free complexions they celebrated the fall of the city, offering prayers to Allah in the old mosque. The Franj had used it, for a very long time, as a Christian church.

After the Friday prayers, the Sultan embraced his emirs and returned to the citadel. He had called a meeting of his council for later that evening, and al-Afdal was sent to ensure that everyone attended. He wanted to remind everyone that this war was not yet over. Alone with Imad al-Din and myself, he dictated a letter to the Caliph, informing him of the victory at Acre. Then, without warning, his whole face softened and his mood changed.

“Do you know what I would really like to do tonight?”

We smiled politely, waiting for him to continue.

“Listen to a singing girl, sitting cross-legged and playing the four-stringed lute.”

Imad al-Din laughed.

“Could it be that the mind of the Commander of the Victorious has recalled the delights and merits of Zubayda?”

The Sultan’s face paled slightly at the mention of the name, but he nodded.

“She still resides in Damascus. She is not as young as we all once were, but I am told that her voice has not changed much. If the Sultan will permit, I will make some inquiries in this city to ascertain...”

“No, Imad al-Din!” interrupted the Sultan. “I spoke in a moment of weakness. This is a city of merchants. Nightingales could not survive here. Do you really believe that there could ever be another Zubayda? Go now both of you and get some rest. I require your presence at the Council and, as a special favour to Imad al-Din, I will not oblige you to eat with me beforehand.”

I had not known the Sultan in such a relaxed mood since our early days in Cairo. Since his return to Damascus he had usually been tense and preoccupied with matters of state.

Later, as the great master of prose and I were being scrubbed by attendants in the bath, I questioned him about Zubayda. He was surprised that Shadhi had never mentioned the object of Salah al-Din’s youthful passions. As we were being dried in the chamber adjoining the baths, he provided me with an account that, once again, revealed his startling capacity for recollection.

“It was the love of a sixteen-year-old boy for a thing of great beauty. You smile, Ibn Yakub, and I know what is passing through your mind. You are thinking how can I, of all people, appreciate beauty in a woman. Am I wrong? You smile again, which confirms my instincts. I understand your doubts. It is true that the sight, even of your unwieldy body, excites me more than that of any woman, but Zubayda was exquisite because of her deep, throaty, voice. It touched the souls of all who heard her sing. Truly, my friend, she was unrivalled in perfection.

“I have no idea of her lineage. It was rumoured that she was the child of a slave woman who had been captured in battle. Zubayda herself never once talked about her past. She did not speak much in company, though al-Fadil, who was also charmed by her, told me once that her conversation sparkled when she was in the presence of just one or two people at the most. That privilege was denied me.

“I was present, however, when young Salah al-Din, his spirit clouded by arrogance, saw her the first time, in the presence of his father Ayyub and his uncle Shirkuh. Of course, Shadhi, too, in those days, was everywhere. It was in the house of a merchant, a man desperate to please Ayyub. He had, for that reason, obtained the services of Zubayda. This was the first time we had heard her sing. Salah al-Din was captivated at once. One could almost see his heart inflamed, by a passion so pure that it could burn everything.

“Zubayda had not yet reached her thirtieth year. Her complexion was fair, her hair was dark, and her large eyes shone like two lamps from heaven. Her teeth when she smiled put pearls to shame. She was slightly built, and if I may say so, she reminded me of a beautiful boy I had once loved in Baghdad. At times her eyes would move away from us, as if she were in a dreamlike trance. Her face then reminded me of a soft moon-entangled cloud. I wish she had been a boy, Ibn Yakub, but I must not digress.

“She was dressed that night in a silk robe, the colour of the sky. It was richly patterned with a variety of birds. The nightingales were embroidered in gold thread. Her head was covered by a long black scarf, with a circular red motif. A silver bracelet hung loosely on each of her wrists. All this one forgot when she played the lute and her voice accompanied the music. It was heaven, my friend. Pure heaven.

“Salah al-Din had to be taken home that night by force. His uncle Shirkuh offered to buy Zubayda for him, but the very thought that she could be bought offended his love. His face paled as he walked away, the blood pulsing in his veins, the ever-protective Shadhi by his side. From that night on, he never missed an opportunity to hear her sing. He sent her presents. He declared his love for her. She would smile with sad eyes, gently stroke his head, and whisper that women like her were not meant to grace the beds of young princes. He began to write poetry underneath the thick, forking pear tree in the courtyard of Ayyub’s house. He would send her couplets, one of which later came to my attention. He spoke of her as more beautiful than the full moon in heaven’s vaults because her beauty survived the dawn. The quality of the poems, as you can imagine, was indifferent, but there was no doubt that they were deeply felt.