The Book of Saladin (38 page)

I well remember that evening as we set up camp in the midst of orange groves and wild flowers. Their scent overpowers me even as I recall that night. There were dark clouds in the sky as Salah al-Din walked up and down the camp. He spoke to nobody. Occasionally he would pluck an orange from the tree, peel the skin, and consume the fruit. The sound of distant thunder distracted him. As he looked up, the rain began to fall.

He had been on his own for over an hour, while the emirs and Imad al-Din waited outside his tent. Now they all rushed in to take shelter.

What was he thinking? He looked at their faces for a long time. He knew what they were thinking. Then he walked purposefully to the door of his tent and peered outside. It was still raining. He came back in and informed them that he had decided, on this occasion, to bypass Tyre. We would march to Saida, and later move on to Beirut. Tyre would have to wait till our return journey to Jerusalem.

The disappointment was plain on every face, but nobody questioned the Sultan’s judgement. Even Imad al-Din, who was normally outspoken in the extreme, was silent. He told me later that though he knew the decision was wrong, he did not feel that he possessed the degree of military competence necessary to challenge the Sultan. The Sultan’s resolve had little to do with the needs of the jihad. It was an atypical act of pure sentimentality.

“I know they think I am wrong, Ibn Yakub,” he confessed that night, soon after we had dined on his favourite bean stew. “The fact is that my old friend Raymond of Tripoli hides in the citadel in Tyre. I let him escape at Hattin. His pride will not let him surrender, and I still do not wish to kill him. Fate has conspired to make us enemies, but, for my part, I still feel close to him. Friendship is a sacred trust. My father and uncle taught me that when I was still a boy, and I have never forgotten. Now my head tells me I am wrong, but my heart will not permit a breach of trust. Do you understand? Or have you, too, like Imad al-Din, become so completely absorbed by our victories that trust and friendship have become empty words that no longer matter to you? It is always the same. We who do the fighting understand its limitations better than you who stay in your tents and scribble.”

I took the opportunity he had so kindly provided to differentiate my opinions from those of Imad al-Din, but I told him that it was not just the great scholar who was upset. The emirs, and some of the soldiers as well, felt it was a mistake not to take Tyre. At this he became quietly thoughtful again, dispensing with my services for the rest of the evening.

There was a gentle breeze as I walked out of his tent into the night. The rain had stopped. The clouds had cleared and a carpet of stars hung in the sky. Suddenly, all my senses were assailed by a mixture of scents in that orange grove. Wild flowers. Jasmine. Oranges. Herbs. The wet earth. Each exuded its own special fragrance, but it was the combination that was overwhelming. I decided to go for a walk, but Imad al-Din would not permit me to enjoy the solitude. His retainer had been waiting for me to leave the Sultan’s tent, and informed me that his master anxiously awaited my presence. What choice does a humble scribe have in the face of such powerful pressure? I gave up my walk and followed the retainer to Imad al-Din’s tent. He was in a tetchy mood. Wars and the rough life of a camp did not suit the great man. He missed his comforts, his boys, his wine, his food and his Damascus. He growled as I appeared.

“Well?”

I feigned puzzlement at the question.

“Why in Allah’s name has Salah al-Din decided to ignore Tyre? It is a very foolish decision!”

I smiled and shrugged my shoulders.

“I am only his scribe, master. He does not confide in me.”

“You are a sly, lying son of a...”

I begged him not to complete the sentence.

“When, long years ago in Cairo, the Sultan decided to employ me, he made it clear that everything said to me was confidential. He also kept me out of the meetings of his war council because he feared that the Franj might kidnap me and torture me to learn the secrets of his war plans. I have no idea as to the military reasons for not taking Tyre.”

Imad al-Din stood up, lifted his right leg, and passed wind very loudly.

“You have become a bit too clever for your own good. There is no military reason. It is sentiment that dictates this decision. His friend, Raymond of Tripoli, is in Tyre. We all know. If Raymond was his lover, I would still be critical of his decision, but my disapproval would be veiled with understanding. Friendship has no place in the midst of a jihad where the very future of our faith is at stake. His instincts misled him. His decision was misguided. The great Nur al-Din would never have tolerated such nonsense!”

“Perhaps what you say is correct,” I replied. “Yet surely the fact is that the devout Sultan Nur al-Din, despite all his longing to do so, could not take Jerusalem. Our Sultan will not fail.”

“I hope so,” said Imad al-Din, “and I pray that what you say will happen, but I am not so sure. There are no certainties in history.”

Two days later, Saida surrendered and we marched into the city. For the moment, the question of Tyre seemed forgotten. The Sultan was pleased that no lives had been lost. He wanted to leave a small force in the city, and then to march on towards Beirut the same afternoon. But he was prevailed upon by the nobles to grace their town, if only for a single night.

Salah al-Din had been reluctant to accept the invitation—he disliked these empty formalities—but Imad al-Din was horrified at any such thought. He bent down and whispered in the Sultan’s ear. To turn down the offer would be offensive in the extreme. As in other matters of diplomacy, the Sultan sulked at the advice, but finally agreed. Everyone sighed with relief. The soldiers were hot and tired, and Saida was a seductive town.

The Sultan and his emirs, and Imad al-Din and myself, were taken to rest at the citadel. From there we could see the soldiers running to the edge of the water, removing their clothes and immersing themselves in the cool waves of the sea. The baths provided in the citadel were lukewarm and cramped by contrast.

That evening, while the Sultan retired early, Imad al-Din and I dined as guests of the notables of Saida. It was a magnificent feast. I had not eaten so many different varieties of fish since we left Cairo. The fish from the Nile, though cooked in different ways, tended to be from the same family. That night in Saida, the diversity of the sea was displayed in all its splendour. These dishes were not alone. The ever-full flasks of wine were served by beautiful young women who made no attempt to conceal their charms. Of course they left Imad al-Din unmoved, but they had a turbulent impact on the three emirs from Damascus. Soon they were dreaming of the enjoyment to come, and the night that lay ahead. I, too, would have liked to share in their pleasure, but the great scholar had no time for frivolities of this nature. Once the meal was over and we had sipped hot water flavoured with the essence of orange blossom, he rose, thanked our hosts and insisted that I accompany him to his chamber.

“I am sorry to disturb your evening, Ibn Yakub. I could see the lust in your eyes as you looked at those serving wenches, but I need to discuss something important with you tonight. In fact, I need your help. I am worried about Salah al-Din.”

I had always assumed that Imad al-Din regarded me as nothing more than a lowly Jewish scribe who had somehow insinuated his way into the closed circle of the Sultan. In the past his tone was usually sarcastic or condescending. What could have brought about this change in him? I was puzzled, but also flattered by being treated as an equal.

“Why are you worried about the Sultan?”

“His health concerns me. He suffers from colic and Allah could take him from us any day. If he delays too long in taking al-Kuds, the prize might elude us forever. Once he dies, most of the emirs will be at each other’s throats. The common enemy will be forgotten. This is the curse of my religion, Ibn Yakub. It is as if Allah, having guided us during the life of the Prophet, is now punishing us for our greed. I have told the Sultan, and al-Fadil has backed me strongly on this, that after we take Beirut he must not waste any more time on the coast. He must take al-Kuds. I want you to give the same advice.”

I was stunned. Was he suggesting that I was the third member of the trinity?

“No time for modesty, Ibn Yakub. We know the Sultan values your advice greatly. Do not let us down.”

Two days later we were camped in sight of the walls of Beirut, overlooking the sea. It was a humid day and the weather affected the Sultan. He was irritable and impatient. Imad al-Din, too, was ill. He reported severe pains in the stomach, followed by nausea. Marwan, the Sultan’s physician, put him on a diet. He was treated with herb infusions and vegetables. Meat was denied him and his condition began to improve. But on the second day after the treatment the pains returned. Marwan suggested to the Sultan that the sick man be sent to Damascus. There his symptoms could be observed at leisure and properly treated. Marwan himself was a specialist in treating flesh wounds.

Salah al-Din, always more concerned about the health of his close friends than his own state, ordered a squadron to carry the ailing secretary to Damascus. Imad al-Din protested weakly, but I could see that he was delighted. As I bade him farewell he winked at me.

“Solitude, Ibn Yakub. I yearn for solitude. The jihad is necessary, but my work suffers. It is not easy to contemplate our past when the present appears so uncertain and death stalks us in the shape of the Franj. My absence will annoy the Sultan, but try your best.”

I nodded and muttered a few sympathetic noises about seeing him soon, fully recovered, in Damascus. Yet as he was borne away in a litter, the voice of Shadhi echoed in my head.

“Doesn’t like life in a war camp, does he? Needs solitude, does he? I’m surprised. That arse-lender and taker has been through so many young soldiers that I’ve lost count. His illness is over-indulgence, nothing more.”

The Sultan had assumed that Beirut, like its coastal counterparts, would surrender happily and peacefully, but a messenger we had dispatched returned with bad news. The Franj were determined to fight.

Salah al-Din sighed.

“I had hoped that we would see no more corpses till we reached the ramparts of al-Kuds. Why do these fools want to fight, Ibn Yakub?”

Imad al-Din or al-Fadil would have had a ready reply to this question, but I was so used to listening to him and recording his thoughts that I rarely ventured my own opinion unless he pressed me. He frowned.

“Well? Have you no explanation?”

I smiled weakly and shook my head.

His voice rose.

“These fools imagine that if they put up a brief resistance against me, and sacrifice a few of their knights, they will be rewarded by their leaders. They want to show that they did not surrender easily. Send them a reply from me, Ibn Yakub. Tell them that unless they surrender immediately they shall suffer the wrath of Allah. We shall rain fire upon them and destroy their city. Tell them that their impertinence does not incline us to offer generous terms.”

I bowed and retired to my tent. There I began to compose the Sultan’s letter. I was honoured to have replaced Imad al-Din, but I was not sure whether to imitate the master’s style or to develop my own. Imad al-Din had become so adept at writing the Sultan’s letters that when Salah al-Din read them he was convinced that they had actually been written by him. He would, rather uncharacteristically, delight in the flattery that often followed the receipt of such a missive. Only al-Adil, his younger brother, dared tease him. Several months ago, after the evening meal, al-Adil asked Imad al-Din what he thought of the letter the Sultan had that very day dispatched to Raymond of Tripoli. The scholar thought for a moment and replied:

“It is not one of the Sultan’s finer compositions.”

While Salah al-Din looked surprised, al-Adil retorted: “Come now, Imad al-Din, modesty does not suit you.”

I spent the whole night composing the terms of surrender. The document was short enough, but I rewrote it several times until I was convinced it was perfect. The Sultan saw it after the morning prayers and frowned.

“Too flowery. Too pedantic. Takes too long to get to the conditions we are offering them. Seal it and dispatch now.”

I was hurt by his criticisms, but I knew they contained more than a grain of truth. I realised that I should not have attempted to copy Imad al-Din’s style. Further reflections on this matter were however to be rudely interrupted by the approach of a messenger from the enemy. Our generous terms were rejected. The Franj nobles refused to surrender Beirut.

The Sultan’s anger lit up the entire army. He ordered an immediate attack on the city, and siege towers began to be pushed forward, closer to the walls of Beirut. I was riding next to him, the first time that he had granted me this privilege, but I learnt little of what was passing through his mind. He was silent. Our tactics were tried and tested. The emirs in charge of the squadrons knew perfectly well what had to be done. Once again the defenders surprised us. Instead of staying inside the city and attempting to repel our advance from within, the Franj opened the gates and came out to fight us in front of the outworks. They were fearful of our sappers and wanted to prevent the mining at all costs.

Salah al-Din did not need to engage in the battle himself. His emirs inflicted heavy casualties and drove the defenders back behind their walls. This development had a disastrous effect on the morale of the populace. They thought that we had entered the town. This led to a crazed rush for the harbour and the safety of the sea. In the town itself, looting and general confusion reigned.

The Franj leaders, divided till now between the tigers, who wanted a brawl, and the sheep, who wished to surrender, realised that the sheep had been wise all along. Their messengers arrived, accepting the terms of surrender that I had drafted some days ago. The Sultan could have punished them for wasting our time, but he smiled benignly and accepted the city.