The Book of Saladin (40 page)

The town crier preceded us on the narrow streets, often clearing a path through hordes of families and noisy children desperate for some air.

“Make way, make way for the great Imad al-Din, counsellor to the Sultan Yusuf Salah al-Din ibn Ayyub.”

We saw familiar faces outside Zubayda’s house. The Sultan’s personal guards were on duty, swords raised as we approached, but lowered as they recognised us. The Nubian mute, who had been with the Sultan as long as me, grinned at our arrival and hastened to unfasten the door that led to the courtyard. It was to be an outdoor occasion. The courtyard was lit by lamps and the floor covered in rugs and cushions. There were no more than fifteen people present—among them, to my amazement, the Sultana Jamila. She smiled pleasantly to acknowledge my arrival. My heart quickened its pace.

We bowed to the Sultan, who smiled and indicated we should sit by his side. He introduced us to Zubayda. She was approaching her seventieth year, but her face radiated an attraction that surprised me. Her white hair shone in the darkness and illuminated her face. She had not washed it with henna to disguise her age. Her complexion was dark, not unlike that of Jamila, who I was trying to forget that evening and whose presence had shaken me.

Zubayda’s eyes were large and lively, without a trace of sadness or regret. She had lived a rich life, that much was obvious, but had it been a life devoid of pain? Is any life completely without pain? She had been watching me observe her and suddenly she smiled. Her teeth, to my amazement, were as white as snow. How in Allah’s name had she managed to preserve their youth?

It was as if she had heard all my questions.

“Salah al-Din has mentioned you to me, Ibn Yakub.” Her voice was throaty and rich. “I know what you are thinking. Understand that my soul is quiet and tranquil. I want nothing. I regret nothing. I hope that death, when it comes, will be swift, like Salah al-Din’s sword when it strikes the Franj.”

“Umm Zubayda,” the Sultan’s voice was softer than usual. “We have come to hear you sing.”

There were two musicians present, waiting patiently, fingering their lutes. She looked at them and put a finger to her lips. She wanted to sing tonight without any accompaniment. There was an expectant hush and then she sang. Listening to her was like entering heaven. Her voice was truly inimitable. I have not heard one like it before or since. It was a song she had written herself, and though it was simple and short, it took half an hour to complete, as each line was repeated several times, with musical variations.

ZUBAYDA’S LOVE SONG

On a warm night we drank some wine.

A soft breeze caressed my burning face.

He took me to the balcony and showed me the moon

And tried to make me believe he loved another.

I laughed. I wept.

I didn’t believe him.

“You poor fool,” I said, “you are young, you confuse reality with dreams.”

He smiled. He left me.

A single salty tear wet my face and I knew

The confusion was all mine.

Yes, mine.

Mine. Mine. Mine. Mine. Mine.

Zubayda did not sing again that night. The musicians entertained us while we ate the food that had been carefully prepared in her kitchen. The Sultan was abstemious, but Imad al-Din’s toothache did not appear to prevent him enjoying the four different varieties of meat that were laid before us.

After dinner there was more music, during the course of which Jamila prepared to depart. She asked me to accompany the litter in which she would be carried back to the citadel. The Sultan nodded his permission and I took my leave of the great singer, who invited me to visit her again so that she could tell me her story.

Jamila did not wait for me to speak.

“So you have heard all the evil talk?”

“Is it true, Sultana?”

“You know full well that my love is as pure as my hate. Jealousy is a poison that has to be removed in order to free more space in our heads for lofty reflections. That is all I will ever say on this subject.”

I walked along in silence as the litter-bearers readjusted their burden slightly so as to ease their climb up the incline that led to the citadel. She dismissed me with a brutal laugh.

“You may return to your wife, Ibn Yakub. Enjoy her embrace, for tomorrow you leave for al-Kuds, and who knows what Allah has in store for all of you?”

Rachel, who has the most tranquil of temperaments, appeared nervous and tense when I reached our home.

“The Franj will make the Sultan pay a heavy price before they will give up Jerusalem,” she said. “I fear that you might be part of that price. I have a terrible premonition that I will never see you again.”

I comforted her fears. I told her of how Salah al-Din always made sure that I was kept away from any real danger. I mocked her superstitions. I tried to make her laugh, but failed miserably. It seemed as if nothing could dispel her worries. I wanted to love her, but she was reluctant, and so we lay mute in each other’s arms till I fell asleep.

A retainer from the citadel woke me just before the break of dawn. Rachel had not slept at all. She sat up in bed and watched me dress. Then, as I took my leave of her, she almost suffocated me in a tight embrace and would not release me. Gently, I prised her hands away and kissed her eyes. “After the victory in Jerusalem I shall come to our house in Cairo so that we can celebrate together,” I whispered in her ear. “I will write often.” She did not reply.

M
Y VERY DEAR WIFE,
It is strange to think of you back in that old house with so many memories, most of them happy. I am sending this letter with the courier who is carrying royal dispatches from al-Adil to the palace, so you will get it sooner than if I used the caravans.

It is almost a month since you left, and this is the first opportunity that I have had to sit and write to you. We are living in tents within sight of the walls of Jerusalem. It is a strange sensation to be so close to the Holy City. The Sultan has offered them terms, but some of the fools want to die holding their infernal crosses.

You have by now probably heard from our friends in the palace why it has all taken so long. When we marched away from Damascus, the Sultan was overcome by one of his usual fits of indecision. Jerusalem could wait till he had cleared the coast. Once again he tried to take Tyre, but the resistance was strong. The emirs were now determined to take the city regardless of our casualties. They felt it had become a symbol of Franj resistance and should be erased from the map. Salah al-Din was annoyed that it had already taken up too much of his time. He decided to march away and we laid siege to Ascalon.

The Franj held out for nearly fourteen days, but the Sultan brought their King Guy from Damascus and offered to release him if they surrendered. They gave Guy authority to deal on their behalf, and he promptly agreed terms with the Sultan. We did not lose many men. The day we took the city turned cold all of a sudden when the sun’s face was completely hidden. That very day a delegation of nobles from Jerusalem arrived in Ascalon. The Sultan offered them very good terms if they surrendered the Holy City, and they promised to recommend such an offer to the knights. When they got back, the Patriarch scolded them severely. The Church does not wish to surrender the city where Jesus was crucified without a battle.

The Sultan did not allow his spirits to lower when he heard the news. He is in a cheerful mood again, despite the setback at Tyre. The presence of al-Adil, who has remained his favourite brother since they were boys, is part of the reason. For the rest, Salah al-Din is now convinced that he will be in Jerusalem before the new moon, which gives him seventeen days to be precise.

On hearing that the Patriarch and knights such as Balian of Ibelin were now preparing to take up arms against him, the Sultan ordered all our soldiers in the region to march behind him and put up our tents just outside Jerusalem. He wants this to be a show of strength, but is prepared for a clash of arms if that is the only way. Yesterday we moved our tents to the eastern edge of the city. The Franj thought we were leaving altogether and waved ironic farewells from the ramparts, which amused al-Adil greatly. Instead we have our siege towers in place, just above the valley they call the Kidron. Here the walls seem less strong.

From where I am composing these lines I can see the Sultan’s banners fluttering in the breeze on Mount Olivet. Our men worked all night to make sure the barbican was mined.

Ten thousand of our soldiers have now made it impossible for the Franj to use two of their most important gates. Our archers are stationed directly underneath the ramparts waiting for their orders. The Kadi al-Fadil described their arrows as “toothpicks to the teeth of the battlements”. It is an accurate description, acknowledged as such even by Imad al-Din, who, incidentally, was hoping that al-Fadil would stay in Cairo so that he would be the only serious chronicler of the victory.

As you know, my dearest Rachel, they do not even deign to consider your husband as a rival. For them I am just a pen-pusher who caught the Sultan’s eye at an opportune moment. That is Imad al-Din’s public attitude to me. In private he often tells me stories which he hopes I will attribute to him, thus ensuring that he is mentioned in the “great book of Salah al-Din”. The Kadi al-Fadil is more subtle, more careful, but his main concern lies in his own work. He barely thinks of me in serious terms, but is always helpful when I need to check a fact or two with him.

Yesterday the Sultan was visited by Balian of Ibelin. His life had been spared at Hattin and he had pledged never to bear arms against the Sultan as long as he lived. Now he told us that the Patriarch had absolved him of his oath.

“And your God,” inquired the Sultan, “will He forgive you just as easily?”

Balian remained silent and averted his eyes. Then he threatened Salah al-Din. If our soldiers did not withdraw, the Franj would first kill their own women and children and then set fire to the al-Aqsa mosque before demolishing the sacred Rock. After this they would kill the several thousand Believers in the city and then march out into the plain with swords raised to die in battle against the infidels.

The Sultan smiled. He had vowed to take this city by force, but he offered the Franj a generous deal. All the Christians would be permitted to leave provided they paid a ransom to the treasury. The Christian poor would be set free with money from the King’s treasure which was kept by the Hospitallers. Salah al-Din gave them forty days to find the ransom money.

“When you Franj first took this city, Balian, you slaughtered the Jews and Believers as if they were cattle. We could do the same to you, but blind revenge is a dangerous elixir. So we will let your people leave in peace. This is my last offer to your leaders. Turn it down and I will burn down these ramparts and show no mercy. The choice is yours.”

Today it is Friday, the Holy Day of Islam. It is the second of October, but the twenty-seventh of Rajab in the Muslim calendar. On this day their Prophet dreamt his famous dream and visited this city in his sleep. And on this day, as even the least religious of them has been telling himself and others since daybreak, the Franj capitulated and signed the terms of surrender. As news of this spread there was a loud cry of “Allah o Akbar” and the amazing sight of thousands and thousands of men, falling to their knees in the dust and prostrating themselves in the direction of Mecca, to give thanks to Allah.

Then there was silence, a silence born of disbelief. We looked at each other in astonishment, wondering whether this had really happened or was it all a dream? After ninety years, Jerusalem, or al-Kuds, belongs to us again. All of us!

In exactly one hour the Sultan will ride into the city and I, my dearest Rachel, will be at his side. My thoughts at this moment are of you and our little family, but I am also thinking of my old friend Shadhi. This was a day he longed to see, and I know that his ghost will be riding just behind Salah al-Din, whispering in his ear as only he could: “Look straight ahead. You are a ruler. Don’t lower your eyes. Remember, you are the Sultan who has taken back our al-Kuds, not the Caliph in Baghdad. Even as we march the so-called Caliph will be drowning himself in pleasure.”

Shadhi would have said all that and I will think it, but I do not have the authority to say all this to the Sultan. Imad al-Din is on his way to Damascus and al-Fadil is not here. What will they advise him after he has taken the city?

I am alone with him and the responsibility is awesome. What am I to say if he seeks my advice? It is at times like these that I feel the most vulnerable and realise that, perhaps, I am nothing but a hired scribe.

I kiss your cheeks and hope to see you soon. Kiss our daughter and grandson. I am delighted to hear that another one is on the way. Perhaps you should come to Jerusalem. I think I will be here for some time.

Your husband,

Ibn Yakub.

W
E RODE INTO THE
Holy City through the Bab al-Daud. The Sultan did not need Shadhi to tell him his head should be raised high. He rode straight to the Mosque, heavy with the stench of the Franj and their beasts. It was here the Hospitallers and Templars had stabled their steeds. Salah al-Din refused to wait till the holy precinct was cleansed. He jumped off his horse and, surrounded by his emirs, offered prayers of thanks to Allah. Then they began to clean the mosque.

As we rode back through the streets the Sultan was moved by the pathetic sight of Christians groaning and weeping. There were women pulling at their hair, old men kissing walls, frightened children clutching their mothers and grandmothers. He pulled up his horse and sent a messenger to fetch the Franj knight Balian.

While we were waiting the Sultan looked up and smiled. His flag was being raised on the citadel and the exultant chants and cheers of our soldiers momentarily drowned the noise of the distraught Christians. I thought again of Shadhi and so did Salah al-Din. He turned to me with a tear in his eye.