The Book of Saladin (46 page)

Yesterday, after his afternoon rest and on a pure whim, he sent for Imad al-Din. The great man did not arrive till much later, long after we had finished our evening meal. He apologised for this, claiming that he had only been informed of the Sultan’s message half-an-hour ago. Salah al-Din smiled and did not challenge the falsehood. It is known everywhere that Imad al-Din avoids eating with the Sultan, because of the latter’s frugal taste in food.

“What did you eat tonight, Imad al-Din, and where?” asked the Sultan without a smile.

The secretary was shaken by this unexpected question. His drooping eyelids lifted and his entire posture became alert.

“It was a modest repast, O Commander of the Brave. A little grilled lamb, followed by one of my own recipes, quails cooked in curds from sheep’s milk and flavoured with salt and garlic. That’s all.”

We laughed, and he joined in. Then after an exchange of pleasantries the Sultan announced his wish to make the pilgrimage to Mecca and asked Imad al-Din to make the necessary plans. The secretary frowned.

“I would not recommend it at the moment. The Caliph is already envious of you. He knows the people love you. He will regard your visit to Mecca as an indirect challenge to his authority in Baghdad.”

“That is the talk of the insane, Imad al-Din,” the Sultan interrupted his chief adviser on protocol. “It is the duty of a Believer to visit Mecca once a year.”

“I am aware of this, Sultan,” replied the secretary, “but the Caliph might inquire why you have chosen this time for your first visit. He might even listen to evil tongues which gossip that you were once a sceptic and, as such, attached little importance to the rituals of our faith.”

“Do as I say, Imad al-Din,” came the stern reply. “I will visit Mecca before this year is out. Inform the Caliph of our intention and inquire politely whether we should stop and pay our respects to him on our way.”

Once this question was settled, Imad al-Din made as if to take his leave, but the Sultan indicated that he should stay.

“It is not often we have the pleasure of your presence these days, Imad al-Din. Tell me, have you found a new lover?”

It was not like Salah al-Din to be so intimate, and the secretary was surprised and a little flattered by the familiarity shown by his sovereign. He parried the question with a joke which amused neither the Sultan nor me. Frustrated by Imad al-Din’s excessive desire for secrecy, Salah al-Din became serious.

“I know you have studied the Christian faith closely, Imad al-Din. Is it not the case that the early Christians from whom the Copts claim their descent viewed icons and images with the same repugnance as ourselves? Here I include Ibn Yakub and the followers of Musa, whose faith, like ours, is built on a rejection of image-worship. How did it happen that the later Christians abandoned their early beliefs and began to worship icons? If it happened to them, could it not happen to us?”

For a moment Imad al-Din was buried deep in his own thoughts as he stroked his beard. Once he had composed a reply in his head, he began to speak slowly as if he were instructing a pupil.

“The early Christians were indeed deeply offended by the worship of images. They were, in the main, descended from the people of Musa and, as such, they carried within them many of the old Jewish precepts. They were also hostile to the Greeks. In fact some of the early Christians used to mock the pagans by arguing that if statues and images were capable of thought and feeling the only person they would love would be he who had created them.

“The change came three hundred years later when the pagans had been decisively defeated. The luminaries of the Church thought that images of Isa and the saints and relics such as the Cross could act as a bridge between them and a sceptical multitude which recalled the past with affection and whose memory was still infused with the more delightful aspects of pagan rituals. If the followers of Pythagoras could only be won over by images of Isa nailed to the cross, then the bishops were prepared to tolerate this departure from their own past.

“Reminded by newly converted pagans that their faith lacked an Athena, a Diana, a Venus, they set the minds of their new flock to rest by elevating Isa’s mother, Mary, into one of the most popular images of their religion. The figure of a mother was necessary for them, as they ruled over countries where goddesses had been worshipped for centuries. Our Prophet, may he rest in peace, was aware of this problem, but resisted the lures of Satan in this regard.

“The Sultan asks if we will go the same way. I think not. The purity of our faith is so closely tied to the worship of Allah and Allah alone, that to worship the image of anyone would not simply be profane, it would seriously challenge the authority of the Commander of the Faithful. After all, if power resided in a relic or an image, why bother to accept the power of a human being? I know what you’re thinking, O Commander of the Intelligent. The Pope in Rome? I thought as much, but as the years pass their faith will witness schisms and a challenge to the Pope’s authority. That is the logic of worshipping images.

“If
we
were to go in that direction our faith, unlike that of the Christians, would not be able to withstand the strain. It would collapse.”

The Sultan stroked his beard thoughtfully, but was unconvinced by Imad al-Din’s logic.

“The power of their Pope or our Caliph may well be challenged, Imad al-Din. That much I grant you, but where I disagree is your assumption that all this flows from the worship of images and icons. You have not proved your case, but the subject interests me nonetheless. Speak with the chamberlain and let us have a conference of scholars next week to discuss this matter further. I will detain you no longer. I am sure that somewhere in the heart of Damascus a beautiful young creature is waiting patiently for you to enter his bed.”

The secretary did not reply, but permitted himself a smile and kissed the Sultan’s cloak before he departed. It was not late, but Salah al-Din was tired. Two attendants, laden with sheets, soaps and oils, came to accompany him to the bath. He looked at me with a weak smile.

“Jamila will be angry I have kept you so long today. She is desperate to speak with you. Like me she has grown to value your friendship. Your presence reassures her. Better spend the day with her tomorrow.”

I bowed as he left, resting his arms on the shoulders of the attendants. Both of them were holding lamps in their right hands and as he walked out positioned delicately between them, the soft light shone on his face. For a moment it appeared as a light from another world. From paradise. He talks sometimes of the unexpected gifts bestowed on him by kind Fate and speaks of himself as a mere instrument of Allah. He is only too well aware of his mortality. He is not well, Ibn Maymun, and this makes me sad.

The next day I followed the Sultan’s instructions and went to pay my respects to the Sultana Jamila. She received me alone and bade me welcome in the most affectionate fashion. She handed me a manuscript, and as I leafed through its pages I began to tremble for her and for myself. Both of us could be beheaded: she for writing the offending pages and I for reading them dispassionately and not reporting her to the Kadi. Her work contained blasphemies so flagrant that even the Sultan would have found it difficult to protect her from the wrath of the sheikhs. I will discuss these with you when we meet again, Ibn Maymun. I am fearful of confiding them in a letter which will be carried by a messenger. It is perfectly possibly that our letters are opened, read by prying eyes, their contents reported to al-Fadil and Imad al-Din and then resealed and dispatched.

I pleaded with Jamila to burn the manuscript.

“The paper might burn, scribe,” she retorted with fire in her eyes, “but my thoughts will never leave me. What you do not understand is that something terrible has happened to me and I want to go south forever. I can no longer smile. The wind has burnt my lips. I wish to die where I was born. Till that day arrives I will continue to transfer my thoughts to paper. I have no intention of destroying this manuscript. It will be left in a safe place, and it will be read by those who understand my quest for truth.”

Even though I could read the answer in her eyes, I asked the nature of the calamity that had befallen her. She had grown tired of the beautiful Copt girl. Her surfeited heart had felt sudden disgust. She offered no reason and I asked for none. She was searching for Halima and had not found her in the Copt. Would the search continue when she returned south, or had she resigned herself to a life of scholarship? I was about to ask her, when she startled me with an unexpected offer.

“Your life too, Ibn Yakub, has been affected by misfortune. You have won respect and praise from everyone, but you and I are like beggars. We have nothing. It is true I have two strong sons, but they are far away and they will die fighting, defending some citadel in this cursed war. I doubt that they will even provide me with grandchildren to help my old age. I foresee an empty life after the Sultan goes, and so do you. Why not accompany me to the South? The library in my father’s palace has many rare manuscripts, including some from Andalusian sceptics. You will never be short of reading matter. What do you say, scribe? You need time to think?”

I nodded, while expressing my gratitude to her for thinking of me so kindly. The truth is, Ibn Maymun, that I would much rather return to Cairo, find a small room somewhere and be close to you.

Your loyal friend,

Ibn Yakub.

D
EAR FRIEND,

T
HERE IS
a winter mist over the citadel as I write these lines, but it is as nothing compared with the dark clouds that have covered our hearts for the last seven days. He, who was accustomed to war, now rests in peace, in the shadow of the Great Mosque.

My own future is uncertain. The Sultan’s son, al-Afdal, has succeeded him and wants me to stay here as his scribe. Jamila is preparing to depart for the South and wishes me to accompany her. I think I will plead ill-health and return to Cairo to recover my thoughts and reflect for some time on the life of this man, whose departure has left us all in darkness.

His health, as I wrote you before, had not been good. During our last weeks in Jerusalem he would sigh and complain of lack of sleep, but insist on fasting, which his physicians warned him was unnecessary. The fast would weaken him further and I would often see him, his head hanging wearily as he stared at the ground.

But the return to Damascus had revived him, and his death was all the worse for being so unexpected. For the last month he had spent much time with his brother al-Adil and his sons. His health appeared to have recovered. He ate well and there was colour in his cheeks again. Much laughter was heard as they rode out of the city to enjoy the hunt.

Once we were sitting in the garden and his oldest boy, al-Afdal, came to pay his respects. The Sultan, who had been talking to me of his love for his dead nephew, Taki al-Din, fell silent as al-Afdal came and kissed his father’s hands. The Sultan looked at him sternly.

“I am leaving all of you an empire that stretches from the Tigris to the Nile. Never forget that our successes were based on the support we received from our people. If you become isolated from them, you won’t last long.”

On another occasion I heard him plead with al-Adil to safeguard the interests of his sons. He knew, as did his brother, that amongst the mountain clans there is no particular regard for heredity. The clan chooses the strongest from within its ranks to lead it and defend its interests. The Sultan’s younger brother, al-Adil, bore a strong resemblance to their uncle Shirkuh and his character and appetites, too, were not unlike his uncle’s. Salah al-Din knew, as did his brother, that if his retainers and soldiers were given the choice they would choose al-Adil to be their Sultan. He pleaded with al-Adil to protect Afdal, Aziz and Zahir against all conspiracies. The younger brother bent and kissed the Sultan’s cheeks, muttering: “Why are you in such low spirits? Allah will take me away long before you. He needs you to clear the infidels off our shores.”

When al-Adil spoke those words I agreed with him. The Sultan was in high spirits and reminded me of those early days in Cairo when he was learning the art of statecraft. But the Sultan must have had a foreboding.

Early one morning he ordered me to be woken up and join him. Having failed to visit Mecca he wanted to go and greet the returning pilgrims outside the city walls. I think he truly regretted his own inability to make the pilgrimage. During his youth it had been an act of defiance, but as he grew older he felt it as a loss. However, the war against the Franj had occupied him for two score years, and of late he was simply too exhausted to make the journey. Imad al-Din had prevented him by utilising the Caliph’s rivalry as a motive, but in reality the secretary had confessed to me that he feared the Sultan would not survive the journey. His physicians confirmed that this was indeed the reason why they had forbidden the exertion. He accepted all this with bad grace, and his desire to greet the returning pilgrims was by way of making up for his own failure.

As we rode it began to rain. The downpour had struck without warning and it was cold winter rain, which froze our faces. I saw him shiver and realised that he had come without his quilted jacket. I took my cloak and attempted to put it round his shoulders, but he laughed and threw it back at me. It amused him that I, who he regarded as a weakling, was trying to shield him from the weather.

The rain fell with such force that the road became divided by wild streams and virtually impassable. The horses began to slither in the mud, but he continued to ride and we continued to follow him. I can see him now, his clothes and his beard splattered with mud as he caught sight of the rain-soaked pilgrims and greeted them.

When we returned the rain had stopped and the sky had cleared. The people of Damascus, in all their finery, came out on to the streets to cheer the Sultan and welcome the caravan from Mecca. We avoided the crowds and took a small path back to the drawbridge.