The Book of Saladin (6 page)

He had become close friends with a young cook in the house of Shadhi ibn Marwan, the Sultan’s grandfather, and decided that this was the man for his fifteen-year-old daughter. They were married. My mother became part of Ibn Marwan’s household. I have not yet told you, scribe, that my mother was as renowned for her beauty as my grandfather for his strength. What had to happen, happened. The master caught sight of her and bent her to his will. She did not resist. I am the result. When I was born, the Sultan’s late father, Ayyub, and his uncle Shirkuh were already over ten years old. Their mother was a ferocious lady. When she heard the news, she insisted that the cook and my mother—I was still in her stomach—should be given some money and sent to a neighbouring village.

Shadhi ibn Marwan gave in to her. When I was born, my mother named me Shadhi, to annoy everyone. There my story would have ended, were it not for the fact that, when I was seven years old, my mother’s husband died. He had been a good father to me and treated me no differently from his own son, who was a year younger than me.

I have no idea how the news reached Ibn Marwan. All I know is that one day, with his retinue in attendance, he rode into our village and spoke to my mother in private. Allah alone knows what they said to each other. I was too busy admiring the horses and the beautifully coloured saddles.

At the end of their conversation, my mother called me in and hugged me in a tight embrace. She kissed both my eyes while trying to keep the tears out of her own. She told me that, from now on, I was to work in the house of Shadhi ibn Marwan, and to obey him blindly.

I was very upset, and I wept for many months. I missed her greatly. I would go and see her once or twice a year, and she would feed me my favourite cakes, made of maize and sweetened with mountain honey.

It was only when we were leaving Dvin, and moving southwards to Takrit, that I found out about my real father. I had gone to say farewell to my mother. I knew we would never see each other again. She had my brother and his wife and their children, and I knew they loved her and would look after her, but I was still overcome by sadness. As we parted she kissed me on the forehead, and told me everything. I cannot recall how I felt at the time. Long, long ago. I was both pleased and angry.

Shadhi’s story had confirmed my suspicions, and I was desperate to question him further. Before we could speak, the Sultan had entered, with his two sons by his side. They were introduced to me, but it was obvious that they had come in search of Shadhi. His eyes had lit up on seeing the boys. As he took them away, the Sultan whispered: “Did she?” in my ear. I shook my head, and he burst out laughing.

O
NE EVENING, AFTER TWO
long and exhausting days with the Sultan, I returned home to find Rachel, my wife, in deep conversation with Ibn Maymun. She was registering a set of complaints against me with our great teacher, knowing how much influence and respect he commanded in our household. As I entered the room, I heard her tell him how the amount of time I was spending in the palace was affecting my way of thinking, my character, and my attitude to “less privileged mortals”. Most important of all, I was being charged with the neglect of my duties to her and to our family.

“I think this is a case for the Kadi,” replied Ibn Maymun, stroking his beard thoughtfully. “Should I transmit your reproach to him, and demand that he punishes Ibn Yakub?”

My laughter annoyed Rachel, and she left the room, her face as hard as the stale bread she had been compelled to serve our unexpected guest. Ibn Maymun was tired. His duties to the Kadi were heavy, given that he lived in Fustat, some two miles distant from the Kadi’s palace. He visited him early in the morning, on every day, attending to his needs as well as his children’s, and those of the inmates of the harem.

Thus he spent most of the day in Cairo, returning home late every afternoon. Waiting for him was a unique combination of people: Jews and Gentiles; noblemen and peasants; friends and enemies; and young children and their grandfathers. These were his patients. The price of success was that Ibn Maymun was much in demand. The number of his patients increased by the day and, true physician that he was, he could never turn anyone away.

Sometimes, when desperately in need of rest, he would spend the night at our house in the Juderia, a short walk from the palace. Here, he told me, he could enjoy total peace and recover his energy. I apologised to him for Rachel’s outburst.

“Be careful, Ibn Yakub. Your wife is a good woman, but her inner strength and her love for you is slowly ebbing away. She will not tolerate your absences for ever. You seem to spend most of your time at the Sultan’s palace. Why not tell the Sultan that you need to be with your family on the Sabbath?”

I sighed. I too was feeling weary and worn out that evening.

“I understand you, my friend, but was it not you who recommended me to Salah al-Din? There are times, I admit, when I feel like a prisoner. Yet I would be telling you an untruth if I claimed to be unhappy. The fact is, I like this Sultan. I would like to be riding by his side as we approach the Kingdom of Jerusalem, and I would like to be present when the city falls to our armies, when Jerusalem becomes al-Kuds again, and when we can pray once more in the precincts of the Temple. We buried the sun in Jerusalem. We will meet there again. It would be worth my whole life to see that day. A bright new age is drawing near to our sacred city. I have faith in Salah al-Din. In his own quiet way, after much thought, he will retake Jerusalem.”

The sage nodded his head.

“I understand you only too well, but Rachel’s needs are no less important than your desire to be part of history. Find a balance. Happiness is like good health. You only miss it when it disappears.”

Ibn Maymun retired to bed after our short exchange.

Alone, I reflected on his advice. How best could I preserve a balance between my work and my family? Rachel wanted me to return home to resume my work on the history of our people. That, for her, was far more important than becoming a court scribe.

She did not understand that Ibn Maymun had deliberately turned me away from my own work. He was concerned that my researches would alienate the Rabbis. Fearful of our fragile status in this world, he did not want me to provoke a dispute with our great religious scholars, whose understanding of our past was limited to the scriptures. Ibn Maymun agreed with me that the movement of our people westwards had begun long before the Fall of the Temple or the siege of Masada. We had discussed the subject many times.

As I went out into the courtyard to relieve myself, I was startled by the brightness of the starlit sky. I stood and stared at the stars for a long time. I saw them take different shapes and, heaven help me, I could have sworn that I saw Halima’s simple beauty reflected in one glowing cluster. I had become fascinated by Halima. She refused to leave my thoughts. Why had she not shared a meal with me today when Salah al-Din had encouraged her to do so? And why had he encouraged her? Did he regard me as a eunuch? Was she sharing his bed tonight, or had he already drunk his fill and moved on to another oasis?

It was already late, but all these questions continued to torment me as I made my way to our bedchamber. Rachel was awake, but she was still angry. I spoke to her in a tender voice, but she refused to answer my questions. Nor did she submit to my desires. Sleep eluded us both that night. We lay in silence, waiting for the day to break.

Ibn Maymun always began the day by sipping a large cup of warm water. Whenever he stayed with me, I was compelled to observe the same ritual. It cleansed our insides, he insisted, and prepared the body for the shock of the new day. Ibn Maymun’s prescriptions were essentially preventative. The secret of his medical success lay in the importance he attached to what we ate—and how much. Eight large cups of water during the winter months, and double that amount during the summer, was essential to good health.

On these matters he was very stern. Debate was discouraged. It was easier to argue with him on the relative merits and demerits of our religion. That did not bother him at all, but he insisted on the sanctity of his medical prescriptions. I could never understand the reason for his firmness. Perhaps it had to do with the fact that he earned his living as a physician. If word had spread that he was unsure of the efficacy of his own treatments, his patients might have taken their custom elsewhere. Yet perhaps not. Patients came to him because they knew his cures were successful.

Now he was busy preparing an ointment for the Kadi. The room began to smell of onions and garlic. To these, he was adding mustard, wormwood, arsenic, crushed bitter almonds and vinegar. I felt sick and rushed immediately to open the door to the courtyard, to let in some fresh air. He smiled.

“Is the Kadi ailing?” I asked him. “Or are you preparing to poison him? The smell alone would send me to an early grave.”

“He is not ill, but he is very upset.”

“Why?”

“He is beginning to lose his hair. He does not wish to grow completely bald. He may be older than us, but he is still a vain man. Perhaps he has his eye on a young wench.”

“If his eye fell on a young girl, she would be offered to him on a tray made of gold. His lack of hair would play no part at all. Leaving all that aside, what good will your stinking concoction do?”

“This ointment will strengthen and thicken the hair that still remains. Who knows, it might even make it grow again.”

“Why is the great al-Fadil so concerned? Surely the loss of hair is a sign of great maturity. Not far from where we sit, in days gone by, the ancient priests and kings used to shave their heads to demonstrate their power.”

“True. But the Prophet of Islam had a fine crop of hair. He did not like the thought of it turning grey. He insisted on dying it, with a mixture of red anemone and oil of myrtle; or so their traditions tell them.”

I was about to challenge this assertion, but the look on his face made it clear that he was not prepared to answer any more questions on the medical treatment he was preparing to rejuvenate our Kadi.

Instead he began to talk of the Kadi’s skills as an administrator, his sense of justice, his ability to challenge even the Sultan’s decisions and, above everything else, the quality of the advice he offered his ruler.

As we left my house to walk towards the palace, Ibn Maymun took me completely by surprise.

“Answer me truthfully, Ibn Yakub. Has your heart abandoned Rachel?”

I shook my head in vigorous denial. Yet my heart had begun to beat a little bit faster, as if to rebut me. My mind was confused, and I could not speak. He continued to interrogate me.

“Are you sure that the warm, luxuriant braids of a new addition to the Sultan’s household have not bewitched you?”

I shook my head again. How could he possibly know about Halima? I had kept my thoughts to myself. I wasn’t even sure of my own feelings. How in heaven’s name had Ibn Maymun reached this conclusion? For a moment I was too shaken to speak. When I regained my composure, I asked him to explain himself. At first, he shrugged his shoulders and did not reply. I insisted.

“In the course of my work, I have had the opportunity of listening to the problems of many households. What Rachel tells me is not new. It is an old story. She asked me to pray for her. I declined. I told her that to know and to sleep is better than to pray and be ignorant.”

“Neither of us slept last night. My conscience is clean. My soul is free of guilt.”

“And your heart?”

“It dreams. You understand that well. Is not a world without dreams worse than hell?”

“Talk to her, Ibn Yakub. Talk to Rachel. Share your dreams. Destiny has never permitted our people the taste of too much honey.”

We parted.

I
WAS TOLD TO
follow the attendant to the Sultan’s bedchamber. He was resting, but sat up on my arrival, leaning against cushions of every shape and description. He gave me a weak smile. His chest was heavy. His throat was sore. I offered to return when he was feeling better, but he shook his head vigorously, insisting that the day must not be wasted.

“Life is short, Ibn Yakub. In times of war Allah can withdraw any of his
ghazis
from this world.”

I watched in silence as the attendants prepared his medicine. Ginger had been boiled in water, till the mixture went dark. Salah al-Din sniffed the concoction and turned his face away. The second attendant sweetened the ginger-water with generous amounts of honey. This time the patient scowled, but sipped the mixture slowly. He signalled for the jug to be left behind. The attendants bowed and retired. Even as they left, Shadhi entered the room and felt the Sultan’s forehead.

“No fever. Good. Make sure you drink the last drop. A word for you, Ibn Yakub. Limit your presence. He should rest his tongue today.”

He left without waiting for the Sultan’s response, which was a curse and a smile. He spoke in a hoarse whisper.

I am missing the old city today. Whenever I feel unwell, I am reminded of my tiny room in Damascus. We used to live in a house, not far from the citadel in the western part of the city. As I was lying in bed one day, possessed by a fever which seemed to have been inspired by Satan himself, Shadhi entered my room—just as he did a few moments ago—and felt my forehead. Then he whispered in my ear: “Ibn Ayyub, recover your strength. Recover your strength.”

It was his special way of informing me that our family had suffered a loss. I was not in a fit state to understand his message, and I remember having bad dreams that night. By the next morning, the fever had run its course. That same day my father entered my room, to tell me that my grandmother had passed away. I wept loudly and my wrenching sobs must have moved him. It was the only time in my life that my father held me in his arms, and stroked my head with tenderness.

He spoke soothing words. Allah, in his infinite mercy, he told me, had permitted her a long life. She had left this world without regrets. Her last words to her son concerned me. She had, according to my father, scolded him for paying too little attention to me and my future. As he told me all this, he was gently feeling this amulet which you can see resting on my chest.