He smiled and looked at his friend. This was how their conversations had proceeded when both were young and became close friends. Their intimacy had led to a great deal of gossip in the streets, encouraged by the palace eunuchs. The Sultan waited for his response. Idrisi obliged.
‘It was too cold to be conquered by us and even Allah has problems in changing the climate of a country. In al-Andalus and Siqilliya we could still smell the desert and grow our dates and lemons and pomegranates. But in England the cold would have killed the palms and those who carried the seeds. That island was meant for your people, not mine. Though what you say is true. We would have shone the light of learning on them. It would have spared Adelard of Bath the long journey here simply to learn Arabic. And we would have taught them the joys of food. They think and eat like barbarians. But I think your master-builders, too, like to work according to their own plans, not ours. The church you built in Cefalu could never have been built on the foundations of a mosque.’
They laughed. Much to the irritation of the English priests at Rujari’s court, the bad luck of the cousins who conquered England was the target of much humour and ribaldry between these two old friends. Even that conquest had required the presence of Siqilliyan knights. And it was even claimed that a Siqilliyan arrow had felled the English king.
‘Ah, Cefalu. That is where you must ensure that this weary body is allowed to rest after I am gone. The Bishops will want to inter my bones here, in Palermo. Don’t let them do it. Some of my happiest moments were spent in the little palace in Cefalu where I lived and made sure the architects did exactly as I wanted. Why do you smile? Ah, I told you about the woman from Temim. She was helpful, certainly, but it was the church that preoccupied me much more than she. As for the design, I know you are making mischief. The influence of your architects is ever-present in that church. How could it not be when it is they who built it and it is how I wanted it to be? That is why I moved there to stop the Bishops from interfering. Come, Master Idrisi, how can you have forgotten those exquisite arches, slender like the curves of a beautiful woman?’
‘A beautiful woman from Temim…’
Rujari ignored the remark.
‘What are those arches, but a tribute to the mosques of Palermo, which are still there as they were in my father’s time. You were convinced I would not be able to protect them. Of course the church your people took and transformed into a mosque had to be re-consecrated. We are Christians, after all. But you will admit that all else is there. This is still the city of two hundred and ninety-nine mosques and I am still the Sultan Rujari of Siqilliya.’
‘You certainly are Sultan Rujari in Palermo. And the Believers respect you for it, but how else could you run a city where the bulk of the population are of my faith? You could kill them, but who would run the Diwan, fight your wars, transport your goods, and pay your taxes? The Lombards your father encouraged to come here are barbarians. They know nothing except to rape and steal. And when you travel to Messina or Apulia you leave these beautiful long robes behind and dress in the armour of your forebears and your shield is painted with a cross and you become King Roger or Count Ruggiero depending on where you are and which of the competing Popes is coming to plead for your support.’
Rujari smiled. ‘You know full well that my father refused to send our soldiers to fight in the First Crusade. Did I tell you that when an envoy of Pope Urban continued to insist we send soldiers, my father farted loudly and left the room? Even after they took Jerusalem he was convinced he had made the right decision. Urban never forgave my father and even threatened to excommunicate him. Now I hear that things are not going well for the Crusaders and they are fearful of losing everything. Only last week I received a message from Innocent, whose hatred for me is only exceeded by mine for him. He writes that there is pressure from the English and the Holy Emperor for a new crusade to relieve the pressure on the Crusader states and asks whether Siqilliya will participate. I will not send our soldiers to Jerusalem or Acre or to save my cousin’s castles in Syria. But it would be foolish of me to reveal this too soon. So I listen and I play with the Pope and our English cousins. These are tiresome but sacred duties.’
‘Some might say,’ replied Idrisi, ‘that it was not only concern for my people or our soldiers in your army that caused you not to help the Pope, but your fears and those of your father that the wheat trade might suffer and deplete the treasury. It is not for nothing that one of your names is Abu Tillis, father of the wheat-sack.’
Idrisi was about to continue when he noticed Rujari was having difficulty in breathing. He hurried to the door and asked the palace Chamberlain, who had been eavesdropping, to bring the physicians to the King.
Rujari had recovered but the effort to regain his breath had exhausted him. ‘I will rest a while,’ he whispered weakly. ‘You must eat something, speak with Mayya and then return to my chamber. There is one important matter we have yet to discuss.’
The physicians had arrived and began to feel the royal pulse and head. Rujari drank the water he was offered and then, resting his arms on the shoulders of his two attendants, walked slowly to his bedchamber. Idrisi was saddened to see him in such a state. This Sultan would never leave Palermo alive. Of that he was sure.
A palace attendant entered the room and reproached him in an Arabic dialect spoken in Noto. ‘You have forgotten me, master.’
Idrisi examined him closely and smiled. It was Abd al-Rahman, the steward responsible for the preparation and tasting of food in the palace kitchens.
‘You have aged, just like the Sultan you serve. I’m glad you’re still here, Commander of the Cooks. What delicacies have been prepared today?’
‘I think you will be so pleased to see an old friend today that your mind will not dwell for too long on the quails or the nest of mashed eggplant and garlic on which they rest. And that is only to whet your appetite. The scent of the food alone could guide you to the eating chamber, but if you will follow me, Commander of the Maps, you will reach your destination much sooner.’
Idrisi was so used to the fact that few secrets survived in Palermo that Abd al-Rahman’s casual reference to Mayya had not in the least surprised him. He knew the location only too well. It was Rujari’s private trysting chamber where food was sometimes served and where only members of the family or lovers or privileged friends were permitted. Idrisi had eaten there on many occasions and, in fact, did not need the services of his guide. The chamber was set well apart from the large banqueting hall in the palace. The windows overlooked the sea, a perfect setting. And fate had willed that he would see Mayya without the presence of the Sultan. He knew that a eunuch’s ear would be closely attached to the door and the entire conversation reported to the Chamberlain who would then decide how much of it should be revealed to the Sultan and how much retained for the purposes of blackmail. It had always been like that, but he was well prepared.