It would probably start with my kind and considerate husband….
Muhammad, your son was born on the day the Sultan died. We have named him Hamdis ibn Aziz. This should ensure he never writes poetry. My breasts are overflowing. If your throat aches again come to me.
Balkis
Reading her letter agitated him and he began to rub both hands on the silk tunic. That evening he declined both food and the hammam, but Mayya assumed he was deep in his work and did not wish to be disturbed. He retired early to his bedchamber and began to pace furiously. Till then he had thought that his passion for her would gently fade and they would see each other once, perhaps twice a year. Now it suddenly struck him that it was his heart that would not tolerate such long absences.
Perhaps he would return to Siracusa with the Amir after the Sultan’s funeral. The more he thought about it, the better this idea seemed. Elinore, Mayya and Afdal could come as well. He would go and see his grandsons near Noto, perhaps visit the village where the Trusted One had performed miracles and, above all, Balkis would not be far away. The thought improved his spirits, but still he would not take off the tunic and when, late that night, there was an urgent knock on the door he was still dressed.
Ibn Fityan apologised for waking him up, but he wanted him to know that an incident had taken place in the gardens that evening. The young son of a Baron from Messina, barely twenty years old himself but accompanied by two or three older soldiers, had gone in search of young boys in the gardens. They were about to dishonour a boy when they found themselves surrounded by fifty men carrying short daggers and axes. The Franks fought fiercely and decapitated one opponent, but they were badly outnumbered and were overwhelmed. They were executed on the spot and the bodies were taken away and thrown into the sea.
‘Why is this considered serious enough to wake me early in the morning?’
‘When the son did not return, the Baron went in search of him. Naturally he didn’t find him and he has demanded that unless the qadi produces his son, he will take hostages from the city back to Messina.’
‘Intolerable and unacceptable.’
‘They want you to tell William that if this were to happen the city would explode and delay his coronation indefinitely.’
‘I will speak with him after the funeral. Ibn Fityan, was this ambush carefully prepared?’
‘It would appear so.’
‘Is there any possibility that someone might reveal the truth?’
‘Nobody knows who organised and carried out this attack. It is a secret organisation and they are all sworn to secrecy.’
‘Remarkable.’
‘Would you like me to help you undress?’
Idrisi looked at himself and laughed.
‘I think I can manage. Peace be upon you.’
Wide awake and alert, Idrisi undressed and made his ablutions. He began to compose a reply to Balkis in his head, but it was only half finished when he fell fast asleep. He was woken by Ibn Fityan to prepare himself for the funeral.
The cathedral was filled and a few people had gathered on the streets, but the spectre of the martyred Philip hung over the proceedings. The Archbishop of Palermo, who conducted the obsequies, appeared to be so delighted with his role that he almost forget that it was supposed to be a sad occasion. William paid his father a glowing tribute, with more than a few of the phrases he had heard the previous day from Idrisi. Later, the new ruler summoned his old tutor to the palace. A wake had been organised and the great hall that had witnessed the humiliation of Philip was now lavish with food and wine.
Idrisi was present for one reason alone: in detaching William from the clutches of fawning courtiers, he informed him of the situation in the old city. The young man was greatly angered at the thought of his coronation being subverted because of baronial excesses and summoned the Archbishop. The prelate, delighted at being singled out at such a distinguished gathering, nodded sagely and disappeared to do his ruler’s bidding. ‘Tell the qadi he need not worry any longer. And, Master Idrisi, I have discovered it was the Amir of Catania who farted on both occasions. Remarkable man.’
* Plato
SIXTEEN
Spring in Siracusa. Good and bad poetry. Fathers and sons.
THERE CAN BE FEW delights in the world as pleasant as a Siracusan spring. The fragrance of the lemon, orange, apricot, almond and peach blossoms pervade the city, enriched by the moist, salty sea breezes. On the hills outside the city the age-old, laboriously cultivated plantations of olive trees are being carefully inspected for the damage caused by the winter storms and lightning. The sun radiates a welcome warmth and the air is fresh, not mournful and lazy, as in summer.
And all this is greatly enhanced when a person is in love. Since his arrival from Palermo a month ago, Idrisi and Balkis had revelled in each other’s company. There was nothing furtive in their behaviour, but were it not for the fact that they went riding openly and were sometimes accompanied by the Amir himself, there would have been an incessant wagging of tongues. The palace eunuchs and a few loyal serving women were aware that Balkis often spent the night in Idrisi’s room and, while they talked to each other, they ensured the secret remained confined to the palace.
One glorious fresh morning, before the sun had dried the earth, she insisted they discard their sandals and walk to bathe their feet in dew, on the leaves and grass. It was one of his cures for persistent headaches and he asked if she was feeling well.
‘I read a bad poem by Ibn Harridis this morning while you were still asleep and it gave me a headache.’
He smiled. ‘Balkis, you are unfair to the poet. There are some unbearable poems, but he has also written some very fine verses. You must not punish him because Aziz belongs to the same family.’
‘You cannot imagine the praise they reserve for him. It’s as if no other poet had existed. Aziz is more restrained, but even he insisted on naming our son Hamdis. Why are you laughing?’
‘I shouldn’t encourage you, but I suddenly remember a quatrain written by Ibn Hamid, one of my childhood friends from Noto.’
‘You never mentioned him before.’
‘Too many painful memories. We quarrelled before he left. He accused me of being a creature of the Sultan. I miss him greatly now and…’
‘The quatrain?’
‘Let me try and remember. A minor poet from Noto, well-known frequenter of bars and brothels, is visiting Siracusa to sample his favourite male prostitute. He runs into Ibn Hamdis. The great poet is agitated and his clothes are ruffled. The visitor from Noto inquires politely as to the cause and a brief exchange between the two is abruptly brought to an end:
“I have been robbed! The thieves have ruined me!”
“I sympathise, I share your grief.”
“They stole a batch of my own poetry!”
“I sympathise — with the poor thief.”’
She laughed unrestrainedly.
‘My headache has gone. Your cure has worked.’
Idrisi had come prepared for a long stay, accompanied by Elinore, Ibn Thawdor, and three hundred books considered necessary for his still uncompleted work. Mayya had promised to come later when Afdal was slightly older. Idrisi’s day was carefully organised. He spent five hours in the palace library where he was surprised to find a few manuscripts by authors previously unknown to him. He was impatient with any book that contained superstitions and presented them as scientific knowledge. And there were many of these he had angrily thrust aside during the course of his work.