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.
Six
Salah al-Din’s boyhood memories of Damascus; Shadhi’s account of the Sultan’s first taste of carnal knowledge
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.
It was first hung around this neck by my grandmother. Every year she would remove it and lengthen the string, muttering invocations to some unknown gods — I never heard her calling Allah in these special prayers — to make me strong. It is my lucky charm. I cherish it because of her, but it has also become a part of me. Before I join each and every battle, I hold it in my fist and rub it gently across my heart before praying silently to Allah for our success.
It was in Damascus that I became a man. For the first few months I used to yearn for the freedom of Baalbek. Damascus was a city full of dangers. Not a day went by when we did not receive news of someone important or someone close to someone important being assassinated.
My father’s instincts had, as usual, served him well. The atabeg of Damascus had placed him in charge of the citadel. My father was responsible for the defence of the town. His sudden rise to power had made him enemies. The local notables, many of whom claimed descent from the first Believers in Allah and his Prophet, were openly hostile and regarded all of us with contempt. For them my father and my uncle Shirkuh were nothing but Kurdish adventurers, clever opportunists who sold their services and their souls to the highest bidder. It is difficult to deny that their disdain concealed an element of truth.
At the time of our arrival, Damascus was governed by the atabeg Muin al-Din Unur. It was he who, tiring of the growing factionalism amongst his commanders, had asked my father to reorganise the defences of the city. Unur was an enemy of the Sultan Zengi and his son, Nur al-Din. My uncle Shirkuh was a military commander working directly under Nur al-Din. If I had been a Turcoman loyal to Unur and his master, Abak, I, too would have been more than a little nervous. After all, it was hardly a secret that ours was a close-knit clan. My father and his brother, far from being enemies, were as close to each other as the handle to the sword. Unur, however, trusted my father. On his deathbed, or so we were told, he advised the Sultan Abak to retain my father’s services.
Abak was not totally convinced. He was a weak man, much given to wine and women, and easily swayed by unscrupulous advisers. Though in this case, I must confess, their worries were not without foundation. If Nur al-Din attacked Damascus, would my father take up arms against an army led by his brother Shirkuh? This was the question that bothered them day and night.
My father was adept at wearing a mask. He was a great courtier, in the sense that he listened attentively and said very little. When Abak apprised him of what was being said, my father smiled and told him: “Perhaps they are right to suspect my loyalty. You are the sole judge. To this day I have never spoken an untruth. If my presence worries you, I will leave with my family tomorrow. Just speak the command.”
The supreme ruler of Damascus chose to retain my father’s services. It was a mistake that cost him his throne, but it united the Believers and brought closer the day when we would reclaim our lands from the Franj.
I know what you’re thinking, Ibn Yakub. You’re wondering what would have happened if we had been expelled from Damascus. I have little doubt that the end result would have been the same, but only after the spilling of much blood. My father’s actions were not solely determined by the needs of his family. Those wars in which Believer fought against Believer were truly repugnant to him.