As you know, Ibn Yakub, that siege has now entered our books of history. I have nothing more to add, except to confess to you that I was prepared for death. Fear, which haunts us all, had disappeared completely. We were surrounded by Frankish ships behind us, and their knights were outside the city walls, their catapults hurling fire and stones. I wanted to die a noble death, as did our army. I did not want us destroyed by famine or diseases, both of which were spreading as the city was paralysed. Once again it was Shirkuh who refused to contemplate either surrender or a thoughtless battle in which, hopelessly outnumbered, we would all die.
Shirkuh’s daring had no equal. He placed me in command of the city and then, taking two hundred of our best fighters, he left under cover of darkness, galloped at full speed through the surprised ranks of the enemy, and headed for Cairo. Shadhi went with him and used to tell of Shirkuh going to villages, appealing to the peasants in a language they understood and appreciated — describing Shawar and Amalric as camel and horse droppings and making them laugh. In this fashion, he convinced the younger men among them to join his army.
The Franj, worried by this diversion, agreed to lift the siege, and we left Alexandria without losing a single soldier. The Franj, too, withdrew. Shirkuh, realising we were outnumbered, took us all back to Damascus. In his report to Nur al-Din, delivered in my presence, he predicted that within a year Shawar and Amalric would be at each other’s throats. That, he suggested, would be the best time for us to return.
And it happened, just as he had said. Shawar refused to pay Amalric the booty he had been promised, and the Franj decided to teach him a lesson.
One day a messenger reached us from Cairo. He was a spy that Shirkuh had planted in Shawar’s ranks. He had been present at the negotiations between Amalric and Shawar’s son. The Franj had demanded Bilbais in return for the help he was prepared to provide Shawar for use against us.
Shawar’s son, angered by this outrageous request had shouted: “Do you think Bilbais is a piece of cheese for the eating?” to which Amalric had responded: “Yes, it is cheese, and Cairo is the butter.”
These proved to be more than empty words. Amalric took Bilbais, killed and enslaved its population, and burnt it to the ground. Then he marched onwards to capture Cairo. To delay his old friends, Shawar burnt the old city to the ground. The people fled to where we are now, the new centre of Cairo. The fire raged for one whole month. Shawar again tried to appease Amalric. He offered him gold and a free hand in the rest of the country, but still there was no change.
At this point the Caliph al-Adid sent a messenger to our Sultan. Nur al-Din summoned me, and told me what was taking place. He sent me to Horns to fetch Shirkuh. When we returned, Nur al-Din ordered us to return to Cairo. I was reluctant. I could still see the suffering on the faces of the people at Alexandria. I did not want to experience another siege. Shirkuh took me aside.
“Are you the son of my brother or the son of a dog? Do you think I enjoy suffering? This time we will take Cairo. I need you at my side. Go and prepare your horses.”
I did as he asked. On hearing of our departure, Amalric had decided to withdraw. He had already seen that the Cairenes would resist him all the way despite the manoeuvres of Shawar. It was winter 1169 when we entered the city. As in Alexandria the previous year, we were welcomed, and the horses on which my uncle and I rode into Cairo were fed the most amazing dishes. We met Shawar in this very room, Ibn Yakub. He rose as Shirkuh and I entered, and pretended to welcome us, but his eyes would not meet my uncle’s. He fell on the floor and kissed Shirkuh’s feet. We asked whether the Caliph was expecting us, and Shawar nodded mutely.
“Then take us to him, you goat-fucker,” said Shirkuh with a cruel laugh.
He led us to the Caliph’s palace, through vaulted hallways and an endless number of ornamented chambers, each of them empty. Brightly coloured birds from Ifriqiya were making a terrible noise. We passed through a garden which contained tame lion cubs, a bear and two black panthers tied to a tree. Shirkuh was unmoved by all this, yet it was difficult not to be impressed. I tried to mimic my uncle and pretended that I, too, was unaffected. Then we entered a large room with a vaulted ceiling. It was divided by a thick silk curtain of the deepest red, on which circles of pure gold had been sewn, and jewels the size of eggs.
Shawar bowed before the curtain and laid his sword on the floor. We did not follow suit. Slowly the curtain rose and al-Adid emerged.
So, I thought to myself, this pathetic and frightened figure, barely eighteen years of age, his dark eyes shadowed by the signs of over-indulgence, surrounded by eunuchs and a great display of inordinate wealth, this was the Caliph of the Fatimids. The Caliph asked Shawar to leave his presence, and the defeated vizir slunk away like a smelly animal.
Shirkuh did not waste time. “You requested us to save Cairo. We are here. Before anything else, I ask for Shawar’s head. It is he who has brought death and destruction to our people.”
The Caliph of the Fatimids nodded. He spoke in a strange choked voice as if he too, like most of those who surrounded him, had been castrated.
“We welcome you to Cairo. We take great pleasure in appointing you as our vizir.”
Shirkuh bowed his acceptance, and we left the palace. The very next day, with the written permission of their Caliph, I personally separated Shawar’s head from his shoulders, throwing it on the ground at Shirkuh’s feet. My heart trembled, but my hand was strong.
“Now our Nasir is avenged,” he said, in a voice softened by the memory of his favourite archer.
Two months after this day, the heavens darkened. A terrible tragedy befell our family. My uncle Shirkuh passed away. I was not the only one who wept as news spread through the ranks of our army. Shirkuh was a much-loved commander, and even the emirs of Damascus, who made fun of the way he spoke the language of the Koran behind his back, were subdued by grief. Who would lead us now that Allah had taken away our mountain lion?
In our lives we are all prepared to die at any time, but Shirkuh’s death was not necessary. It was his appetite that led to his downfall. He had been invited to a feast where they ate for nearly three hours. Whole sheep had been roasted, goats grilled on an open fire, quails and partridges and every imaginable delicacy had been laid out before us. Shirkuh loved food. Even when he was very young, my grandmother often had to drag him away by force from the food. As I watched him, I remembered the old stories. He used to boast that he could eat and drink more than any other man in his army. Now he could not stop himself. It was a sad and an unpleasant sight. On three occasions Shadhi tried to restrain him, whispering warnings in his ear, but my uncle Shirkuh was in his own world. He choked on his food and began to suffocate. Shadhi hit him hard on the back and made him stand up, but it was too late. He lost consciousness and died in front of our eyes.
Shadhi and I hugged each other and wept. Throughout the night we kept guard over his bathed and shrouded body, which lay on a simple bed. Shirkuh’s soldiers, many of them veterans who had fought by his side while I was still a child, came in small groups and made their farewell. It was a strange sight to see these hardened soldiers, for whom the loss of a life was all part of a day’s work, weeping like children.