After midnight, we were left alone. Shadhi would remember an old episode, long before I was born, and begin to weep again. I remembered Shirkuh, his flashing eyes full of laughter as he sang to his own children and to us just as we were approaching manhood. Once when he discovered that I had been going secretly to a tavern, he called me into his room. His face was stern and I was scared. He had a terrible temper. “You have been drinking?” I shook my head. “Don’t lie, boy!” I nodded. He roared with laughter and recited the sayings of Ibn Sina, which he forced me to recite after him:
Wine is a raging enemy, a prudent friend,
A small amount is an antidote, too much a snake’s poison,
In excess it leads to no small injury,
But in a little there is much profit.
Alas, it was not a lesson he learnt himself. His death was the price he paid for over-indulgence in meat and wine. Ever since the day when I saw him die, I have been repulsed by the presence of too much meat on my table. Now do you understand why I insist on a balanced diet, Ibn Yakub? I felt the other day when we broke bread together that you really did not appreciate the meal. We shall discuss all this another time. Let us continue.
The next day, after Shirkuh’s burial, the emirs of Damascus remained aloof from me. They were huddled in little groups whispering to each other. I did not appreciate the cause of their disaffection till much later that evening.
The advisers of the Caliph of the Fatimids saw me as young, inexperienced, and weak — someone who could be easily manipulated by the court. I was invited to the palace and given the title of al-Malik al-Nasir — victorious king. How they must have laughed amongst themselves, thinking that in me they had found a pliant instrument. I was conscious of the honour, but felt lost without Shirkuh. I felt like a re-channelled river, momentarily disoriented as I observed the new landscape.
I needed to talk to Shirkuh or, failing him, my own father, who was in Damascus with Nur al-Din. As I thought about our great Sultan, I wondered what he would make of my elevation. His proud emirs, men of noble lineage, were clearly upset that a lowly Kurd from the mountains, who, in their eyes, could not speak the divine language properly, was now Vizir of Misr. I determined to send a message to Nur al-Din reaffirming that he, and not the Caliph of the Fatimids, was my commander. The last person in the world I wanted to be sharply pitted against was Nur al-Din.
The vizir’s white turban, embroidered with gold, was placed on this head, a sword decorated with jewels was placed in my hand, and a beautiful mare with a saddle and bridle encrusted with pearls and gold was given to me. I then marched at the head of a ceremonial procession with much music and chanting. We came, eventually, to this palace and to this room — here, where we are seated. It is a good place to be, and it is a good time to end our labours for the day, Ibn Yakub.
I’m glad you insisted that we finish this particular story, but I can see that your fingers are stiff. Your wife will need to rub ointments on your hands tonight, and my loyal al-Fadil must be very angry with me. I have never kept him waiting so long.
Ten
I meet Halima in secret to hear her story; she tells of her life in the harem and the brilliance of the Sultana Jamila
THE NEXT DAY A messenger arrived from the palace. He brought with him a large basket of fruits and other delicacies for my wife and child, and a message for me. The Sultan and the Kadi had left the town for a day or two and I was to be permitted a respite from my tasks. I was somewhat put out. I felt I might have been given the option to decide whether or not I was to accompany them. Where had they gone and why? Perhaps the Kadi was punishing me for having kept Salah al-Din to myself for so long the previous day. How could I write a proper account of the Sultan if I was excluded in this fashion from his daily work?
There was much rejoicing in the house after the messenger’s departure. For weeks I had barely seen Maryam, and there was much anger that I had arrived late for the feast in honour of her tenth birthday a few weeks ago. Even Ibn Maymun had rebuked me on that occasion. Rachel was, of course, delighted by my temporary leisure. Relations between us had returned to normal, but she still resented the amount of time I spent at the palace. Yet she showed no signs of resentment at the unsolicited gifts arriving regularly at our house. These came not from the palace but from merchants and courtiers, who believed I had a great influence with the Sultan.
Ever since I had started my work as Salah al-Din’s personal scribe, we had not spent a single dinar on food or oil. Add to this the satins and silks which were normally beyond the reach of people like us. Both Rachel and Maryam were now dressed in the fashion of the court nobility. On one occasion, when I taxed Rachel with all this, she laughed without any sense of shame, and replied:
“The pain of our separation is undoubtedly relieved by the receipt of all these gifts, though I still think that if I was to put you at one end of the big scales in the market and all the gifts on the other, the balance would still favour you.”
Later that afternoon, as all three of us were wandering aimlessly through the streets, observing what was on offer at the various stalls, a woman I did not recognise handed me a note, slipping rapidly away before I could question her. The message was unsigned, but it asked me to present myself at the palace library the next day. Rachel and I both assumed it was a message from Shadhi, acting on the orders of the Sultan, but I was puzzled by the choice of messenger. Something in me told me that the message had originated with neither Shadhi nor the Sultan.
The next day, upon entering the library, I was told by an attendant that Salah al-Din and al-Fadil had still not returned from the country. As I sat waiting for the person who had sent me the note, I heard a slight noise behind me, and turned to see the wooden shelves in one wall moving. Slightly nervous, I stepped forward to see a flight of stairs beneath the ground and a figure slowly ascending them. It was Halima. She smiled at my astonishment. The executed eunuch Ilmas had told her of the existence of a secret passage from the harem to the library. It had been built by al-Adid’s grandfather, a Caliph who did not object to his wives or concubines having access to the library. Subsequently the palace had been given to the vizir, and the passage had fallen into disuse.
It was dangerous to talk in the library. Halima wanted to meet in the room of a friend near the public baths, later that afternoon. The same woman who had handed me the message would meet me within a few hours, and guide me to her presence.
I was entering stormy waters. If I met her and did not inform the Sultan, my own neck could soon lie beneath the sword. If I did tell Salah al-Din, would Halima’s life be worth living? Perhaps I should disregard her invitation. While walking through the courtyard, I saw Shadhi, who hugged me with real warmth. I had not seen him for some time. He too was annoyed with Salah al-Din for having left without him, but informed me that he was due back in the palace tonight.
We sat in the sun and talked. It was as if we had always been close and trusted friends. He asked how the Book of Salah al-Din was progressing, and I told him where the narrative had stopped. His memory confirmed Salah al-Din’s account of the circumstances that led to Shirkuh’s death. The memory saddened the old man. Taking my fate in my hands, I told Shadhi of my meeting with Halima. To my surprise he chuckled.
“Careful of that mare, Ibn Yakub, careful. She’s dangerous. Before you know it you will have mounted her, and she will have galloped across the desert with you tied to her back. She has Kurdish blood, and these mountain women, let me tell you, are very strong-willed. I know not what she has in store for you, but whatever it may be she will not let you resist. Once women like her have decided to do something, they do not permit mere men to stop them.”