I was livid with anger. At that moment I decided that we had to make sure that the Franj never entered Damascus. Fate helped us. Since Nur al-Din’s death, the three great cities — Damascus, Aleppo and Mosul — had become divided. The eunuch who ruled Aleppo kidnapped Nur al-Din’s son and made him a pawn on the chess-board that was once his father’s kingdom. The nobles of Damascus became panic-stricken. They had lost the pawn to their rival. They appealed to Saif al-Din in Mosul, but he was engaged in his own plans and refused to help them.
At that point they turned to me. It was winter. We would have to ride through the night-cold of the desert, never a pleasing prospect. I called my commanders, and we prepared a force of a thousand carefully picked soldiers.
At these critical moments, timing is everything. Even a short delay and victory withers to defeat. We left the very next day and rode as if on our way to heaven. We took a spare horse for every soldier, enabling us to rest the beasts though not ourselves. Often we slept as we rode. Within four days I had reached the gates of Damascus. You see, O trusted scribe, the reason for my speed. Those who had, in desperation, invited me to save them were just as easily capable of changing their mind if another alternative in the shape of the Franj had appeared outside the city walls. I did not want to give them that opportunity.
As we entered the old city I found tears streaming down my face. This was the city of my youth. I went straight to my father’s house. The streets were crowded with people who were cheering our arrival. There were loud acclamations and the nobles, their faces hard as a camel’s behind, bowed before me and kissed my hands. They would have done the same to Amalric, though not in public. Our people would have hidden in their homes if the Franj had ever entered our town. I speak now not simply of the Believers, Ibn Yakub. Your people have always been with us, but even the old Christians of Damascus, who call themselves Copts, were not inclined to welcome the Knights Templar.
It was a joyous day, and many old friends came to see me. Imad al-Din, fearful of the nobles and their self-serving intrigues, had left the city and sought refuge in Baghdad. I sent for him. He is the al-Fadil of Damascus. These two good men are my conscience and my head. If every ruler possessed men like them, our world would be better governed. I left my younger brother, Tughtigin, in charge of Damascus and went to complete the task I had assigned myself, the task of reuniting Nur al-Din’s kingdom.
The winter was getting worse, there were reports of big snowfalls in the highlands. But I was intoxicated by the support of the people of Damascus. I decided not to waste more time. Often our rulers are so busy celebrating one victory, they fail to see that the revelry is costing them their kingdom.
The Sultan stopped speaking suddenly. I stopped writing and looked up at him. Exhaustion had swept his face and he was deep in thought. It was difficult to know what it was that had distracted him. Was it the thought of yet more wars and bloodshed? Or was he perhaps thinking of Shirkuh, whose advice would have been so useful at this stage?
I sat there paralysed, waiting for him to dismiss me, but he had a distant look in his eyes and appeared to have forgotten my presence. I was undecided when I felt Shadhi’s hand on my shoulder. He signalled that I should follow him out of the royal chamber, and both of us crept out quietly, not wishing to disturb Salah al-Din’s reverie. He saw us leaving and a strange, frozen smile crossed his lips. I was concerned for his health. I had never seen him like this before.
When I reached home, I realised that I, too, was debilitated by the day’s work. I had been sitting cross-legged, writing continuously for four hours. My legs and my right arm and hand were in need of care. Rachel heated some oil of almond to massage my fingers. Later, much later, she heated some more to soothe my tired legs and excite what lay, limp and inert, between them.
Fifteen
The causes of Shadhi’s melancholy; the story of his tragic love
“YOU WERE WORRIED LAST evening, Ibn Yakub. You thought Salah al-Din had been taken ill. I have seen that look on his face. It comes when turmoil takes over his mind. Usually this boy is very clear-headed, but he is assailed by doubts. Even when he was very young he could go into a trance, like our Sufis in the desert. He always recovers and usually feels much better. It is as if he has taken a purge.
“Yes, this old fool who you take as an illiterate clown from the mountains knows much more than he reveals, my good friend.”
Shadhi was not his usual ebullient self this morning. He had a sad look in his eyes, which upset me. I had come to feel very close to the old man, who knew his ruler better than anyone else alive. It was clear that the Sultan loved him, but Shadhi, whose familiarity with Salah al-Din puzzled many, including the Kadi, never took advantage of his position. He could have had anything: riches, fiefdoms, concubines, or whatever else had taken his fancy. He was a man of simple tastes. For him happiness lay in close proximity to Salah al-Din, whom he regarded as a son.
I asked him for the cause of his melancholy.
“I am getting older by the day. Soon I will be gone and this boy will have no shoulder on which to shed his tears, no person to tell him that he is being foolish and headstrong. As you know I rarely pray, but today I fingered a few beads and prayed to Allah to give me strength for a few more years so I can see Salah al-Din enter al-Kuds. The fear that this wish might not be granted upset me a little.”
For a while he said nothing, and I was touched by this uncharacteristic silence. His recovery, which was sudden, took me by surprise.
“Salah al-Din will not talk any more of his troubles, when he was subduing the heirs of Zengi and Nur al-Din. I think the memory of those days brings him pain. They were difficult times, but you should not imagine that he was a complete innocent. Hearing him talk to you yesterday one could get the impression that he was surprised by what finally happened. Not true.
“His father, Ayyub, had patiently and prudently prepared him for the day when Nur al-Din would pass away. I recall very well Ayyub warning him that impatience to secure Nur al-Din’s kingdom would be fatal. He had always to act in the dead Sultan’s interests, or that is what he should allow people to feel. He assimilated his old father’s advice and when the time came he acted on it, and acted well. The day when we entered Damascus, and the people of that city wept tears of joy and threw flowers at us, was what decided him that the time was now ripe. He needed to secure these lands and prepare for the great encounter with our enemy.
“It was exactly ten years ago today that he defeated the joint armies of Mosul and Aleppo. We were outnumbered five to one. To buy time, Salah al-Din offered our opponents a compromise, but they imagined that our heads were already in their saddle-bags. They dreamed of showing our Sultan’s head to the people of Damascus. They turned down our offer of truce. Then the Sultan became angry. His face was twisted with contempt for these fools. He spoke to his men, tried and tested veterans from Cairo and Damascus, who had fought many wars against the Franj. He told them that victory today would seal the fate of the Franj. He told them they were to fight against other Believers who were traitors to the cause of the great Nur al-Din. He, Salah al-Din, would take up the black and green colours of the Prophet and cleanse these lands of the barbarians.