The great scholar, whose eyes had been shut for most of the Sultan’s speech was clearly not asleep.
“It is not simply the scent of victory in their nostrils that sends them to us, O Commander of the Victorious. They feel in their bones that our history is about to be refashioned. They want to tell their children and their grandchildren that they fought with Salah al-Din on the day that is about to happen.”
Salah al-Din, usually deaf to coarse flattery, was not displeased by Imad al-Din’s remarks.
“Tomorrow I leave Damascus to join the army, gathering for our last big effort. We will all leave at different times and by separate routes, just in case the Franj have prepared an ambush. If something happens to me before or during the battle, I do not wish you to waste any time in mourning. Finish the work that Allah has given us, and never let the enemy think that the death of one single person could disorganise our force. Now leave, and may Allah give you the strength we need for victory. There is only one Allah and Mohammed is his Prophet.”
The emirs dispersed, but not before each of them had come forward to embrace the Sultan and kiss his cheeks. With the ritual over, the Sultan turned to the Kadi al-Fadil, and to Imad al-Din and myself.
“I want all of you to be at my side. Imad al-Din to compose letters demanding total surrender, al-Fadil to ensure that I make no mistakes in dealing with our own emirs, and Ibn Yakub to inscribe everything on parchment. Whatever Allah has decreed for us, be it victory or defeat, our children and their children will never be able to forget what we sacrificed for their future.”
This was the first occasion on which the Sultan had mentioned me in the same breath as al-Fadil and Imad al-Din. To write that I was flattered would be a terrible understatement. He recognised my worth, that alone was sufficient to make me feel I was in heaven. I could not wait to rush home and tell Rachel, but my pace slowed as I realised that this would be another long parting.
Before I could leave the citadel, the light-haired figure of Amjad the eunuch appeared before me. I groaned. He laughed.
“This time the call is from the Sultana Jamila. She requires your presence. Follow me, if you please.”
I never regretted a conversation with Jamila, which usually improved my knowledge of our world and my understanding of human emotions. But on this day, bursting with news of my little triumph, I wanted to share my joy with Rachel. It would have mitigated the sorrow of parting, but I was nothing more than a scribe and I obeyed orders. So, like a faithful dog, I followed Amjad the eunuch to the special chamber where the Sultana met male visitors. Her face was glowing with pleasure, and she smiled as I entered. The smile melted my heart and I felt guilty at having wished to avoid her. This was only the second occasion since her return from the lands in the South, and it confirmed me in my opinion that she was now fully recovered.
“Welcome, Ibn Yakub, and congratulations. I am told that you are to be one of the three wise men who will accompany the Sultan and observe the mother of all battles. And I will be the only woman, wise or otherwise.”
She saw the look on my face, and began to laugh.
“He resisted and resisted, but I won. I have your Sultan’s permission. I will have my own tent, and my special guard of eunuchs under the leadership of Amjad, and a number of well-trained mamluks.
“Keukburi must not know till we arrive. You know he is married to my younger sister. If she knew she would move the stars in an attempt to share my tent. But Salah al-Din forbade me to tell anyone except you, for when you are not busy writing we shall keep each other company. I have much to relate, but we can talk during the journey. We leave tomorrow and it is nearly midday. You must have time with your wife and daughter.”
I thanked her and was about to take my leave, when she began to speak again. She had something else to tell me. I settled down on the cushion at her feet.
“I met Halima last night. We ate together. She has permission to take her son to Cairo, where she will await the Sultan’s pleasure. I was surprised when she sent me a message asking for a meeting, but it did not disturb my calm. What was it you once told me that your old friend Ibn Maymun had written on emotions?”
Hearing the mention of Ibn Maymun took me aback, but I, too, remained calm.
“I think what he wrote was to the effect that emotions of the soul affect the functioning of the body and produce significant and wide-ranging changes in the state of our health. Unless emotions that cause upset and disorders are smoothed out, we remain ill at ease with ourselves and all those who come into contact with us.”
She laughed again.
“Your Ibn Maymun is a truly great philosopher. He pierces the inner depths of our hearts and souls. You can tell him that he is correct. I feel well again. The emotions that tormented my soul have disappeared forever.
“When I met Halima I was not sure how I would react. I did not know what to expect from her or myself. In the event it was like meeting a stranger. She left me cold, Ibn Yakub. She apologised to me at length for having maligned me to her retainers and friends, the lowest of the low in the harem. She wanted us to be friends again and, with a pitiful smile, she tried to reach my heart by saying that the demons had finally abandoned her mind and she was her old self again.
“I had no desire to be cruel or flaunt my indifference, so I smiled and told her I understood, but we could not recreate what had been lost. She looked sad and her eyes filled with tears, but with my hard heart I felt nothing. The place which she had once filled in my life had become occupied by other things, including the works of the great al-Farabi. So, I wished her well, and hoped she would find good friends in Cairo and bring up her son to be a decent, educated human being. With these words I left her. Do you think I was overly harsh, Ibn Yakub? No dissembling. Speak plainly.”
I thought for a moment and spoke the truth.
“It is difficult for me since I knew both of you at the peak of your happiness. I saw how you were with her and she with you. I envied both of you. And then when she became ill in her mind, it was not simply you that she rejected. I too was discarded, for I reminded her of the satanic past. In your place I would have done exactly the same, O Sultana, but I am not and never was in your place. If she asked me, I would resume my friendship with her. She needs friends.”
“You are a good man, scribe. Now go to your wife and make your farewells. We leave at dawn tomorrow.”
I was not thinking of Halima and Jamila as I walked back from the citadel to our house. My head could not rid itself of Ibn Maymun. Jamila’s reference to him had not hurt at the time, but now it reopened old wounds. My bitter anger was no longer directed at Rachel, but against her greatly venerated seducer. If I had seen him on the street, I would have picked up a stone and burst open his head. The violent character of this thought upset me greatly, yet it also calmed me as I reached the outer courtyard of our house.
Rachel greeted me with news. Our daughter had become engaged to the son of the cantor in the synagogue. The father I knew well, an intelligent and well-read man. As for the son, Rachel informed me that he was a bookbinder by trade.
“Does he read what he binds?”
“Ask your daughter!”
One look at Maryam’s face was enough to tell me all I needed to know. The child was clearly very happy with her mother’s choice. My question became redundant. It was a strange sensation. Soon this girl around whom we had built our lives would leave our house and enter that of another man. How would it affect relations between Rachel and me? Would we painlessly grow old together, or would we grow apart? I could not think too much because they were insisting that I go and meet the boy. I had not yet told them my own news, but given my departure it was necessary that I inspect the young man who was to take my daughter away. It was with difficulty that I prevented Rachel from accompanying me.