The evening ended with a Kurdish war-dance which entailed several pairs of fighters leaping over the camp-fire with unsheathed swords and fierce expressions, and the carefully orchestrated clash of swords.
As I was walking back to my tent, I saw the Emir Keukburi and Amjad the eunuch in animated conversation with a man of medium height who I did not recognise. He was clearly a nobleman, probably from Baghdad. He was wearing the colours of the Caliph, and a black silk turban which matched his flowing beard. Even in the starlight a precious stone the colour of blood, set in the centre of the turban, shone splendidly. I bowed to the party, and Amjad introduced me to the stranger. It was Ibn Said from Aleppo, who had lost his power of speech as a child and could only communicate with gestures.
“What did you think of the Kurds, Ibn Yakub?” asked Keukburi.
“They provide the Sultan’s army with much-needed colour,” was my polite reply, but the mute from Aleppo began to gesticulate wildly. Amjad the eunuch nodded sagely and translated Ibn Said’s hand movements for our benefit.
“Ibn Said wants you to know that the Kurds are only good for stripping a city clean. They are the vultures of our faith and should be used sparingly.”
Keukburi frowned.
“I am sure Ibn Said is aware that the Sultan himself is a Kurd and, for that reason, I cannot accept the insult lightly.”
Once again the stranger began his hand movements, which included touching the stone in his turban. Amjad watched every movement like a hawk, nodding all the while.
“Ibn Said says that he is only too well aware of the Sultan’s origins. He says that all precious stones are rough before they have been shaped and polished. The Sultan is such a precious stone, but the men from the mountains still require a lot of work.”
Keukburi smiled and was about to comment when Taki al-Din hailed him and took him away from us. They were both invited to sip tea with the Sultan. As they left I, too, began to move, when suddenly the mute Ibn Said began to speak.
“I knew I had deceived Keukburi, Ibn Yakub, but I thought your powers of observation were sharper.”
The voice was familiar, but the face…and then Amjad was laughing and I knew that the beard and turban were a disguise. Underneath lay the familiar features of the Sultana Jamila.
We all laughed and I was invited to the tent of “Ibn Said” to sip some coffee with her and Amjad the eunuch. Jamila could not live without her coffee, and the beans were sent regularly by her father and, lately, her sister in Harran. It was certainly the most delicious coffee in Damascus, and she was probably right in claiming that it was the best in Arabia and, therefore, the world.
We sat outside her tent savouring the aroma and watching the stars. None of us felt much like speaking. I had noticed this on previous days as well. Soldiers and emirs often sat quietly, deep in thought, before they went to sleep.
What were they thinking? What thoughts were crossing their minds? Were they, like me and Jamila and Amjad, thinking of the battles that lay ahead? Victory or defeat? Both were possible. The feeling of deep solidarity that existed in all these men when they marched together was undeniable. That solidarity was created by the knowledge that if they succeeded in driving the Franj out of al-Kuds, this army of which they were a part would be remembered throughout history.
This solidarity gave them a collective identity when they thought only of victory, but these soldiers were also individual human beings. They had mothers and fathers, and brothers and sisters and wives, and sons and daughters. Would they see their loved ones again? True this was a jihad, and that meant they would go straight to heaven without any accounting by the angels. But what if people close to them failed to win entry to heaven? What then? It was thoughts of this sort that dominated their minds as they savoured the night sky before closing their eyes. I know this because I spoke to many of them and heard their stories.
“If we lose,” said Jamila, “and Salah al-Din is killed, I will take my sons and return to my father’s home. I do not wish to sit in Damascus and watch more wars whose only aim is to determine who succeeds him. I suppose pessimism is natural on the eve of a war. My instinct, however, says the opposite. I feel strongly that he will win this war. Let us retire for the night, Ibn Yakub, and careful you do not betray my secret.”
I bade goodnight to the bearded Jamila, but the Sultan clearly had other plans for me. Just as I was walking to my tent, one of his bodyguards waylaid me with instructions to attend to the Sultan without delay. I rushed to my tent to collect my pen and ink and sheafs of paper.
The Sultan’s tent was surprisingly modest. It was only slightly bigger than mine, and the bed in the corner was no different to that on which I slept. The only sign of rank was a large silk carpet which covered the sand and on which he sat, leaning against a pile of cushions. Next to him were the Emir Keukburi and Taki al-Din. The Sultan was in a light mood. He looked at me and winked.
“Who is this Ibn Said from Aleppo who insults my Kurdish warriors?”
“A man of no importance, Commander of the Victorious.”
“I hope you are right. Keukburi is convinced that he is a spy of some sort.”
“Spies,” I replied, “are usually keen to ingratiate themselves with the enemy. They flatter shamelessly the better to deceive. The stranger from Aleppo is one of nature’s sceptics, with a whip for a tongue and a brain so sharp that it could slice a camel in two.”
The Sultan laughed.
“You have just described the Sultana Jamila.”
Everyone laughed at this sally, and Keukburi, unaware that he was the butt of the joke, louder than most, to show that he really appreciated the dig at his sister-in-law.
Before Keukburi’s ignorance as to the real identity of Ibn Said could be further exploited, the tent flap opened and the Sultan’s oldest son, al-Afdal, all of seventeen years, walked in and bowed to his father, acknowledging the rest of us with a patronising smile. He had grown since I last saw him over a year ago. His beard was neatly trimmed and his whole demeanour suggested a person of authority. I remembered him and his brothers as small boys being taught to ride in Cairo. I had seen this boy being taught how to fight with a sword on horseback and on foot.
Assuming that father and son wished to be alone, Taki al-Din, Keukburi and myself rose to leave. The Sultan permitted the other two to leave, but waved me to stay seated. After the two men had departed, he allowed his son to sit down.
The boy had fought his first battle several weeks ago and had sent his father a glowing account, comparing his first war to the deflowering of a virgin, an analogy that had greatly displeased Imad al-Din. He had muttered rudely that, whatever else he might become, al-Afdal could never be a prose stylist. Salah al-Din was a loving but stern father. Since the arrival of his son, his mood had changed. His face had taken on a severity which did not augur well for the young prince, who realising this just as I did, frowned at my presence. I smiled at him sweetly and he turned his face away, not looking his father in the eyes.
“Look at me Afdal! We are about to fight a battle in which I might die. Our spies tell us that the Franj King, Guy, has offered a large reward to the knight who lances me in the heart.”
The boy was moved to tears.
“I will be at your side always. They will have to kill me first.”