“Listen to a singing girl, sitting cross-legged and playing the four-stringed lute.”
Imad al-Din laughed.
“Could it be that the mind of the Commander of the Victorious has recalled the delights and merits of Zubayda?”
The Sultan’s face paled slightly at the mention of the name, but he nodded.
“She still resides in Damascus. She is not as young as we all once were, but I am told that her voice has not changed much. If the Sultan will permit, I will make some inquiries in this city to ascertain…”
“No, Imad al-Din!” interrupted the Sultan. “I spoke in a moment of weakness. This is a city of merchants. Nightingales could not survive here. Do you really believe that there could ever be another Zubayda? Go now both of you and get some rest. I require your presence at the Council and, as a special favour to Imad al-Din, I will not oblige you to eat with me beforehand.”
I had not known the Sultan in such a relaxed mood since our early days in Cairo. Since his return to Damascus he had usually been tense and preoccupied with matters of state.
Later, as the great master of prose and I were being scrubbed by attendants in the bath, I questioned him about Zubayda. He was surprised that Shadhi had never mentioned the object of Salah al-Din’s youthful passions. As we were being dried in the chamber adjoining the baths, he provided me with an account that, once again, revealed his startling capacity for recollection.
“It was the love of a sixteen-year-old boy for a thing of great beauty. You smile, Ibn Yakub, and I know what is passing through your mind. You are thinking how can I, of all people, appreciate beauty in a woman. Am I wrong? You smile again, which confirms my instincts. I understand your doubts. It is true that the sight, even of your unwieldy body, excites me more than that of any woman, but Zubayda was exquisite because of her deep, throaty, voice. It touched the souls of all who heard her sing. Truly, my friend, she was unrivalled in perfection.
“I have no idea of her lineage. It was rumoured that she was the child of a slave woman who had been captured in battle. Zubayda herself never once talked about her past. She did not speak much in company, though al-Fadil, who was also charmed by her, told me once that her conversation sparkled when she was in the presence of just one or two people at the most. That privilege was denied me.
“I was present, however, when young Salah al-Din, his spirit clouded by arrogance, saw her the first time, in the presence of his father Ayyub and his uncle Shirkuh. Of course, Shadhi, too, in those days, was everywhere. It was in the house of a merchant, a man desperate to please Ayyub. He had, for that reason, obtained the services of Zubayda. This was the first time we had heard her sing. Salah al-Din was captivated at once. One could almost see his heart inflamed, by a passion so pure that it could burn everything.
“Zubayda had not yet reached her thirtieth year. Her complexion was fair, her hair was dark, and her large eyes shone like two lamps from heaven. Her teeth when she smiled put pearls to shame. She was slightly built, and if I may say so, she reminded me of a beautiful boy I had once loved in Baghdad. At times her eyes would move away from us, as if she were in a dreamlike trance. Her face then reminded me of a soft moon-entangled cloud. I wish she had been a boy, Ibn Yakub, but I must not digress.
“She was dressed that night in a silk robe, the colour of the sky. It was richly patterned with a variety of birds. The nightingales were embroidered in gold thread. Her head was covered by a long black scarf, with a circular red motif. A silver bracelet hung loosely on each of her wrists. All this one forgot when she played the lute and her voice accompanied the music. It was heaven, my friend. Pure heaven.
“Salah al-Din had to be taken home that night by force. His uncle Shirkuh offered to buy Zubayda for him, but the very thought that she could be bought offended his love. His face paled as he walked away, the blood pulsing in his veins, the ever-protective Shadhi by his side. From that night on, he never missed an opportunity to hear her sing. He sent her presents. He declared his love for her. She would smile with sad eyes, gently stroke his head, and whisper that women like her were not meant to grace the beds of young princes. He began to write poetry underneath the thick, forking pear tree in the courtyard of Ayyub’s house. He would send her couplets, one of which later came to my attention. He spoke of her as more beautiful than the full moon in heaven’s vaults because her beauty survived the dawn. The quality of the poems, as you can imagine, was indifferent, but there was no doubt that they were deeply felt.
“Zubayda was touched by the boy’s love, but she had her own life to live, a life which, of necessity, excluded Salah al-Din. He refused to understand what she was trying to tell him. He could not accept that he was being spurned and rejected. Believe me, Ibn Yakub, when I tell you that things got so bad that this sober, cautious Sultan threatened to take his own life unless he could marry her. His uncle Shirkuh settled the affair by taking him away to Cairo. The rest is known to you. Salah al-Din became a Sultan. Zubayda remained a courtesan.”
Aware of Salah al-Din’s strong will and his obstinacy, I expressed surprise that he had let the singer go so easily. He had obviously left her with regret, but surely he could have returned to her in rapture, and even married her at a later stage. The fact that she was a courtesan would not have bothered him a great deal. Everyone knew, after all, that usually it was the courtesans that made the most faithful wives.
What puzzled me was why Shadhi had never even referred to this tale. Not once. Either the great scholar was exaggerating a youthful obsession or there was another reason, which was still hidden from me. I pressed the Sultan of Memory further, and insisted on being told the whole truth.
Imad al-Din sighed.
“Alas, my friend, she was the keep of his father Ayyub. When Shirkuh made Salah al-Din aware of this terrible fact, something died in the young man. I am firmly of the opinion that after learning of this he diverted all his energies towards warcraft. When I am turned down by a lover all my efforts become concentrated on the books I am preparing for publication. For Salah al-Din it was sword-fighting and riding. It was as if the love he wished, but was not permitted to bestow on Zubayda, was transferred to horses. You may smile, Ibn Yakub, but my observation was not designed to provoke levity on your part.
“Zubayda’s rejection pierced his young heart like a knife. It took him a long time to recover. The consequence was, as you are no doubt aware, that he married much later in life than most men of his position. Once the children began to arrive he became as active as his favourite steed. He took one concubine after another, and produced more sons than his father and uncle put together.
“Despite the growth of his families, nobody was permitted to mention Zubayda’s name in his presence. Her memory was banished. Perhaps that is why Shadhi never told you. He realised it was a painful subject.
“Today I took a big risk. I just knew Salah al-Din was thinking about her. He wanted to share his triumph with her, to tell her: ‘Look at this man, Zubayda. He has achieved much more than his father.’ I felt this instinctively and that is why I took the liberty of mentioning her name. I was truly surprised when the Sultan responded in the way he did. He might have sent me out of the room. I think the pain has finally disappeared. We shall see if he sends for her when we return to Damascus.”
I was now overcome by a burning desire to cast my eyes on Zubayda, to listen to her voice and to hear her play on the four-stringed lute. I determined to see her on my return to Damascus. Perhaps she might add to the story. Perhaps it had meant little to her in the first place. Could it be that Salah al-Din, so cautious in war, had been equally cautious in love? I could not let the matter rest. Imad al-Din had told me all he knew, but I felt that there was something more to the story. I would uncover the truth. If Zubayda was not forthcoming, I would question Jamila. She was the only living person who could exhaust the Sultan with her questions till he told her what she wanted to know.