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Imad al-Din’s retainer knocked on the door. I offered the great man some tea, but he touched his left cheek and shook his head. I had not noticed the swelling earlier that evening, but he appeared to be in pain.

“It is a bad tooth, Ibn Yakub,” he groaned. “I have been sucking cloves to numb the pain, but it will have to be removed tomorrow. To tell you the truth I am not in a mood for anything tonight except the solitude of my bedchamber. Yet Zubayda has not sung for many years. It is an experience you will never forget, something you will tell your grandchildren.”

The town crier preceded us on the narrow streets, often clearing a path through hordes of families and noisy children desperate for some air.

“Make way, make way for the great Imad al-Din, counsellor to the Sultan Yusuf Salah al-Din ibn Ayyub.”

We saw familiar faces outside Zubayda’s house. The Sultan’s personal guards were on duty, swords raised as we approached, but lowered as they recognised us. The Nubian mute, who had been with the Sultan as long as me, grinned at our arrival and hastened to unfasten the door that led to the courtyard. It was to be an outdoor occasion. The courtyard was lit by lamps and the floor covered in rugs and cushions. There were no more than fifteen people present — among them, to my amazement, the Sultana Jamila. She smiled pleasantly to acknowledge my arrival. My heart quickened its pace.

We bowed to the Sultan, who smiled and indicated we should sit by his side. He introduced us to Zubayda. She was approaching her seventieth year, but her face radiated an attraction that surprised me. Her white hair shone in the darkness and illuminated her face. She had not washed it with henna to disguise her age. Her complexion was dark, not unlike that of Jamila, who I was trying to forget that evening and whose presence had shaken me.

Zubayda’s eyes were large and lively, without a trace of sadness or regret. She had lived a rich life, that much was obvious, but had it been a life devoid of pain? Is any life completely without pain? She had been watching me observe her and suddenly she smiled. Her teeth, to my amazement, were as white as snow. How in Allah’s name had she managed to preserve their youth?

It was as if she had heard all my questions.

“Salah al-Din has mentioned you to me, Ibn Yakub.” Her voice was throaty and rich. “I know what you are thinking. Understand that my soul is quiet and tranquil. I want nothing. I regret nothing. I hope that death, when it comes, will be swift, like Salah al-Din’s sword when it strikes the Franj.”

“Umm Zubayda,” the Sultan’s voice was softer than usual. “We have come to hear you sing.”

There were two musicians present, waiting patiently, fingering their lutes. She looked at them and put a finger to her lips. She wanted to sing tonight without any accompaniment. There was an expectant hush and then she sang. Listening to her was like entering heaven. Her voice was truly inimitable. I have not heard one like it before or since. It was a song she had written herself, and though it was simple and short, it took half an hour to complete, as each line was repeated several times, with musical variations.

ZUBAYDA’S LOVE SONG

On a warm night we drank some wine.

A soft breeze caressed my burning face.

He took me to the balcony and showed me the moon

And tried to make me believe he loved another.

I laughed. I wept.

I didn’t believe him.

“You poor fool,” I said, “you are young, you confuse reality with dreams.”

He smiled. He left me.

A single salty tear wet my face and I knew

The confusion was all mine.

Yes, mine.

Mine. Mine. Mine. Mine. Mine.

Zubayda did not sing again that night. The musicians entertained us while we ate the food that had been carefully prepared in her kitchen. The Sultan was abstemious, but Imad al-Din’s toothache did not appear to prevent him enjoying the four different varieties of meat that were laid before us.

After dinner there was more music, during the course of which Jamila prepared to depart. She asked me to accompany the litter in which she would be carried back to the citadel. The Sultan nodded his permission and I took my leave of the great singer, who invited me to visit her again so that she could tell me her story.

Jamila did not wait for me to speak.

“So you have heard all the evil talk?”

“Is it true, Sultana?”

“You know full well that my love is as pure as my hate. Jealousy is a poison that has to be removed in order to free more space in our heads for lofty reflections. That is all I will ever say on this subject.”

I walked along in silence as the litter-bearers readjusted their burden slightly so as to ease their climb up the incline that led to the citadel. She dismissed me with a brutal laugh.

“You may return to your wife, Ibn Yakub. Enjoy her embrace, for tomorrow you leave for al-Kuds, and who knows what Allah has in store for all of you?”

Rachel, who has the most tranquil of temperaments, appeared nervous and tense when I reached our home.

“The Franj will make the Sultan pay a heavy price before they will give up Jerusalem,” she said. “I fear that you might be part of that price. I have a terrible premonition that I will never see you again.”

I comforted her fears. I told her of how Salah al-Din always made sure that I was kept away from any real danger. I mocked her superstitions. I tried to make her laugh, but failed miserably. It seemed as if nothing could dispel her worries. I wanted to love her, but she was reluctant, and so we lay mute in each other’s arms till I fell asleep.

A retainer from the citadel woke me just before the break of dawn. Rachel had not slept at all. She sat up in bed and watched me dress. Then, as I took my leave of her, she almost suffocated me in a tight embrace and would not release me. Gently, I prised her hands away and kissed her eyes. “After the victory in Jerusalem I shall come to our house in Cairo so that we can celebrate together,” I whispered in her ear. “I will write often.” She did not reply.

Thirty-Five

From the outskirts of Jerusalem I write an excited letter to my good wife in Cairo

MY VERY DEAR WIFE, It is strange to think of you back in that old house with so many memories, most of them happy. I am sending this letter with the courier who is carrying royal dispatches from al-Adil to the palace, so you will get it sooner than if I used the caravans.

It is almost a month since you left, and this is the first opportunity that I have had to sit and write to you. We are living in tents within sight of the walls of Jerusalem. It is a strange sensation to be so close to the Holy City. The Sultan has offered them terms, but some of the fools want to die holding their infernal crosses.

You have by now probably heard from our friends in the palace why it has all taken so long. When we marched away from Damascus, the Sultan was overcome by one of his usual fits of indecision. Jerusalem could wait till he had cleared the coast. Once again he tried to take Tyre, but the resistance was strong. The emirs were now determined to take the city regardless of our casualties. They felt it had become a symbol of Franj resistance and should be erased from the map. Salah al-Din was annoyed that it had already taken up too much of his time. He decided to march away and we laid siege to Ascalon.

The Franj held out for nearly fourteen days, but the Sultan brought their King Guy from Damascus and offered to release him if they surrendered. They gave Guy authority to deal on their behalf, and he promptly agreed terms with the Sultan. We did not lose many men. The day we took the city turned cold all of a sudden when the sun’s face was completely hidden. That very day a delegation of nobles from Jerusalem arrived in Ascalon. The Sultan offered them very good terms if they surrendered the Holy City, and they promised to recommend such an offer to the knights. When they got back, the Patriarch scolded them severely. The Church does not wish to surrender the city where Jesus was crucified without a battle.