The Sultan began to laugh at the memory.
“I think there is no need to remind the German King of that unfortunate occurrence. Draft a reply now, Imad al-Din. This young man is also a scribe and will take down your words.”
Imad al-Din looked at the boy and was overcome by desire. He caught his eye, but the Copt scribe looked hurriedly away. The Sultan’s secretary began to dictate, all the while shamelessly eyeing Tarik’s slender frame.
“To the Great King, Frederick of Germany, in the name of Allah, the Merciful, the Powerful, the Almighty, the Victorious.
“We thank you for your letter, but, alas, it is too late. With the blessings of Allah we are already in possession of al-Kuds, which you call Jerusalem. Three cities alone remain in Christian hands, Tyre, Tripoli and Antioch, but rest assured, powerful King, that we shall take all these as well.
“We could not help but notice that you have no words to describe the valour of the Tuscans, Venetians and Pisans, and this upsets us, for we are only too well aware of the qualities of the men who hail from these regions. They are beautiful in body and mind and have provided a great deal of pleasure to our Bedouins, starved of love and life in the desert. We look forward to seeing them again.
“If you want war, we await you, but understand this: once you are here there will be a sea between you and your lands. Nothing separates us from our people and our possessions. That is why we shall defeat you till the dawn of Judgement Day. This time we shall not be satisfied with your cities on our sea-coast, but will cross the water, and it will please Allah to take away all your lands, since your fighting men will be buried here, underneath the sand.
“This letter is written in the year 584 by the grace of Allah and his Prophet. It bears the signature of the conqueror of al-Kuds.
“Yusuf Ibn Ayyub.”
Imad al-Din looked at the assembled company, enjoying the mirth that greeted his letter. What pleased him the most was the shy smile on Tarik’s face, but the Sultan wanted something far more serious in tone. Salah al-Din had now become very conscious of his place in history. The delegations of scholars gathering in the city and the messages he had received from Believers all over the world, not forgetting, of course, the over-effusive greetings from the Caliph and his courtiers in Baghdad, had confirmed his belief in himself. For this reason he wanted all the dispatches sent in his name to bear the mark of his new status as the saviour of his faith. Imad al-Din was sent to his own office to rewrite the letter in more dignified terms and present it next morning to the Sultan for the attachment of his seal.
As I left the chamber, a hand tapped me on my shoulder. It was a Nubian eunuch, the old mute with white hair whom I had seen many times before at the citadel in Damascus. With exaggerated gestures of his hand, he indicated that I should follow him. He took me outside a chamber and withdrew.
“Come in, Ibn Yakub,” said the only too familiar voice behind the latticed door. It was the Sultana Jamila.
I entered and bowed. She pre-empted my first question.
“Amjad? Alas, he is no longer with us. He spread so many calumnies to so many people that I had to ask for him to be sent away. The steward dealt with the matter. Do not look so worried. He is still alive.”
Before I could express my relief, she had moved on to another subject.
“Does the heart have a language, Ibn Yakub?”
I smiled, but could not reply. From the brutal disposal of Amjad the eunuch she was transporting us into the intimate world of her philosophy.
“Come now, scribe, think hard. No? Perhaps your heart is mute. Most hearts speak a strange mixture of realities and dreams, though the exact proportion of each is always variable, since, ultimately, everything is determined by external circumstances. The heart is not a book which you can always open at the same place. If a heart is shattered to pieces it can bleed for many days, but then, suddenly, turn to stone. Do you agree?”
I nodded. I knew perfectly well what it was that had sent her mind wandering in this direction, but she wanted me to ask and so I posed the question.
“What has made you think of all this at such a time, Sultana? We are celebrating the fall of Jerusalem, and it surprises me that you are withdrawing deep into your inner self.”
“My heart has undergone numerous transformations, Ibn Yakub. It has been light for many months, but a heaviness appears to have captured it again. Today, for example, I am crippled by remorse. I should have made my peace with Halima before she felt compelled to run away from my wrath and seek refuge in Cairo. She came to me once, her eyes filled with sadness, and wanted us to be friends again. I was hard-hearted, Ibn Yakub. I rejected her. I spurned her offer with contempt. Why? Because friendship, which has once coexisted with love and passion, is helpless on its own. To even strive towards it is the sign of an unsound mind. Those who think they have succeeded are, sooner or later, struck down by grief.
“Then she died. Evil tongues accused me of having sent the fatal poison. A base lie, spoken by a man about to meet his Maker and crazed with jealousy. That mamluk, incapable of enduring Halima’s love for another woman, chose to blame me for his foul deed. As you know, I too was upset when I heard that Halima had found another woman, but it was inconceivable for me to punish her with death. I would have preferred to prolong her life so that I could find a delicious way to torture her. Though I will say something that might shock you, Ibn Yakub. It is all part of the language of my heart. When news of her death and its manner first arrived, I was not displeased.
“She had poisoned our love. She had killed what was precious to both of us. She had been poisoned in return. It was a cruel and unworthy reaction, but it was what my heart was saying at the time. This is the reason I have begun to investigate the connections between the heart and the mind. My paper on the logic of the heart will be finished before the first khutba in the Great Mosque. Do not judge me too harshly. This is a time for celebration. Salah al-Din has taken al-Kuds. My heart is full of joy.”
I woke late the next morning to find the heat of the sun burning my face. I had not slept well. Jamila’s words of the previous night were passing through my mind in a loop. Her callousness towards Halima had angered me greatly, but now, despite all my misgivings, I found myself admiring her fortitude and honesty. She was truly a woman who, unlike her esteemed and much-loved husband, did not believe in taking prisoners.
There were times when I wished that, just for a few months, a good djinn would transform this Sultana into the Sultan.
Thirty-Seven
The Kadi of Aleppo preaches in the mosque; the Sultan receives a letter from Bertrand of Toulouse; my family are burnt to death in a Franj raid in Cairo
TEN DAYS LATER, WE were all gathered in the great mosque of al-Aqsa. It had been thoroughly cleaned and the polished stones were shining with the glitter of paradise. All the emirs and kadis from the empire of Salah al-Din were present, as were his son al-Afdal, his nephew Taki al-Din and his favourite commander, the Emir Keukburi.
The pulpit, which had been constructed for this purpose on the orders of the late Sultan Nur al-Din, had arrived from Damascus.
The Kadi of Aleppo, dressed in black robes and wearing a green turban, climbed the steps hesitantly, and as he clutched the pulpit to steady himself those of us sitting near the front could see his hands trembling. He knew that the words he spoke this day would be remembered for a long time to come. He was also aware that the Sultan’s patience was notoriously short and he did not look kindly on extended sermons. The Kadi spoke in sonorous tones and began, as befitted such an occasion, with a brief history of the successes achieved by the followers of the Prophet in a short space of time.