I bowed and took my leave of him. I returned to my quarters. For over an hour I couldn’t weep. I sat on the floor and stared at the wall. A calamity had been inflicted on me. Anguish dumbed me. Neither words nor tears could express the pain that had gripped all of me. I thought of Rachel and Maryam, her child clasped close to her bosom, all three sleeping peacefully as the barbarians set our house on fire.
It was as I began to pack my clothes that I found myself weeping loudly. I thought of all the things I had thought, but not said to Rachel. She had died not knowing the depths of my unspoken love for her. And my little Maryam, who I had wanted to live without misfortune and raise her children in peace with her husband.
I did not sleep, but went outside and walked on the battlements, watching the eternal movement of the stars and shedding silent tears. I felt bitter and angry. I wanted revenge. I wanted to roast Franj knights on a slow fire and laugh loudly at their death agony.
As we left early next morning I heard the oriole’s mournful song and my face was wet again. I have no recollection of that journey from Jerusalem to Cairo. I know not how many times we stopped or where we slept. All I remember is the kind face of the Sultan’s courier, who offered me a skin flask containing water which I drank and also used to wash the dust off my face. I remember also that at some stage during that pain-filled expedition I suddenly wanted to return to the Sultan. I felt there was no point in raking over the embers of the tragedy. I wanted to forget. I did not wish to see the charred remains of that old house with the domed room. It was too late.
Ibn Maymun was waiting for me at the ruins of the house. We embraced each other and wept. No words were spoken. Grief had melted old animosities and resentments. He took me to his house. For many months I lived in a daze. I lost all sense of time. I had no idea what was taking place in the world outside. Later I began to accompany the great physician to Cairo. He would attend to his patients in the palace. I would revisit old friends in the library, books I had read when I first became the Sultan’s scribe. Sometimes the books would stir painful memories and Rachel would occupy my mind. Fresh tears would dissolve my concentration.
Ibn Maymun treated me as a friend and a very special patient. He fed me on fresh fish from the Nile, grilled on charcoal and served on a bed of brown rice. He made me drink herbal concoctions every night which soothed my shattered nerves and helped me to sleep. There were days when I did not speak a word to anyone. I used to walk to the stream near Ibn Maymun’s house and sit on a stone, watching the young boys with their strings trying to catch fish. I always left when they laughed too loudly. I found their mirth disturbing.
I was lost to the world. All sense of time had disappeared. I lived from day to day, expecting nothing and giving nothing. As I write these lines I have no recollection of what I did every day apart from reading books in Ibn Maymun’s large library and becoming fascinated by the treatises on medicine. I read Galen and Ibn Sina many times and always discovered hidden meanings in their work. If I failed to comprehend the meaning of what these masters had written I would consult Ibn Maymun, who would compliment me on my learning and suggest that I become a physician and help him in his work.
Many months passed. I lost touch with the world of the Sultan. I did not know what was happening on the field of war and I no longer cared.
One day Ibn Maymun informed me that a new party of Franj had landed on the coast and were determined to take back Jerusalem. His eyes filled with tears.
“They must never be allowed to take that city away from us again, Ibn Yakub. Never.”
Perhaps it was the urgency in my friend’s voice that revived my interest in the world. Perhaps my recovery was complete in any event. Whatever the cause, I felt myself again. The sense of loss was still present in me, but the pain had gone. I sent a letter to Imad al-Din, asking him whether I could rejoin the Sultan.
Four weeks later, as spring came to Cairo like a burst of soft laughter, a messenger arrived from Dimask. The Sultan ordered me to return to his side without further delay. I was sitting in the courtyard enjoying the sun, underneath a gnarled tree with twisted twigs. It remained the same through all the seasons and I had become greatly attached to it because it reminded me of myself. I, too, did not feel the delights of spring.
I bade Ibn Maymun farewell. It was an emotional parting. We, who had once been so close, were together again. A small slice of happiness had been recovered from the heart of the tragedy that had befallen me. We agreed never to lose contact again. I had no real desire to carry on inscribing the story of Salah al-Din’s life, but Ibn Maymun was panicked by such a thought. He advised me to carry on and, “if it helps you, Ibn Yakub, write everything to me. I will keep your letters safe here, next to these notebooks with which you have entrusted me.”
LETTERS TO IBN MAYMUN
Thirty-Eight
The Sultan welcomes my return; Richard of England threatens Tyre; Imad al-Din is sick with love
DEAR FRIEND,
I WISH you were here so that we could speak with each other instead of relying on the courier service, which is not always reliable. As you know I was nervous at the thought of returning to Damascus, but everyone made me welcome. Some of the emirs went so far as to say that they regarded my return as an omen of good luck, for whenever I had been with the Sultan he had never lost a battle.
Everything has changed. Fortunes fluctuate like the price of diamonds in the Cairo market. When I left his side, nearly two years ago, the Sultan had conquered every pinnacle. His eyes were bright, the sun had given colour to his cheeks and his voice was relaxed and happy. Success dispels tiredness. When I saw him this morning he was clearly pleased to see me, and he rose and kissed my cheeks, but the sight of him surprised me. His eyes had shrunk, he had lost weight and he looked very pale. He observed my surprise.
“I have been ill, scribe. The war against these wretched infidels has begun to exhaust me, but I could cope with them. It is not simply the enemy that worries me. It is our own side. Ours is an emotional and impulsive faith. Victory in battle affects Believers in the same way as banj. They will fight without pause to repeat our success, but if, for some reason, it eludes us, if patience and skill are required rather than simple bravery, then our men begin to lose their urge. Dissensions arise and some fool of an emir thinks: ‘Perhaps this Salah al-Din is not as invincible as we had thought. Perhaps I should save my own skin and that of my men’, and thinking these ignoble thoughts he deserts the field of war. Or another few emirs, demoralised by our lack of success, will think to themselves that during the last six months they and their men have not enjoyed the spoils of war. They imagine that it is my brothers, sons and nephews who are benefiting and so they pick a quarrel and go back to Aleppo. It is a wearying business, Ibn Yakub.
“I have to fight on two fronts all the time. That is why I did not take Tyre all those months ago, when you were still at my side. I thought the men would not be able to sustain a long siege. It turned out that I was wrong. I overestimated the size of the Franj presence in the city, but if I had been confident of my own soldiers I would have taken the risk. The result, my friend, is a mess. The Franj kings are arriving from across the water with more soldiers and more gold. They never give up, do they? Welcome back to your home, Ibn Yakub. I have missed your presence. Al-Fadil left for Cairo this morning and Imad al-Din has not been to see me for a week. He claims he has a toothache, but my spies tell me that what aches is his heart. Remember Shadhi? He always used to refer to Imad al-Din as the swallower of a donkey’s penis!”