He’s merciful and forgiving
But not in the heat of the fight,
For in the battle’s fire and rage
The only law is might.
My father had enjoyed warm relations with Sultan Zengi and was genuinely upset by the manner and cause of his death. Years later, Shadhi told me the real story.
Zengi was fond of wine. On the night of his death, he had consumed an entire flask of wine. While still in his cups he had sent for a young soldier who had caught his eye during the siege. The Sultan used the young man to assuage his lust.
Yaruktash, the eunuch who killed Zengi, had loved the boy. He could not bear the thought of his sculpted body being defiled by an old man in a hurry. In a fit of jealousy he followed the boy, and observed what took place. He brought wine to the guards outside the tent, making them drowsy. While they slept, he crept in and stabbed his master to death, joined by the young soldier whose body was still warm from Zengi’s embrace. It was a crime of passion.
The scribes who write history pretend that the eunuch and his friends had stolen Zengi’s wine. Fearful of being discovered, they had killed their ruler in a drunken frenzy. But this version doesn’t make sense. Shadhi told me the truth. He must have heard it from my father or my uncle. Little escaped the notice of those two men.
At the time I knew little or nothing of this. Nor was I especially interested in the affairs of that other world inhabited by adults. Once again, I benefited from not being the eldest son. That was the privilege reserved for Shahan Shah. He was obliged to sit next to my father during Friday prayers, and when other matters were being discussed. He was being trained in the arts of rulership. Turan Shah and I would sometimes find it difficult not to laugh when Shahan Shah began to adopt my father’s way of speaking.
The occupation of our coastal cities, and even of al-Kuds, which the Franj call the Kingdom of Jerusalem, had become, for me, one of the simple facts of life. Sometimes I would hear my father and my uncle Shirkuh talk of the past, often when the children were present. They would be speaking to each other, but we were the real audience. It was their way of making sure we understood the scale of what had taken place in our lands.
They would talk of how the barbarians had first arrived, and of how they ate human flesh and did not bathe. Always they told sad stories of the fate of al-Kuds. The barbarians had decided to kill all the Believers. All of your people, Ibn Yakub, as I’m sure you know better than I, were collected in the Temple of Suleiman. The exits were blocked, and the Franj set the holy sanctuary on fire. They wished to wipe out the past and to rewrite the future of al-Kuds, which once belonged to all of us, the People of the Book.
The only story that really moved me as a child was that of al-Kuds. The cruelty of the barbarians was like a poison that makes men mute. Al-Kuds was never absent from our world of make-believe. We used to climb on our horses and pretend we were riding to drive the Franj out of al-Kuds, an event which usually meant driving Shadhi out of the kitchen. Yet the real day is not so far away, Ibn Yakub. Our people will soon return to al-Kuds. The cities of Tyre and Acre, of Antioch and Tripoli, will once again belong to us.
That the Franj must be defeated was obvious, but how could we emerge victorious when the camp of the Believers was so bitterly divided? For a start, there were two Caliphs: one in Baghdad who ruled only in name, and another in Cairo, who was weak. The collapse of the Caliphate had led to little kingdoms springing up everywhere. My father told us on the day Zengi died that unless we were united the Franj would never be defeated. He spoke as a general, but his words were also true in a greater, spiritual sense. The animosities within our own side ran deep. We were fiercer in fighting our rivals than in resisting the Franj. Those words have always stayed with me.
“And your father?” I asked the Sultan. “You have not yet spoken of him. What kind of a man was he?”
My father Ayyub was a good-natured man. He was a cautious and trusting person. When trying to explain something to us, he would ask in his soft voice: “Is it simple? Is it clear? Does everyone understand?”
In a more tranquil world he might have been content in charge of a large library or as the man responsible for the regular functioning of the public baths of Cairo. You smile, Ibn Yakub. You think I underestimate the qualities of my father. Not in the least. All I am saying is that we are all creatures of our fate, and our lives are determined by the times in which we exist. Our biographies are determined by circumstance.
Take Ibn Maymun, for instance. If his family had not been compelled to leave Andalus, he might have been the Vizir of Granada. If al-Kuds had not been occupied, you might be living there and not in Cairo.
Take our Prophet himself. It was fortunate, was it not, that he received the Revelation at a time when two great empires were beginning to decay. Within thirty years of his death, the Believers, with the guidance of Allah, had succeeded beyond our wildest dreams. If we did not succeed in civilising the lands of the Franj, the fault is ours alone. It was human error that prevented us from educating and circumcising the Franj. The Prophet knew that reliance on Allah alone would never be enough. Did he not once remark: “Trust in Allah, but tie your camel first”?
My father, you must understand, never liked to travel. He was a man of sedentary habits, unlike my grandfather, who, by the way, was also called Shadhi, and my uncle Shirkuh. These two were never satisfied in one place. My enemies often refer to our family as adventurers and upstarts. Even the Prophet, may he rest in eternal peace, was called an upstart, so that does not upset me. As for being adventurers, I think that is true. The only way to move forward in this world is through adventure. If you sit still in one place, you get burnt by the sun and you die. Yet I know that my father would have liked to have stayed in Dvin, in Armenia.
The news of Zengi’s murder was not just a personal blow. It meant turmoil and trouble. Zengi’s two sons lost little time in asserting their rule in Mosul and Aleppo. My father had little confidence in their capacities. He was proved wrong, of course, but who was to know at the time that the dour and puritanical Nur al-Din would rise to such heights?
My father’s fears were soon to be vindicated. Within weeks, the armies of the ruler of Damascus were at the gates of Baalbek. Resistance, my father knew, was futile. He felt that there was no reason to spill the blood of the Believers. He negotiated a peaceful surrender, and the people were grateful.
Years later, when my father and I were riding together outside Damascus, the edge of the sky turned suddenly red-gold. He noticed this first and we drew in our reins, paying silent homage, for what seemed a long time, to the inimitable beauty of nature. As we began to ride home, none of us spoke. We were still awed by that sky which had changed again as the first stars began to appear. Just as we reached the Bab Shark, my father spoke in his soft voice.
“We often forget that even a necessary war is seen as a calamity by most people. They always suffer much more than us. Always. Never forget that, my son. Engage in battle only when there is no other way.”
Why is it that we forget certain crucial facts, and have to work hard to recall them, yet other events remain clear in our minds? I still remember that day. It is fresh in my mind. My oldest brother, Shahan Shah, had died suddenly some years before, and my father had not fully recovered from the blow. He was still distraught. For some reason, relations between him and Turan Shah had never been close. My brother, who I loved, was far too undisciplined and headstrong a personality to appeal to my father. One day I heard my mother shouting at him: “Turan Shah, is it not enough that you leave a bitter taste in your father without annoying me as well. You are nothing but pain and trouble. Did you hear me…” So many stones had been thrown at him that he was no longer frightened of them, and he would laugh at our mother.