“Now, ‘Abd al-Rahman,” she said, “you’ll be able to sleep and stop your ravings.”
“Those ravings, my dear, are the result of drawn swords and rivers of blood.”
Go to sleep, I told you, and recite Surat al-Nas that you told me to memorize.”
“I hear and obey, my dear. I will indeed recite Surat al-Nas as many times as possible. And I will go to sleep, even though I’m still scared I’ll be snatched out of bed by the Mamluks of either Barquq or Mintash. One group will drag me out into the desert. ‘You can stay out here in the boiling sun, you fair-weather signer, you half-baked supporter,’ they’ll yell in my face, ‘You can stay out here till you fry.’ The other group will take me to their master who will vent his furious revenge on me: ‘You can spend your days in the remotest of prisons, you endorser of false documents, you half-baked supporter.”’
From that infamous day, the twenty-fifth of Dhu al-Qa‘da, when I signed the false fatwa, until the end of the month, I stayed at home. I kept praying and reciting the Qur’an as a way of counteracting the effects of a mental breakdown. With the beginning of Dhu al-Hijja I allowed myself to be tempted by the satanic desire for news and information. As the weeks went by, I started getting news from Shaykh al-Rikraki, the Shafi‘i judge whom I’ve mentioned earlier, and some students of mine who had political contacts. Everything pointed to the fact that things were moving in Barquq’s favor and that the noose was tightening around Mintash and his friends. The reason seems to have been — and God knows best — that the governor and people of Kerak remembered everything Barquq had done for them, so they sided with him and gave him their support. To their company were added some of Barquq’s own Mamluks and some Bedouin troops as well. The deposed sultan was thus able to muster an army and march on Gaza. After capturing the city, he then proceeded to Damascus and laid siege to the city. Thereafter, days passed without any confirmable information, until the time when, like everyone else, I heard about the Battle of Shaqhab just outside Damascus, where Barquq’s forces defeated the army of Amir Hajji and Mintash who had put him on the throne. It was confirmed that Barquq was solidifying his control over Syria prior to returning to Egypt where he would once again ascend the throne and resume his rulership of the country.
As Barquq was making his way back to Egypt, the people of Cairo heard that his Mamluks had been released from prison and had pounced on the Citadel where they had expelled Mintash’s followers and, in anticipation of their master’s return, gained control of the Ablaq Palace under the command of the Mamluk, Bata.
I have dozens and dozens of blank pages just waiting for me to find the time to write down the finer details of recent events in the history of this Mamluk dynasty to which I have been witness. However, I don’t have the energy to retrieve them from my mind and memory. At this point, my life hangs by a solitary thread. It is one that the returning sultan can easily sever with a single blow of his sword since he is bound to take the dimmest possible view of the fact that I signed that false fatwa against him along with all the other judicial authorities. Is there any chance of reason getting the upper hand, or that maybe he’ll take mitigating circumstances into account; the fact, for example, that the signatures were obtained under duress? The answers to all those possibilities must be left to God to decide and to the extent to which the sultan feels inclined to show mercy and forgiveness.
While waiting for the situation to become clearer and for decision day to arrive, I spent my days going from house, to mosque, to college, to school. I also found myself preoccupied with two other things: Maghribi documents on the one hand, and the composition of a poetic plea for mercy addressed to Barquq on the other.
Whenever I found myself with time to spare, I made my way to the Zuwayla quarter, which was near the one where I lived, or else I would meander my way around the Kitama quarter near al-Azhar Mosque or the Musadama quarter alongside the Elephant Lake. By now the Maghribi quarters in these various parts of the city have vanished, but they can still provide the historian with a reminder of the Fatimi ‘Ubaydi dynasty, which relied on Maghribi Berbers for support just as much as the body does on its spinal column. The reason for my visits to those districts was undoubtedly a desire to smell the sweet breeze of my homeland and slake my intense feelings of nostalgia. Who knows, any time soon I might be forced to pick up and move back to Tunis or Fez.
I worked on the poem for Barquq at night. Next morning I would refine its phraseology and check on the rhymes. The poem was so full of hyperbole and entreaty that it weighed on my heart like a ton of lead. Poetry without any genuine feeling or buried fire is useless verbiage, no more. That much I have learned about every line I’ve composed throughout my life. This particular poem, with its very particular audience, found me powerfully aware of the unconvincing artistry and affectation I was using. I saw myself as sticking and patching verses together, letting things go their own way until such time as I felt like piecing them all together into some kind of coherent entity. Here’s part of it:
My lord, when people think well of you
And your hands are guarantors of every wish,
Neglect me not; with regard to you
I have neglected neither pledge of love nor beautiful hands.
Keep me close by. Fate has been unkind.
Dispatching its steeds against me.
A foreigner has seen approval and ease combined
To inure him to sorrow and estrangement.
Just before dawn I leapt out of bed and filled a page with yet more verses for recitaclass="underline"
Our foes have crafted calumnies
Every one among them fatally flawed;
About me they have circulated bizarre falsehoods
Set up as snares to their own interests.
So accept our excuses. Today by the life of the sultan
We are begging you to accept them.
To confront the onset of days, accept the help of a foreigner
Who complains about the barrenness of his life.
Your neighbor is your guest, one who enjoys your protection;
And the generous man never neglects his guests.
These verses and others like them were the products of many long hours that I spent in the early morning. They so exhausted me that I felt totally wrung out.
Half way through the year 792 Barquq re-entered Cairo in triumph, to the accompaniment of all the trappings of pomp and victory. According to many accounts (some of which I gathered at the council at Hammam al-Sufiyya), Sultan Barquq had barely defeated Mintash before he got the judges to depose Amir Hajji. He then received an acknowledgment from the ‘Abbasi caliph in Baghdad that he was indeed ruler of Egypt. No sooner was he restored to his position than he named his Mamluk, Bata, as his dawadar, then summoned the prisoners from Alexandria. After upbraiding them for their conduct, he restored them all to their former positions. Among those who were treated this way were al-Nasiri and al-Jubani who were re-appointed governors of Aleppo and Damascus respectively. I will not conceal the fact that these developments made me feel a lot better and suggested that things might work out well for me. The only thing that gave me pause was when I learned that a decree had been issued promoting Sudun to the position of viceroy in the sultan’s office. As far as the post of controller of the Baybars Convent was concerned, I came to realize that my chances of getting it back were nil since Sudun harbored a special hatred for me because during my time as a judge I habitually opposed his corrupt requests. My dismissal from the Baybars Convent coincided with the day when I was summoned to the sultan’s presence. He spared me nothing in his condemnation of the fact that I had signed the fatwa authorizing his deposition. He then let me go, but without even accepting my excuses.