“As you well know, my friend,” said Burhan al-Din remorsefully, “the walls of this city of Damascus are supposed to go back to a time just after the Flood. Whether that story and others like it is true or not, I still liken this city to an ancient tome, one of the most priceless books in the world, written on by Noah, Jayrun, Lazar — faithful Abraham’s boy, Alexander of the Two horns, kings of Byzantium, Muslim conquerors, the Umawis, and others. Is it conceivable for the Mamluks to leave this city totally exposed to debauchery, amputation, and burning, all at the hands of the Tatar Mongols? If Faraj and his army run away, Damascus will be left in the charge of religious scholars. In that case the city will have to be preserved and defended by using all the weapons of negotiation. Do you share my opinion on that, Wali al-Din?”
‘Abd al-Rahman paused for a minute, abundantly aware of the significance of the question he had been asked.
“Should the sultan and his army withdraw,” he said after a few moments, “I have no idea whether the senior administration will leave with him or stay to help protect the inhabitants of the city.”
Burhan al-Din’s expression showed the fire of determination. “I cannot stand in the way of a retreating army,” he said defiantly, “but, by Him in whose hands is my very soul, I swear that I will not allow any scholar, doctor, or man of means to leave even if it costs me my life. You alone have the right to go, Wali al-Din, since you’ve been dismissed from your judicial post. Even so, I’m well aware that your sterling qualities will make you decide to stay here alongside everyone else.”
“You’re right, Burhan al-Din. If we have to negotiate with Timur, then it’s religious scholars who will have to arrange things appropriately so that country and people can avoid disaster and misery.”
The looks that the two judges exchanged made it clear that they were in complete agreement on the matter. They stood up, embraced each other, then got on their mules to return to the ancient city of Damascus.
At the very beginning of ‘Abd al-Rahman’s third week in Damascus, he woke up early. He was eager for news. On the family front, he had heard nothing from Umm al-Batul in response to the letter he had sent two weeks earlier in which he had reassured her that he was well and promised to return to Egypt shortly. As regards the military situation, there was nothing new to add to his repertoire of information. This lack of news led him to improvise a class with his students in which he discussed information and the way people and history have a constant need for it. When he opened the class for discussion, the students’ examples all spoke of the rampaging rumors and misgivings circulating among people in the city because of the psychological warfare being waged all around them and the excessive degree of taxation that had been levied on merchants and craftsmen. People of means and influence were purchasing travel permits to Egypt, the Holy Places, or any remote locations that would be safer. They asked their teacher for his opinions on their information, but he postponed his answers till he had had enough time to take into account everything they had told him in evaluating the focus of his lesson. He closed the class by emphasizing the benefits of eyewitness information in making a record of the major events of time.
Just before noon, ‘Abd al-Rahman went to the postal tent in Yalbugha Dome Square in the hope of finding a letter, but there was nothing. He strolled through the streets and markets, staring at people’s faces. Their expressions were even more despondent and grim than his own. Investigating their state of affairs more closely, the discovered that the garbage situation was becoming desperate. individuals or groups of people were roaming the streets heaping insults on all tricksters and hoarders. Another group of young men kept wandering through the alleyways saying: “God, Merciful One, grant our lord the sultan victory!”
While ‘Abd al-Rahman was absorbing these impressions of people and circumstances, two men dressed like dervishes blocked his way. While one kept looking all around him, the other said, “Sir, only poor and indigent people are left inside the city. You’re obviously a learned and influential person. For two thousand dinars, we can either take you to see Timur, a great admirer of both religious scholars and lovers of luxury, or else take you somewhere else where it’s safe.” ‘Abd al-Rahman was well aware that these two men could well be spies, so he gave them both a withering stare and then continued on his way to the Umawi mosque amid throngs of beggars and vagrants.
In every corner of the mosque people were reciting the prayer for mercy, asking for release and compassion. After washing and praying, ‘Abd al-Rahman joined them in the recitation. He then went over to the Companions’ prayer niche where prayers were led by someone of the Maliki rite. There he found worshippers preparing to conduct a funeral which people said was for the chief judge in Syria, Burhan al-Din al-Shadhili al-Maliki, who had been maryred during a skirmish between the Mamluks and Mongols. No sooner was the funeral finished than ‘Abd al-Rahman sat in a corner of the mosque to rest his feet and frame. His mind was troubled by any number of conflicting ideas, and he suddenly felt the need to get together with his two friends, Yashbak and Ibn Muflih, so he could stay in contact and remove the veil of obscurity that he felt was clouding both mind and soul.
Yashbak welcomed the master to his residence in Yalbugha Dome Square with great affection and an optimistic mood. “Our situation vis-à-vis the Mongols has improved, Wali al-Din,” he said. “Our last skirmish with them provided our cavalry commanders with a real picture of the Mongol army that is not based on fairy tales. The fighting lasted two whole days and finished yesterday. We engaged them with just two thousand horsemen in a valley a few miles to the west of the Dome. A number of men from their vanguard and main column were either killed, wounded, or captured. Left and right flanks were forced to retreat and take flight. We lost about one hundred soldiers. Among the victims you know was one of the Syrian judges, Burhan al-Din al-Shadhili al-Maliki, and the Maliki judge, Sharaf al-Din ‘Isa was wounded.”
Yashabk suddenly fell silent, as though he became aware of the way that his colleague’s expression reflected a disdainful view of the significance of such a limited success in the context of a broader conflict.
“You should be aware, my friend,” he went on, “that the decisive battle has not yet happened; true victory has yet to be won. Even so, I have to seize any light that I can, even though it may be just a glimmer. Our soldiers badly need to have their spirits raised and their mettle fired. Enthusiasm’s what we need, Wali al-Din, enthusiasm, even if it means that we have to inflate the profits somewhat.”
“Is there any other good news?”
“Sultan Husayn has come over to our side. He’s claiming to have broken with his uncle, Timur. Am I supposed to regard that as good news? I’m keeping an eagle eye on him till I can be sure whether he’s telling the truth or not.”
“If I weren’t so exhausted, Yashbak, I’d want to meet this sultan and some of the others prisoners as well. I could question them about Timur’s intentions.”
“They’re all saying the same thing: every day Timur’s situation is going from bad to worse. He’s thinking of packing up camp and returning to his campaigns further north or even to Samarkand — which seems the most likely.”
“But what if those stories are just a few of Timur’s many tricks?”
“Wali al-Din, there are situations in which knowing what’s the real truth is virtually impossible. Are we supposed to torture prisoners to make them talk, then torture them again to make them say what we want to hear?”
“That’s not what I meant. I’m merely saying that we shouldn’t rely solely on suspect information.”