When ‘Abd al-Rahman stopped by the city gate known as al-Bab al-Saghir, he had no trouble with the guards in passing through; actually the chief guard happily conducted him to the office of the Citadel’s commander, a man called Azdar. ‘Abd al-Rahman was welcomed with a great deal of warmth and respect. As the result of a short conversation, he discovered that the commander was intent on defending the Citadel against Mongol troops even if the city of Damascus itself surrendered; he was quite fanatical on that point. ‘Abd al-Rahman then raised the issue of his sense of loyalty to his lord, Sultan Faraj, and the fact that only those selected by the rich and famous would be allowed to seek protection in the Citadel. As the commander bade the judge farewell and placed a Mamluk at his disposal, he told him that the Citadel gates would only be open tomorrow morning, but that he was welcome to choose a tent for himself. “It is my personal hope,” the commander said, “that you’ll be with me when the crucial time arrives.”
“Abd al-Rahman made do with saying farewell to the man, then got on his mule and allowed the Mamluk to take the bridle and proceed on foot.
There was not a great deal of flat space to be had in this lofty citadel, which commanded the heights and the rocky promontory. Everything seemed on the point of leaning over and rolling downward. There was so much movement going on that the whole place looked like a beehive or ants’ nest. There were just a few houses, overlooked by a single well-sited mansion. Tents of all shapes and sizes were strewn over the terrain, sagging and flapping as they tried to afford protection from the heat and dust.
By a little after midday, ‘Abd al-Rahman had settled into a small tent and performed his prayers. He had eaten a little bit as well, telling himself that, in time of crisis like this, one has to munch the odd scrap or two. He then tried to rest for a while, but it only helped his body. His mind kept churning away, beset as it was by all sorts of worries and misgivings. He was thinking as much about his own small family as he was about previous sieges that he had heard or read about. During the course of these musings he came to realize that any hope of his returning safe and sound to his family was entirely dependent on bringing the impending Mongol siege of Damascus to a conclusion. Such a conclusion would have to take the form of either a conditional or compulsory surrender of the city or else a successful use of resistance tactics until such time as the Mongols grew tired and the passage of time created dissension in their ranks. In that case they would pack up their camp and move their campaign elsewhere. The question was: could the people of Damascus stand the hunger that such a siege would involve, along with all the other miseries, overt and covert?
While his mind was wandering through the byways of memory in this fashion, with him only half-awake, he suddenly recalled an unusual event he had read about in a book on ancient Greek history, the name of which he had forgotten. It told how the army of the Peloponesian allies under Spartan command had been forced to raise the siege of Athens during the time of Pericles, all because they were afraid of being infected by the outbreak of plague inside the walls of the besieged city. Once he had fully recalled the story, he had an incredible idea. How would it be if the inhabitants of Damascus tried to fool the Mongols into believing that an outbreak of plague was spreading among the inhabitants of the city? He kept asking himself that question till he fell into a restless sleep, one that was interrupted by a series of terrifying, violent visions. He was woken up in the early morning by shouts to the effect that the Dome of Yalbugha was on fire, and the sultan and army had left. He rushed outside and found men scurrying around on their own and in groups, all saying the same thing. The news about the Mamluk army leaving could still be a matter of doubt, but the fire and columns of smoke rising from the men’s homes and quarters was a fact that could be confirmed by the naked eye peering through the crenelated gaps in the walls.
‘Abd al-Rahman sat down on a wide rock, read the prayer of mercy, and thought. With the first rays of the sun he stood up, went over to a lookout point, and asked the guard what he could see outside the walls. “There’s nothing like seeing for yourself, Shaykh,” the man replied. “Climb the ladder, stand beside me, and see for yourself.”
Below the ramparts to north and west, lines of donkeys and mules were moving to and fro carrying loads, while columns of men and boys were busy digging trenches and filling them with scrap, straw, kale, and any other type of combustible material. In the distance there was a good deal of dust with horses charging about. The last of the fires were consuming the rest of the tents and catching the straw between the lofty palms; they reached as far as the banks of the Barada and other rivers.
“Who ordered the men to dig these trenches below us?” ‘Abd al-Rahman asked the guard, who was a tall and sturdy youth.
“Not the Egyptian army; they’ve all left. Nor Sultan Faraj either; he’s supposed to have gone too. The people who ordered these trenches dug were a group of fellow Muslims, authorized by the commander of this citadel.”
“Do you happen to know Burhan al-Din ibn Muflih?”
“Do I know him? Who doesn’t know the head of the Hanbalis in al-Salihiya? I’m sure he’s with his lads, training them to fight and set traps. If you go down to the base of the citadel hill, you’ll probably find him there.”
‘Abd al-Rahman thanked the guard, then went down the hill to look for his friend. He was sure that Burhan al-Din would have the most accurate information. He had hardly made his way through the west gate of the citadel and mingled with the trench-diggers before he found Burham al-Din without the slightest difficulty. Everyone knew him, as though he were a general or imam. The two friends embraced each other warmly. Burhan al-Din immediately started describing some of the armed contingents.
“We’re doing everything we can, Wali al-Din,” he said. “Everything else is left to the Great Organizer. Come to al-’Adiliya with us. We’ve an appointment with the senior administrators there.”
The two men sat face to face in one of the houses of the deserted school, relaxing a bit and enjoying the quiet. They prayed the morning prayer together, then spent some time reading the Qur’an and reflecting.
“I received your last letter,” ‘Abd al-Rahman said. “I’d like to confirm with you now that the impression I got from it was correct. Is there no avoiding the Mongol attack now? Have the sultan and his army really withdrawn?”
Burhan al-Din looked at him in amazement. “My letter must have arrived late then! My dear friend, didn’t you hear that the Mamluks have all fled? It was a full week ago they all left for Egypt under cover of night. Their last battle with the Mongols was a crushing defeat. Timur had fed them false information that his army was retreating in disorder, so the Mamluks dispatched some of their brigades to a valley specifically chosen by Timur. Once there, the Egyptians were crushed from every side by flame-throwers and the elephant corps.”
“So where’s Yashbak?”
“That courageous man managed to convince me that there really was a danger of rebellion in Egypt and asked me for my advice. I agreed with his opinion that he should stay with the sultan so as to bolster his regime and continue to advocate the defense of Syria. However, when he suggested that he take you back with him, I disagreed. My argument was that you wanted to stay with the judges so that you could negotiate with Timur as you had promised.”