IT SEEMED AS IF we had arrived in Damascus only a few hours ago. In reality we had already been here for two weeks, but it had taken that long for me to recover from the torment of the four weeks that preceded our arrival. The journey had proved uneventful for everyone else, but not for me. I was now capable of riding and controlling a horse, but the activity was not greatly pleasurable. My face had been badly burnt by the sun and, had it not been for the ointments carried by our Bedouin scouts, the pain alone would have killed me.
I could only thank my stars for having been born a Jew. If I had become a follower of the Prophet of Islam I, too, would have been compelled like the bulk of the soldiers and emirs to turn towards Mecca and say my prayers five times a day, usually in the heat of the desert sun. The Sultan, whom I had never thought of as a deeply religious man, was, in his role as commander of his troops, very insistent on observing the rituals of his religion. The lack of water for the ablutions posed no problem. Sand became an easy substitute. Shadhi pleaded old age to avoid the mass prayers. One day as he saw the Sultan lead the prayers he whispered: “It is just as well there are no Franj in the vicinity. The sight of three thousand good Believers with their arses in the air might prove too easy a target.”
Leaving aside the physical rigours of the journey, I had been compelled on several evenings to sit in the Sultan’s tent and listen to Imad al-Din’s monotonous voice recite the stories of the Caliphs of Baghdad. This became a torture of the mind for me, since the tales he was repeating had been lifted from works with which I was only too familiar.
To be fair to Imad al-Din, he did not attempt to claim the Muraj al-Dhahab and the Kitab al-Tanbih as his own works. He credited al-Masudi, the author, but it was his own style of recitation which imparted a false sense of authority. Perhaps it was all in my imagination. Perhaps I was so exhausted by the day that having to listen to stories I had already read did not appeal to me greatly at the time.
Two weeks of total rest in this most beautiful of cities revived me completely. The joy of being able to bathe every day, the delight of the food that was served by the kitchens in the citadel, and the respite from the sun was all that I needed.
The Sultan, bless his heart, took a great deal of interest in my recovery. He, too, was pleased to be in Damascus, but for reasons that were different to mine. This had been his home for many years. It was here that he had learnt the arts of war and the delights of a woman’s bedchamber. He felt safe in this city, and his appearance at the great Umayyad Mosque on the previous Friday had demonstrated how much he had grown in stature in the eyes of the ordinary people. Shadhi had told me that he had seen by the Damascenes as a raw youth, given to the pleasures of the wine-cellar and fornication. News of his conquests had reached them from afar, and now they barely recognised their Sultan. He had become an even greater leader than the pious and much-loved Nur al-Din.
I could detect the excitement on the faces of many during the Friday congregation. The white-bearded scholar who had taken the pulpit had called on Allah to give Salah al-Din a long life and help him drive the Franj into the sea. He had referred to the Sultan as the “sword of Islam” to the acclaim of the assembly, which responded with one voice: “There is only one Allah and Mohammed is his Prophet.”
The citizens here seemed to be more deferential, less audacious than their equivalents in Cairo. In my city it was not uncommon to hear criticisms of the Kadi or even the Sultan, and the shadow-players usually spoke for a much larger public. I was reflecting on the differences between the two cities, and the temperament of their inhabitants, when a person unknown to me knocked on the door and entered my room.
From his dress, he appeared to be a retainer, and yet the look on his face expressed a certain familiarity which surprised me. He bowed and introduced himself as Amjad al-Islam. He was tall, very tall, extremely well-fed and cleanshaven. He informed me that he had been in the service of the Sultan since he was ten years old. He claimed that “Uncle” Shadhi had taught him all he knew of this world.
“The Sultan wishes you to dine with him tonight and Uncle Shadhi wishes you a good appetite. He will eat with you tomorrow.”
With these words a self-satisfied and grinning Amjad left my chamber. I smiled at Shadhi’s message. The old man had been in his element during our march from Cairo to Damascus, but he was suffering from tiredness and ill-humour. Since our arrival he had kept to his own quarters. I was delighted to hear that he was well, and looked forward to our meeting. I had already bathed and had thought of writing a detailed account of the desert for my own book, but once again Salah al-Din had interrupted my labours.
He was seated with two men whom I had seen in his company a great deal since our arrival here. From their demeanour they appeared to be emirs, which they certainly were, but they were also the Sultan’s favourite nephews, Farrukh Shah and Taki al-Din. They were brothers, sons of the Sultan’s oldest brother, Shahan Shah, who had died when Salah al-Din was only ten years old. He loved both of them and each competed with the other in audacity on the field of battle. They reminded him of Shirkuh, and in them he had invested a great deal of love and trust.
He introduced me to them in turn, and both stood to embrace me.
“Our future depends on you,” laughed Taki al-Din. “If you write badly of us we will be forgotten, but if you write truthfully the memory of what our clan has achieved will remain till our Maker decides that the time has come to end this world.”
“Tell me, master scribe,” asked his brother, “is there any such thing as absolute truth? Do you report different versions of the same event? Do you consult more than one source? After all, much of what you are writing comes to you from the lips of our esteemed uncle. Naturally he will not talk of those events in which he disappointed himself.”
I looked at the Sultan, who burst out laughing.
“I may not, but Shadhi, as we all know, can always be relied upon to make up for my deficiencies. And now that we are in Damascus, Ibn Yakub has two extra informants in the shape of you devils. Kindly do not forget that he is engaged in writing my memories and these can only be experienced by me.”
This little family exchange made a reply from me redundant. I smiled, as good scribes sometimes do, but remained silent. The arrival of the food provided another diversion. The younger men looked at my face as I observed the variety of dishes being placed before us and burst out laughing. Farrukh Shah exchanged a meaningful look with me.
“I can tell you’re not used to meat at our uncle’s table! He will just eat a bowl of broth tonight followed by fruit. What we have before us is lamb marinated in herbs and freshly grilled. It was our great-uncle Shirkuh’s favourite dish, and today is the day of his birth. We owe it to ourselves to remember him in the fashion he would have appreciated.”
The Sultan frowned at the frivolity.
“Better you eat it on his birthday rather than to mark the day he died. I saw him die and it was a painful sight. Mimic his capacities as a great leader of men and a fighter of tremendous spirit, but avoid his vices. All our great men of medicine have warned against over-indulgence on any front.”
Salah al-Din’s annoyance sobered his nephews. They bowed their heads to acknowledge his warning. The rest of the meal was virtually silent, but after the food had been cleared and mint tea served, I realised that this was not a casual gathering. As he prepared to speak, the Sultan indicated that I should ready my pen.
“What I say about the sons of my dead brother, Taki al-Din and Farrukh Shah, I wish to say in their presence. I feel closer to these two men than anyone else in my family. They are not just my nephews, but also two of my ablest generals.
“My own sons are young, and if anything were to happen to me I would expect Taki al-Din and Farrukh Shah to protect my children from the vultures that will start circling the cities we have made our own. If I die soon, I want Taki al-Din to sit in Cairo and Farrukh Shah to rule Damascus. The other places should be divided amongst my brothers and their children, but Damascus and Cairo are the real jewels of our kingdom. Without them we are reduced to nothing. They are the cities which will enable us to drive out the Franj.
“For almost ninety years, the Franj have been prowling on our lands like wild beasts. Few, if any, now remember a time when they were not here. When they first arrived we were unprepared. We panicked. We betrayed each other for gain. Later we made alliances with the Franj against our own brethren. Sultan Zengi and the great Sultan Nur al-Din understood that the only way to drive out the Franj was to unite ourselves. As is known this unity does not come without the sacrifice of much blood.
“Look at the situation today. The Franj still occupy many towns near the sea as well as al-Kuds. I want to divide our armies into three carefully organised, well-knit instruments under the command of myself and my two brave nephews. I will concentrate on taking either Aleppo or Mosul, though preferably both. That will make us the mightiest power in these our lands. At the same time I want you, Taki al-Din, to strike at the heart of the Franj in Palestine. Let them think that this is part of a big push to take al-Kuds, their beloved Kingdom of Jerusalem. Inflict defeats, but do not delay too long in one place. Strike fear in their hearts. I want them fully preoccupied so that they have no time to even think of helping our enemies in Aleppo and Mosul.
“Farrukh Shah, you will stay here and guard this city and its borders with your life. I have received reports of your extravagant style and your propensity to leave the treasury depleted. I never wish to hear any such complaint again. Your father and grandfather were men of simple tastes. I have learnt that to win the respect of the people and, in particular, our soldiers, one must learn to eat and dress like them. We are the lawgivers, Farrukh Shah. We must observe each law and set an example. I hope I have made myself clear. Never forget that even though we rule, we are still seen as outsiders. It is only now that the Arabs are beginning to accept me as their Sultan. The future of our family depends on how you behave and how you rule. Never forget that a man is what he does.
“If you hear that the Franj are sending exploratory expeditions to test our defences, go out and crush them. We will talk again tomorrow, but make preparations for our departure within a week.
“Our destination must be kept a secret. I do not wish you to even tell your wives where we are headed. If people ask, reply: ‘The Sultan is still making up his mind.’ If, in my absence, which I hope will be brief, Damascus is seriously threatened, inform me without delay. We must never lose this city. Go now and rest. I wish to speak with Ibn Yakub on my own.”
The nephews, chastened by the Sultan’s words, bent and kissed their uncle in turn on both cheeks. He rose to his feet and hugged them both. They shook hands with me and departed.
“I wanted you to come with me, Ibn Yakub, but I am worried by Shadhi’s health. He has always accompanied me on my campaigns, but, as you can see, he is getting older and frailer by the day. Any day now Allah could summon him to heaven. He is my only link with the older generation. All the others have gone. He is, after all, as you know, my grandfather’s son. I have such happy memories of him. He was a great influence on my youth and I have always relied on him a great deal. Allah has blessed me with good and strong advisers, men like al-Fadil and Imad al-Din. No Sultan could ask for more, but even they find it difficult sometimes to resist some of my more irrational decisions.
“Shadhi alone never fears to speak the truth and call me an obstinate ass and talk me out of some foolish notion that had entered my head. Shadhi is not a scholar, but he has a strong instinct for what is right or wrong in the field of politics and of war.
“There are times in our lives, Ibn Yakub, when we are unhappy in love or sad because a dear friend has been killed in a battle or we have lost our favourite steed. At times like this, when we feel we are on the edge of an abyss, harebrained advisers and sycophants can unwittingly push us over the edge. Men like Shadhi never permit that to happen. These are men of great integrity and our world, alas, has too few like them. Shadhi has saved me from myself on more than one occasion. That is why he has meant more to me than even my parents.
“You’re surprised to hear me speak like this, and you’re wondering why I do so, since Shadhi is still with us and recovering from the journey and might outlive us all. I used to think like you, but something very deep inside me is warning me that I will be far away when Shadhi dies. The thought upsets me greatly, Ibn Yakub. I know how much he respects and likes you and for that reason I am not taking you with me. It will make my decision not to take him much easier for him to bear if you are with him. Do you understand?”
I nodded.
“I want him to rest. I have directed Amjad, the eunuch who earlier brought you my message, to make sure that Shadhi never wants for anything while I am away. Amjad answers to me and nobody else.
“Shadhi and Farrukh Shah are not close. Why? Because Shadhi’s tongue is no respecter of persons who, in his opinion, are not behaving as he thinks they ought to, and in the past he has subjected Farrukh Shah, who is not a bad person, to a very severe lashing with his tongue. It was in the presence of other emirs, and his pride suffered a blow. Farrukh complained bitterly to me, but what could I do? Can you imagine me reprimanding Shadhi? The problem is that Farrukh has still not forgotten the insult. I’m sure he will do nothing to hurt Shadhi, but that is besides the point. What the old man needs at this time is friends and a great deal of attention.
“I hope my fears are misplaced. I pray that when Allah brings me back to Damascus, Shadhi will still be here with detailed information on the mistakes I made during the campaign, which Imad al-Din will have reported to both him and you.
“Perhaps what is also worrying me is not just Shadhi’s death, but my own. Till now Allah has been kind to me. I have escaped death on several occasions, but if you lead an army into war as frequently as I do, and my person is the main target of the enemy, then it is only a matter of time before an arrow pierces my heart or a sword cracks my skull. I am feeling a little bit fragile, Ibn Yakub. I want you to know that your family is well looked after in Cairo, and I have left instructions for you to be paid regularly while you are here. After we achieve our objective, and Allah has spared me, I will present you with a tiny fief outside your beloved Jerusalem. If I fall, I have left instructions with al-Fadil and Imad al-Din that you are to be given a village wherever you desire.”
To my surprise I felt tears roll down my cheeks. The Sultan’s generosity was no secret, but I was simply a lowly scribe. I was overwhelmed by his giving thought to my future as well. When I rose to take my leave of him, he rose too and embraced me, whispering in my ear a last command.
“Keep the old man alive.”