TWO DAYS LATER, AMJAD the eunuch brought me a letter from Jamila. He was neither grinning nor eager to offer information. He simply placed the letter in my hands and left the chamber.
I was startled by the beauty of her handwriting. I had never seen such exquisitely crafted letters except in the calligraphy of the great masters of the art. Whoever had taught her to write like this must have been a master or the descendant of one. As I write these lines I have the letter in front of me. Even as I transcribe her words I can once again hear her clear voice the way I heard it that day when Halima first introduced me to her. Her voice echoes in my ears, and her strong features appear in my mind’s eye.
Good friend, Ibn Yakub,
This is to let you know that I am leaving Damascus for a few months, perhaps longer. I am returning for a while to my father, who is now nearly eighty years of age and has not been well for some time. I wish to see him before he dies, and the Sultan, bless his heart, has never placed any impediments against my desire to travel.
Once many years ago I spent some time in Baghdad. That was a visit to improve my mind. I went to listen to the teachings of a great philosopher and poet. It was he who taught me the importance of reason. I can still see him stroking his white beard as he made me learn the following exchange between our Prophet and Mu’adh ibn-Jabal, the Kadi of al-Yaman.
Prophet: How wilt thou decide when a question arises?
Mu’adh: According to the Book of Allah.
Prophet: And if thou findest naught therein?
Mu’adh: According to the sunnah of the messenger of Allah.
Prophet: And if thou findest naught therein?
Mu’adh: Then shall I apply my own reasoning.
When I returned, I reminded Salah al-Din of this and he began to use it a great deal, especially when he was dealing with the theologians of the Fatimid Caliphs in Cairo. I felt then that I had achieved something, and that journey always stayed with me.
Now I leave in order to restore my state of mind. I have suffered a terrible blow, and I am convinced that in Dhamar I will not be troubled by the memories of Cairo and Damascus.
I want to smell once again the fragrance of the blossoms in the unique garden created by my grandfather, surrounded by the most beautiful wall that I have ever seen, a wall out of which grow the most lovely plants and flowers. I always used to think that heaven would be like our garden. Here I used to spend many hours in the silence among the trees, watching the birds coming down from the wall to drink water from a stream that had been contrived to create the impression that it was natural.
It was here that dreams were formed. I used to sit there in the shade for hours and dream, wondering what the world must be like outside Dhamar. Merchants would talk of Baghdad and Cairo and Damascus, of Basra and Calicut, and the strange and wonderful things that happened in these cities, and I would rush to my father and insist that I be allowed to become a merchant when I grew up so that I could go as far as China.
When I was fourteen, I often rode with my father. Sometimes we would go and watch the sea. How calming it is to watch the gentle waves and admire the work of nature. My father, too, used to pull up his horse next to mine, leaving our retinue of attendants way behind. Most of them were frightened of the water, which they believed was inhabited by djinns in the shape of giant fish, who ate humans. I remember galloping in the sand and then riding my horse through the shallow water, which splashed me as well.
My father would look at the sea and say: “Here, everything will outlast us and those who come after us. This same breeze will be felt by people several hundred years from now and they will marvel at nature just as we do. This, my child, is the voice of eternity.”
I did not fully understand what he meant till much later. Then I realised how lucky I was to have a father not given to believing that the world would end before his children grew old. Many people genuinely believed that Allah would bring the world to an end, and that the angels would open their ledgers and read out an account of our lives. My father was very different.
I was sad to leave my home and my friends, but I had no choice in the matter. Nor did Salah al-Din. It was an alliance deemed necessary by his father and mine, and blessed by the great Sultan Nur al-Din, may he rest in peace. I liked Salah al-Din’s company, but I never enjoyed the pleasures of union. I bore him two sons and after that he never troubled me again. We became friends, and I discouraged him from spending the night with me. This is only my personal experience, and perhaps I would have reacted to any other man in the same way. Perhaps my body was never intended to be defiled by a man. Pure love and happiness I found only with Halima, but you know that old story well.
When Nur al-Din’s widow, Ismat, married Salah al-Din, she was for many months in a state of total disbelief. I think after the ascetic Nur al-Din, who probably mounted her out of duty, she found Salah al-Din as frisky as an untamed horse. I remember the day she told me that she had never realised that coupling could actually give her pleasure.
I say this so that you do not judge your Sultan’s performance in this field solely on the basis of my experience. That would be unfair to him. Ismat’s version is much more reliable, and borne out by the reports of many others in the harem. Halima, like me, was an exceptional case. For her the memory of Messud was so strong that she was quite open. She admitted to me that when the Sultan first took her she shut her eyes and imagined it was Messud, simply to ease the burden.
Perhaps I will not stay long in Dhamar. Perhaps it is futile to search for a lost past or imagine that one can cure the pain of the present by reliving one’s childhood and youth. There are aspects of life in Dhamar which displease me. The constant glorification of the old way of life of the desert tribes leaves me cold. The exaggerated stories of Bedouin triumphs against nature and their human enemies leave me completely unmoved. My father, too, never encouraged any of this. Yet it exists and the courtiers indulge themselves by writing bad poetry in praise of the unwearied pace of pure-bred camels, or a Bedouin encampment being surrounded by wolves and hyenas, or hunger and drought and the delights of camel milk.
If any of this goes on for too long, I will return soon to Damascus cured forever. But there are people I want to see. My mother’s sister who brought me up after my mother’s death and who became a close friend. She would confess all her worries and secrets. In return, I would tell her of my worries. She came once to visit me in Cairo, but I was so enamoured of Halima in those days that I had no time for my poor aunt. She went back unhappy, thinking, no doubt, that I had become arrogant and inconsiderate. Now I wish I had taken her into my confidence and explained the state of my mind at the time.
It is not good to be trapped by one’s emotions, Ibn Yakub. Do you not agree? And yet it is difficult to break free of them. From that point of view my return to Dhamar will be helpful, and I will return to Damascus restored and my old self again. Then we shall sit, you and I, and discuss philosophy and the history which we are living through every day. If Salah al-Din embarks on another adventure while I am away, tell him that Jamila insisted that he leave you behind. Peace be upon you.
I had barely had time to reflect on Jamila’s letter when Shadhi limped into the room. I hid the letter from him simply to avoid answering any lewd questions, but he cackled.
“Amjad the eunuch has already alerted me to the contents of her letter. It is not of great interest. So she’s going. Perhaps she has another woman in Dhamar. Salah al-Din will probably be relieved, since her harsh tongue always frightened him a little. I have displeased you?”
Before I could reply, the chamberlain who had crept in on us unnoticed spoke in his booming voice.
“I bring sad news, Ibn Yakub. I’ve come to tell you to pack your belongings and your pen and inks and writing books. The Sultan was on his way back, but was taken ill in a village two days’ distance from here. It is not good. He has summoned both of us. We leave in a few hours.”
Shadhi began to weep, insisting that he, too, would accompany us to the village where the Sultan lay ill, but he looked so frail that we had to refuse the request. I promised to keep him informed as I hurried away to pack my belongings. I had now become accustomed to riding a horse, but the thought did not give me great pleasure.
We rode out of Damascus in the hush of the twilight, when all was quiet save the noise of the cicadas. Our party consisted of twelve riders, eight of whom were soldiers sent for our protection. The other two, apart from the chamberlain and myself, were retainers who carried the food for our journey.
What worried me was the failure of the Sultan’s physicians to have him carried to Damascus, where he would be in greater comfort and other physicians could attend on him. The only possible reason for this was that he was too ill to be moved. I was also puzzled as to why he had sent for me, since Imad al-Din had been with him throughout this last campaign. If he wanted to dictate a testament, the great scholar would have been better qualified than me to take down his master’s last wishes.
It was late in the night when we stopped to make camp in a tiny oasis. I was too tired to eat or converse with the chamberlain, whose great loyalty to the Sultan was not matched by his intelligence. In fact it was painful listening to him, since his only interests were horses and brothels, neither of which held any attraction for me.
Earlier on the journey he had described a strange Damascene brothel, to the delight of the soldiers. Here, according to the chamberlain, prostitutes were tied with chains and whipped by their customers before being freed and inflicting the same pain on them. This alone provided immense gratification to all concerned. I looked at the chamberlain closely. His ugly smile confirmed the question forming in my mind. He had been there himself. I made a mental note to question Shadhi as to the suitability of the chamberlain on my return.
We woke early, well before sunrise, and resumed our journey. To my surprise we reached the village when the sun was at its zenith. I had assumed that we would be riding for at least another six hours, but two of the soldiers were from this village and had brought us here along a much shorter route.
Our arrival had been eagerly awaited, and we were taken immediately to a small house. Here the Sultan lay, covered in white muslin sheets, with two attendants keeping the flies away from his face. His eyes were shut, but I was startled at how thin his face had become. His voice was weak.
“I know what you’re thinking, Ibn Yakub, but the worst is over. Your journey was unnecessary. I am feeling much better again, and tomorrow I will ride back with you. Imad al-Din is in Aleppo and when I summoned you I thought I would not live long. I wanted to set out my exact plans for the jihad so that my successor could carry through what Allah in his infinite Mercy had decided was now beyond me. Fortunately the Almighty changed his mind and I am still alive. We buried four emirs in this village only a week ago. I think I have survived simply by dint of sucking the juice out of the lemons which hang from the tree outside. I cannot think of any other reason, for I was as ill as those who died. Do you think the lemon has curative qualities? My physician thinks I am cured because he bled me, but he bled the emirs who died. Write to Ibn Maymun and ask him for his opinion. And from now on I must always have lemons wherever I go.”
The Sultan smiled as he sat up in the bed. His eyes looked clear. He had survived. I had taken all this talk of lemon juice to be nothing more than delirium, brought about by the fever, but now I wondered whether it could all be true.
He wanted to know what was going on in Dimask and questioned me in great detail, appearing irritated when I could not answer all his questions. I tried to explain that in his absence I was not present at the meetings of the council, and therefore my knowledge was limited to what had been reported to me directly. This increased his annoyance, and he summoned the chamberlain to demand why, despite his express instructions to the contrary, I had been excluded from meetings where important decisions of state were taken.
The chamberlain had no excuse and bowed his head in a shamed silence. The boastful frequenter of special brothels had suddenly lost his tongue. The Sultan dismissed him with an angry gesture.
The next day, when the sun was beginning to set, we began our return journey to Damascus. The size of our party had increased a hundredfold. When we camped for the night, the Sultan sent for me and questioned me first about the state of Shadhi’s health. When I had reassured him that all he was now suffering from was the rigours of old age, he asked after Halima and Jamila. I was taken aback. Should I simply mutter a few half-truths about both of them being in good health, to face his wrath when he subsequently discovered my deception, or should I confess all that I knew?
Unfortunately, he was more alert than I had expected and noticed my slight hesitation. He spoke in a stern voice as his eyes, shining in the light of ten candles, fixed on mine.
“The truth, Ibn Yakub. The truth.”
I told him.