DEAR FRIEND,
THERE IS a winter mist over the citadel as I write these lines, but it is as nothing compared with the dark clouds that have covered our hearts for the last seven days. He, who was accustomed to war, now rests in peace, in the shadow of the Great Mosque.
My own future is uncertain. The Sultan’s son, al-Afdal, has succeeded him and wants me to stay here as his scribe. Jamila is preparing to depart for the South and wishes me to accompany her. I think I will plead ill-health and return to Cairo to recover my thoughts and reflect for some time on the life of this man, whose departure has left us all in darkness.
His health, as I wrote you before, had not been good. During our last weeks in Jerusalem he would sigh and complain of lack of sleep, but insist on fasting, which his physicians warned him was unnecessary. The fast would weaken him further and I would often see him, his head hanging wearily as he stared at the ground.
But the return to Damascus had revived him, and his death was all the worse for being so unexpected. For the last month he had spent much time with his brother al-Adil and his sons. His health appeared to have recovered. He ate well and there was colour in his cheeks again. Much laughter was heard as they rode out of the city to enjoy the hunt.
Once we were sitting in the garden and his oldest boy, al-Afdal, came to pay his respects. The Sultan, who had been talking to me of his love for his dead nephew, Taki al-Din, fell silent as al-Afdal came and kissed his father’s hands. The Sultan looked at him sternly.
“I am leaving all of you an empire that stretches from the Tigris to the Nile. Never forget that our successes were based on the support we received from our people. If you become isolated from them, you won’t last long.”
On another occasion I heard him plead with al-Adil to safeguard the interests of his sons. He knew, as did his brother, that amongst the mountain clans there is no particular regard for heredity. The clan chooses the strongest from within its ranks to lead it and defend its interests. The Sultan’s younger brother, al-Adil, bore a strong resemblance to their uncle Shirkuh and his character and appetites, too, were not unlike his uncle’s. Salah al-Din knew, as did his brother, that if his retainers and soldiers were given the choice they would choose al-Adil to be their Sultan. He pleaded with al-Adil to protect Afdal, Aziz and Zahir against all conspiracies. The younger brother bent and kissed the Sultan’s cheeks, muttering: “Why are you in such low spirits? Allah will take me away long before you. He needs you to clear the infidels off our shores.”
When al-Adil spoke those words I agreed with him. The Sultan was in high spirits and reminded me of those early days in Cairo when he was learning the art of statecraft. But the Sultan must have had a foreboding.
Early one morning he ordered me to be woken up and join him. Having failed to visit Mecca he wanted to go and greet the returning pilgrims outside the city walls. I think he truly regretted his own inability to make the pilgrimage. During his youth it had been an act of defiance, but as he grew older he felt it as a loss. However, the war against the Franj had occupied him for two score years, and of late he was simply too exhausted to make the journey. Imad al-Din had prevented him by utilising the Caliph’s rivalry as a motive, but in reality the secretary had confessed to me that he feared the Sultan would not survive the journey. His physicians confirmed that this was indeed the reason why they had forbidden the exertion. He accepted all this with bad grace, and his desire to greet the returning pilgrims was by way of making up for his own failure.
As we rode it began to rain. The downpour had struck without warning and it was cold winter rain, which froze our faces. I saw him shiver and realised that he had come without his quilted jacket. I took my cloak and attempted to put it round his shoulders, but he laughed and threw it back at me. It amused him that I, who he regarded as a weakling, was trying to shield him from the weather.
The rain fell with such force that the road became divided by wild streams and virtually impassable. The horses began to slither in the mud, but he continued to ride and we continued to follow him. I can see him now, his clothes and his beard splattered with mud as he caught sight of the rain-soaked pilgrims and greeted them.
When we returned the rain had stopped and the sky had cleared. The people of Damascus, in all their finery, came out on to the streets to cheer the Sultan and welcome the caravan from Mecca. We avoided the crowds and took a small path back to the drawbridge.
Late that night he was possessed by a raging fever. I doubt whether a physician even of your skill would have been able to save him, Ibn Maymun. The fever grew worse and the Sultan was barely conscious. He saw his sons and al-Adil every day. I never left his side, thinking he might recover to dictate his last testament, but on the tenth day he fell asleep and never woke again. He had just passed his fifty-fifth birthday.
The city wept for three whole days. No instructions had been sent, but the shutters remained drawn over the shops and the streets were deserted. I have never seen such mass grief so openly displayed. The whole city was present as we accompanied his body to its last resting place, walking in absolute silence. His physician Abd al-Latif, himself an old man, whispered in my ear that he could recall no other instance where the death of a Sultan had so genuinely tormented the hearts of the people.
Imad al-Din, his face disfigured by pain and tears pouring down his cheeks, prayed aloud: “Ya Allah, accept this soul and open to him the gates of Paradise, and thus give him his last victory for which he always hoped.”
When we returned to the citadel all was silent. It seemed as if emirs and retainers alike could not even bear to listen to the sound of their own voices. The Sultan’s son, al-Afdal, came and embraced me, but no words were exchanged.
That same evening I suffered an attack of nausea and was sick. I was shivering. My body seemed to be on fire. I consumed three flasks of water and then I fell asleep.
When I woke the next morning, the sickness had gone, but I felt weak and overcome by a foreboding of disaster. I sat up in my bed and realised that the disaster had already occurred. The Sultan was dead.
My task is complete. There is nothing more to write.
Peace be upon you, till we meet,
Your loyal friend,
Ibn Yakub
(Scribe to the late Sultan Salah al-Din ibn Ayyub)