There was a break after two hours, and the Sarjukhe told him he was free to go. The other poor recruits would be kept at it, on and off, for most of the day.
When he got back to his quarters, he was surprised to find Faaiq already there, lounging on his diwan and already halfway through his first opium pipe.
“How did you...?”
“How does one do anything in Aleppo? A bribe. I put on my uniform, present myself for duty, slip the Sarjukhe a silver dirham, and away I go. You should do the same.”
“As it happens, I think the training is a good idea. It helps us to see things from the soldier’s point of view.”
Faaiq laughed. “I thought that was what imagination was for—and this.”
He took a deep draught of his sepses, held the smoke in his lungs as long as he could, then, leaning back, exhaled it slowly. His eyes rolled back in his head and the lids drooped until only a narrow glimpse of the whites could be seen—he had escaped to his opium fantasy land.
Fadel decided that a visit to the hammam would be better. The hammam in Citadal was available for all officials of the court. It consisted of three interconnected rooms: the hot room; the warm room and the cool room. His slave, Rabar, would give him a massage in the warm room, after which he would enjoy a cooling drink of sharbat, and a nap in one of the private cubicles.
As the days went by, Fadel found—much to his own surprise—that he was enjoying the military training more than the hours spent with his fellow poet. He was weak and clumsy at first, but his strength and endurance grew steadily.
One day, when he was marching out of the Citadel on a excercise, he passed his old friend Bazzu who was marching in. There was no time to talk, but Bazzu said as they passed, “Welcome to the real world, lad.”
When the Sarjukhe was satisfied with his parade ground drill, he was promoted to the cavalry school. Here, he had to learn all over again how to ride a horse, and then how to control it with just his knees so that his hands were free to use a bow. He had no illusions that he would be any use in a battle, but he imagined the pounding rhythm of his horse’ hooves being echoed in the eight poetic feet of his lines.
CHAPTER FOUR
News of the death of Emperor John Comnenus provided the opportunity that Zengi had been waiting for. The Emperor had been his most dangerous enemy, but now, without his help, neither the Damascenes, nor the Kingdom of Jerusalem would dare to attack him. It was an opportunity not to be missed.
As a result, Fadel and Faaiq found themselves in the rearguard of the Zengid army as it marched to do battle with Kara Arslan, the Ortoquid prince of Diarbekir.
Though in the rearguard, Fadel was alarmed to see a real enemy ranged in front of him for the first time: rank upon rank of men with glittering helmets and spear points that seemed to stretch from one side of the valley to the other. He was even more alarmed to see a huge cloud of dust in the distance which seemed to be reinforcements of some kind.
“The Edessan army under Joscelin, Count of Edessa,” said Faaiq. “He has an alliance with Arslan.”
Fadel never failed to be amazed at the scope of Joscelin’s knowledge of Mesopotamian politics. He seemed to do nothing but smoke opium and avoid his duty, but he did read a lot, and not all of it was poetry.
“May Allah protect us!” said Fadel. “Two armies!”
“Never fear,” said Faaiq. “It is said that our lord, Zengi, never lost a game of chess. He is a master of strategy.”
Fadel looked up suddenly. Faaiq never failed to surprise him. That was a masterly analogy which could be developed into a fine poem. Perhaps those hours of smoking and dreaming were worth it after all.
“He is playing the game now—knight to king’s rook 3. It is a feint, an attempt to lure an opponent into a false move, and Joscelin has fallen for it.”
“What do you mean?”
“His has moved his queen across the board and his king is undefended.”
“I don’t understand you—he is the king, well, the Count, and he has two armies to defend him.”
“Mere pawns!”
“Look, Zengi’s next move will be check.”
Faaiq pointed to a flurry of movement behind the front lines, but in front of the rearguard.
Fadel’s heart began to beat faster. Sweat poured from his brow. He wanted to run away.
“I don’t understand. We are facing two armies, and our master sends part of his away.”
Faaiq laughed. “Don’t you see! He has outmanouvred Joscelin. He has lured him out of his stronghold, and Edessa is now undefended.”
“But—the armies!”
“Watch.”
A buq sounded, and a detachment of horse archers galloped forward in a cloud of dust, and discharged their arrows at the enemy. Arslan sent his own horse archers to meet them, a fatal mistake, for they were shot down as soon as they were in the open. Another wave of Zengid horse archers followed, and another, and another, like mighty waves battering a tottering cliff. Joscelin tried an outflanking movement with his own horse archers, but Zengi made no attempt to cut them off. Instead, a rank of spearmen knelt before them with spears at an angle to protect the crowsbowmen who came up behind. A man on a horse is a large target, and many of them fell. As the battle rolled on, the discipline and training of Zengi’s men began to tell, and the armies of Arslan and Joscelin began to fall back.
Fadel witnessed all this from the safety of the rearguard who were never called upon to go into action. Nevetherless, he was deeply affected. He had read about battles, he had written about battles, he had talked to soldiers about their experiences in battles, he had even trained as a soldier—but he had never been in one before, and it affected him strangely. He was horrified at the shouts, screams, blood, spilling guts, horrific wounds, mutilated bodies; terrified when the battle seemed to swing his way, and when arrows whooshed overhead, but he also felt an exultation he had never felt before when the enemy began to retreat. He saw now, why some men, especially the leaders of men, are in love with battle. It is the ultimate human experience—the ultimate gamble: lose all, win all, and the more there is to lose the greater the sense of victory when you win.
By nightfall, the enemy armies had retreated. Zengi could have pursued them and finished them off, but he had other plans—the next move in the game of chess.
“He will march on Edessa tomorrow, and if his advance guard has been successful, we will walk in through open gates. I hope so. I’ve had enough of fighting!” said Faaiq.
“But we didn’t do any,” said Fadel.
“Watching it was nerve-racking enough. I wish I had brought my pipe.”
“I just want to sleep.”
“Good idea. If I know our master it will be a hard day tomorrow. Up before dawn, and a long march.”
Fadel lay down on the mat and was asleep in a moment, not that he slept well. He had a terrible nightmare in which he was exposed to a relentless hail of arrows from Joscelin’s horse archers. The arrows slammed into him one after another until he looked like a pin cushion. He was covered in blood and felt terrible agony, but he couldn’t die. He jerked awake, and found that he was covered in sweat instead of blood, but it took a few moments before he could shake it off.
As he gradually recovered his senses, he became aware that a lamp was burning, and that Faaiq was already up. He was wrapping a bandage around his left arm.
“What are you doing?”
“I’m not coming to Edessa. I’m going back with the wounded.”
“But you’re not wounded.”
Faaiq squeezed some red Tassle berries onto the bandage.
“I am now,” he said.
“But how can you write your poem if you are not there to see what happens?”
Faaiq laughed.
“I know what will happen. Zengi will win and the people of Edessa will be slaughtered.”
“But the details—it is all in the details!”
Faaiq laughed again.
??
?My friend, you are a promising poet, but you have a lot to learn. A poet needs a zawia, and angle, on his subject, otherwise he is a mere chronicler. We have historians at the House of Wisdom write those.”
“Do you have a zawia?”
“Yes—I thought of it yesterday when we were conversing. Don’t you remember? Zengi as the master chess player: the feint with the rook inviting the false move with the queen, then check and checkmate! Chess as jihad: jihad as chess with human pieces and Zengi clearing the board.”
Fadel said nothing but his expression revealed his admiration. It was a brilliant idea—an inspiration from the jinn, in fact. He felt a moment of envy, but was quick to remember the surah which says: “Beware of envy because envy destroys good deeds in the same manner as fire destroys wood.” Instead, he would take it as a lesson learned. He would continue with his quest for authenticity but would also look for a zawia.
But the gates of Edessa weren’t open as Faaiq had expected. It seemed that Zengi’s captain, Yaghi-Siyani, had lost his way in the dark, rainy night, and arrived no sooner than the main army. By this time the Edessenes had been warned and the defences had been manned. Despite that, the army was in high spirits, for word was passed that Joscelin had taken all the leading soldiers, and only a churchman, Archbishop Hugh was available to lead the defence. Better still, numbers were being swelled by Kurds and Turcomans—Zengi’s allies from the Upper Tigris.
As always, Zengi had planned his attack well, and he had good siege engines, and an expert team of miners. He began with a frontal attack on the walls, but this was only diversionary, as he knew that his best chance of getting inside such a well fortified city was to undermine the walls. When the defenders realised this, they made a sally, but Zengi had expected it, and had horse archers waiting to head them off. They were struck down, mercilessly, and not one made it back into the city. It soon became apparent that the clerics and merchants who made up the remainder of the garrison were inexpert at warfare, and that, despite the mighty walls of the city, and the even more imposing fortifications of the citadel, they would not be able to hold out for long.
Fadel played little part in this. Throughout the four weeks of the siege, all he could do was look on. Twice, the rearguard were marched forward to cover a retreat before a counter-attack, but on both occasions the attack was repelled before the rearguard came into action. Fadel had felt his guts turn to water with fear, and could only imagine what it would be like to be in the heat of the action.
At the end of each day he would think about what he had seen and try and put it into verse, he also continued to rack his brains for a zawia, an angle, that would transform mere description into poetry.
The breakthrough came on a bitterly cold evening at the time of year the Infidel call Christmas Eve. The mining had been going well, and the counter-attacks had failed to prevent them, with the result that a wall collapsed near the Gate of Hours. All at once, Zengi’s entire army was on the move, including the rearguard. They surged through the gap and gave themselves to unrestrained slaughter, taking out the frustration of four weeks of waiting on the unfortunate inhabitants. Men, women, children, Christians, Muslims, priests and ministers—all were slain in an orgy of vindictiveness. Was Fadel the only who was sickened? No. He saw in the eyes of many of the young recruits that they felt the same. It is one thing to see the blood of a soldier, but the blood of an innocent child is a very hard sight to bear.
The slaughter was made worse by the folly of the Archbishop, who refused to open the gates of the Citadel, because he wanted the populace to continue to defend the city. Thousands were trampled to death by the horse archers, and the foot soldiers slaughtered many more, including the bishop.
At last, Zengi himself rode up and ordered the massacre to cease. All the Franks were executed and their women and children sold into slavery, but as a sign of his mercy, the native Christians were spared. Zengi appointed one of his captains, Zayn ad-Din Ali Kutchuk, as governer, and returned to Aleppo.
Thus it was that the capital of the Crusader County of Edessa fell to Zengi. The bastion of the Crusader States was no more, and the Holy City was wide open to attack.
CHAPTER FIVE
Fadel was happy to turn his back on war, and happy that he had much valuable material for his poem. However, he still lacked an angle. He was puzzling about this when he heard a familiar voice behind him.
“Salaam. Peace be with you, lad.”
Fadel turned and saw that it was Bazzu.
“I see that you got out in once piece, lad.”
“Thanks be to Allah, the Most Beneficent, the Most Merciful.”
“And to the Sword of Zengi,” said Bazzu.
For once, Fadel forgot the surah that enjoins politeness, for the jinn was upon him. Bazzu’s words had given him his zawia, his angle, and with so with an abrupt excuse, he rode on in order to be alone to think it through.
Yes—that was his zawia: he would write his qasida in the voice of a an old soldier telling a young boy about Zengi, and he would begin with his fabled sword.
He ran the lines through his head as they travelled, and by the time they got to Aleppo, it was ready to be written down:
The sword you gaze upon my child,
Thine eyes with eager passion scan;
Has flashed amid the tempest wild,
Where Zengi led the Muslim van;
The jewelled hilt whose rays of fire
Might scorn the glory of the sun,
The tempered blade whose touch of ire
Made streams of deepest crimson run;
Unmatched on many a field of fight,
But dimmed in many a battle won;
It made and unmade many a knight,
For it was Zengi’s own, my son.
As soon as he was back in his quarters, he reached for pen and paper and started writing. Faaiq, hearing the noise of an arrival, came out of his sleeping quarters with Wadeed, half naked, at his heels.
“Salaam. Peace be with you. You have been a long time coming.”
“And peace to you also. A long time, yes, but we won a great victory.”
“In the name of Allah, I am glad to hear it—and you also won a victory yourself, I see.”
Fadel looked up eagerly.
“You are right. I wrestled with the jinn all the way home, but I have it, I have it—and it is just as you advised; a zawia that turns a chronicle into a poem...”
Was that a look of envy that flitted across Faaiq’s face?
“And what of your poem, your chess zawia?”
Faaiq shook his head.
“I couldn’t make it work out.”
“So you have nothing for Zengi?”
“Ah, as for that, I want to keep my place. What place could be better? Ten Dirhams a month and nothing to do.”
“You did write something then?”
“Yes.”
“Would you read it to me?”
Faaiq hesitated for moment, then went to his writing table and picked up a sheet of linen paper. Hesitantly, he began to read:
“Had all Arabia joined our ranks
there were honours for all who saw Zengi.
Joscelin came as if led by the night
sweeping dark across the land;
nobles, their sons, and men of rank
wearing rings of gold in their ears,
and pearls—close-sheltered once by the sea
in the oyster’s lap untouched by the clay.”
Fadel nearly blurted out, as he had done at their first meeting, “Haven’t I heard that somewhere before?” for he recognised straight away the work of his favourite poet, A’sha Maimun—but he stopped himself just in time. It was pitiful, pathetic, for Faaiq had done nothing more than change the names, so pitiful, in fact, that he hesitated to embarrass his friend. Instead, he said, “That chess analogy was a masterstroke, you should have worked at it. Listen, Faaiq, once you gave advice to me, and it hurt, for I knew you had seen somethi
ng my poetry lacked. It took me four weeks to find what I was looking for, but, thanks to you, I got there in the end. Now, if I may, I will give you some advice...”
But Faaiq responded with a scornful laugh.
“Save your breath. My adviser is over there in that pipe. I don’t want to hear the usual sermons about discipline and hard work. My poem is a masterpiece—can’t you see that—the pearls, the oysters, the ‘close-sheltered sea’?”
Fadel was only trying to help and felt hurt by Faaiq’s defensive tone. He almost named the poet whose work he had stolen, but feared it would result in a row. Instead, he sighed resignedly and said, “it is, indeed, a masterpiece.”
Faaiq looked at him as if expecting more, then said, “Now it is your turn, read out what you have written.”
“I have only just started to write it down. But it is in my head, and I can recite it to you.”
“Go on then.”
It is fortunate that Fadel did not pay much attention to his friend’s expression as he recited his poem, for he was too busy trying to remember it. If he had, he would have noticed Faaiq’s handsome features express first interest, then astonishment, then envy, then anxiety and finally anger, but by the time he had finished and looked up, Faaiq had schooled his features into a neutral expression.
“It is a fine poem—another masterpiece.”
The words were said begrudgingly, though he tried to sound as though he meant it.
“You know that our poems are to be recited at the celebration feast on al-khamis?”
“But that is only two days away.”
“Well, if you leave it to me I will arrange for our poems to be copied in fine calligraphy and will present them myself to Zengi’s rawi.”
Fadel was glad, now, that he had not accused his friend of stealing the great master’s work. At least there would be friendship between them. If his friend chose to smoke opium and steal from other poets, that was his business.