“Thank you, Faaiq. I will work as fast as I can. It is not just a matter of writing it down. There are some passages that I not happy with., and I must make a few changes. When do want it?”
“By noon tomorrow. Don’t forget that the calligrapher has to write out the poems, and the rawi has to practice them.”
“It will be ready. Are you looking forward to the feast?”
“I always look forward to our lord’s feasts. The prohibition on wine will be relaxed to please the visiting potentates—though I admit that I do not like to hear my work read aloud.”
In case he gets found out, thought Fadel.
CHAPTER SIX
The feast was the greatest that had ever been held in the Citadel of Aleppo. All Zengi’s allies were there at the high table: Emir Timurtash Shihab ad-Din Mahmud, and even the Caliph of Baghdad. On either side of Zengi sat his sons, Saif ad-Din Ghazi and Nur ad-Din (he sat them thus to ensure that they didn’t quarrel during the feast). On the table below him were his captains, among them Kutchuk and, Yaghi-Siyani. The rest of the hall was filled with officers and officials.
The meal began with a delicious badinjan muhassa, a dish which is made with eggplant and ground and toasted walnut. The main course consisted of tabâ hajah, chicken, cooked in oil, and topped with chopped greens, with a marinade based on murri. They were served two drinks in addition to water: sekanjabin and a lemon drink—both were delicious and refreshing, but Faaiq’s expectation of wine was disappointed.
After the food came entertainment. Two groups of soldiers in brightly-coloured ceremonial uniforms, acted out scenes from the battle, and they were followed by a troop of young women performing the Raqs Beledi. They had been specially selected for their adaptation to the art, and each had an ample belly, the wobbles of which almost made Fadel renounce his vow of abstinence.
At last, the great moment came. Zengi himself would make a speech and then their poems would be read out. Zengi stood, and the hall was instantly silent.
He spoke in a quiet, calm voice that nevertheless seemed to reach to every corner of the room:
“Allahu Akbar. Is it not written: ‘Fight in the way of Allah with those who fight with you, and kill them wherever you find them, and drive them out from whence they drove you out.’ Do jihad in the cause of God, incite the believers and be patient in the face of this hardship. If you knew about the reward and dignity in this world and the hereafter through jihad, then none of you would delay in doing it. Even now, those who died in the jihad against Edessa are wedded to 72 houris in Jannah. But the jihad has just begun. Next we must drive the Infidel out of the Holy City.”
There was great applause which went on for some time. Then Zengi raised his hand for silence and said, “My poets have written about my deeds and my rawi will now recite the qasidas written in my honour.”
Faaiq’s qasida was recited first. Fadel watched the audience, looking for tell-tale signs that they had heard the poem before. Only one man frowned and whispered something to his companion, but he was a low-status clerk, and even if he had objected nobody would have taken any notice. The main thing was that Zengi, usually impassive, nodded with approval.
Fadel’s heart was beating, now it was his turn to have his work recited. He tried to read Zengi’s expression as his work unfolded. There was not much to see, but it seemed that he liked the beginning, referring to his ancestral sword. He made a slight nod as the poem proceeded, clearly appreciating some of the descriptions. Then everything went to hell. The rawi read:
“And we departed by command
To haul Edessa’s crosses down;
As reapers in the field of death,
As brother Muslims side by side,
But he slaughtered the innocent;
Women and children mild and meek,
Despite the words from Allah sent
Commanding mercy to the weak.”
Fadel went white with astonishment. The last four lines were not his! At the same time, Zengi flushed red and jumped to his feet. He seemed about to shout something, when he thought the better of it, and said a few quiet words to a guard behind him. A moment later, Yaghi-Siyani stood up and said, “The man is mad. I am atabeg of Edessa and I fought in the battle. It was Zengi himself who stopped the massacre—and gave a specific command to spare the native Christians!”
A moment after that, gauntleted hands seized Fadel from behind and dragged him from his seat. He spent the rest of the night in a cold, damp cell somewhere underneath the citadel.
Next morning he was dragged, chained, into Zengi’s audience chamber. Zengi said nothing, just held up the linen paper on which the scroll was written.
“I didn’t write those lines!” protested Fadel.
“Have you a witness?” said the Vizier.
“Ask Faaiq, he heard me recite it. It must have been the scribe. He wrote those lines, not me!”
“Bring Faaiq—and the scribe, too.”
There was a long wait while the men were found. Zengi and his Visier attended to other business, but Fadel was kept standing, his chains seeming heavier and heavier by the minute. As he waited, his mind kept going round and round on the track it had been following all through a sleepless night. “Who did it? Why?”
At long last Faaiq and the scribe were shown into the audience chamber. As the man of lowest rank, the scribe was questioned first.
“I copied what I was given. No more. Here is the paper to prove it.”
Zengi nodded to his Emier, who took the paper and examined it. He nodded his confirmation, and the man was sent away.
Now it was Faaiq’s turn to be cross-examined.
“The defendant tells us that he recited his qasida to you,” said the Vizier. “Did it include those lines?”
“No, my lord,” said Faaiq.
“Then how did they get there?”
“He recited his qasida from memory and said he had some changes to make before he wrote it down.”
“And that is all you know.”
“I swear it, in the name of Allah.”
The Vizier turned to Zengi and they conferred for a few moments, then the Visier turned to the guards and said, “Crucify him!”
“No! wait!” screamed Faaiq.
Zengi looked hard at him.
“You are right. Crucifixion is too easy. He shall be burned at stake with every one of his manuscripts around him. Not one of his words shall survive.”
“No!” screamed Faaiq. “I confess. I did it! I feared that you would favour him and send me away—for was not his poem better than mine? I never thought it would come to this!”
Zengi stroked his beard as he considered the point.
“Did not the Prophet—may peace be upon him—enjoin us to sacrifice ourselves for our friends? And you, Faaiq, would do that, I see. But I cannot believe you, because your poem was a masterpiece: gold, pearls, oysters—things of beauty set beside the horrors of war. You are to be honoured for your attempt to save your false friend. But he is not worth your sacrifice. So—burn him and his treasonous writings!”
Fadel couldn’t believe his ears. He had had every expectation that the imposture would be discovered, but now his very life was on the line.
“My lord...” he pleaded, his voice trembling, his eyes streaming.
But Zengi merely waved him away.
The last sounds he heard as he was marched from the chamber was Faaiq sobbing and pleading, and Zengi continuing his praises.
The execution took place the same afternoon in the middle of the parade ground. The last thing that Fadel saw before the blindfold was tied round his eyes, was the heap of paper that was his life’s work—all for nothing now. Not one word of his would live on into posterity—and he had had such high hopes!
The paper was lit and flames licked at his feet. Smoke choked his breath and as the flames began to bite he screamed at the top of his voice. He writhed with agony against the ropes, but they held him tight, and by the t
ime they had burnt though he was just a blackened mess, like an animal on a spit that the cook had forgotten about.
There was an audience of soldiers who watched in solemn silence, among them, Bazzu. Most of them had no idea what the lad had done, but they knew all too well that, one step out of line, and they too would find themselves on the wrong end of Zengi’s wrath. Bazzu shook his head sadly, reflecting that he had better give up wine before he suffered a similar fate.
Only one voice could be heard mumbling something over and over again. It was Faaiq saying: “May Allah forgive me! May Allah forgive me!”
Remorse is a terrible thing. Did it not lead Judas, after the betrayal of Jesus, to crucify himself upside down? Though some Islamic scholars believe that it led Judas to take Jesus’ place on the cross at Calvary.
Faaiq had, indeed, only intended to rid himself of his rival poet, but he had not reckoned with Zengi’s pride and cruelty—a dangerous combination.
After the execution, Faaiq staggered back to his quarters and tried to drug himself into oblivion with several opium pipes, but his remorse, rather than being dulled, rose to fever pitch accompanied by visions of his friend burned body writhing in the flames.
Then, as if in a trance, he rose from the diwan and made his way to Zengi’s private quarters. When he was challenged, he simply said, “I am Zengi’s poet. Have you not heard of my triumph at the feast? He wants to hear my poem again.”
He was allowed to pass, and entered Zengi’s chamber noiselessly. The great man was asleep, by himself, for he cared little for women. The only other person in the room was a slave, sleeping at the foot of his bed.
Faaiq unrolled his papers and took out the knife that was hidden inside. Then, without hesitation, drew it across Zengi’s throat. There a cascade of blood, a splutter, a spasm, and the saviour of Islam was dead.
Next, he turned the knife towards himself. He knew the tortures that awaited him if he lived, and anyway, he had no wish to live. He wished to join his friend in death, though he knew that was most unlikely. His friend was now in Jannah, but as a murderer, he would end up in Jahannam—well, he had deserved it. He drew the knife across his throat and fell to the ground, choking as the life poured out of him.
GLOSSARY
abaya – robe
al-khamis – Friday
Allahu akbar – Allah is great
assegai – spear
atabeg – ruler
bantaloon – baggy trousers
bisht – cloak
buq – trumpet
diwan – couch
dua – supplication
furūsiyya – martial arts
hafiz – has memorised the Quran
hadeeth – religious texts
hammam – baths
haram – forbidden
hijab – headscarf
houri – heavenly virgin
Jahannam – Hell
jahiliyya – pre-Islamic
Jannah – Heaven
jinn – here, equivalent of ‘muse’
kameez – long tunic
keffiyeh – traditional headdress
maktab – office
muezzin – man man who calls to prayer
masalaam – goodbye
nikah – obligatory
oud – lute
qasida – ode
raqs beledi – belly dance
rawi – reciter
salaam – ‘peace’, a greeting
sarjukhe – corporal
sekanjabin – a sweet mint drink
sepses – short opium pipe
sharbat – a flower petal drink
souq – market place
surah – verse
vizier – high official
zawia – angle
APPENDIX
The poem about Zengi in chapters 13 to 18 was written by Yahya Parkinson (1874-1918). He was a Scottish Muslim poet, essayist, and critic, and the first recorded British subject to convert to Islam. As so much of his poem is used in my book, I thought readers might enjoy reading it as a whole.
ZENGI
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.
Methinks I see his streaming crest,
Like snow-white foam upon the wave,
Where’er the thronging squadrons prest,
Amid the bravest of the brave.
Listen! and I will tell you, lad,
The story of a soldier true.
No abler chief for combat clad,
Nor better brand in danger drew;
When but a youth of fourteen years
Sages revered his comely form.
He led his father’s cavaliers
In summer calm and winter storm;
His early days foretold renown,
Predestined by the hand of fate,
Princes upheld his youthful crown
Until he grew to man’s estate.
It was a time of bitter strife,
Of broiling day and night alarms,
Murder and plunder both were rife,
And every Emir slept in arms;
crusaders from the ferrine west,
Imbued with mad religious hate;
Were rushing in fanatic zest,
The Muslim to annihilate.
For Baldwin’s brow the diadem
Of Palestinian empire bound,
The Kingdom of Jerusalem,
And hallowed Bethlehem’s holy ground.
Their legions reached Diyar-bekir,
And surged around Damascus wall,
And Syrian blood besprent the spear
In fair Edessa’s palace hall;
And rapine followed in their path,
The pestilence that famine bears,
Haran and Sidon felt their wrath,
And Tyre and Tripolis were theirs;
No lance to stay the fearful scourge,
Where Kedron’s fairy waters flashed,
Nor champion’s voice the Muslims urge
Where the Orontes droning dashed;
In vain the people sought relief
From fierce oppression’s blighting breath;
And overcome by fear and grief,
Even the doughtiest prayed for death;
But all was changed when Zengi first
In battle couched Islamic spear,
And over the Orontes burst
On his victorious career.
His eye with battle fire aglare,
His swarthy cheek with triumph flushed;
That blade, Damascus made, was bare,
And with the blood of foemen blushed.
I saw him on Tiberias plain,
In youthful ardour lead the van,
When blood distilled like winter rain,
And Mandud led the Mussulman.
‘Twas there he played a knightly part,
And won his spurs on tented field,
And earned the love of every heart
That homage will to valour yield.
‘Mid western knight and Frankish peer,
And Syria’s martial Emir keen,
No more renowned cavalier
Than gallant, young, Imad-ed-din.
I saw his mettled coursers prance,
His banners with the Khalif lined,
When Dubeys and his Arab lance,
On billows swept, incarnadined;
With daring heart Antar, the brave,
Against him sped in proud array,
To b
reak in pieces, wave on wave,
The finest swords of Araby.
I seem to see him once again
Breasting the billows of that sea,
Beneath him dead and dying men;
The Arab’s choicest chivalry;
Before the Sultan’s eye that hour,
Of gentle deed and courtly grace,
The foremost on the run for power,
Leading the veterans in the race.
It was not there he made his name,
But by the Jordan’s rippling wave;
It was not there undying fame
Her wreath of greenest laurel gave;
It was not there he was revered,
But by Orontes turbid tide;
It was not there his name was feared,
But on the Jordan’s western side;
He was the first the torch to light,
And bid the European pause;
The first to meet the Christian might
As champion of the Muslim cause.
I think I see the chieftain now,
By dark Atharib’s lofty keep,
The thunders lowering on his brow,
His eyes where lurid lightnings sleep.
I saw the warlike passion rise
Upon his brow as morning light!
I saw the fury in his eyes,
As lightning’s thro’ the darkest night!
The turbans glittered on the plain,
Amid the hills the battle flags;
The eagles swooping in our train
Forsook their eyries on the crags.
We challenged and the foe replied,
And long withstood us man to man,
For they were warriors picked and tried,
Of Normandy and Frankistan.
We met defiance with our mines,
And mangonels the turrets swept,
Closer and closer drew our lines,
Day after day we nearer crept.
Unto their aid with all his might
Jerusalem’s Christian sovereign came,
He knew those sparks of transient light
Were heralds of devouring flame;
They came to meet us; ’twas the choice
Of Prince and baron, banneret;
And we, aroused by Zengi’s voice,
For the assault impatient fret.
The cry, ‘Give them a taste of Hell,’
Was answered from the frowning rock;
And then against the infidel
Our coursers bounded to the shock;
Into that sea of steel we rode,
As rivers pouring forth in flood
Our blades a brighter crimson showed
Than ever sprung from slavish blood;
Onward, as speedy as the wind,