In July 1173, less than two years after the missed rendezvous of Shawbak, a similar incident occurred. Saladin was leading an expedition east of the Jordan, and Nūr al-Dīn assembled his troops and set out to meet him. But once again the vizier was terrified at having to face his master directly, and hurriedly headed back to Egypt, claiming that his father was dying. In fact, Ayyūb had just fallen into a coma after an accident in which he had been thrown from his horse. But Nūr al-Dīn was unwilling to accept this new excuse. And when Ayyūb died in August, he realized that there was no longer anyone in Cairo in whom he had complete confidence. He therefore decided that the time had come to take personal charge of Egyptian affairs.
Nūr al-Dīn began preparations to invade Egypt and wrench it away from Ṣalāḥ al-Dīn Yūsuf, for he had noted that the latter was shirking the fight against the Franj, for fear of having to unite with him. Our chronicler here, Ibn al-Athīr, who was fourteen when these events occurred, takes a clear position in support of the son of Zangī. Yūsuf preferred to see the Franj on his borders rather than be the direct neighbour of Nūr al-Dīn. The latter therefore wrote to Mosul and elsewhere asking that he be sent troops. But as he was preparing to march to Egypt with his soldiers, God whispered to him the command that cannot be shunned. The ruler of Syria fell gravely ill, afflicted, it seems, by a very painful angina. His doctors prescribed bleeding, but he refused: ‘One does not bleed a man sixty years old’, he said. Other treatments were tried, but nothing worked. On 15 May 1174 it was announced in Damascus that Nūr al-Dīn Maḥmūd, the saint-king, the mujāhid who had united Muslim Syria and enabled the Arab world to prepare for the decisive struggle against the occupier, had died. That night, all the mosques were filled with people who had gathered to recite verses of the Koran in his memory. In time, Saladin would come to be seen as Nūr al-Dīn’s continuator rather than his rival, despite their conflict during these latter years.
For the moment, however, resentment was the dominant emotion among the relatives and close associates of the deceased, and they feared that Yūsuf would take advantage of the general confusion to attack Syria. In an effort to gain time, they did not notify Cairo of the news. But Saladin, who had friends everywhere, sent a finely worded message to Damascus by carrier-pigeon: News has come to us from the accursed enemy regarding the master Nūr al-Dīn. If, God forbid, it should be true, we must above all ensure that no division takes hold in our hearts and that no minds are gripped by unreason, for only the enemy would profit.
In spite of these conciliatory words, fierce hostility would be aroused by the rise of Saladin.
10
The Tears of Saladin
You go too far, Yūsuf; you overstep all limits. You are but a servant of Nūr al-Dīn, and now you seek to grasp power for yourself alone? But make no mistake, for we who have raised you out of nothingness shall be able to return you to it!
Some years later, this warning delivered to Saladin by the dignitaries of Aleppo would seem absurd. But in 1174, when the new master of Cairo was just beginning to emerge as the principal figure of the Arab East, his merits were not yet evident for all to see. In Nūr al-Dīn’s entourage, both while he lived and just after his death, no one even spoke the name of Yūsuf any more. Words like ‘the upstart’, ‘the ingrate’, ‘the disloyal’, or, most often, ‘the insolent’ were used instead.
Saladin himself generally shunned insolence; but his luck was surely insolent. And it was just this that annoyed his adversaries. For this 36-year-old Kurdish officer had never been an ambitious man, and those who knew him from the beginning felt sure that he would have been quite content to be no more than an emir among others had fate not propelled him, willy nilly, to the forefront of the scene.
He had accompanied his uncle to Egypt somewhat reluctantly and his role in the conquest had been minimal. Nevertheless, just because of his self-effacement, he was drawn to the summit of power. He himself had not dared to proclaim the downfall of the Fatimids, but when he was forced to do so, he found himself heir to the richest of Muslim dynasties. And when Nūr al-Dīn resolved to put him in his place, Yūsuf had no need even to resist: his master suddenly died, leaving as his successor an 11-year-old adolescent, al-Ṣāliḥ.
On 11 July 1174, less than two months later, Amalric also died, the victim of dysentery, just when he was preparing yet another invasion of Egypt, this time with the support of a powerful Sicilian fleet. He bequeathed the Kingdom of Jerusalem to his son Baldwin IV, a young man of thirteen afflicted by the most terrible of maledictions: leprosy. Throughout the Orient, there was but a single monarch who could stand in the way of the irresistible rise of Saladin, and that was Manuel, emperor of the Rūm, who indeed dreamed of some day becoming the suzerain of Syria and who intended to invade Egypt in conjunction with the Franj. But then in September 1176, as if to complete the series of gifts fate bestowed upon Saladin, the powerful Byzantine army, which had checked Nūr al-Dīn for nearly fifteen years, was crushed by Kilij Arslan II, the grandson of the first Kilij Arslan, in the battle of Myrioke-phalon. Manuel died soon afterwards, condemning the Christian empire in the East to sink into anarchy.
Can one blame Saladin’s panegyrists for detecting the hand of Providence in this succession of unexpected events? Yūsuf himself never claimed credit for his good fortune. He always took care to thank, after God, ‘my uncle Shīrkūh’ and ‘my master Nūr al-Dīn’. It is true that the greatness of Saladin lay also in his modesty.
One day when Ṣalāḥ al-Dīn was tired and was trying to rest, one of his mamlūks came to him and handed him a paper to sign. ‘I am exhausted’, said the sultan, ‘come back in an hour.’ But the man insisted. He fairly stuck the page in Ṣalāḥ al-Dīn’s face, saying, ‘Let the master sign!’ The sultan replied, ‘But I have no inkwell here.’ He was seated at the entrance to his tent, and the mamlūk remarked that there was an inkwell inside. ‘There is an inkwell, at the back of the tent’, he cried, which meant, in effect, that he was ordering Ṣalāḥ al-Dīn to go and get the inkwell himself, no less. The sultan turned, saw the inkwell, and said, ‘By God, you’re right.’ He reached back, bracing himself with his left hand, and grasped the inkwell in his right. Then he signed the paper.
This incident, related by Bahā' al-Dīn, Saladin’s personal secretary and biographer, is a striking illustration of what made him so different from the monarchs of his time, indeed of all times: he was able to remain humble with the humble, even after he had become the most powerful of the powerful. The chroniclers, of course, evoke his courage, his sense of justice, and his zeal for the jihād, but through their writings a more touching, more human, image always transpires.
One day, Bahā' al-Dīn relates, in the midst of our campaign against the Franj, Ṣalāḥ al-Dīn summoned his close companions. In his hand was a letter he had just finished reading, and when he tried to speak, he broke down. Seeing him in this state, we were unable to hold back our own tears, even though we did not know what was the matter. Finally, his voice choked with tears, he said, ‘Taqi al-Dīn, my nephew, is dead.’ Then his warm tears began to flow again, as did ours. When I regained my composure I said to him, ‘Let us not forget the campaign in which we are engaged, and let us ask God to forgive us for having abandoned ourselves to this grief.’ Ṣalāḥ al-Dīn agreed. ‘Yes’, he said, ‘may God forgive me! May God forgive me!’ He repeated these words several times, and then he added, ‘Let no one know what has happened!’ Then he had rose water brought to wash his eyes.
The tears of Saladin flowed on other occasions besides the deaths of those closest to him.
Once, Bahā' al-Dīn recalls, when I was riding at the sultan’s side against the Franj, an army scout came to us with a sobbing woman beating her breast. ‘She came from the Franj camp’, the scout explained, ‘and wants to see the master. We brought her here.’ Ṣalāḥ al-Dīn asked his interpreter to question her. She said: ‘Yesterday some Muslim thieves entered my tent and stole my little girl. I cried all night, and our comman
ders told me: the king of the Muslims is merciful; we will let you go to him and you can ask for your daughter back. Thus have I come, and I place all my hopes in you.’ Ṣalāḥ al-Dīn was touched, and tears came to his eyes. He sent someone to the slave market to look for the girl, and less than an hour later a horseman arrived bearing the child on his shoulders. As soon as she saw them, the girl’s mother threw herself to the ground and smeared her face with sand. All those present wept with emotion. She looked heavenward and began to mutter incomprehensible words. Thus was her daughter returned to her, and she was escorted back to the camp of the Franj.
Those who knew Saladin say little about his physical appearance: he was small and frail, with a short, neat beard. They prefer to speak of his pensive and somewhat melancholy face, which would suddenly light up with a comforting smile that would put anyone talking to him at ease. He was always affable with visitors, insisting that they stay to eat, treating them with full honours, even if they were infidels, and satisfying all their requests. He could not bear to let someone who had come to him depart disappointed, and there were those who did not hesitate to take advantage of this quality. One day, during a truce with the Franj, the ‘Brins’, lord of Antioch, arrived unexpectedly at Saladin’s tent and asked him to return a district that the sultan had taken four years earlier. And he agreed!
Saladin’s generosity sometimes bordered on the irresponsible.
His treasurers, Bahā' al-Dīn reveals, always kept a certain sum hidden away for emergencies, for they knew that if the master learned of the existence of this reserve, he would spend it immediately. In spite of this precaution, when the sultan died the state treasury contained no more than an ingot of Tyre gold and forty-seven dirhams of silver.
When some of his collaborators chided him for his profligacy, Saladin answered with a nonchalant smile: ‘There are people for whom money is no more important than sand.’ Indeed, he felt genuine contempt for riches and luxury, and when the fabulous palaces of the Fatimid caliphs fell into his hands, he settled his emirs in them, preferring himself to live in the more modest residence reserved for the viziers.
This was but one of many features that Saladin and Nūr al-Dīn appeared to have in common. In fact, Saladin’s adversaries saw him as no more than a pale reflection of his master. In reality, in his contacts with others, especially his soldiers, he behaved far more warmly than his predecessor had. And although he observed the letter of religious precepts, he lacked the slight streak of bigotry that the son of Zangī had manifested on occasion. In general, one may say that Saladin was as demanding of himself as Nūr al-Dīn had been, but more lenient with others, although he was even more merciless than his elder when dealing with those who had insulted Islam, be they ‘heretics’ or certain of the Franj.
Beyond these differences of personality, Saladin was strongly influenced, especially at the beginning, by the imposing stature of Nūr al-Dīn, of whom he strove to be a worthy successor, relentlessly pursuing the same objectives: to unify the Arab world, and to mobilize the Muslims, both morally, with the aid of a powerful propaganda apparatus, and militarily, in order to reconquer the occupied territories, above all Jerusalem.
In the summer of 1174, as the emirs of Damascus who supported young al-Ṣāliḥ were discussing the best way to hold out against Saladin, even considering an alliance with the Franj, the ruler of Cairo sent them a genuinely challenging letter. In it, judiciously concealing his conflict with Nūr al-Dīn, he unhesitatingly presented himself as the continuator of his suzerain’s work and the faithful guardian of his heritage.
If, he wrote, our late king had detected among you a man as worthy of his confidence as me, would he not have entrusted him with the leadership of Egypt, the most important of his provinces? You may be sure that had Nūr al-Dīn not died so soon, he would have designated me to educate his son and to watch over him. Now, I observe, you are behaving as though you alone served my master and his son, and you are attempting to exclude me. But I shall soon arrive. In honour of the memory of my master, I shall perform deeds that will have their effect, and each of you will be punished for his misconduct.
Here it is difficult to recognize the circumspect man of previous years. It is as if the death of his master had unleashed long pent-up aggression. It is true that the circumstances were exceptional, for this message had a precise function: it was the declaration of war with which Saladin would begin the conquest of Muslim Syria. When he sent this message in October 1174, the ruler of Cairo was already on his way to Damascus, leading seven hundred cavalry. That was far too few for a siege of the Syrian metropolis, but Yūsuf had carefully calculated the odds. Frightened by the uncharacteristically violent tone of Saladin’s missive, al-Ṣāliḥ and his collaborators preferred to retreat to Aleppo. Crossing Franj territory with no difficulty via what could now be called the ‘Shīrkūh trail’, Saladin arrived at Damascus in late October; supporters of his family quickly threw open the gates and welcomed him.
Encouraged by this victory, won without a single sword-stroke, he continued on his way. He left the Damascus garrison under the command of one of his brothers and headed for central Syria, where he seized Homs and Hama. During this lightning campaign, Ibn al-Athīr tells us, Ṣalāḥ al-Dīn claimed to be acting in the name of the king al-Ṣāliḥ, son of Nūr al-Dīn. He said that his aim was to defend the country against the Franj. Still faithful to the Zangī dynasty, the Mosul historian is at least suspicious of Saladin, whom he accuses of duplicity. He was not entirely wrong. Yūsuf, anxious not to act as a usurper, did indeed present himself as the protector of al-Ṣāliḥ. ‘In any event’, he said, ‘this adolescent cannot govern alone. He needs a tutor, a regent, and no one is better placed than me to perform that function.’ He sent al-Ṣāliḥ letter after letter assuring him of his loyalty, ordered prayers to be said for him in the mosques of Cairo and Damascus, and coined money in his name.
The young monarch was wholly unmoved by these gestures. In December 1174, when Saladin laid siege to Aleppo ‘to protect King al-Ṣāliḥ from the nefarious influence of his advisers’, the son of Nūr al-Dīn assembled the people of the city and delivered a moving speech: ‘Behold this unjust and ungrateful man who wishes to take my country from me without regard to God or man! I am an orphan, and I rely upon you to defend me, in memory of my father who so loved you.’ Deeply touched, the Aleppans decided to resist ‘the outlaw’ come what may. Yūsuf, seeking to avoid a direct conflict with al-Ṣāliḥ, lifted the siege. On the other hand, he now decided to proclaim himself ‘king of Egypt and Syria’, and would thus no longer depend on any suzerain. The chroniclers would also call him ‘sultan’, but he himself never adopted this title. Saladin later returned several times to the walls of Aleppo, but he could never bring himself to cross swords with the son of Nūr al-Dīn.
Al-Ṣāliḥ’s advisers decided to resort to the services of the Assassins in an effort to remove this permanent threat. They made contact with Rashīd al-Dīn Sinān, who promised to get rid of Yūsuf for them. The ‘old man of the mountain’ could have asked nothing better than to settle accounts with the grave-digger of the Fatimid dynasty. The first assault came at the beginning of 1175: some Assassins penetrated Saladin’s camp as far as his tent, where an emir recognized them and barred their way. He was seriously wounded, but the alarm had been sounded. Guards came running, and after a murderous fight, the Bāṭinis were massacred. This only postponed matters. On 22 May 1176, when Saladin was again campaigning in the region of Aleppo, an Assassin burst into his tent and dealt him a dagger-stroke in the head. Fortunately, the sultan had been on his guard since the previous attack, and had taken the precaution of wearing a head-dress of mail under his fez. The would-be killer then went for his victim’s neck. But again his blade was checked. Saladin was wearing a long tunic of thick material whose high collar was reinforced with mail. One of the army emirs then arrived, seized the dagger with one hand and with the other struck the Bāṭini, who collapsed. But before Saladin ha
d had time to rise, a second killer leapt upon him, then a third. The guards, however, had meanwhile arrived, and the assailants were massacred. Yūsuf emerged from his tent haggard and reeling, amazed that he had escaped injury.
As soon as he had regained his wits, he decided to mount an attack on the lair of the Assassins in central Syria, where Rashīd al-Dīn Sinān controlled ten or so fortresses. Saladin laid siege to the most formidable of them, Maṣyāf, perched on the summit of a cliff. Exactly what happened in the land of the Assassins that August of 1176 will probably always remain a mystery. One version, that of Ibn al-Athīr, has it that Sinān sent a letter to a maternal uncle of Saladin’s, swearing to have all the members of the ruling family killed. Such a threat from the Assassins sect could not be taken lightly, especially after the two attempts to assassinate the sultan. The siege of Maṣyāf was then lifted, according to this account.