The heroism of some of the Arab fighters was not enough. The position of the Acre garrison was fast becoming critical. By the beginning of the summer of 1191 the appeals of the besieged had become cries of despair: ‘We are at the end of our tether, and no longer have any choice but to capitulate. If nothing has been done for us by tomorrow, we will request that our lives be spared and we will hand over the city.’ Saladin gave way to depression. Having lost any illusion that the besieged city could be saved, he wept bitter tears. His closest collaborators feared for his health, and the doctors prescribed potions to soothe him. He asked heralds to move through the camp announcing that a massive attack would be launched to lift the siege of Acre. But his emirs refused to obey his orders. ‘Why endanger the Muslim army uselessly?’ they retorted. There were now so many Franj, and they were so solidly entrenched, that any offensive would have been suicidal.
On 11 July 1191, after a siege lasting two years, cross-embossed banners suddenly appeared on the ramparts of Acre.
The Franj let out an immense cry of joy, while in our camp everyone was stunned. The soldiers wept and lamented. As for the sultan, he was like a mother who has just lost her child. I went to see him to do my best to console him. I told him that now we had to think of the future of Jerusalem and the coastal cities, and to do something about the fate of the Muslims captured in Acre.
Overcoming his grief, Saladin sent a messenger to Richard to discuss conditions for the release of the prisoners. But the Englishman was pressed for time. Determined to take advantage of his success to launch a sweeping offensive, he had no intention of bothering about captives, any more than had the sultan four years earlier, when the Frankish cities were falling into his hands one after another. The only difference was that when Saladin wanted to avoid being burdened with prisoners, he released them, whereas Richard preferred to have them killed. Two thousand and seven hundred soldiers of the Acre garrison were assembled before the city walls, along with nearly three hundred women and children of their families. Roped together so that they formed one enormous mass of flesh, they were delivered to the Frankish fighters, who fell upon them viciously with their sabres, with lances, and even with stones, until all the wails had been stilled.
After this expeditious resolution of the problem, Richard led his troops out of Acre. He headed south along the coast, his fleet following closely behind, while Saladin took a parallel route further inland. There were many clashes between the two armies, but none was decisive. The sultan now realized that he could not prevent the invaders from regaining control of the Palestinian coast, much less destroy their army. His ambition was simply to contain them, to bar their route to Jerusalem whatever the cost, for the loss of that city would be a terrible blow to Islam. It was the darkest moment of his career. Profoundly shaken, he nevertheless strove to sustain the morale of his troops and collaborators. To the latter, he acknowledged that he had suffered a serious setback—but, he explained, he and his people were there to stay, whereas the Frankish kings were only indulging in an expedition that would have to end sooner or later. Had not the king of France left Palestine in August, after spending a hundred days in the Orient? Had not the king of England often repeated that he yearned to return to his far-off kingdom?
Richard had moreover made many diplomatic overtures. In September 1191, just after his troops had scored a number of successes, in particular in the Arsūf coastal plain north of Jaffa, he prevailed upon al-‘Ādil to come to a rapid agreement.
Men of ours and of yours have died, he told him in a message, the country is in ruins, and events have entirely escaped anyone’s control. Do you not believe that it is enough? As far as we are concerned, there are only three subjects of discord: Jerusalem, the True Cross, and territory.
As for Jerusalem, it is our place of worship, and we will never agree to renounce it, even if we have to fight to the last man. As territory, all we want is that the land west of the Jordan be ceded to us. As for the Cross, for you it is merely a piece of wood, whereas for us its value is inestimable. Let the sultan give it to us, and let us put an end to this exhausting struggle.
Al-‘Ādil immediately carried the message to his brother, who consulted his chief collaborators before dictating his response:
The city is as holy to us as it is to you; it is even more important for us, because it was there that our Prophet made his miraculous nocturnal journey, and it is there that our community will be reunited on judgement day. It is therefore out of the question for us to abandon it. The Muslims would never accept it. As for territory, this land has always been ours, and your occupation is only transitory. You were able to settle in it because of the weakness of the Muslims who then peopled it, but so long as there is war, we will not allow you to enjoy your possessions. As for the Cross, it is a great trump in our hands, and we will surrender it only in return for some important concession on behalf of Islam.
The apparent firmness of these two messages was deceptive. Although each side was presenting maximal demands, the path of compromise was not entirely barred. A mere three days after this exchange, Richard sent Saladin’s brother a most curious proposition.
Al-‘Ādil sent for me, Bahā' al-Dīn relates, to inform me of the results of his latest contacts. According to the agreement being proposed, al-‘Ādil would marry the sister of the king of England. She had been married to the ruler of Sicily, who had died. The Englishman therefore brought his sister East with him, and he proposed that al-‘Ādil marry her. The couple would reside in Jerusalem. The king would consign the lands under his control, from Acre to Ascalon, to his sister, who would become queen of the coast, of the sāḥil. The sultan would cede his coastal possessions to his brother, who would become king of the sāḥil. The Cross would be entrusted to them jointly, and prisoners would be released on both sides. Once peace was thus concluded, the king of England would return to his country beyond the seas.
Al-‘Ādil was visibly tempted. He recommended that Bahā'; do his utmost to convince Saladin. The chronicler promised to try.
Thus did I present myself before the sultan, and repeated to him what I had heard. He immediately told me that he saw no obstacle, but he did not believe that the king of England himself would ever accept such an arrangement. It was, he thought, only a joke, or a trick. Three times I asked him to confirm his approval, and he did so. I then returned to al-‘Ādil to inform him of the sultan’s agreement. He hurriedly sent a message to the enemy camp conveying his response. But the accursed Englishman then told him that his sister had returned home in a terrible rage when she was told about his proposal: she had sworn that she would never give herself to a Muslim!
As Saladin had guessed, Richard had been indulging in a bit of trickery. He had hoped that the sultan would reject his plan out of hand, and that this would greatly displease al-‘Ādil. By accepting, Saladin instead compelled the Frankish monarch to reveal his double game. Indeed, for several months Richard had been trying to establish special relations with al-‘Ādil, calling him ‘my brother’, pandering to his ambition in an effort to use him against Saladin. It was a clever tactic. The sultan, for his part, employed similar methods. Parallel to the negotiations with Richard, he engaged in talks with al-Markish Conrad, the ruler of Tyre, whose relations with the English king were somewhat strained, since Conrad suspected Richard of seeking to deprive him of his possessions. He even went so far as to offer Saladin an alliance against the ‘overseas Franj’. Without taking this offer literally, the sultan used it to intensify his diplomatic pressure on Richard, who became so exasperated with the policy of the marquis that he had him assassinated several months later!
His manoeuvre having failed, the king of England asked al-‘Ādil to organize a meeting with Saladin. But the latter’s response was the same as it had been a few months earlier:
Kings meet only after the conclusion of an accord. In any event, I do not understand your language, and you are ignorant of mine, and we therefore need a translator in whom we bo
th have confidence. Let this man, then, act as a messenger between us. When we arrive at an understanding, we will meet, and friendship will prevail between us.
The negotiations dragged on for another year. Entrenched in Jerusalem, Saladin let the time pass. His peace proposals were simple: each side would keep what it had; the Franj, if they wished, could come unarmed to make their pilgrimages to the holy city, which, however, would remain in Muslim hands. Richard, who yearned to return home, twice tried to force a decision by marching in the direction of Jerusalem, but without attacking it. For months he tried to work off his excess energy by constructing a formidable fortress in Ascalon, which he dreamed of turning into a jumping-off point for a future expedition to Egypt. When the work was done, Saladin demanded that it be dismantled, stone by stone, before the conclusion of peace.
By August 1192 Richard had reached the end of his tether. Seriously ill, abandoned by many knights who rebuked him for not having tried to retake Jerusalem, accused of the murder of Conrad, and urged by his friends to return to England without delay, he could postpone his departure no longer. He virtually begged Saladin to leave him Ascalon, but the response was negative. He then sent another message, repeating his request and explaining that if an acceptable peace agreement had not been arrived at within six days, he would be compelled to spend the winter here. This veiled ultimatum amused Saladin, who, inviting Richard’s messenger to be seated, addressed him in these terms: ‘You will tell the king that as far as Ascalon is concerned, I shall not give way. As for his plan to spend the winter in this country, I think that it is inevitable, for he knows full well that the land that he has seized will be taken from him the moment he departs. Does he really want to spend the winter here, two months distant from his family and his country, while he is still young and strong enough to enjoy the pleasures of life? For my part, I could spend the winter, the summer, and then another winter and another summer here, for I am in my own land, among my children and relatives, who care for me, and I have one army for the summer and another for the winter. I am an old man, who no longer indulges in the pleasures of existence. So I shall wait, until God grants one of us victory.’
Apparently impressed by this argument, Richard let it be known during succeeding days that he was prepared to give up Ascalon. At the beginning of September 1192 a five-year peace was signed. The Franj retained the coastal zone from Tyre to Jaffa but recognized Saladin’s authority over the rest of the country, including Jerusalem. The Western warriors, who had been granted safe conduct by the sultan, rushed to the holy city to pray at the tomb of Christ. Saladin courteously received the most important of them, even inviting them to share his meals and reassuring them of his firm desire to uphold freedom of worship. But Richard refused to go. He would not enter as a guest a city that he had sworn to storm as a conqueror. A month after the conclusion of peace, he left the East without ever having seen either the holy sepulchre or Saladin.
The sultan had finally emerged victorious in his arduous confrontation with the West. True, the Franj had recovered control of some cities, thus winning a reprieve that was to last nearly a hundred years. But never again would they constitute a force capable of dictating terms to the Arab world. From now on, they would control not genuine states, but mere settlements.
In spite of this success, Saladin felt bruised, even somewhat diminished. He bore scant resemblance to the charismatic hero of Ḥiṭṭīn. His authority over his emirs had been weakened, and his detractors were increasingly virulent. Physically, he was not well. His health had never been excellent, and for years he had had to consult the court physicians regularly, in Damascus as in Cairo. In the Egyptian capital, he was particularly attached to the services of a prestigious Jewish-Arab ṭabīb originally from Spain, Mūsa Ibn Maymūn, better known as Maimonides. During these most difficult years of the struggle against the Franj, Saladin had suffered frequent attacks of malaria, which confined him to his bed for days on end. In 1192, however, it was not the ravages of any particular illness that concerned his doctors, but a general weakness, a sort of premature old age evident to anyone who had close dealings with the sultan. Saladin was only in his fifty-fifth year, but he himself seemed to realize that he was nearing the end of his life.
Saladin spent his last days peacefully among his relatives in his favourite city, Damascus. Bahā' al-Dīn never left his side, and affectionately jotted down each one of his acts. On Thursday 18 February 1193 Bahā' al-Dīn joined the sultan in the garden of his palace in the citadel.
The sultan was seated in the shade, surrounded by the youngest of his children. He asked who was waiting for him inside. ‘Frankish messengers’, he was told, ‘as well as a group of emirs and notables.’ He had the Franj summoned. When they came before him, he was dandling one of his small sons on his knees, the emir Abū Bakr, of whom he was especially fond. When the child looked upon the Franj, with their cleanshaven faces, their cropped hair, and their curious clothing, he was frightened and began to cry. The sultan apologized to the Franj and halted the interview without listening to what they wanted to tell him. Then he said to me: ‘Have you eaten at all today?’ It was his way of inviting someone to a meal. He added: ‘Have them bring us something to eat!’ We were served rice with labneh and other similar light dishes, and he ate. This reassured me, for I had thought that he had lost his appetite completely. For some time he had felt bloated, and could not bring himself to eat. He moved only with great effort, and was always begging people’s pardon.
That Thursday Saladin even felt well enough to go on horseback to greet a caravan of pilgrims returning from Mecca. But two days later he could no longer stand. Gradually, he sank into a state of lethargy. Moments of consciousness were becoming increasingly rare. News of his illness had spread throughout the city, and the Damascenes feared that their city would soon drift into anarchy.
Cloth was withdrawn from the souks for fear of pillage. And every night, when I left the sultan’s bedside to return home, people would gather along my way trying to guess, from my expression, whether the inevitable had yet come to pass.
On the night of 2 March 1193 the sickroom was invaded by women from the palace unable to hold back their tears. Saladin’s condition was so serious that his eldest son al-Afḍal asked Bahā' al-Dīn and another of the sultan’s close collaborators, the qāḍī al-Fāḍil, to spend the night in the citadel. That might be imprudent’, the qāḍī suggested, ‘for if the people of the city do not see us leave, they will think the worst, and there could be pillaging.’ A shaykh who lived within the citadel was therefore summoned to watch over the patient.
He read verses of the Koran, and spoke of God and the Beyond, while the sultan lay unconscious. When I returned the following morning, he was already dead. May God have mercy on him! I was told that when the shaykh read the verse that says, There is no God but God, on him alone do I rely, the sultan smiled. His face lit up, and then he gave up his soul.
The moment news of his death became known, many Damascenes headed for the citadel, but guards prevented them from entering. Only great emirs and the principal ‘ulamā' were permitted to present their condolences to al-Afḍal, the late sultan’s eldest son, who was seated in one of the salons of the palace. The poets and orators were told to keep silent. Saladin’s youngest children went out into the street and mingled with the sobbing crowd.
These unbearable scenes, Bahā' al-Dīn recounts, continued until after the midday prayer. They then set about bathing the body and wrapping it in the shroud; all the products used for this purpose had to be borrowed, for the sultan possessed nothing of his own. Although I was invited to the bathing ceremony, performed by the theologian al-Dawlāhi, I could not bring myself to attend. After the midday prayer, the body was brought out in a coffin wrapped in a cloth. At the appearance of the funeral cortège, cries of lamentation erupted from the crowd. Then group after group came to recite prayers over the remains. The sultan was carried to the gardens of the palace, where he had been cared for
during his illness, and was buried in the western pavilion. He was laid to rest at the time of the afternoon prayer. May God sanctify his soul and illuminate his tomb!
12
The Perfect and the Just
Saladin had the same immediate successor as all the great Muslim leaders of his time: civil war. Barely had he died than his empire was dismembered. One of his sons took Egypt, another Damascus, a third Aleppo. Fortunately, most of his seventeen male children and his only daughter were too young to fight; this limited the fragmentation somewhat. But the sultan had two brothers and several nephews, each of whom wanted his share of the heritage, or all of it if possible. It took nearly nine years of combat—with innumerable alliances, betrayals, and assassinations—before the Ayyubid empire once again obeyed a single master: al-‘Ādil, ‘the Just’, the skilful negotiator who had almost become Richard the Lionheart’s brother-in-law.
Saladin had been somewhat suspicious of his younger brother, who was too fluent a talker, too much the intriguer, too ambitious, and too accommodating to the Occidentals. He had thus entrusted him with a fiefdom of no great importance: the châteaux taken from Reynald of Châtillon along the east bank of the Jordan. From this arid and almost uninhabited territory, Saladin thought, his brother could never claim to lead the empire. But the sultan had reckoned wrong. In July 1196 al-‘Ādil seized Damascus from al-Afḍal. Saladin’s 26-year-old son had proved incapable of governing. Ceding effective power to his vizier, Dīya al-Dīn Ibn al-Athīr (brother of the historian), he abandoned himself to alcohol and the pleasures of the harem. His uncle disposed of him through a plot and exiled him to the neighbouring fortress of Sarkhad, where al-Afḍl, devoured by remorse, swore to forsake his life of dissolution to devote himself instead to prayer and meditation. In November 1198 another of Saladin’s sons, al-‘Azīz, the ruler of Egypt, was killed in a fall from his horse while hunting wolves near the pyramids. Al-Afḍal could no longer resist the temptation to abandon his retreat and succeed his brother, but his uncle had little trouble divesting him of his new possession and sending him back to his life as a recluse. By 1202 al-‘Ādil, now fifty-seven-years old, was the uncontested master of the Ayyubid empire.