Fakhr al-Dīn soon became a friend and confidant of Frederick. Through him, close links were forged between the Germanic emperor and the sultan of Cairo. The two monarchs exchanged letters in which they discussed the logic of Aristotle, the immortality of the soul, and the genesis of the universe. When al-Kāmil learned of his correspondent’s passion for observing animal behaviour, he sent him bears, apes, and dromedaries, as well as an elephant, which the emperor entrusted to the Arab caretaker of his private zoo. The sultan was more than a little content to discover an enlightened Western leader who, like himself, understood the futility of these endless religious wars. He therefore unhesitatingly told Frederick of his desire for him to come to the Orient in the near future, adding that he would be happy to see the emperor in possession of Jerusalem.
This outburst of generosity becomes more comprehensible if we remember that at the time the offer was made, the holy city belonged not to al-Kāmil but to his brother al-Mu‘azam, with whom the ruler of Cairo had just fallen out. Al-Kāmil felt that the occupation of Palestine by his ally Frederick would create a buffer state protecting him from any undertakings in which al-Mu‘azam might indulge. In the long run, a reinvigorated Kingdom of Jerusalem could also effectively interpose itself between Egypt and the warrior peoples of Asia, for the threat from that quarter was now looming. A fervent Muslim would never have so coldly contemplated abandoning Jerusalem, but al-Kāmil was quite different from his uncle Saladin. He regarded the question of Jerusalem as primarily political and military; the religious aspect was relevant only to the extent that it influenced public opinion. Frederick, who felt no closer to Christianity than to Islam, took an identical attitude. If he wanted to take possession of the holy city, it was not to commune with his thoughts at the tomb of Christ, but because a success of that kind would strengthen his position in his struggle against the pope, who had just excommunicated him as punishment for having postponed his ēxpedition to the East.
When the emperor disembarked at Acre in September 1228 he was convinced that with al-Kāmil’s help he would be able to enter Jerusalem in triumph, thus silencing his enemies. In fact, the ruler of Cairo found himself in an extremely embarrassing position, for recent events had completely redrawn the regional map. Al-Mu‘azam had died suddenly in November 1227, bequeathing Damascus to his son al-Nāṣir, a young man lacking in all experience. Al-Kāmil, who could now contemplate seizing Damascus and Palestine himself, was no longer interested in establishing a buffer state between Egypt and Syria. In other words, al-Kāmil was not greatly pleased at the prospect of the arrival of Frederick, who in all friendship would lay claim to Jerusalem and its environs. A man of honour like al-Kāmil could not renege on his promises, but he could try to stall, telling the emperor that the situation had suddenly changed.
Frederick, who had come with a mere three thousand men, thought that the taking of Jerusalem would be no more than a formality. He therefore did not dare attempt a policy of intimidation, but instead sought to cajole al-Kāmil. I am your friend, he wrote to him. It was you who urged me to make this trip. The pope and all the kings of the West now know of my mission. If I return empty-handed, I will lose much prestige. For pity’s sake, give me Jerusalem, that I may hold my head high! Al-Kāmil was touched, and so he sent his friend Fakhr al-Dīn to Frederick, bearing gifts and a double-edged reply. I too, he wrote, must take account of opinion. If I deliver Jerusalem to you, it could lead not only to a condemnation of my actions by the caliph, but also to a religious insurrection that would threaten my throne. For each side, it was a matter of saving face. Frederick implored Fakhr al-Dīn to find an honourable way out. The latter, with the sultan’s agreement, threw Frederick a lifeline. ‘The people would never accept the surrender of Jerusalem, won at such cost by Saladin, without a battle. On the other hand, if agreement on the holy city could avoid bloody warfare . . . ’ The emperor understood. He smiled, thanked his friend for his advice, and then ordered his small force of troops to prepare for combat. At the end of November 1228, as Frederick marched with great pomp towards the port of Jaffa, al-Kāmil spread the word throughout the country that it was necessary to prepare for a long and bitter war against the powerful sovereign from the West.
A few weeks later, with no battle having been joined, the text of an accord was ready: Frederick obtained Jerusalem and a corridor linking it to the coast, as well as Bethlehem, Nazareth, the environs of Tyre, and the powerful fortress of Tibnīn, east of Tyre. In the holy city itself, the Muslims preserved a presence in the Ḥaram al-Sharīf sector, where their principal sanctuaries were clustered. The treaty was signed on 18 February 1229 by Frederick and by the ambassador Fakhr al-Dīn, in the name of the sultan. A month later, the emperor went to Jerusalem, whose Muslim population had been evacuated by al-Kāmil, except for some religious leaders left in charge of the Islamic places of worship. Frederick was received by Shams al-Dīn, the qāḍī of Nablus, who gave him the keys to the city and acted as a sort of guide. The qāḍī himself related what happened during this visit.
When the emperor, king of the Franj, came to Jerusalem, I remained with him, as al-Kāmil had requested of me. I entered Ḥaram al-Sharīf with him, where he toured the small mosques. Then we went to al-Aqṣā mosque, whose architecture he admired, as well as the Dome of the Rock. He was fascinated by the beauty of the minbar, and climbed the stairs to the top. When he descended, he took me by the hand and led me back towards al-Aqṣā. There he found a priest who, Bible in hand, was trying to enter the mosque. Furious, the emperor began to browbeat him. ‘What brings you to this place? By God, if one of you dares step in here again without permission, I will pluck out his eyes!’ The priest departed trembling. That night, I asked the muezzin not to call the prayer, in order not to inconvenience the emperor. But when I saw him the next day, the emperor asked me, ‘Qāḍī, why didn’t the muezzins call the prayer as usual?’ I answered: ‘It is I who prevented them from doing so, out of respect for Your Majesty.’ ‘You should not have acted thus’, the emperor said, ‘for if I spent this night in Jerusalem, it was above all to hear the muezzin’s call in the night.’
During his visit to the Dome of the Rock, Frederick read an inscription saying: Saladin has purged this holy city of mushrikīn. This term, which literally means ‘associationists’, or even ‘polytheists’, was applied to those who associated other divinities to the worship of the one God. In this context it designated Christians, believers in the Trinity. Pretending to be unaware of this, the emperor, with an amused grin, asked his embarrassed hosts who these mushrikīn might be. A few minutes later, Frederick noticed a wooden lattice at the entrance to the Dome; he asked what it was for. ‘It is to prevent birds from entering this place’, came the answer. Before his flabbergasted guides, Frederick then commented, in an obvious allusion to the Franj, ‘And to think that God allowed pigs in!’ Sibṭ Ibn al-Jawzi, a Damascene chronicler and brilliant orator who was aged forty-three in 1229, interpreted these remarks as proof that Frederick was neither a Christian nor a Muslim but most certainly an atheist. Basing himself on the testimony of those who had seen the emperor close up in Jerusalem, he added that he was covered with red hair, bald, and myopic. Had he been a slave, he would not have fetched 200 dirhams.
Sibṭ’s hostility to the emperor reflects the sentiments of the great majority of Arabs. In other circumstances, his friendly attitude to Islam and its civilization would undoubtedly have been appreciated. But public opinion was scandalized by the terms of the treaty signed by al-Kāmil. As soon as the news that the holy city had been ceded to the Franj became known, says the chronicler, the lands of Islam were swept by a veritable storm. Because of the gravity of the event, demonstrations of public mourning were organized. In Baghdad, Mosul, and Aleppo, meetings were held in the mosques to denounce al-Kāmil’s betrayal. But it was in Damascus that reaction was most violent. King al-Nāsir asked me to assemble the people in the great mosque of Damascus, Sibṭ recounts, so that I could speak to them of what had happened
in Jerusalem. I could not but accept, for my duty to the faith compelled me.
The chronicler-preacher mounted the steps of the pulpit before a delirious crowd, his head enveloped in a turban of black cloth. ‘The new disaster that has befallen us’, he began, ‘has broken our hearts. Our pilgrims can no longer visit Jerusalem, the verses of the Koran will no longer be recited in its schools. How great is the shame of the Muslims today!’ Al-Nāṣir attended the demonstration in person. Open war was declared between him and his uncle al-Kāmil. No sooner had the latter handed Jerusalem over to Frederick than the Egyptian army imposed a tight blockade on Damascus. The struggle against the treason of the ruler of Cairo became the slogan under which the people of the Syrian metropolis were mobilized in firm support of their young sovereign. Sibṭ’s eloquence, however, was not enough to save Damascus. Al-Kāmil, with his overwhelming numerical superiority, emerged victorious from the confrontation, forcing the city to capitulate and reestablishing the unity of the Ayyubid empire under his own authority.
In June 1229 al-Nāṣir was forced to abandon his capital. Bitter, but by no means without hope, he settled in the fortress of Karak east of the Jordan, where during the years of truce he would become the symbol of steadfastness in the face of the enemy. Many Damascenes retained their personal attachment to him, and many religious militants, disappointed with the excessively conciliatory policy of the other Ayyubids, kept up hope thanks to this spirited young prince, who incited his peers to continue the jihād against the invaders. Who but I, he wrote, expends all his efforts to protect Islam? Who else fights for the cause of God in all circumstances? In November 1239, one hundred days after the truce had expired, al-Nāṣir retook Jerusalem in a surprise raid. There was an explosion of joy throughout the Arab world. The poets compared the victor to his great-uncle Saladin, and sung his praises for having thus expunged the outrage of al-Kāmil’s betrayal.
His apologists failed to mention that al-Nāṣir had been reconciled with the ruler of Cairo shortly before the latter’s death in 1238, probably hoping that the government of Damascus would thereby be restored to him. The poets also omit to point out that the Ayyubid prince did not seek to retain Jerusalem after retaking it. Believing the city indefensible, he quickly destroyed the Tower of David and the other fortifications recently built by the Franj. He then withdrew with his troops to Karak. Fervour, one might say, did not exclude political or military realism. The subsequent behaviour of this hard-line leader is nevertheless intriguing. During the inevitable war of succession that followed the death of al-Kāmil, al-Nāṣir proposed to the Franj that together they form an alliance against his cousins. In 1243 he officially recognized their right to Jerusalem in an effort to pacify the Occidentals, even offering to withdraw the Muslim religious leaders from Ḥaram al-Sharīf. Al-Kāmil had never gone so far in appeasement.
Part Six
Expulsion
(1244 — 1291)
Attacked by Mongols—the Tartars—in the east and by Franj in the west, the Muslims had never been in such a critical position. God alone could still rescue them.
IBN AL-ATHĪR
13
The Mongol Scourge
The events I am about to describe are so horrible that for years I avoided all mention of them. It is not easy to announce that death has fallen upon Islam and the Muslims. Alas! I would have preferred my mother never to have given birth to me, or to have died without witnessing all these evils. If one day you are told that the earth has never known such calamity since God created Adam, do not hesitate to believe it, for such is the strict truth. Nebuchadnezzar’s massacre of the children of Israel and the destruction of Jerusalem are generally cited as among the most infamous tragedies of history. But these were as nothing compared to what has happened now. No, probably not until the end of time will a catastrophe of such magnitude be seen again.
Nowhere else in his voluminous Perfect History does Ibn al-Athīr adopt such a pathetic tone. Page after page, his sadness, terror, and incredulity spring out as if he was superstitiously postponing the moment when he would finally have to speak the name of the scourge: Genghis Khan.
The rise of the Mongol conqueror began shortly after the death of Saladin, but not until another quarter of a century had passed did the Arabs feel the approach of the threat. Genghis Khan first set about uniting the various Turkic and Mongol tribes of central Asia under his authority; he then embarked on what he hoped would be the conquest of the world. His forces moved in three directions: to the east, where the Chinese empire was reduced to vassal status and then annexed; to the north-west, where first Russia and then eastern Europe were devastated; to the west, where Persia was invaded. ‘All cities must be razed’, Genghis Khan used to say, ‘so that the world may once again become a great steppe in which Mongol mothers will suckle free and happy children.’ And prestigious cities indeed would be destroyed, their populations decimated: Bukhārā, Samarkand, and Herat, among others.
The first Mongol thrust into an Islamic country coincided with the various Frankish invasions of Egypt between 1218 and 1221. At the time the Arab world felt trapped between Scylla and Charybdis. This was undoubtedly part of the explanation for al-Kāmil’s conciliatory attitude over the question of Jerusalem. But Genghis Khan finally abandoned any attempt to venture west of Persia. With his death in 1227 at the age of sixty-seven, the pressure of the horsemen of the steppes on the Arab world eased for some years.
In Syria the scourge first made itself felt indirectly. Among the many dynasties crushed by the Mongols on their way was that of the Khwarazmian Turks, who had earlier supplanted the Seljuks from Iraq to India. With the dismantling of this Muslim empire, whose hour of glory had passed, remnants of its army were compelled to flee as far as possible from the terrifying victors. Thus it was that one fine day some ten thousand Khwarazmian horsemen arrived in Syria, pillaging and holding cities hostage and participating as mercenaries in the internal struggles of the Ayyubids. In June 1224, believing themselves strong enough to establish a state of their own, the Khwarazmians attacked Damascus. They plundered the neighbouring villages and sacked the orchards of Ghūṭa. But then, since they were incapable of sustaining a long siege against the city’s resistance, they changed their target and suddenly headed for Jerusalem, which they occupied without difficulty on 11 July Although the Frankish population was largely spared, the city itself was plundered and put to the torch. To the great relief of all the cities of Syria, a fresh attack on Damascus several months later was decimated by a coalition of Ayyubid princes.
This time the Frankish knights would never retake Jerusalem. Frederick, whose diplomatic skill had enabled the Occidentals to keep the flag of the cross flying over the walls of the city for fifteen years, was no longer interested in its fate. Abandoning his Oriental ambitions, he now preferred to maintain more amicable relations with the Cairene leaders. In 1247, when Louis IX of France planned an expedition against Egypt, the emperor sought to dissuade him. Better still, he kept Ayyūb, son of al-Kāmil, regularly informed of the preparations of the French expedition.
Louis arrived in the East in 1248, but he did not immediately head for the Egyptian border, for he felt it would be too risky to undertake a campaign before spring. He therefore settled in Cyprus and spent these months of respite striving to realize the dream that was to haunt the Franj to the end of the thirteenth century and beyond: the conclusion of an alliance with the Mongols that would trap the Arab world in a pincer movement. Emissaries thus shuttled regularly between the camps of the invaders from the East and the invaders from the West. Late in 1248 Louis received a delegation in Cyprus that put forward the tempting possibility that the Mongols might convert to Christianity. Entranced by this prospect, he hastily responded by dispatching precious and pious gifts. But Genghis Khan’s successors misinterpreted the meaning of this gesture. Treating the king of France as they would a mere vassal, they asked him to send gifts of equivalent value every year. This misunderstanding saved the Arab
world from a concerted attack by its two enemies, at least temporarily.
Thus it was that the Occidentals alone launched their assault on Egypt on the fifth of June 1249, although not before the two monarchs had exchanged thunderous declarations of war, in accordance with the customs of the epoch. I have already warned you many times, wrote Louis, but you have paid no heed. Henceforth my decision is made: I will assault your territory, and even were you to swear allegiance to the cross, my mind would not be changed. The armies that obey me cover mountains and plains, they are as numerous as the pebbles of the earth, and they march upon you grasping the swords of fate. To bolster these threats, the king of France reminded his enemy of a number of successes scored by the Christians against the Muslims in Spain the year before: We chased your people before us like herds of oxen. We killed the men, made widows of the women, and captured girls and boys. Was that not a lesson to you? Ayyūb replied in similar vein: Foolish as you are, have you forgotten the lands you occupied which we have reconquered, even quite recently? Have you forgotten the damage we have inflicted upon you? Apparently aware of the numerical inferiority of his forces, the sultan found an appropriately reassuring quotation from the Koran: How often has a small troop vanquished a great, with God’s permission, for God is with the good. This encouraged him to predict to Louis: Your defeat is ineluctable. Soon you will bitterly regret the adventure on which you have embarked.