A Sultan in Palermo (14 page)

‘Baths have been prepared for you, but I hope you will forgive me. This is not Siracusa and we have no space for a
hammam.
But fresh water has been brought from the well and if you will accompany these men to the courtyard they will ensure you are well refreshed.’

‘Who is your friend?’ Idrisi asked Abu Khalid as they followed retainers to the courtyard.

‘He is Tarik, my older brother. I think you must have seen him briefly at my wedding. You don’t remember? He has had an interesting life. Now all that interests him are fruits and vegetables. He does not eat meat, even in the winter.’

‘Does he have a family?’

‘Not here. They live in Salerno.’

From Abu Khalid’s tone it was clear that this was not a happy subject, but it provoked Idrisi’s curiosity.

‘Why?’

‘Abu Walid, what can I say? When he was eighteen my brother wanted to be a physician, a healer. He would read al-Kindi’s
Aqrabadhin
and Ibn Sina’s
Kanun
from morning till night. My father, as you know well, was interested only in his estates and their well-being. He was not inclined to humour my brother. He wanted his oldest son to stay at home and help him run the estate and concentrate his mind on devising methods to accumulate yet more land. My brother refused. He ran off to the
maristan
in Salerno where the best physicians are to be found. It’s a long story, Abu Walid.’

Water was being poured on their heads and both men shivered with delight.

‘Where did he find the book of al-Kindi? I was not aware there was a copy in any library here.’

‘You must ask him.’

Lunch was served in another darkened room. Root vegetables of different sorts cooked with the most exquisite herbs and spices were served with freshly baked wheat-bread moistened with olive oil. To drink there was cooled buttermilk, flavoured with mint leaves. And to sweeten their mouths, slices of melons and dates laid on a large platter.

Afterwards Tarik asked in a gentle voice, ‘Perhaps you would like to rest?’

‘If I rest, we shall never reach your brother’s house today.’

‘I insist,’ said Tarik. ‘You have had a long journey on horseback. I think a rest would be good for you. Two miles from here and you are already on the estate. This house was part of it, but he kindly gifted it to me. The family house is less than an hour away. Welcome, Ibn Muhammad.’

Idrisi was exhausted. The bath had helped, but the lunch had made him drowsy. A chamber had been prepared for him and he fell asleep immediately. An hour later he was woken by a vivid dream. He sat up in bed and drank some water. Why was Julian’s island so much in his thoughts today? That had happened twenty-five years ago and he barely recalled those days. Why now? Balkis. She did resemble the high priestess. Was she really Mayya’s sister or had she been adopted as a child? And why had she married a barren man? A soft knock on the door interrupted him. It was Abu Khalid.

‘We are ready to leave when you are.’

‘I wanted to speak with your brother.’

‘He will accompany us. He rarely visits the old house, but your presence has been beneficial. I am very happy. I never wished to inherit the estates. I thought I would travel and then settle down in Palermo. Once Umar disappeared my father would not permit me to leave.’

‘So your house became a prison. And my daughter, I fear, did not provide stimulating company.’

His son-in-law did not reply.

They reached Umar’s house just before sunset. The household had assembled to greet them. At their head stood young Khalid.

‘Welcome to your house, grandfather.’

Idrisi embraced his grandson and kissed his cheeks with genuine emotion.

‘My son. You have grown already and it’s only a few weeks since I last saw you. Come show me your house. I was last here when your father was ten years old. Has it changed much?’

‘No.’

It was Umar who replied.

‘Nothing changes here. But it will soon. We are living in someone else’s time.’

And then a strange-looking man, whom Idrisi had barely noticed, came forward and inspected the new arrivals. He had long grey hair, which almost touched his shoulders, a bedraggled beard, which covered most of his emaciated face, and a pair of fierce, piercing eyes that dominated his features. He wore a clean white tunic, which clashed with his appearance. In his right hand he held a battered old staff and it was this he now banged on the ground as he spoke.

‘No!’ shouted the man, whose age it was difficult to ascertain. ‘Umar Ibn Ali speaks without thinking. It is the infidels who live in our time and we let them.’

Having made this pronouncement he walked away without acknowledging anyone else’s presence. Idrisi smiled. He was not impressed. Talk of this sort was not uncommon in Palermo. He realised this was the man of whom Abu Khalid had spoken in Siracusa.

As they entered the house his daughter, Samar, greeted him in exaggerated tones. No longer capable of pretence, he touched her head in a perfunctory fashion. A set of rooms had been prepared for him and his grandson led him there.

‘Jiddu,’ asked Khalid, ‘do you like my father?’

The question took him by surprise.

‘Why do you ask such a question, my child. If I did not like your father would I have a spent an unbearably hot day journeying with him to his house?’

Khalid began to laugh. ‘I only asked. I’m happy.’

‘How many rooms are there in this palace?’

‘Thirty-four,’ Khalid replied. ‘I have counted them many times.’

‘Now tell me something else. What do you think of that strange man with long hair, who spoke so rudely to your uncle?’

The boy’s face became serious. ‘He frightens me sometimes, but when he sees I am scared he smiles and tries to make me laugh. His name is al-Farid, but everyone calls him the Trusted One. He is very poor and travels from village to village where they take turns to feed him. But he couldn’t be eating too much. He’s very thin. I think he prefers to drink goat’s milk with a piece of bread. Abu says he is a great story-teller.’

A retainer entered with a basin and a large jug with water. Idrisi smiled and kissed the boy’s head.

Khalid took his leave gracefully. ‘I will see you later, Jiddu. There is a lot of meat being cooked for our feast tonight.’

Idrisi washed his hands and face and then allowed the retainer to wash the dust off his feet. The sun had almost disappeared and the muezzin in the village mosque was summoning Believers to the evening prayer. Idrisi covered his head and began to pray. At times of uncertainty, he thought, there is an inner comfort to be derived through prayer. He recalled that his father had described how, after Palermo was occupied by the Franks, many who had not prayed regularly began to attend the Friday prayers at the Great Mosque. For a long time, according to his father, the melancholy cadences of the call to prayer had affected every Believer in the city.

The very size of the midday gathering each Friday enables Believers to derive strength from each other. He had always understood that, but it was only recently that he had experienced the feeling himself. In fact, only two weeks ago when he was informed of the fate that awaited Philip.

The evening meal, as Khalid had warned, consisted of a great variety of meat cooked to honour the visitor. Had it not been for Umar’s presence it is doubtful whether any vegetables would have been prepared at all. Idrisi tasted a morsel each from the grilled and stewed meats and exclaimed loudly and appreciatively how tasty they were, but he concentrated on eating the vegetables, raw and cooked, that had been placed before Umar.

‘A word of advice for all of you,’ Idrisi addressed the table as they waited for the sweet dishes. ‘I have travelled to many hot countries and in the summer months very little meat is eaten. Any physician will tell you that meat in the summer produces a heaviness of the heart and slows the flow of blood to vital parts of the body.’

Umar smiled. ‘And because Ibn Muhammad is saying this you might take it seriously.’

As platters of fresh fruits were being served there was a loud noise in the distance. The men exchanged uneasy glances as a retainer hurried in to whisper in Abu Khalid’s ear. His face relaxed.

‘I think the Trusted One is trying to attract our attention. He lit a small explosive to show his followers how the Franks can be defeated. If Ibn Muhammad is not too tired we could walk across to the village and hear his message.’

Idrisi rose from the table. ‘A short walk after a meal improves the digestion. Is it too late for Khalid to accompany us?’

Both parents agreed that the best place for Khalid was bed, a decision he accepted with extreme reluctance.

The night was warm and still. As the men walked out of the house, Idrisi looked up at the sky and felt reassured. In front of them retainers carrying oil lamps lit the way to the village. As they neared they could hear chants from al-Quran, but the rhythm and style were different to anything heard in the mosques of Palermo and Siracusa or, for that matter, anywhere else. The Trusted One was reading the verses in short, staccato bursts and his listeners were responding in explosions.

When they reached the village square, Idrisi observed the makeshift mosque with its single minaret. There were at least two hundred men present and each of them had his face covered. The Trusted One had told them to be careful and not to trust anyone in the months that lay ahead. His eyes fell on Idrisi as he leapt to the small platform at the top of the square and began to preach.

‘Look around you, Believers, and see who has come to join us tonight. Abu Khalid and Umar ibn Ali we know and respect. They have given me alms and provided me with shelter and they make sure that all of you and your families are fed when times are bad. But they have a special visitor with them. A great scholar from Palermo, he is a trusted counsellor of the Sultan Rujari. Muhammad ibn Muhammad al-Idrisi. Have you heard of him?’

They shook their heads to indicate their ignorance. Idrisi repressed a chuckle. He knew the influence that men like this preacher could wield over the poor and he understood why. Abu Khalid had given him an account of the man and how he lived.

Al-Farid’s way of life excited admiration. He lived on alms but would never take more than he required for his daily needs, which were, in any case, modest. He refused all the gifts offered by the landed gentry of Catania, who were beginning to get worried. He did not sleep in a single place for long and when he needed a bed, he insisted on a wooden plank or a cloth placed on the ground. He spent most of his time with the poorest people in the village and it was they who sought him out and spoke to him of their problems. A few of them followed him from village to village and absorbed his message so completely that he sometimes sent one of them to distant regions to preach on his behalf. Despite the growing support for him, he remained remarkably detached and, unlike similar preachers in the past, he showed no signs of delirium or hallucinations. He subjected his body to terrible privations, often undertaking prolonged fasts to test his strength. This rude self-discipline had almost cost him his life. If a passer-by had not forced him to drink water and break bread he would have died. Umar had prepared special herbal mixtures and a careful diet of wild berries and vegetable broth to aid his recovery.

After every victory his body had achieved he would stand up, his face rigid and mask-like, and begin to dance, a strange ritual that nobody in the region had ever seen before, and all the while he would sing songs he had made up in praise of Allah. Legends sprang up about him and he was soon asked to resolve disputes between the peasants in various villages. For ten years or more his word was accepted as the final judgement and he had a huge following in every village. News of the arrival of the Trusted One would spread through the fields and that evening a
mehfil
would take place where the peasants would speak their bitternesses aloud.

It was said that several years ago a landlord raped a peasant woman and she became pregnant. Her husband wanted to kill her. The Trusted One had intervened and saved her life. He then organised the peasants to kill the offender but in such a way that it would appear as an accident. The peasants ambushed the landlord and pushed him and his horse off the edge of a mountain.

And now he was preaching rebellion. ‘The news from al-medina is that the Sultan is sick and will soon die. May Allah send him to heaven for he has not been cruel to the Believers, but we cannot depend on the Franks to let us stay here after Rujari’s death. They want our lands and they will take them unless we resist. I say this: after Rujari’s death we surround Palermo from the outside. The effect will be that of a stone tossed into a beehive. Our people will rise and overthrow the infidel. Where will you be when we come, O great Master Idrisi? Hiding in the library with your books?’

Abu Khalid was angered, but Idrisi held his arm and whispered: ‘This man is not at all stupid. The insults do not affect me.’

The preacher spoke for another two hours and the peasants listened to him spellbound. He spoke of the Prophet Muhammad’s early life, he told them stories of how the armies and followers of the Prophet had reached the shores of three oceans within a hundred years, he made them laugh and he made them weep when he described how he had been wrongfully arrested and subjected to the vilest tortures. And then he would change his tone and explain how Believers still outnumbered the Franks in Siqilliya and how they could win a victory for their faith if they cast aside all petty rivalries and served in a united army.

‘But there is a problem, my brothers. Who will lead us into battle? Whose banner will you follow?’

‘You will lead us, Trusted One. It is your banner we will follow,’ the multitude replied.

But he shook his head vigorously and raised his right hand to demand silence. ‘I am not an Amir of the land or the sea. We can only win if our Amirs who are today fighting for Rujari decide to fight for themselves and for the cause of Believers everywhere. It is them we have to convince and if we succeed we will have an army and ships at sea. I am a simple man, but I know how battles are won and lost. We will ensure that our faith gives us such strength that we lose the fear of death. That will give our Amirs a group of men who will rival the Franks and their Barons. We will drive them into a sea they should never have crossed. And I spit on the memory of Ibn Thumna who invited the infidels to cross the water and help him fight against other Believers. Let us spit on him together. Allah be praised.’