A Sultan in Palermo (3 page)

More than once, he thought of paying a visit to Ibn Hammud, the richest silk merchant in the
qasr,
who, in his spare time, interpreted dreams and calmed the fears of worried men. He was much in demand and once Muhammad got as far as the front of the shop, but he did not enter. His caution had become an insurmountable barrier. It was too dangerous. Ibn Hammud would not be able to keep the dream secret. Indeed, an exaggerated version would find its way back to the palace. The eunuchs would giggle as they regaled each other with it and each recounting would become more outrageous. Then these guardians of the harem would tell the concubines and one of them would goad a willing eunuch to whisper it in the Sultan’s ear. The Sultan would be enraged and that could be the end of everything. Everything. Not just the book, but also its author. And if Rujari became really angry he would ensure that the eunuchs, too, came to grief. The risk was not worth the suffering.

The last ten years of Idrisi’s life had been consumed by the book, but as the vessel approached Palermo, he knew the completion could not be delayed much longer. The Sultan would be angry. He wanted to read the book before he died and his illness had made him anxious. And Allah alone knew what would happen to a poor mapmaker after the death of his patron. Once again he heard the mocking farewell of his best friend the day Ibn Hamid had left the island for ever, boarding a boat destined for Malaka in al-Andalus.

‘Come with me, Muhammad,’ the poet had said. ‘Here you will be nothing more than a melancholy beggar in a foreign capital.’

Why should he feign any longer? Why should he not write what he wanted? With a sense of determination, Muhammad al-Idrisi retired to his cabin, sat down at the table and wrote a single sentence on the first page of his universal geography:

The earth is round like a sphere, and the waters adhere to it and are maintained on it through natural equilibrium which suffers no variation.

It was done. This would be the opening of his personal edition of the work. As for the rest, he would praise Allah, the Prophet, the Sultan and anyone else who had to be flattered. A compromise, but it satisfied him.

He climbed to the deck again and took a deep breath of sea air. Palermo must be very close. He could sense that from the laden breeze, carrying the rich perfumes of herbs and flowers and lemons. He knew these well and had carefully catalogued the plants and trees that produced them. None of his friends accepted that they were different from those of other islands and the cavalier fashion in which these men flaunted their ignorance angered him greatly. He had made extensive notes on the herbs and flowers of the Mediterranean islands and after his years of work and travel he could identify an island in the dark just from its smells. He smiled as he recalled the summer night he had been lying on the deck—the only sounds the tender lapping of the sea against the hard brown wood of the ship—gazing at the stars. Suddenly a breeze arose and a soft aroma assailed his senses. It was a special variety of thyme and he knew immediately they were approaching Sardinia.

The fragrance of Palermo was like a whiplash. Bittersweet memories of his childhood and youth could still overpower him. His thoughts were interrupted by a boy—he could not have been more than seventeen or eighteen years of age, the colour of bronze, with long golden hair—who came to him with a glass of lemon
sherbet
and smiled, revealing snow white teeth. How did he keep them so clean? He was glad Simeon was happy again, but that was not enough to assuage his guilt. Hearing his screams one night, he had remained silent, failed to intervene, even though he knew full well his presence would have ended the boy’s torture. The commander of the ship was engaged in a time-honoured rite. Indifferent to Simeon’s pain and fragility, he had violated him mercilessly.
Droit ancien de marinier.
And then, without warning, tears poured down his face as he realised that he had been thinking of Walid. What if some brutish captain had abused him just like this boy? The absence of his son made him mindful of the agony of the young flautist.

For a week after the assault, the boy had neither eaten nor played the flute, nor dared look any sailor in the face, even though some had endured the same violent torture themselves, experienced the same insufferable grief and would have been sympathetic to his plight. Others had laughed and teased him and, in time, the boy recovered. The first sign of his return to the rhythms of everyday life came when the anguished sounds of a flute were heard at sundown, bidding farewell to the dying day. Few eyes remained dry. The man who made maps, consumed with guilt, pledged inwardly to find a better place for this boy. Muhammad drank the
sherbet
, handed back the glass and stroked the young head.

‘Have you ever travelled to Baghdad, master? Have you seen the House of Wisdom which has large rooms to observe the sky and many more books than in our Sultan’s library?’ the boy asked. ‘What does the city look like? Is it true what they say, that our city is larger than Baghdad? Could this be so? And Qurtuba? You know that city well, don’t you, master? Will you return there one day?’

The mapmaker nodded, but before he could elaborate, the minarets of Palermo had been sighted. Suddenly, the deck was crowded with men shouting ‘Allahu Akbar’ and ‘Siqilliya sana-hallahu’ [Sicily, may Allah preserve her!] and preparing for their arrival. A group of tired young men, their burnt bodies and worn-out faces reflecting the exhaustion of a day’s work, brought down the rust-coloured sails and were folding them on the deck. In the twilight the crew began to sing a soft, mournful chant, as they rowed the ship into port. The captain, in search of praise for the discipline of his men, came up to the scholar and bowed, but Idrisi ignored him, still wanting to punish him for abusing the boy. But chiefly the author of the universal geography was preoccupied with the sky, still clear blue, and with the moon, already out and competing for attention with the setting sun. It must be the seventh month of the year, he thought. He had been away for nearly four months. Too long. And then the city was before them.

As the sailors approached the minarets they chanted ‘al-madina hama-hallahu’ [Allah protect this City]. He smiled as the ship entered the harbour, an expressionless smile, a slight softening of the eyes, nothing more. He was pleased to be back. The gentle breeze stroked his face like the soft touch of Mayya and inadvertently his hand went to his face to savour the memory. Below a boat was waiting to transport him to dry land. Walking past the men, he thanked each of them in turn. He suppressed a sigh as he was gently tied with silken cords to a chair, which was then lowered on to the boat. He would have happily climbed down the rope ladder, but the captain forbade it. As the chair reached its destination the boatmen welcomed him with ‘Wa Salaam ...’

Nearing the shore, he could see the familiar faces of the courtiers sent to receive him. He knew that underneath their smiles and the exaggerated noises of welcome, they hated him because of the easy access to the palace he enjoyed. And there was the white beard of one of the palace Chamberlains, Abd al-Karim, shouting as loudly as his years permitted.

‘Prepare to receive the Master Ibn Muhammad ibn Sharif al-Idrisi returned home from a long journey in search of the roots of knowledge.’

As was the custom, the others responded to the safe return of the ship and its passenger.

‘There is only one Allah and he is Allah and Muhammad is his Prophet. Welcome home.’

The irritation he felt on these occasions had, in the past, been countered by the presence of his friend Marwan, whose grinning face was the welcome he most enjoyed. But Marwan had left the island. He had abandoned his estates and his peasants in Catania and fled to al-Andalus, to the city of Ishbilia. Here the Sultan al-Mutammid had provided him with both protection and employment. Letters arrived irregularly, always carrying the same message. Muhammad, too, should leave Palermo and return to the House of Islam. He never replied and Marwan stopped writing.

Now he was alone.

‘Will the master be carried or will he ride?’ Abd al-Karim asked.

‘Is my horse here?’

‘It is.’

‘Then I will ride.’

‘The Sultan awaits you tonight. A banquet has been prepared to honour your return.’

‘And if a storm had delayed us?’

Another voice replied. ‘It never has. You always return on the designated day, Ibn Muhammad.’

The scholar smiled. The voice and the face pleased him. It was the Berber, Jauhar, who had married Marwan’s sister.

‘Any news from Marwan?’

The man shook his head.

‘And you? Is your family well? Do you need anything? I have brought some silks for Marwan’s sister. We exchanged them for some food. A merchant ship from Genoa was in some trouble.’

The man smiled.

‘And now I have a favour to ask of you. Go to the palace and apologise to the Sultan on my behalf. Tell him the journey has exhausted me and I would only fall asleep at the banquet. Tomorrow I will attend on him and provide him with the new discoveries he requested. I wish to be alone tonight. I have something to tell the stars.’

Jauhar looked worried and whispered: ‘It is an unwise decision. The Sultan is ill. It has made him irrational. He might misinterpret your refusal to go to the palace tonight. Monks surround him. Franks and Greeks. Vultures. They whisper lies in the Sultan’s ear. We are being accused of fomenting rebellion.’

Idrisi shook his head. He would not change his mind. ‘His Exalted Majesty knows I am the most loyal of his servants, but I have travelled for many days without a bath and will not present myself in such a state of unseemliness. I will call on the Sultan after the morning prayers. Make that clear to the Chamberlain.’

The courtiers had overheard most of this exchange and smiled. He had gone too far this time. He would be punished. They were determined to reach the Sultan before Jauhar to give Rujari their version of the story.

Idrisi, accompanied by a single groom, rode back to his house, which was situated outside the
qasr,
close to the sea. He could have lived in the precincts of the palace. The Sultan had offered him that on many occasions, but Idrisi had insisted that he needed solitude in order to think. He worked on his manuscript in rooms adjoining the palace library and often ate with the Sultan, but he had chosen to live in a modest house in the Kalisa, overlooking the sea.

It was a choice he had never regretted. The permanent view of the sea he found comforting. Becalmed or white-capped and rough, it never tired him, despite the long journeys on which he had embarked or the storms that had almost taken his life. It was a short ride but one he enjoyed. Gusts of that same wind that had brought the ship into the bay now carried scents of herbs and wild flowers and lemons. The scents brought some painful memories with them, but he repressed them.

As he neared the path at the bottom of the hill he caught the first glimpse of the house. The soft light of candles and oil lamps filled every window. Then he looked more closely. Light was shining even from the windows of the rooms above the courtyard, rooms that had been dark since the day of Walid’s departure. His heart began to race and, almost involuntarily, he spurred his horse on.

T
HE RETAINERS, AS WAS
their custom, awaited him outside the house, torches held high to light his path. He dismounted and shook hands with each in turn, but before he could question any of them he was distracted by the scent of grilled lamb and fresh herbs, an aroma of special significance. He hurried into the house to see if Walid had returned. But it was his daughters who greeted him, taking his hands and kissing them. Idrisi embraced each in turn and gently kissed their heads.

‘Welcome home, Abu Walid,’ said Samar, the younger of the two, her red hair shining under the oil lamps.

‘What brings you here, Samar? And you, Sakina? I thought your mother had forbidden ...’

‘You haven’t seen your grandchildren for three years, Abu Walid. Our mother agreed we could make this journey.’

He chuckled. ‘Old age must have softened her. Are the children asleep?’

His daughters nodded.

‘And am I correct in assuming that you have prepared the lamb according to your mother’s instructions?’

Samar laughed. ‘We weren’t sure you would return today, but a messenger from the palace arrived some hours ago to inform us that your ship had been sighted and you would be home tonight. The garlic and herbs travelled with us from Noto.’

He smiled appreciatively. ‘I hope, like you, they retained their freshness.’

Before either of them could reply he clapped his hands, raised his voice slightly and summoned the steward of the household. ‘Is my bath ready, Ibn Fityan?’

The eunuch bowed. ‘Thawdor is waiting to rub oil on Your Excellency’ and the bath attendants have their instructions. Will Your Honour eat inside or on the terrace?’

‘Let my daughters decide.’

Usually, when he lay on the slab of marble, he let the Greek do his work in silence. Not today. ‘Do you have any children, Thawdor?’

The masseur was shocked. In the six years he had served in the household, the master had barely spoken to him.

‘Yes, my lord. I have three boys and a girl.’

‘I suppose two of the boys have been pledged to the Church?’

‘I believe in Allah and his Prophet, but my wife is a Nazarene and insisted on having one of them baptised.’

Now it was Idrisi’s turn to be surprised. ‘But your name is Greek and I thought ...’

‘My name is Thawdor ibn Ghafur, O Commander of the Pen. My mother was Greek and even though she converted to our faith, she insisted on the name of her grandfather Thawdorus for me. My poor father, who could deny her nothing, agreed.’

Idrisi’s curiosity had been aroused. He would ask Rujari to organise a register of all the mixed marriages on the island.