A Sultan in Palermo Read online

  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.

  TWO

  Family life and domestic idiocies. Idrisi foils a plan by his daughters to trap and betray their husbands, but is determined to educate his grandsons.

  THE 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.

  ‘What about your boys?’

  ‘They are young men now. The youngest was on your ship on this last voyage. His mother will be happy to see him again.’

  On hearing this, the master of the house became agitated. He rose, draped a towel around his naked body and clapped his hands for the bath attendants. Two young men entered the room and bowed.

  ‘Thawdor, describe your boy.’

  Idrisi was now sure. ‘Simeon? I spoke with him on the ship. Why did he not tell me that you were his father?’

  ‘It probably did not occur to him. I’m amazed he had the effrontery to address you, master.’

  ‘I spoke to him first. The boy is sensitive and intelligent. What he cannot speak is expressed through the flute. He is a gifted boy and must be educated. I will speak to old Younis at the palace and see whether we can find a tutor for him.’

  Tears filled Thawdor’s eyes. ‘Your kindness is well known, sir. The boy’s mother might even pray to Allah to reward your goodness.’

  Idrisi nodded and the attendants escorted him to the bath next door. They soaped and scrubbed him with the most exquisitely soft sponges. Then he was ready to be dried and dressed. By the time he reached the terrace, the tiredness had been removed from his body. And the lamb was ready to be consumed. How odd it was, eating with his daughters. Why in Allah’s name were they here at all? He did not believe they had come all this way in order for him to see his grandchildren. It was not in their character. Nor, now that he thought about it, was the trouble they must have taken to prepare the lamb. Their mother Zaynab must have whispered nonsense in their ears: ‘Flatter the old man, make him feel you love him, make sure the lamb is cooked in the special way he likes, wait till he has tasted it and then ask what you need to ask.’ The memory of her insinuating voice and the false flattery was not pleasant and he was irritated with himself for having thought of it. It was bound to give him indigestion.

  And where were the girls’ husbands? Suddenly he realised that they had come to plead on behalf of their men. Something must have happened. There was always unrest in Noto and in the countryside surrounding Siracusa. In the palace it was referred to as banditry, but he knew it was much more. Well, he would listen when the time came.

  He enjoyed the food. The lamb was succulent and tasty, the vegetables fresh and the flask of wine sent by the palace, tasted by Ibn Fityan and pronounced free of poison, had revived his spirits. Noticing this, Samar and Sakina exchanged a knowing look, while Idrisi thought to himself how like their mother the two were.

  Nature had not endowed them with his looks or physique. As he recalled Zaynab, whom his father had compelled him to marry and whom he had glimpsed for the first time on the day of his wedding, he shivered at the memory of that night. There had been no light-hearted pleasure for either of them and even now it was a mystery to him how they produced four children. His mother claimed the credit. She told the entire family of how, aware of the problem, she had insisted that Muhammad drink an unpleasant concoction of boiled coffee-plant leaves sweetened with date juice, whose aphrodisiacal effects had first been noticed by the medicine men of Ifriqiya. And, in those early years, on each occasion—not that there were too many of them—that he mounted his wife, he could smell the bitter taste of the leaves. His mother remained convinced that without it he would not have succeeded in producing four children.

  If Zaynab’s character had been different he would not have encouraged her departure from Palermo. But she possessed no redeeming qualities, none. Her loud voice heaping abuse on the household servants angered him greatly. And it was even worse when she praised him. He never thought of what it must have been like for her, growing up in a wealthy noblema
n’s household, frowned upon by everyone because of her looks, the result of too much inbreeding. He knew that and would sometimes remark to Marwan or Ibn Hamid how the Arabs paid more attention to ensuring thoroughbred horses than their own children. It was not Zaynab’s fault but why had Allah not given her a few brains to compensate?

  That Zaynab’s features had been reproduced in both the daughters might have been a misfortune but for the position Idrisi occupied at Court. They had married men from the Arab nobility in Siracusa, whose forebears had arrived from Ifriqiya and laid siege to the city a few hundred years after the Prophet’s death. The girls’ dowries had been generous, their husbands not unkind and, more important, they had managed to perform their duties without the aid of coffee leaves. Children were produced, a son for Samar, and twins—a son and a daughter—for Sakina. The future was secure. The land was now safe, a fair portion already registered in the name of the two boys to avoid property disputes and, at the same time, to reassure the women and their father that whatever else happened the inheritance could not be challenged. Their sons were their official heirs. Having exerted themselves mightily in order to achieve this, the two husbands had moved on and, compatible with their religious beliefs, had begun to till other pastures. It did not take long for Samar and Sakina to realise that there would be no more children. As for the pleasures of the bedchamber, a luxury lost.

  It was while they were sipping mint tea after the meal that their father decided to strike first. ‘My children, you know me well enough to understand that I detest those who hide their real thoughts in the depth of their hearts and speak of something else. I know full well you have not come here out of the goodness of your hearts, but because you need something from me. I have no idea what it is, but I am your father and will help you. But in Allah’s name I ask you to speak now and speak the truth.’

  The women panicked, unsure as to whether this was the right moment to discuss their problems. They had thought it best to wait till the next morning when the presence of the children might make their father more receptive to their needs. Sakina made a brave, if feeble, attempt to create a diversion.

  ‘But Abi you haven’t told us whether you really enjoyed the lamb. We made it especially for you and ...’

  The sight of her father’s anger-filled face brought her up short. Samar saw it was futile to conceal the purpose of their visit any longer.

  ‘Abi, we have never asked anything important of you till now, but we are very unhappy. Our husbands have abandoned us and need to be punished and we thought you ...’

  He raised a hand to stop her. ‘Before you proceed any further, I want to be clear on one matter. Have your husbands left your homes or have they asked you to leave and find shelter elsewhere?’

  ‘No,’ the women replied in unison.

  ‘But ...’ Samar was about to continue when he interrupted her again.

  ‘Listen to me very carefully. You began with an untruth. Your husbands have not abandoned you in the meaningful sense of the word. They may not share your beds, but that is a different matter. I want you to tell me as straightforwardly as you can why you are here, what you really want and how you think I can assist you. Start with that and then we might proceed to see how you arrived there. Am I making myself clear?’

  Samar and Sakina looked at each other in despair, then sank into an uncharacteristic silence. He liked the silence. He could hear the sea again and the gentle breeze that made the palms sway gently. For a moment he forgot the presence of his daughters, but Samar’s cold and now resigned voice interrupted once again.

  ‘Very well, Abi. I shall do as you wish. We have come to plead with you to persuade the Sultan to disinherit our husbands, remove their names from the land register and put everything in the name of your grandchildren. That’s all. If it will help we can produce witnesses who will swear on al-Quran that both Samir ibn Ali and Umar ibn Muhammad have been involved in conspiracies with the Amir against the Sultan. They are preparing for war.’

  ‘Is that true?’ he asked in a stern voice as he looked straight at them. It would be astonishing if the Amir of Siracusa were preparing a rebellion. They averted their eyes from his gaze and he knew then that they were lying. Why were they so intent on destroying the men who had married them? He knew the answer. They were both very stupid. They did not realise that when lands are seized from a disloyal family, the law does not discriminate between father and son. Everything is taken away.

  ‘And will both of you be prepared to confirm what you have told me under oath and in the presence of the Sultan?’

  They nodded their assent.

  ‘Go to sleep now. I will reflect on your request and make a decision tomorrow.’

  For the first time that evening, they thought that their plan would succeed. Foolishness has no limits. His wife had taken a violent dislike to both her sons-in-law and was bent upon doing away with them. She had convinced the girls of this and sent them to Palermo, loaded with false accusations.

  Deep in thought, their father savoured the silence that followed their departure. The birds, too, had retired for the night. Only the sea was awake and the waves were growing noisy. He looked up at the sky. It was a clear, starry night. As he rose and walked to the edge of the terrace he saw the fireflies dancing in space. This always made him melancholy. They reminded him of the first evening, a dark winter’s night, he had spent with Mayya after they had declared their love for each other, when he was twenty and she five years younger. The crescent moon had already disappeared. As they saw the fireflies, she had laughed and started dancing.

  ‘Look, Muhammad,’ she had shouted, ‘look at me. I’m a firefly.’

  He had sat and watched her until a sudden storm had erupted with thunder and freezing rain. He had taken her hand and they had run all the way back to the village. Before they parted he had held her close and kissed her lips.

  He heard Ibn Fityan cough discreetly. ‘Time for bed, master?’

  ‘Yes. Come with me and press my feet.’

  The eunuch followed Idrisi to the bedchamber where an attendant undressed him and gave him a robe for bed.

  ‘Did you know Thawdor’s youngest boy sailed on my ship?’

  The eunuch did not reply.

  ‘You did. Why was I not informed?’

  ‘Thawdor felt it was best that way. He did not wish to trouble you.’

  ‘It’s your job to tell me everything. Is that understood? What are they saying in the qasr?’

  ‘They are saying the Sultan is ill and might not survive the year. They are saying that his youngest son is a secret Believer and will restore our people to the positions we deserve. They are saying that you, master, have an important role to play. The Nazarenes are pressing the Sultan to teach us a lesson. They talk of conspiracies and are advising him to destroy all the mosques in Palermo because they are the breeding grounds of rebellion. That’s what they’re saying.’

  He did not wait for a reply because he saw that Idrisi had fallen fast asleep. He covered his master’s sleeping form with a sheet and tiptoed out of the room. But Idrisi was not asleep. He was thinking of the future. He knew the palace factions and their leaders, but he had always remained aloof from them. Now that his book was finished he would go to the Friday prayers and hear the khutba. Perhaps he should have gone to the palace after all.

  When he woke at first light the next morning he looked out of the window to see if the fireflies had brought a storm with them, but there was no sign of wet earth and the sea appeared calm. He sent for his grandchildren and was surprised to learn that only the boys had been brought to see him. Samar’s son Khalid was fourteen, his cousin, Ali, two years older.

  ‘Wa Salaam, Jiddu.’

  He hugged each of them in turn and asked them to sit on his bed. ‘We shall have breakfast here and while you eat I will ask questions about your riding and your tutors.’

  But what he really wanted to know was about the boys and their fathers. And what he heard pleased him
. In each case the father took a great deal of interest and spent several hours a week with his son. Ali spoke of how Khalid’s father had taught them to fire an arrow at a mark and hunt. Khalid recounted how they had been taught the poetry of Ibn Hamdis, which Ali’s father could recite from memory.

  ‘Do you like his poetry?’

  Ali nodded vigorously, Khalid made a face. Their grandfather burst out laughing. ‘I see that Ali is a sentimental man, much given to romance, while Khalid is more interested in weaponry.’

  ‘Jiddu,’ replied Khalid, ‘Ali thinks we will be forced to leave Siqilliya one day, just like Ibn Hamdis. If that is so, what use is poetry? I think we must learn to fight so that we can defend ourselves. I will not see my family slaughtered like goats at festival time.’

  Idrisi looked at them closely. He saw how carefully they ate the sheep’s-milk yogurt and bread that had been placed before them. Allah had been kind. The boys were tall and resembled their fathers. Ali’s ear lobes reminded Idrisi of his own father. He liked and approved of his grandsons. ‘Jiddu,’ asked Ali in a soft voice, ‘in your book do you explain why the mountain in Catania breathes fire? Last month the villagers who live below it packed their belongings and ran away. But after a few fireballs, the mountain went to sleep again and the villagers returned looking somewhat foolish. Why does it happen? My father says it’s because Allah is angry at the sins being committed by the Nazarenes against the Believers.’

  ‘If that were the case, my sons, why would he be punishing us? It’s our people who live in that region. I have not fully investigated this matter, but I am sure it has something to do with how this Earth came into being.’

  ‘But it was Allah who ordered the Earth to come into being,’ said Khalid with a trembling voice, which suddenly reminded Idrisi of Walid at that age, intense and questioning.

  ‘When your uncle Walid, who I hope will return home one day so that he can see both of you ... when he was ten or eleven years of age we were in a large boat not far from Catania. And the fire-mountain became very active and the sea very rough and I thought we might not survive. But it did not last long and we came to shore safely. Walid asked the same question and I gave the same reply. And he then said what you just told me, young Khalid. So I told him a story that the Greeks used to tell in olden times about the fire-mountain. Are you interested?’