A Sultan in Palermo Page 5

  ‘A beautiful woman from Temim ...’

  Rujari ignored the remark.

  ‘What are those arches, but a tribute to the mosques of Palermo, which are still there as they were in my father’s time. You were convinced I would not be able to protect them. Of course the church your people took and transformed into a mosque had to be re-consecrated. We are Christians, after all. But you will admit that all else is there. This is still the city of two hundred and ninety-nine mosques and I am still the Sultan Rujari of Siqilliya.’

  ‘You certainly are Sultan Rujari in Palermo. And the Believers respect you for it, but how else could you run a city where the bulk of the population are of my faith? You could kill them, but who would run the Diwan, fight your wars, transport your goods, and pay your taxes? The Lombards your father encouraged to come here are barbarians. They know nothing except to rape and steal. And when you travel to Messina or Apulia you leave these beautiful long robes behind and dress in the armour of your forebears and your shield is painted with a cross and you become King Roger or Count Ruggiero depending on where you are and which of the competing Popes is coming to plead for your support.’

  Rujari smiled. ‘You know full well that my father refused to send our soldiers to fight in the First Crusade. Did I tell you that when an envoy of Pope Urban continued to insist we send soldiers, my father farted loudly and left the room? Even after they took Jerusalem he was convinced he had made the right decision. Urban never forgave my father and even threatened to excommunicate him. Now I hear that things are not going well for the Crusaders and they are fearful of losing everything. Only last week I received a message from Innocent, whose hatred for me is only exceeded by mine for him. He writes that there is pressure from the English and the Holy Emperor for a new crusade to relieve the pressure on the Crusader states and asks whether Siqilliya will participate. I will not send our soldiers to Jerusalem or Acre or to save my cousin’s castles in Syria. But it would be foolish of me to reveal this too soon. So I listen and I play with the Pope and our English cousins. These are tiresome but sacred duties.’

  ‘Some might say,’ replied Idrisi, ‘that it was not only concern for my people or our soldiers in your army that caused you not to help the Pope, but your fears and those of your father that the wheat trade might suffer and deplete the treasury. It is not for nothing that one of your names is Abu Tillis, father of the wheat-sack.’

  Idrisi was about to continue when he noticed Rujari was having difficulty in breathing. He hurried to the door and asked the palace Chamberlain, who had been eavesdropping, to bring the physicians to the King.

  Rujari had recovered but the effort to regain his breath had exhausted him. ‘I will rest a while,’ he whispered weakly. ‘You must eat something, speak with Mayya and then return to my chamber. There is one important matter we have yet to discuss.’

  The physicians had arrived and began to feel the royal pulse and head. Rujari drank the water he was offered and then, resting his arms on the shoulders of his two attendants, walked slowly to his bedchamber. Idrisi was saddened to see him in such a state. This Sultan would never leave Palermo alive. Of that he was sure.

  A palace attendant entered the room and reproached him in an Arabic dialect spoken in Noto. ‘You have forgotten me, master.’

  Idrisi examined him closely and smiled. It was Abd al-Rahman, the steward responsible for the preparation and tasting of food in the palace kitchens.

  ‘You have aged, just like the Sultan you serve. I’m glad you’re still here, Commander of the Cooks. What delicacies have been prepared today?’

  ‘I think you will be so pleased to see an old friend today that your mind will not dwell for too long on the quails or the nest of mashed eggplant and garlic on which they rest. And that is only to whet your appetite. The scent of the food alone could guide you to the eating chamber, but if you will follow me, Commander of the Maps, you will reach your destination much sooner.’

  Idrisi was so used to the fact that few secrets survived in Palermo that Abd al-Rahman’s casual reference to Mayya had not in the least surprised him. He knew the location only too well. It was Rujari’s private trysting chamber where food was sometimes served and where only members of the family or lovers or privileged friends were permitted. Idrisi had eaten there on many occasions and, in fact, did not need the services of his guide. The chamber was set well apart from the large banqueting hall in the palace. The windows overlooked the sea, a perfect setting. And fate had willed that he would see Mayya without the presence of the Sultan. He knew that a eunuch’s ear would be closely attached to the door and the entire conversation reported to the Chamberlain who would then decide how much of it should be revealed to the Sultan and how much retained for the purposes of blackmail. It had always been like that, but he was well prepared.

  Mayya swept into the room like the princess that she wasn’t and greeted him without looking in his direction. She, too, was aware that every palace wall had ears.

  ‘Wa Salaam, Abu Walid. I heard you had returned safely and your great work is now complete, thanks to Allah’s mercy. My daughter informed me she saw you with the Sultan.’

  ‘Wa Salaam, mother of Elinore. I am sad the Sultan could not eat with us. I hope his health improves.’

  Her only response was to stick her tongue out at him and suppress the laughter she felt rising inside her. Idrisi had not seen her for almost fifteen years. It pleased him that she had made no attempt to conceal her age by dyeing her hair with henna. She could have easily done so. Her hair had been a dark golden red, just like the faded depiction of the Greek goddess Demeter he remembered from the temple of Djirdjent. Her face, too, had changed, with lines on the neck and underneath her eyes and on the side of her mouth. He looked at her closely and was about to kiss her hands when the door opened and Abd al-Rahman led three attendants into the room, who carefully laid the food on the table.

  ‘We will return when you call, Master Idrisi. I hope everything will be to your satisfaction.’

  ‘Thank you, Abd al-Rahman, if it is not, be prepared to feel the scimitar on your sturdy neck.’

  Mayya tried but failed to control a smile. The steward bowed and left the room, making sure to shut the doors with exaggerated courtesy.

  Idrisi went on his knees, embraced her and kissed her hands. Then he whispered in her ear. ‘She is a beautiful girl. Silver-footed and self-assured. You are sure?’

  Mayya nodded and whispered in return.

  ‘Thank Allah your hair, too, is dark. One day I will tell her everything.’

  She stroked his hair and signalled that they should sit at the table. He followed her but could not restrain himself from touching her neck. She trembled slightly as they sat down to the tempting quails, serving him and then helping herself. She signalled that he should eat and said in a loud voice, ‘When Abd al-Rahman goes to paradise, I’m sure the angel Jibril will appoint him to take charge of the heavenly kitchens. How was the food on your boat? As always?’

  ‘It was unmentionable. Worse than usual. Let us not waste time on that. These quails are heavenly.’

  And they managed to talk about the care that must have gone into each dish and the freshness of the vegetables for another half hour. Then Idrisi began to speak of his travels. And all this time while talking of food and maps and the sea, they were busy exploring each other’s terrain. The incongruity of the words and actions was so pronounced that more than once he had to put his hand on her mouth to stop her laughing. While feeling her breasts beneath three layers of cloth he commented on the deliciousness of the melons upon which she laughed aloud. The noise frightened them and they rushed back to the table to sit at opposite ends. Then, from a safe distance their eyes continued to feast on each other. The risk of making physical contact became clear when, without warning, the doors burst open and the Sultan walked in with Elinore holding his arm. Idrisi rose to his feet in genuine surprise. Mayya smiled calmly, but underneath her multi-layered dress she could hear
her own noisy heart which, faced with the quandary of pleasure or guilt, always chose the former. Idrisi, too, maintained his composure.

  ‘Allah be praised. You are well again, Exalted One.’

  Rujari did not waste time on formalities. ‘Your laughter could be heard in every corner of the palace, Mayya. Won’t you share the joke with us?’

  She did not hesitate. ‘It was the way Master Idrisi referred to the melons, my lord. He held them in each hand and spoke loudly, knowing full well that someone outside was listening and would report his comments to the kitchen. It was the look on his face more than the words.’

  To back her up, Idrisi picked up the melons and took the pose of a Greek god.

  Rujari smiled, while Elinore began to laugh, just like her mother. Strange, her father thought, how both of them have this brightly coloured laughter. Primitive, but pure. A real joy to the ear.

  Idrisi began to study his daughter’s features more closely. Her eyebrows reminded him of his mother. How she would have treasured this child. The Sultan was watching him intently.

  ‘She is beautiful, is she not, Master Idrisi?’

  Elinore’s face flushed and she went to sit next to her mother.

  ‘She bears a certain resemblance to your mother, or am I mistaken?’

  ‘You are not mistaken. But I sometimes wonder whether the resemblance is in her features or her character. I can’t decide. Either would make me happy. You may go, child.’

  As she rose to leave, Idrisi addressed her directly. ‘Are you happy with your tutor?’

  ‘Yes, I am, master,’ she replied with a confidence that pleased him enormously.

  ‘He says my Arabic and Latin are now perfect and wants to teach me Greek.’

  Idrisi surprised himself. ‘If your father agrees, I will give you some lessons in geography. We think Palermo is the centre of the world and in some ways it is, but it is not the real centre.’

  To the surprise of the girl and her parents, the Sultan was not inclined to agree. ‘There are many other things a young woman needs to learn before we burden her with geography.’

  Elinore was displeased. ‘Name one other thing, father.’

  The strength of innocence was remarkable and both men smiled in admiration.

  ‘We shall continue this discussion on another occasion, my child, and perhaps I will relent on this question. After all, I helped Master Idrisi prepare the research for his book. That’s why he has titled it ‘al-kitab al-Rujari’. But now I must take him away from you. I need to consult him on a matter of great importance to the kingdom which may involve its future geography.’

  Idrisi bowed to Mayya and smiled at Elinore. As the two men walked slowly to the private audience chamber, Idrisi commented on the speed of the Sultan’s recovery and asked if these attacks were frequent. The Sultan nodded, but made it clear he knew that his time on this earth was limited and it was on another matter in preparation for the future that he needed advice. This was the third time that day that Rujari had indicated that something was worrying him. Idrisi wondered why he could not speak of it. They had been seated for some time and still the Sultan remained silent, his eyes refusing to make contact with those of his friend.

  ‘Commander of the Powerful, for over twenty years now I have known you well. This is the first occasion I can recall that you have had some difficulty in entrusting me with something that is clearly worrying you.’

  The Sultan looked at him. ‘Something you said earlier continues to echo in my mind. You said I was Sultan Rujari in Palermo but King Roger on the mainland. Well, my friend, I have to become King Roger in Palermo as well. The Bishops have warned me that the Barons from Apulia and Messina and others who were not named have decided to act after my death. They aim to kill poor William and put one of themselves on the throne. The Bishops advise that in order to retain control of the future I must make my loyalty to the Church visible to all.’

  Idrisi realised the gravity of the situation. ‘A blood sacrifice?’

  ‘I fear so.’

  ‘If it’s me you want, I would prefer the scimitar to the fire.’

  ‘It is not a matter for frivolity. They want the head of Philip al-Mahdia.’

  Shaken by the news, Idrisi rose to his feet, his face filled with anger. Philip was the most respected of the Sultan’s counsellors in Siqilliya. He was a eunuch who had fled from slavery in Ifriqiya as a young man and found sanctuary in Palermo. Born a Muslim, after his father’s death he had been sold into slavery to a Greek merchant. He was baptised and destined for the Church in Constantinople. But the merchant ship transporting him was raided by pirates and he was eventually sold to a merchant household in al-Mahdia. He converted voluntarily to Islam and soon escaped servitude by stowing aboard a vessel destined for Palermo. Equally fluent in Arabic, Greek and Latin, his facility with languages recommended him to the royal Diwan. His gifts were not confined to translation. Such were his capabilities as an administrator, he became the master of the household and, later, an effective Amir al-bahr, a sea-commander feared by the enemies of Siqilliya. He was often at the side of George of Antioch, the sea-commander who conquered the Ifriqiyan coastal city-states for the Siqilliyan king. After George’s death, Philip was appointed as his successor. Within the palace, he came to occupy a position second only to the Sultan. A Grand Vizier, but without a grandiose title. And in Rujari’s absence, Philip’s authority was unquestioned. In the city itself he was seen as the generous protector of Jews and Believers.

  Only a few weeks before his return to Palermo, when Idrisi’s ship had docked in a small port in Calabria to replenish their supplies of drinking water, they had been told in glowing terms of Philip’s triumph in Bone on the Ifriqiyan coast.

  The Bishops undoubtedly found him a serious obstacle to their plans, most notably the slow forced conversion of all infidels. That could be the only reason for them to demand his removal. Philip also possessed a sharp tongue and made little effort to disguise his aversion to some of the priests, while maintaining a close friendship with others. Idrisi could understand why the clerics wanted blood. But what had happened to Rujari?

  ‘What is the charge against Philip?’

  ‘That he was too lenient to the prisoners taken at Bone.’

  ‘Sultan, both you and your father in his time showed leniency in your dealings with defeated people. In itself what Philip did does not constitute a crime. Your Bishops and no doubt the Barons who feed them and protect the church estates are fearful of Philip’s power and his closeness and loyalty to you. Send him away if you must, but do not burn him. It will not appease their hunger. You are ill and weak, I know, but your political strength remains. Burn Philip and those you appease today will destroy your heirs tomorrow. My advice as a friend is to resist the pressure. Turn their demands on them. You know better than me how the Barons have stolen lands and abducted young children for ugly purposes. Ask the bishops to try these men for their crimes before you touch Philip. Get something in return for the crime you are about to sanction. If they refuse, then you can return to being your old, compassionate self.’

  Rujari did not reply.

  ‘With your permission, I will take your leave now.’

  A slight nod from Rujari was the only response.

  The mapmaker was trembling with rage as he bowed and left the chamber. Outside he was escorted by one of the lesser Chamberlains and two slaves. As he walked through the outer courtyard, he saw a figure flying in his direction. He stopped till the apparition almost ran into him.

  ‘Elinore, child,’ he said, because the way she looked at him with a single raised eye reminded him of Walid. He bit his lip, but she did not appear in the least disconcerted.

  ‘Master Idrisi, my mother and I are going to spend the day with her family next week. Since your sister will also be there it would be a pleasure if we could break bread together. You do not need the permission of the Sultan to visit your sister, or do you?’

  ‘I will think about your
suggestion, Princess.’

  ‘If you are fearful of losing your way I will happily draw you a map.’

  He burst out laughing. ‘I will be there, provided you let me know the day.’

  ‘Good. We will discuss Pythagaros of Samos and his ideas. I believe in the importance of numbers, but definitely not seven.’

  On seeing the surprise on his face, she laughed and disappeared. Thank Allah that every day was not like this one. As to which of the two emotions he encountered in the palace that day affected him more, it was difficult to say. That he still loved Mayya was hardly a surprise. She was forever locked inside him. On his long voyages, she was always with him, a willing participant in dozens of imagined conversations that had become a balm to ease his mental exhaustion.

  In the past when she had whispered in his ear that Elinore was his daughter, he had not completely believed her. He had thought this was her way of assuaging her guilt. He did not know that she had none; guilt played no part in her feelings. For her, the offer of a place in the Sultan’s harem had not been a choice. It was a command. She had not had to be told that if she disobeyed, her entire family would suffer. In this respect all Sultans were the same: a belief in the prophecy of Muhammad or the miracles of Jesus made no difference. The satisfaction of their carnal needs transcended all spiritual beliefs.

  Idrisi saw now that there was no way she could have conveyed this to him, but with his knowledge of the world he should have known. How they had managed to meet in secret and made love was something that still frightened and astonished him. She was sure they had not been seen, that not even the most hated eunuch of the harem knew what had happened, but could one be sure of anything in that cursed palace? Just as he should have known that for her, he, Muhammad al-Idrisi, would be the only man in her life. It upset her that the fever of love had left no mark on him, but here she was wrong. She looked for physical signs and wondered why he was not thin and distraught. That was how the poets described lovers who had been deprived of their beloved. If Qays could starve himself for his Laila, why not Muhammad for his Mayya? She did not know that she was ever present in his mind, that the book he had just completed was written for her, not the Sultan, that the main reason he stayed close to Rujari and, in consequence, angered many of his friends, was to be close to her. He had never told her that because he did not think she would believe him.