playing chogan. Given that my brother al-Adil and I had several guards, we decided to make use of them. Every day we would ride out of the Bab-al-Djabiya at sunrise. First the soldiers would perform their duty and teach us the art of swordsmanship. Then, after a short rest and some refreshments, we were shown how to fight on horseback. At the end of our training session, we entertained ourselves by teaching the soldiers how to play chogan.
It is a strange fact, is it not, Ibn Yakub, that the more one exerts oneself, the less tired one gets? After riding for two hours, I could easily ride the whole day. Yet on days when it was not possible to leave the house, I felt listless and exhausted, just like today. My physicians praise Allah and tell me that it is all to do with how the blood flows through the body, but do they really know?
The Sultan fell silent. Assuming that he was deep in thought, I made some small corrections to the text, but when, quill poised, I looked up at him to resume our work, his eye was firmly closed. He was fast asleep.
I have not previously drawn attention to the fact that Salah al-Din ibn Ayyub was possessed of only one working eye. He had not yet told me of how he lost the other, and Ibn Maymun had warned me that this was an extremely touchy subject. Under no circumstances should I raise it myself. Being a disciplined scribe, I had cast all curiosity out of my mind. To tell the truth, I had become used to his infirmity, and rarely gave it much thought. Yet seeing him like this, fast asleep, with his bad eye wide open, created the impression that he was half-awake, an All-Seeing Sultan.
It gave me a strange sensation. I wanted to know how and when he had lost his eye. Was it a childhood accident? If so, who had been responsible? How did it affect his bearing in war? My mind was flooded by questions.
How long I would have sat there, gazing on the sleeping Sultan, I do not know. A gentle tap on my shoulder alerted me to the presence of the ubiquitous Shadhi. He placed a finger on his lip to demand silence, and indicated that I follow him out of the chamber.
As we sat in the courtyard, enjoying the winter sun, dipping bread in labineh and munching radishes and onions, I asked Shadhi about the eye. He smiled, but did not reply. I persisted.
“Salah al-Din will tell you himself. It is the one subject we never discuss.”
“Why not?”
No reply was forthcoming from the old man. Instead he wiped the yoghurt off his drooping moustache and belched. Perhaps, I thought to myself, he is in a bad mood. Something has upset him. But I was wrong. It was only the forbidden subject of the missing eye that had silenced him.
He asked me whether Ayyub and his family had reached Dimask in the chronicles I was transcribing. I nodded.
“Then,” he said with a lascivious smile, “the Sultan has told you of his youthful escapades?”
“Not yet.”
“Not yet, not yet!” he mimicked me and roared with laughter. “He will never tell you. The memory of great men is always faulty. They forget their past so easily, but fortunately for you, my good scribe, Shadhi is still alive. Let us first eat some lamb, and then I will tell you tales of Damascus which our great Sultan will never remember again.”
After we had finished our meal, the old man began to speak.
“I won’t bore you with stories of our first visits to the Umayyad mosque, where the great Caliphs preached the Friday sermon and where long ago the congregation trembled in silent rage as Muawiya held up the bloodstained shirt of the murdered Caliph Uthman. I will leave all that to the Sultan.”
Shadhi laughed loudly, as if what he had just told me was an almighty joke. He was given to laughing a great deal at his own remarks, something to which I was now accustomed, yet it never failed to irritate me. Outwardly I smiled and nodded politely, to neutralise the intense gaze to which I was subjected following such outbursts. After drinking another cup of
It is a strange fact, is it not, Ibn Yakub, that the more one exerts oneself, the less tired one gets? After riding for two hours, I could easily ride the whole day. Yet on days when it was not possible to leave the house, I felt listless and exhausted, just like today. My physicians praise Allah and tell me that it is all to do with how the blood flows through the body, but do they really know?
The Sultan fell silent. Assuming that he was deep in thought, I made some small corrections to the text, but when, quill poised, I looked up at him to resume our work, his eye was firmly closed. He was fast asleep.
I have not previously drawn attention to the fact that Salah al-Din ibn Ayyub was possessed of only one working eye. He had not yet told me of how he lost the other, and Ibn Maymun had warned me that this was an extremely touchy subject. Under no circumstances should I raise it myself. Being a disciplined scribe, I had cast all curiosity out of my mind. To tell the truth, I had become used to his infirmity, and rarely gave it much thought. Yet seeing him like this, fast asleep, with his bad eye wide open, created the impression that he was half-awake, an All-Seeing Sultan.
It gave me a strange sensation. I wanted to know how and when he had lost his eye. Was it a childhood accident? If so, who had been responsible? How did it affect his bearing in war? My mind was flooded by questions.
How long I would have sat there, gazing on the sleeping Sultan, I do not know. A gentle tap on my shoulder alerted me to the presence of the ubiquitous Shadhi. He placed a finger on his lip to demand silence, and indicated that I follow him out of the chamber.
As we sat in the courtyard, enjoying the winter sun, dipping bread in labineh and munching radishes and onions, I asked Shadhi about the eye. He smiled, but did not reply. I persisted.
“Salah al-Din will tell you himself. It is the one subject we never discuss.”
“Why not?”
No reply was forthcoming from the old man. Instead he wiped the yoghurt off his drooping moustache and belched. Perhaps, I thought to myself, he is in a bad mood. Something has upset him. But I was wrong. It was only the forbidden subject of the missing eye that had silenced him.
He asked me whether Ayyub and his family had reached Dimask in the chronicles I was transcribing. I nodded.
“Then,” he said with a lascivious smile, “the Sultan has told you of his youthful escapades?”
“Not yet.”
“Not yet, not yet!” he mimicked me and roared with laughter. “He will never tell you. The memory of great men is always faulty. They forget their past so easily, but fortunately for you, my good scribe, Shadhi is still alive. Let us first eat some lamb, and then I will tell you tales of Damascus which our great Sultan will never remember again.”
After we had finished our meal, the old man began to speak.
“I won’t bore you with stories of our first visits to the Umayyad mosque, where the great Caliphs preached the Friday sermon and where long ago the congregation trembled in silent rage as Muawiya held up the bloodstained shirt of the murdered Caliph Uthman. I will leave all that to the Sultan.”
Shadhi laughed loudly, as if what he had just told me was an almighty joke. He was given to laughing a great deal at his own remarks, something to which I was now accustomed, yet it never failed to irritate me. Outwardly I smiled and nodded politely, to neutralise the intense gaze to which I was subjected following such outbursts. After drinking another cup of
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