A Sultan in Palermo (26 page)

‘Any news of the Trusted One?’

‘He has been seen in a number of villages. He is very close to your family and they tell me he is on your son-in-law’s estates at the moment. Our people are ready to fight. Catania, Noto and Siracusa will not be taken without a struggle.’

‘I do not think that William has any intention of waging war on us.’

‘One year ago, did his father have any intention of burning Philip outside his own palace?’

‘All I am saying is that a premature rebellion could lead to defeat. Timing is always crucial.’

‘Then we are in agreement.’

When Elinore entered the room to greet her uncle, Idrisi noticed her flushed cheeks and shining eyes. The flute-player is affecting this child, he thought, and it pleased him. Mayya arrived with Afdal in her arms and the Amir made all the right noises, but did his mind’s eye compare the two infants? At the end of his visit, the proud possessor of a new son invited them all to visit him in Siracusa.

‘It will be spring soon and the best time to visit us. Balkis is desperate to see you.’

‘We will try,’ said Mayya, ‘but it’s such a long journey and the mere thought tires me.’

Idrisi retreated to his library to find the parcel from Balkis. He undid the string and unwrapped the cloth. Inside lay a carefully folded tunic made of pure silk, the colour of burnt milk. On top of it was a letter. Elinore knocked on the door and entered without waiting for his reply. ‘I need to ask you something, Abi.’

‘Let me guess. You want to learn the flute.’

She coloured slightly. ‘I would like to marry him.’

‘Has he expressed interest?’

‘No, because he is in awe of you and thinks he is too low-born for you to even consider such a match.’

‘Have you spoken to your mother?’

‘Yes and she is not happy.’

‘Why?’

‘She thinks he is low-born.’

‘Are you sure you know him well enough to marry him?’

‘Yes. You once told me that affairs of the heart are determined by instinct, not reason. My instinct tells me that I will be happy with him.’

‘That is all that matters to me, child. I have no objection. I like the boy myself, but how will he earn a living? Musicians are not paid regularly.’

‘He doesn’t only play the flute. He makes them and can teach children to play. He wants us to move to Djirdjent where his mother’s family will help him.’

‘I will help him if he wants to stay here and your uncle in Siracusa is a generous soul if he wishes to move there. And you? Where would you like to live.’

‘I’m not sure. There is a part of me which would like to leave this island for ever and move to Salerno.’

‘Why?’

‘Instinct. Something bad is going to happen here. Can’t you feel it in the air?’

‘Elinore, you are baptised and so is Simeon ibn Thawdor. You need not fear the Barons. No harm will come to you. But I am more worried about your two brothers. Will they survive? For how long? When some of my friends left Palermo and went to settle in al-Andalus, I mocked them for their foolishness. I was so sure I had made the right decision.’

He shrugged his shoulders in despair.

Elinore kissed him on his head. ‘Even though we have not yet discussed Pythagoras and his numbers which you promised me, I love you.’

‘The numbers were important for the merchants and sailors. But much more interesting was the way of life that he advocated. Perhaps you should go and live in Cariati, much closer to us than Salerno. The Pythagoreans fled here to Kroton, as they called it then, and their brotherhood flourished. Some of them came to Siracusa as well. The symbol of their brotherhood was the ox on the tongue. Each new recruit was pledged to secrecy and silence. In order to achieve their aims of creating a society in which each and every person had a moral responsibility, they had to be careful. And did you know they also believed that the only way to purify the soul from the infections of the body was through music? That is why Pythagoras and his followers were the first to explore the links between music and mathematics. And you will find books that can teach you even more than I know. He is not a philosopher I have studied closely. Is that your mother I hear shouting for you? Tell her I approve of Ibn Thawdor and she should not worry about your dowry.’

As she ran out of the room, Idrisi began to pace up and down, pausing to look at the map on the large table. It was his own map and he was thinking it was time to emigrate, but to which destination? Then he saw his unfinished manuscript and he knew that it had to be completed before he went anywhere. The philosophy of medicine he was advancing was based on providing simple and easily accessible cures for the diseases that afflicted the rich and the poor. He had read something in a book by Aflatun
*
that had displeased him and he had meant to tell Elinore. He found the book where he had marked the following passage:

‘When a carpenter is ill,’ said Sokrates, ‘he asks the doctor for a quick remedy—an emetic, purge, cautery or the knife—that is all. If he is told to diet and wrap up his head and keep warm, he replies that he has no time to be ill, that there is no good going on living just to nurse his disease if he can’t get on with his work. So he says goodbye to the doctor and returns to work, and either gets over it and lives and carries on with his livelihood, or else dies and is put out of his misery that way.
’

‘I understand,’ said Glaukon ‘and of course that is the proper use of medicine for a man in his walk of life.
’

He smiled as he recalled how this had enraged him. The ‘proper use of medicine’ had meant the spread of infectious diseases that did not distinguish between carpenters and those who owned large estates and hundreds of slaves.

In the book he was preparing, Idrisi had written that a healthy diet was the best preventive medicine, but also that there should be no treatments that the poor could not afford. These should be available to all in special hospitals. Other considerations he had put aside for the moment, although, in private, he agreed with Hippokrates’ injunction: in order to cure a man it was necessary to understand his origins and the causes of his evolution. This was a conviction forbidden to the People of the Book who were to believe that Jehovah, God, Allah created man—possibly a simplification of knowledge that had not helped the study of medicine. The Ancients, too, had their myths, but these contained the kernel of a truth. Prometheus, who gave man fire to save him from extinction, was clearly aware that man possessed the brain to make use of the fire and the makers of the myths themselves interpreted Prometheus as the symbol of human intelligence.

His thoughts were interrupted by Mayya, anxious to inspect the gift Balkis had sent him. She held the tunic against her own body, but it was too large.

‘She was always good at making clothes, but let us see how it fits you.’

He rose and changed tunics. The silk clung to his body.

‘It fits you perfectly. Balkis has not forgotten your body.’

Still he did not speak, but did not change back into his old clothes. He smiled vacantly at his wife.

‘When will you go and see Walid in Venice?’

‘After I have finished my Formulary.’

‘And when will that be? When Afdal is five or ten?’

‘It might be sooner if I was not interrupted so often.’

‘I came to discuss our daughter. I can’t believe you have agreed that she can marry Thawdor’s son.’

‘Because he is poor?’

‘Well, not that, but ...’

‘What other reason could there be? Breeding, of course. Let me tell you that Thawdor’s forebears included men who ruled this island hundreds of years ago. I would not compare his lineage with yours or mine, leave alone that of your brother-in-law.’

‘If that is your opinion I will not object any further.’

‘Mayya, I want our daughter to be happy. I will give them money to build a house wherever they wish.’

‘I do not wish her to leave Palermo.’

‘That, too, will be her choice and not ours.’

When she left the room, he looked at the shelves and sighed. If he did leave Palermo or Siqilliya these books would have to travel with him. He would never leave them behind. Realising it would be difficult to take them all, he began to make lists in his head of the books he would not miss. He might not be able to convince Mayya or Balkis to leave with him, but the books had no choice.

The silk tunic caressing his body made him think of Balkis, a mother for the first time. Her son would become the centre of her existence and she would settle down in the palace till she felt it was time to reproduce once again.

He took up her letter.

Muhammad,

I had thought of so many different names for you, but they sounded silly when written down and I wasted a lot of papyrus. They can only be spoken, so you will have to wait. I never thought the pain of separation could hurt so much till I left you three months ago. It did not only hurt me inside, but on the way back I developed a headache, a really bad one that had never ailed me before. What does the physician recommend? Don’t suggest a cold infusion of almonds, milk and honey. It does not work.

I sit and write a few lines to you each day so that when the time comes I can add a line about our child. Sometimes I become tearful at the thought of it not knowing that you are his real father. Will we ever tell him? I can hear your voice: given your husband has been so kind and considerate why deny him the pleasure of pretending this is his child. And of course I agree, but
....
And Mayya? How is she and how are you together? Has the child been born? Boy or girl?

It was an awful journey to Siracusa with a storm at sea near Messina, where we were forced to spend the night after leaving Palermo. I remembered our journey together. It must have taken the same time but it felt so quick. I suppose being heavy with your child doesn’t improve one’s humour. In Siracusa I thought of you a great deal and for some days could not eat any food. My kind and considerate husband was close to sending you a message asking you to join us, but however much I would have loved that, I thought of Mayya and her state and knew it was wrong. So I stopped him. He makes no demands of me and I know he has a woman in the palace who serves his needs. I think he told you about her. I’m pleased because it was not pleasant when he came to my bed. He is so fat and apart from the physical discomfort I also suffered a mental strain. Does the silk tunic fit you well?

There are so many things I wanted to discuss with you in Palermo, but we became so absorbed in each other that there was no time for lofty discussions. I wanted to ask what you thought of the poetry of Ibn Hamdis. I’m really angry with myself for never asking you. My husband—but you probably know this—belongs to the same family and we have all his poems in the library and some of them in very fine editions. You see, I’m even beginning to use your language! Some of them I find too sentimental. He was not ‘banished from paradise’. He left. I mean, if he was going to miss Siqilliya so much, why did he go in the first place and then why not come back and re-live the pleasures of his youth? His brothers stayed. The family estate is intact. So his memories of Siqilliya do not excite me, though you try saying that to a Siracusan. Can you imagine my husband, who has calmly accepted that we are lovers and that you are the father of the son who will inherit his estates, who has never spoken a harsh word to me, became red with anger when I told him that Ibn Hamdis was not a very good poet compared to Ibn Quzman, Ibn Hazm and Abu Nuwas. He shouted, called me ignorant and left the room like a mountain on fire. Later he came and apologised. A few days after this occurred, I found a poem by Ibn Hamdis that really made me laugh. I wanted you to laugh with me, but you were not here. Read the words aloud to yourself and imagine both of us inside your silk tunic:

A cloistered nun unlocked her convent,

and we were her night visitors.

The fragrance of a liquor brought us to her,

one that revealed to your nose her secrets ...

I placed my silver on her scale,

and from the jug she poured her gold.

We offered betrothal to four of her daughters,

so that pleasure might deflower their innocence.

I want to know what you think about this and his Siqilliyan poems.

Muhammad, last night I was told an awful story and could not sleep. My husband came to see if I needed anything and with him was his awful sister who you and I spoke of once before. She is very tall with a large cucumber of a nose, breasts the size of water-melons and a loud, grating voice and I’ve always wanted to suggest to her that she join a band of wandering hermaphrodites and enjoy life. She came in, looked at my son on my breast and said, ‘Praise be to Allah for this miracle.’ It was on the edge of my tongue to say, ‘Praise be to Muhammad’ but I restrained myself. Then I began to feel a pain in my insides and I screamed at her to leave my chamber. The maid rushed in from next door, but it was nothing. My husband came back later to apologise for his sister. I said she was a serpent nourished by Satan. And then he sat down and told me this story, which horrified me:

‘She is my half-sister, Balkis, and please understand she has had a hard life. My parents did not get on with each other and my mother must have been in a state of permanent sadness. When I was eight years old my father left Siracusa and went to live in Noto for six months. My mother was far from heartbroken, as you can imagine. She committed an indiscretion with a cousin and became pregnant. When my father returned he asked whose child it was but she did not speak. He never spoke to her again. That child was my sister who you hate so much. She was not treated well in our household. I don’t think my father even
s
poke her name. Not once. As a result, she became our mother’s favourite. This annoyed the rest of us and we were all unpleasant to her. When many years later my father left for Palermo to conduct some business, my mother’s cousin who had fathered my half-sister returned to the house. My half-sister was seventeen years old. One night in a drunken frenzy the cousin forced himself on his daughter. She became pregnant. My mother had her lover thrown out of the house. As I remember, he was actually stoned. My brothers and I lived in that large house but had no idea what had taken place till later. They tell me herbal concoctions were used to get rid of the child and they succeeded, but she never recovered. When I heard the story from a cousin, I confronted my mother. She wept and admitted it was true. She blamed my father’s coldness and cruelty and I’m sure there is some truth in that, but I always recall my father as dark visaged, tall, dignified and simple in his tastes. In any event, after learning of this tragedy, I went out of my way to be nice to my half-sister. Like you, my brothers cannot bear the sight of her, which is unjust. She is our only sister. I don’t expect you to like her, but try and understand. She’s perfectly harmless.’