Free A Sultan in Palermo by Tariq Ali

shrubs withering in the summer heat were soon forgotten.
    Ibn Fityan, returning with his morning coffee, whispered close to his ear, ‘The news from the palace is not good. They say that Philip has fallen out of favour and the Bishops are demanding his head. Could this be true, master? If Philip falls, who will protect us?’
    Idrisi was not at all surprised that the worried palace eunuchs were spreading the news. He shook his head in despair.
    ‘The Sultan is unwell. He thinks that offering Philip’s head to the Nazarenes on a platter will ensure a safe succession. He thinks that William is a weak boy and will need much help from the Bishops and the Barons. That is why he is prepared to sacrifice Philip, a person whose loyalty to him cannot be challenged.’
    The steward looked at him with hurt eyes. ‘Treachery. And you have accepted it?’
    Idrisi did not answer till he had finished eating the honey-flavoured sheep’s milk curds. ‘I will go to the mosque today and listen to the sermon, but after the Friday prayers are over. You may accompany me as long as you keep your dagger hidden. I don’t want it said that Idrisi is frightened of the populace.’
    Ibn Fityan smiled. It was what he wanted to hear. ‘Not the populace, Commander of the Book, but a Nazarene stoked to fury by the monks who resent your closeness to the Sultan. The vile rumours they spread about you are truly unbearable and ...’
    Idrisi interrupted him. ‘If I can bear them you must try and do the same.’ He understood the fear that the news had unleashed. He had known hunger, thirst, bodily weariness, and emotional anguish; sometimes, the thought of Mayya imprisoned in the harem induced a terrible misery. All this, but never fear. Now, he had to admit that the news of Philip’s fall from favour had shaken even his self-confidence.
    As they walked through the crowded streets to the mosque Idrisi noticed the silence of the multitude, straining to hear the words of the sermon, mutilated excerpts from al-Quran. Entering the mosque, the Believers made way for him so he could sit at the front, but he declined with a grateful gesture and sat in the open courtyard under the glare of the sun. He looked around to estimate the size of the gathering. There were at least three thousand people assembled, probably more. The qadi would speak for a long time today, overwhelming the faithful with a confusing mixture of dogmatic counsels and endless rhetoric, which flowed like a stream. When the crowd expressed appreciation of a particular phrase with cries of wa-allah, he would repeat it, enunciating each word carefully, his gaze directed towards heaven.
    Idrisi stopped listening and recalled one of his earliest meetings with Philip in the palace. The Sultan was questioning his victorious Amir al-bahr on the pattern of a city built by Believers. Why the water? Why the gardens? Why the row of straight trees?
    ‘Bountiful Sultan,’ replied Philip, ‘the garden is heaven on earth, the water must be kept pure and clear in canals, the trees must be planted in rows. The reason is simple. It helps us to develop pure and clear conceptions and guard against false illusions. The builders create cities like this everywhere to stress the universality of the Prophet’s faith. And it is this that pushes the soldiers of the Prophet towards expansion and the enemies of this faith towards surrender.’
    The Sultan smiled and nodded. ‘When you speak like this I sense something. In your heart you remain a Believer in your Prophet. The conversion to my faith was a pretence. I do not blame you, but I would be happier if you admitted this and then you and Master Idrisi can pray together.’
    Philip had paled, but apart from that his expression betrayed nothing. ‘I am grateful to the Sultan. I pray in the large church built by your father.’
    Suddenly Idrisi became aware that Philip’s name had been spoken by the qadi. The other listeners had already succumbed to the