THE LIFE OF SALADIN AND THE FALL OF THE KINGDOM OF JERUSALEM

CHAPTER XXII.

AT REST.

1192-1193.

THE Holy War was over; the five years’ contest ended. Before the great victory at Hittin in July, 1187, not an inch of Palestine west of the Jordan was in the Moslems’ hands. After the Peace of Ramla in September, 1192, the whole land was theirs, except a narrow strip of coast from Tyre to Jaffa. Saladin had no cause to be ashamed of the Treaty. The Franks indeed retained most of what the Crusaders had won, but the result was contemptible in relation to the cost. At the Pope's appeal, all Christendom had risen in arms. The Emperor, the Kings of England, France, and Sicily, Leopold of Austria, the Duke of Burgundy, the Count of Flanders, hundreds of famous barons and knights of all nations, had joined with the King and Princes of Palestine and the indomitable brothers of the Temple and Hospital, in the effort to deliver the Holy City and restore the vanished Kingdom of Jerusalem. The Emperor was dead; the Kings had gone back; many of their noblest followers lay buried in the Holy Land; but Jerusalem was still the city of Saladin, and its titular king reigned over a slender realm at Acre.

All the strength of Christendom concentrated in the Third Crusade had not shaken Saladin’s power. His soldiers may have murmured at their long months of hard and perilous service, year after year, but they never refused to come to his summons and lay down their lives in his cause. His vassals in the distant valleys of the Tigris may have groaned at his constant requirements, but they brought their retainers loyally to his colors; and at the last pitched battle, at Arsuf, it was the division of Mosul that most distinguished itself for valor. Throughout these toilsome campaigns Saladin could always count on the support of the levies from Egypt and Mesopotamia, as well as from northern and central Syria; Kurds, Turkmans, Arabs, and Egyptians, they were all Moslems and his servants when he called. In spite of their differences of race, their national jealousies, and tribal pride, he had kept them together as one host— not without difficulty and twice or thrice a critical waver. But, the shirking at Jaffa notwithstanding, they were still a united army under his orders in the autumn of 1192, as they had been when he first led them “on the Path of God” in 1187. Not a province had fallen away, not a chief or vassal had rebelled, though the calls upon their loyalty and endurance were enough to try the firmest faith and tax the strength of giants. The brief defection, quickly pardoned, of a young prince of his own blood in Mesopotamia only emphasizes, by its isolation, Saladin’s compelling influence over his subjects. When the trials and sufferings of the five years’ war were over, he still reigned unchallenged from the mountains of Kurdistan to the Libyan desert, and far beyond these borders the King of Georgia, the Catholicos of Armenia, the Sultan of Konia, the Emperor of Constantinople, were eager to call him friend and ally.

To such allies he owed nothing: they came not to aid but to congratulate. The struggle was waged by Saladin alone. Except at the last, when his brother came prominently to the front, one cannot point to a single general or counselor who can be said to have led, much less dominated, the Sultan. A council of war undoubtedly guided his military decisions, and sometimes overruled his better judgment, as before Tyre and Acre, but in that council it is impossible to single out a special voice that weighed more than another in influencing his mind. Brother, sons, nephews, old comrades, new vassals, shrewd Kady, cautious secretary, fanatical preacher, — all had their share in the general verdict, all helped their Master loyally according to their ability, but not a man of them ever forgot who was the Master. In all that anxious, laborious, critical time, one mind, one will was supreme, the mind and the will of Saladin.

1192. Pilgrims to Jerusalem.

When the struggle at last was ended, when the Franks had been driven to the seashore, and the places holy to Moslems as well as to Christians were once more in his own keeping, Saladin may well have dreamt of wider empire, larger schemes. The memories of the first great tide of Saracen victory, even the late example of Seljuk triumphs, might awaken thoughts of other worlds to conquer. But such imaginings were not ripe to trouble his newly found peace. Saladin’s first concern was for the repose of his weary troops. Hardly had the Treaty been signed when he dismissed them to their homes, and on the 10th and 11th of September the long procession of the men of Mesopotamia began the glad march to their villages by the great rivers and in the upper highlands. His next care was for the crowded caravans of Christian pilgrims who were at last to content their souls' craving to see the place where the Lord died. There were rough Saracen soldiers at Jerusalem, hungry for vengeance upon the slaughterers of their kindred upon the plain of Acre; but Saladin's escort on the road, and honest Jurdik's humane rule in the city, brought the pilgrims through all dangers.

The Sultan himself was in Jerusalem in September, when Hubert Walter the Bishop of Salisbury brought the third of the pilgrim caravans to the Holy Places.

“To this bishop, on account of his uprightness, his reputation for wisdom and his wide renown, Saladin sent, offering him a house free of cost. But the bishop refused on the ground that he and his company were pilgrims. Then Saladin bade his servants show all kinds of courtesy to the bishop and his men. Saladin also sent him many gifts of price and even invited him to a conference in order to see what kind of a man he was in appearance. He had the Holy Cross shown him, and they sat together a long time in familiar conversation. On this occasion Saladin made enquiries as to the character and habits of the king of England. He also asked what the Christians said about his Saracens. To him the bishop made answer, 'As regards my lord the king, I may say that there is no knight in the world who can be considered his peer in military matters, or his equal in valor and generosity. He is distinguished by the full possession of every good quality ... If any one could give your noble qualities to king Richard and his to you, so that each of you might be endowed with the faculties of the other, then the whole world could not furnish two such princes'. At last Saladin, having heard the bishop patiently, broke in: 'I know the great valor and the bravery of your king well enough; but, not to speak too severely, he often incurs unnecessary danger and is too prodigal of his life. Now I, for my part, however great a king I might be, would much rather be gifted with wealth, so long as it is alongside of wisdom and moderation, than with boldness and immoderation'.

“After a long interview by means of an interpreter Saladin bade the bishop to request any gift he liked and it should be granted him. For this offer the bishop gave many thanks, begging to have a space of time — till the morrow — granted him for deliberation. Then, on the next day, he begged that two Latin priests and two Latin deacons might be permitted to celebrate divine service with the Syrians at the Lord’s Sepulchre. These priests were to be maintained out of the offerings of the pilgrims. For, in visiting the Lord's Sepulchre, the bishop had found only the services half celebrated after the barbarous fashion of the Syrians. He made a similar request for Bethlehem and Nazareth. This was a great petition to make, and, as is believed, one very pleasing to God. When the Sultan consented, the bishop, in accordance with his request, established priests and deacons in each place, thus inaugurating a fitting service to God”.

1192] Saladin and the Pilgrims.

Four months before these Latin priests were installed, an ambassador from the Greek Emperor had preferred a similar request to Saladin on behalf of the priests of the Orthodox Church, and had been refused. It is curious to discover in the twelfth century the same contest over the Holy Places which was among the Russian pretexts for the war with Turkey in 1854.

When he was assured that the King of England had really taken ship and left the country, Saladin began a progress through the land which had been won and held at so great cost. He visited all the strongholds and chief cities, examining their defenses, giving orders for fortifications, and placing in each a strong garrison of horse and foot. At Beyrut, on the 1st of November, he received the Prince of Antioch, Bohemond the Stammerer, who participated in the treaty of peace; the meeting was cordial, and the Prince was presented with lands in the plain of Antioch to the value of 15,000 gold pieces a year. At Kaukab — no longer to be called Belvoir — he found his ancient servant of early days, Karakush the builder of the walls of Cairo, who had languished in prison at Acre ever since the surrender. There were no reproaches, but only the welcome due to old and tried devotion. On the 4th of November Damascus once more acclaimed its Sultan. He had not been within its gates for four years, and his public levee the next day was thronged with old friends and joyous subjects. The poets had no words rare and rich enough for the great occasion.

Once more Saladin was at home among his children. We see him sitting in his summer-house in the castle grounds, with his younger children about him. Envoys from the Franks were announced, but when they came into his presence, their shaven chins, cropped hair, and strange clothes frightened little Abu-Bekr, who began to cry. The father, thinking only of the child, dismissed the ambassadors with an excuse, before they had even delivered their message. Older sons were there, grown men who had fought in his battles, and with these and his brother, el-Adil, he went day after day hunting the gazelle in the spacious plains about Damascus. He had thoughts of going to Mekka on pilgrimage, the supreme duty of the pious Moslem; he wished to visit again that Egypt which had been his stepping stone to power; but the time passed, and the pilgrims came back from Arabia, and Saladin was still at Damascus, reveling in the delights of a peaceful home.

1193. The Fatal Fever

On Friday the 20th of February, he rode out with Baha-ed-din to meet the caravan of the Hajj. He had not been well of late, and it was the wet season; the roads were streaming after heavy rains, and he had imprudently forgotten to wear his usual quilted gambeson. That night he had fever. The next day he could not join his friends at dinner, and the sight of the son sitting in the father's seat brought tears to many eyes — they took it as an omen. Each day the Sultan grew worse, his head was racked with pain, and he suffered internally. On the fourth day the doctors bled him; and from that time he grew steadily worse. The fever parched his skin, and he became weaker and weaker. On the ninth day his mind wandered; he fell into a stupor and could no longer take his draught. Every night Baha-ed-din and the chancellor el-Fadil would go to see him, or at least to hear the doctors’ report; and sometimes they would come out streaming with tears, which they strove to command, for there was always a multitude outside the gates waiting to learn from their faces how the Master was. On Sunday, the tenth day of the illness, medicine gave some relief, the sick man drank a good draught of barley water, and broke into a profuse perspiration. “We gave thanks to God ... and came out with lightened hearts”. It was but the last effort. On Tuesday night the faithful secretary and chancellor were summoned to the castle, but they did not see the Sultan, who was sinking fast. There was a divine with him, repeating the confession of faith and reading the Holy Word; and when he came to the passage “He is God, than whom there is no other God, — who knoweth the unseen and the seen, — the Compassionate, the Merciful”, the Sultan murmured, “True”; and when the words came, “In Him do I trust”, the dying man smiled, his face lighted up and he rendered his soul to his Lord.

Death of Saladin

Saladin died on Wednesday, the 4th of March, 1193, at the age of fifty- five.

They buried him the same day in the garden house in the Citadel of Damascus, at the hour of the asr prayer. The sword which he had carried through the Holy War was laid beside him: “he took it with him to Paradise”. He had given away everything, and the money for the burial had to be borrowed, even to the straw for the bricks that made the grave. The ceremony was as simple as a pauper's funeral. A striped cloth covered the undistinguished bier. No poet was allowed to sing a dirge, no preacher to make oration. When the multitude, who thronged about the gate, saw the bier, a great wailing went up, and so distraught were the people that they could not form the words of prayer, but only cried and groaned. All eyes were wet, and there were few that did not weep aloud. Then every man went home and shut his door, and the empty silent streets bore witness to a great sorrow. Only the weeping secretary and those of the household went to pray over the grave and indulge their grief. The next day the people thronged to the tomb, praying, lamenting, reciting the Koran, and invoking the blessing of God upon him who slept beneath. It was not till the close of a second year that the body of the Sultan was interred by a son's loving care in the oratory on the northern side of the Kellasa, beside the great Omayyad mosque, where it lies now. Over it the faithful chancellor, who was soon to follow his master, wrote the epitaph: “O God, accept this soul, and open to him the gates of heaven, that last victory for which he hoped”.

“I entered into this oratory”, says a later biographer, “ by the door which gives on the Kellasa, and after reciting a portion of the Koran over the grave, I invoked God’s mercy on its dweller. The warden showed me a packet containing Saladin's clothes, and I saw among them a short yellow vest with black cuffs, and I prayed that the sight might be blessed to me”.

The wise physician Abd-el-Latif wrote, somewhat cynically, that to his knowledge this was the only instance of a King's death that was truly mourned by the people. The secret of Saladin’s power lay in the love of his subjects. What others sought to attain by fear, by severity, by majesty, he accomplished by kindness. In the memorable words which he spoke, not long before his death, to his best-beloved son, ez-Zahir, on dismissing him to his provincial government, he revealed the source of his own strength.

“My son”, he said, “I commend thee to the most high God, the fountain of all goodness. Do His will, for that way lieth peace. Abstain from the shedding of blood; trust not to that; for blood that is spilt never slumbers. Seek to win the hearts of thy people and watch over their prosperity; for it is to secure their happiness that thou art appointed by God and by me. Try to gain the hearts of thy emirs and ministers and nobles. I have become great as I am because I have won men's hearts by gentleness and kindness”.

His Court and Conversation.

Gentleness was the dominant note of his character. We search the contemporary descriptions in vain for the common attributes of Kings. Majesty? It is not mentioned, for the respect he inspired sprang from love, which “casteth out fear”. State? Far from adopting an imposing mien and punctilious forms, no sovereign was ever more genial and easy of approach. He loved to surround himself with clever talkers, and was himself  “delightful to talk to”. He knew all the traditions of the Arabs, the “Days”of their ancient heroes, the pedigrees of their famous mares. His sympathy and unaffected interest set every one at his ease, and instead of repressing freedom of conversation, he let the talk flow at such a pace that sometimes a man could not hear his own voice. Old-fashioned courtiers regretted the strict propriety of Nur-ed-din’s levees, when each man sat silent, “as if a bird were perched on his head”, till he was bidden to speak. At Saladin’s court all was eager conversation — a most unkingly buzz. Yet there were limits which no one dared to transgress in the Sultan’s presence. He suffered no unseemly talk, nor was any flippant irreverence or disrespect of persons permitted. He never used or allowed scurrilous language. He kept his own tongue, even in great provocation, under rigid control, and his pen was no less disciplined: he was never known to write a bitter word to a Moslem.

The Baghdad physician has left a record, far too brief, of his first impressions of Saladin, in which we see the Sultan in his social aspect.

“I found him”, wrote Abd-el-Latif, “a great prince, whose appearance inspired at once respect and love, who was approachable, deeply intellectual, gracious, and noble in his thoughts. All who came near him took him as their model ... The first night I was with him I found him surrounded by a large concourse of learned men who were discussing various sciences. He listened with pleasure and took part in their conversation. He spoke of fortification, touched on some questions of law, and his talk was fertile in ingenious ideas. He was then [1191-2] absorbed in strengthening the defenses of Jerusalem, and personally superintended the work, even carrying stones on his own shoulders; and everybody, rich and poor, followed his example, even Imad-ed-din the Katib, and the Kady el-Fadil. He was on horseback before dawn, superintending the work till noon, and again from afternoon prayer till he returned by torchlight. Then he would spend a great part of the night in arranging the morrow's labors”.

His whole life was simple, laborious, ascetic. When he was shown a beautiful pavilion that had been built for him at Damascus, he scarcely glanced at it: “We are not to stay here for ever”, he said. “This house is not for one who looks for death. We are here to serve God”. Luxury and self-indulgence he despised. When he found that one of his sons was neglecting his duties in his passion for a slave-girl, he sternly upbraided the voluptuary, and separated the girl.

“Our Sultan” says Baha-ed-din, “was very noble of heart, kindness shone in his face, he was very modest, and exquisitely courteous”. The histories are full of his goodness. He could not bear to have his servants beaten, in an age when the beating of servants was a matter of course. If they stole his money, he dismissed them; but the whip he abhorred. His indulgence and patience knew no bounds, and he never set store by his own dignity. Baha-ed-din relates with horror how, when they were riding together into Jerusalem on a rainy day, his mule splashed the Sultan with mud; but Saladin only laughed, and would not let the abashed secretary ride behind. Another time a servant threw a shoe and almost hit the Sultan, but he turned smiling to the other side, as though he had not noticed it. An old mameluke importuned him with a petition when he was worn out with fatigue, but he fetched the ink-horn himself and granted the request without a sign of irritation. Petitioners would so crowd him when he sat in audience, that they even trampled his divan, but he always took their petitions with his own hand and attended to their grievances, and none went empty away. Every day he received these troublesome documents, and set apart a certain time to go through the papers with his secretary and endorse them with the proper answers.

Laborious Life.

On Mondays and Thursdays he sat on the judgment seat, with the Kadis and jurisconsults, in the court of law, and administered justice to all comers. He claimed and allowed no privileges before the court, and if a man had a suit against one of the royal princes, or even against the Sultan himself, they had to appear before the Kady like any ordinary defendant and submit to the law. But if Saladin won the case, he would clothe the defeated suitor in a robe of honor, pay his expenses, and send him away happy and astonished. From such a judge people could not fear sternness. Yet in the war for the Faith he could be stern, almost implacable, and the list of executions, especially of Templars, shows how religion may embitter even the gentlest of men. But it was not always so. It is related how a Frank prisoner was brought trembling before Saladin, and then cried out, “Before I saw his face I was sore afraid, but now that I have seen him I know he will do me no harm”. He went off a free man.

These pages have recorded instances of his clemency and tenderheartedness, but many might be added. There is the touching story of the woman who came from the Crusaders’ camp at Acre seeking her baby, who had been carried off by the Saracen soldiery. The pickets let her pass and led her to the Sultan, to whom she had appealed, — “for he is very merciful”, they said. Saladin was touched by her anguish; the tears stood in his eyes; and he had the camp searched till the little girl was safely restored to her mother, and both were led back to the enemy's lines. His love for children was a beautiful part of his character. Every orphan child he felt was his special charge. He was devotedly attached to his own little ones: of his wives we read nothing; Eastern gentlemen do not talk of their wives; but there are many references to his pleasure in his children. He would not allow them to see deeds of blood — a precaution natural enough in our eyes, but very rare in his age. “I do not wish them”, said Saladin, “to become accustomed to bloodshed, young as they are, or to delight in the taking of life, when as yet they know not the difference between Moslems and infidels”. He used to teach them himself and delighted, more perhaps than they did, in instilling into their infant minds a certain compendium of theology, which they had to learn by heart.

For above all things Saladin was a devout Moslem. His religion was all the world to him. In this alone he was fanatical; and the only act of severity, not done in war, that can be alleged against him was the execution of the mystic philosopher es-Suhrawardy, on the ground of heresy. Saladin hated all eclectic philosophers, materialists, and free-thinkers, with a holy horror. His own faith was as rigidly orthodox as it was simple, strong, and sincere. Islam, in its essence and as professed by such a man as Saladin, is a religion of noble simplicity and austere self-sacrifice. To say that he was regular in its ceremonious observances is little, except that his determination to make up for the two months of fasting, which he had been forced to omit during the war, probably hastened his end. His frequent illnesses and arduous exertions alike made fasting dangerous to his health; his doctors warned him in vain, and his persistence in this religious duty whilst at Jerusalem in his last year weakened his constitution and made him less able to resist the fatal fever. No one was more assiduous in the five daily prayers and the weekly attendance at the mosque; and even when seriously ill, he would send for the Imam and force himself to stand and repeat the fatiguing service of Friday. He delighted in hearing the Koran read to him, but his reader had to be a practiced expert. Saladin would listen till his heart melted and the tears rolled down his cheeks. He had this womanish weakness, yet one likes him none the less for his emotional, sensitive nature. “His heart was humble and full of compassion, and tears came readily to his eyes”.

It was a grief to him that he was never able to perform the religious duty of pilgrimage; but at least he was a benefactor to the pilgrims. One of his early acts of sovereignty was to abolish the onerous tolls which had for centuries burdened the Faithful who visited Mecca, and his last public appearance was to welcome the returning Hajj. As the pilgrims greeted him, it was noticed how radiant he looked. He had but a week to live.

In nothing did he show his religious zeal more fervently than in the chief and supreme duty of Moslems, the Jihad or Holy War. Naturally averse to bloodshed, even unwarlike, as he was, he was a changed man when it came to fighting the infidels. “I never knew him”, says Baha-ed-din, “show any anxiety about the numbers and strength of the enemy. He would listen to plans of all kinds and discuss their consequences without any excitement or loss of composure”. He used to ride, as we have seen, between the lines of battle, attended only by a page; and once he sat there on horseback surrounded by his staff and listened calmly whilst the sacred Traditions were read aloud to him in face of the enemy. To wage God's war was a genuine passion with him; his whole heart was wrapped up in it, and to this cause he devoted himself, body and soul. During those last years he could hardly speak or think of anything else, and he sacrificed every pleasure, comfort, and domestic happiness, to its service. He even dreamed of wider battles for the faith: when the Franks should be driven out of Palestine, he told his secretary, he would pursue them over the sea, and conquer them, till there should not remain one unbeliever on the face of the earth. “What is the most glorious death?” he asked his friend, who replied, “To die on the Path of God”. “Then I strive for the door of the most glorious of deaths”, said Saladin. When he was so prostrated with a painful illness at the siege of Acre that he could not come to table, he would yet sit his horse all day before the enemy; and when men marveled at his fortitude, he said, “The pain leaves me when I am on horseback. It comes back only when I dismount”. So long as he was doing God’s work, he felt no pain; but inaction tortured him.

Zeal for the Holy War.

On that Holy War he spent everything, strength, health, one may even say life itself. He emptied his treasury in the cause. But it was natural to him to give, and he gave ungrudgingly, with open-handed, both-handed generosity, as freely when he was poor as when he was rich. Money he compared to mere dust, and he hated to refuse it to him who asked. He would always give more than was expected, and he never said “we have given to him before”. He was preyed upon by greedy beggars, and Baha-ed-din was ashamed at the importunity of the petitions that passed through his hands. Had he been left to himself his campaigns would have been ruined for lack of funds — for it was his rule that his commissariat should pay for the provisions they took from the country people. His treasurers used always to keep a secret balance for emergencies, and even then the Sultan would sell his last farm sooner than turn away a poor man. So it happened that when he was dead there was found but one Tyrian dinar and 47 silver dirhems in the treasury. He left neither house, nor goods, nor acres, nor villages, nor any sort of personal property. The great Sultan died almost pennyless. It would be hard to imagine a nature more unselfish, devoted to higher aims, or more wholly lovable. Had he been made of sterner stuff, or skilled in the prudent economies and saving fore- sight of mere selfish statesmanship, he might perhaps have founded a more enduring and united empire, but he would not have been Saladin, the type of generous chivalry.

The faithful secretary, when he finished his Story of his Master's life, wrote, “I have ended my record on the day of his death, God's mercy be on him. My aim was to deserve the compassion of the Most High God, and to stir men to pray for Saladin and to remember his goodness”.