Chapter XXIII
I was still laughing when I returned to our room where Hamed and Babrak were sitting, busy about their own affairs. Hamed, as usual, was writing poetry and Babrak was polishing his sword.
"Look," he boasted, "sharp enough to shave with."
He ran the edge of the sword up his arm and cut a clean swathe through the hairs. I whistled in admiration and Babrak smiled.
"So, where have you been?"
"Oh, I've been talking to a Nasrani mullah."
"Why?" Babrak asked.
I shrugged. "I met him in Bethlehem and we began to discuss the differences between their religion and Islam."
"And?" Hamed looked up from his parchment.
"He said something very strange," I replied. "He said that when the Prophet Isa, on whom be peace, was hanging on the cross, one thrust a spear into His side and out came blood and water. He said that this proved that the Prophet Isa, peace be upon Him, was truly dead."
"Well, let me tell you a story." Hamed wiped his pen and put it down. "Two years ago I was riding with es-Sid in the hills south of el-Khalil. There was a band of robbers in that district but just before our journey six or seven of them had been captured and those who caught them hung them up by their wrists from a tree. It was a hot day and by the time we got there four of them were already dead."
"From the heat?" I asked.
"From the heat." Hamed nodded. "When he saw these men hanging there, the face of es-Sid grew black with anger. He declared that this was not a suitable punishment. If they deserved death, let them die. If not, let them live, but in either case, do not torture them."
"So you took them down?"
Hamed shook his head. "No, they were robbers who had killed many people. Es-Sid ordered me to kill them and when I, being young, hesitated, he himself took his sword and thrust it through the heart of each one of them. Three of them were still alive or but newly dead and red blood flowed from the wounds in their chests. Two must have died some time before, for when es-Sid withdrew his sword, there was nothing. The remaining two, however, bled both blood - thick, dark red blood - and water. Es-Sid told me that this signified that they had been dead for at least an hour but no more than two or three hours."
"Wallah!" I breathed. "So the Prophet Isa, on whom be peace, was truly dead!"
Babrak laughed. "Do not become one of the deceivers, Fuad. You know that the Qur'an Sharif tells us that Isa did not die."
"The Nasrani mullah explained that," I said. "He said that the Prophet Isa, on whom be peace, was a human body and a spirit given to him by Allah." I could not bring myself to tell them that the Nasranis believe that the Prophet Isa, on whom be peace, is equal to Allah. "The human body died, but the spirit given him by Allah did not die."
"So?" Babrak shrugged. "When I die, I expect that I will be taken into Paradise where I shall enjoy the houris promised to the true believer."
"Of course." I sat down on the bench and tried to read Hamed's poem upside down. "Still, somehow it was different for the Prophet Isa, on whom be peace. I don't quite understand it."
Hamed put down his pen. "And es-Sid Guy commanded you to listen to this Nasrani mullah?"
"Certainly not," I protested. "He told me that I was free to go and free to listen, as I wished."
Hamed shrugged. "Then next time I suggest that you stop your ears and leave. The tales of these idolators are not good hearing for a true believer. Now, what do you think of this? 'Oh, my love, your smile is like pearls lying on a rose, so white are your teeth and red your lips'."
"Rubbish," Babrak interrupted. "Her teeth are yellow and when she smiles she looks like a camel yawning."
"No," Hamed looked serious. "You are thinking of your mother. I am writing this to my beloved whose face is . . ."
"My mother!" Babrak roared, leaping to his feet. "It is your mother who looks like a camel - from the front and from the back also."
Without another word Hamed sprang from his seat, as sudden as a cat, his hands reaching for Babrak's throat. Babrak dodged, but even so Hamed's shoulder caught him and sent him spinning. Both recovered themselves in an instant and faced each other, circling warily.
"Peace, peace, my brothers," I urged, keeping well back.
"Peace? When he calls my mother a camel?"
Hamed's eyes flickered sideways to see my reaction and in that instant Babrak leaped. Hamed fell backwards under the impact, but as he fell he raised his legs and caught Babrak in the stomach, so that Babrak flew over him and crashed heavily to the floor. Hamed rolled onto hands and knees and rushed across the floor to where Babrak lay but as he approached Babrak suddenly lashed out with his right leg, catching him on the head and knocking him sideways.
I watched in anxious horror as my two friends rolled and fought on the floor, now one apparently having the advantage, now the other. I was so busy exhorting them to peace and at the same time keeping out of their way that I didn't hear anything else until Hilmi's voice spoke in my ear.
"Poetry again?" he asked.
I yelped and leaped in fright.
"P-p-poetry?" I stammered.
"Yes," Hilmi nodded calmly. "These two are always fighting, usually when Babrak criticises Hamed's poetry. Which one do you think is winning?"
"I - er - I don't know."
"Oh well, it doesn't really matter. Here, you take Babrak, I'll take Hamed."
Cautiously we approached the two antagonists, each of us getting behind his man. At Hilmi's signal we grabbed the fighters and pulled them apart, pinning their arms to their sides.
"You took a long time coming," Hamed said, craning his neck round to look into Hilmi's smiling face.
"Next time tell me when you are going to start fighting and I'll come sooner," Hilmi laughed. "Now, what were you fighting about this time?"
"He started it." Babrak sounded sullen.
"No, you did, when you called my mother a camel," Hamed snapped back.
"Peace, peace," Hilmi spoke soothingly. "Both your mothers are camels, fine racing camels with white coats, ridden by little boys . . ." I felt Babrak stiffen, ". . . who have been eating nothing but cardamums and dill seeds for a whole week so that their breath is sweet."
At these ridiculous words we all burst out laughing and at last I was able to release my hold on Babrak.
"Cardamums and dill seeds!" Babrak snorted, leaning against the table, but I noticed that his hands were shaking. "Hilmi, you are the father of jokers!"
Hamed slid into his seat at the table and took up his pen - and I noticed that his hands were far from steady also.
Hilmi leaned back against a pillar and surveyed the room. "Well," he said. "No one could fail to notice that you two had been fighting. A table overturned, a pot broken - by the beard of the Prophet, this room is a disgrace. Still," he straightened up and made as if to leave the room, "I expect things are worse in Medina."
"In Medina?" Hamed put down his pen. "Why Medina in particular?"
Hilmi shrugged. "I don't know. Maybe everything is fine in Medina. However, in my experience, an attack does tend to disorganise things."
"You're joking!" Hamed exclaimed. "Who would attack Medina?"
"Reynauld de Chatillon, of course," Hilmi explained.
The hated name brought us all out of our seats.
"Reynauld de Chatillon!" Babrak exclaimed. "But how? I mean, how could he attack Medina? He could never march an army from Kerak to Medina."
"I know," Hilmi was obviously enjoying himself. "That is why our friend Reynauld decided to sail there instead of walking."
"Sit down, everyone," Hamed spoke with authority. "Let Hilmi tell his story, for if we keep asking questions we will be here until the Day of Judgement."
