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as a snub.
    I hurriedly took my leave of him and returned home.
    To my surprise, when I returned the next morning, I found the Sultan waiting for me in the library. He smiled at my entrance, but wanted to begin immediately, wasting no time in pleasantries. In my mind’s eye, I thought I caught a brief glimpse of Halima, before the Sultan’s familiar tones forced me to concentrate my attention on his words. My hand began to move on the paper, pushed as if by a force much greater than me.
    Spring always came to Baalbek like a traveller with stories to tell. At night the sky was like a quilt sewn with stars. During the day it was an intense blue, as the sun smiled on everything. We used to lie in the grass and inhale the fragrance of the almond blossom. As the weather grew warmer, and summer approached, we would compete with each other to see who would dive first into the small freshwater lake, endlessly supplied by several little streams. The lake itself was hidden by a clump of trees, and we always treated its location as our little secret, though everyone in Baalbek knew of its existence.
    One day, while we were swimming, we saw Shadhi racing towards us. He could run in those days, though not as well as in his youth. My grandmother used to talk of how Shadhi could run from one mountain village to another, over distances of more than twenty miles. He would leave after the morning prayer and return in time to serve breakfast to my grandfather. That was a long time ago, in Dvin, before our family moved to Takrit.
    Shadhi told us to get out of the water and run as fast as we could to the citadel. Our father had summoned us. He swore at us, threatening vile punishments if we did not obey his instruction immediately. His face was taut with worry. On this occasion, we believed him.
    When my older brother, Turan Shah, inquired as to the reason for such haste, Shadhi glared, telling him that it was for our father to inform us of the calamity that had befallen our faith. Genuinely alarmed, we ran as fast as we could. I remember Turan Shah muttering something about the Franj. If they were at the gates, he would fight, even if he had to steal a sword.
    As we approached the citadel, we heard the familiar sound of wailing women. I remember clutching Turan Shah’s hand, and looking at him nervously. Shadhi had noticed this and correctly interpreted my anxiety.
    As he lifted me onto his shoulders, he whispered soothing words in my ear.
    “Your father is alive and well. In a few minutes you will see him.”
    It was not our father but the great Sultan Zengi who had died. The Defender of the Faith had been murdered by a drunken eunuch while he slept in his tent by the Euphrates.
    He was fully engaged in the Holy War against the Franj. My father had been put in command of Baalbek by Sultan Zengi, and now he was worried that we might have to pack our tents and move again.
    It was Zengi who had defeated the Franj and, after a month’s siege, taken the city of al-Ruha, which they called Edessa. The city had become a jewel set in the dagger of our faith, as we looked with longing towards al-Kuds and the mosque of Caliph Omar.
    I still remember the words of the poet, often sung in Baalbek by both soldiers and slaves. We used to join them, and I think if I begin to sing, the words will come back:
    He rides in a wave of horsemen,
    They flow o’er the earth like a flood,
    His spears talk to the enemy
    Like tongues encrusted in blood.
    He’s merciful and forgiving
    But not in the heat of the fight,
    For in the battle’s fire and rage
    The only law is might.
    My father had enjoyed warm relations with Sultan Zengi and was genuinely upset by the manner and cause of his death. Years later, Shadhi told me the real story.
    Zengi was fond of wine. On the night of his death, he had consumed an entire flask of wine. While still in his cups he had sent for a young soldier who had caught his eye during the siege. The Sultan used the young man to assuage his