SALADIN IS ONE OF THE few Oriental Personages who need no introduction to English readers. Sir Walter Scott has performed that friendly office with the warmth and insight of appreciative genius. It was Saladin’s good fortune to attract the notice not only of the great romancer, but also of King Richard, and to this accident he partly owes the result that, instead of remaining a dry historical expression, under the Arabic style of “el-Melik en-Nasir Salah-eddin Yusuf ibn Ayyub,” he has become, by the abbreviated name of “Saladin,” that familiar and amiable companion which is called a household word. The idea, it is true, is vague and romantic. The Talisman has given us a noble portrait of the Sultan whose chivalry and generosity excited the admiration of the Crusaders, but the reader is left in uncertainty as to the history and achievements of the hero, and what he is told in those fascinating pages is not always strictly authentic. On the historical relation of the novel to which Saladin owes so much of his fame something is said at the end of this book. The present biography, the first that has been written in English, aspires to fill in, from contemporary sources, the details of the picture.
It is singular that, so far as English literature is concerned, the character and history of Saladin should have been suffered to remain where Scott left them seventy years ago, and that no complete Life of the celebrated adversary of Richard Cœur de Lion should have been written in our language. The materials are abundant, even exhaustive, so far as eastern scholars understood biography. We must not expect, the personal details which delight the student of “interviews”: there were no illustrated papers in Saladin’s time. But for the essential facts of his life and the qualities of his nature we have the best possible evidence, rich in extent and faithful in detail. The writers of the two chief Arabic records had excellent opportunities of ascertaining the truth, and both were men of learning and high character. Baha-ed-din, who was only seven years younger than Saladin, though he survived him by forty, was an Arab of the celebrated tribe of Asad, born at Mosil on the Tigris in 1145. He went through the arduous course of study by which Moslems in those days qualified themselves for the judicial office of Kady. In the famous Nizamiya college at Baghdad, founded by the great Vezir Nizam-el-mulk, the friend and schoolfellow of the astronomer-poet Omar Khayyam, Baha-ed-din attended the lectures of the most distinguished professors of the day, men who had wandered, like our own medieval scholars, from university to university, from Spanish Cordova to Tatar Samarkand, teaching and learning as they went. He became a professor himself at his native city of Mosil, and his wisdom and judgment so commended him to the Atabeg or ruler of Mesopotamia that he chose him repeatedly to be his ambassador in grave political emergencies.
Baha-ed-din was at Mosil when Saladin twice laid siege to it in 1182 and 1185; he went on an embassy to Damascus in 1184, when Saladin was so much impressed by his ability that he offered him a judgeship, which was loyally declined by the envoy; but they met again at Harran in the spring of 1186, when Baha-ed-din assisted in drawing up a treaty of peace between his sovereign and Saladin. After making the pilgrimage to Mekka, and to Jerusalem, then newly recovered from the Christians, he visited the Sultan once more, and from that time forth he seldom left his side. Entering his service on 28th June, 1188, he was present throughout his subsequent campaigns, witnessed the siege of Acre from the beginning to the end, accompanied him as he harassed Richard’s march down the coast, took a prominent part in the engagements at Jaffa in 1192, and was at Saladin’s bedside during his fatal illness. After the Sultan’s death, he accepted the high dignity of judge of Aleppo, and there he devoted his zeal and his savings to founding colleges and training doctors to be learned in the law. One of his pupils has left a touching description of the venerable Kady, as he knew him, when a heated alcove and heavy furs could not warm the chilled blood of 85; but the old scholar still loved to teach the students who came to him after Friday prayers, when he could no longer go to the mosque, and when even in his private devotions he could scarcely keep his feet. “He drooped like an unfledged bird for weakness,” says his biographer, and in 1234 he died, twoscore years after the events he related in his Life of his master.
For the last five years of Saladin’s career, Baha-eddin is an incomparable authority, an eye-witness of what passed, and an intimate friend and counsellor of the Sultan. For the earlier periods he is less accurate and much less detailed; but even here he is able to record several important transactions at first hand, and his familiar intercourse with Saladin and his officers and kinsmen must have supplied him with much of his information. He writes, it is true, as an avowed panegyrist, but though in his eyes the King can do no wrong, he is so frank and guileless in his narrative, and so obviously writes exactly what he saw and thought, that the biography has not suffered by the writer’s hero-worship. It bears the unmistakable stamp of truth, and its personal bias and oriental hyperbolism are easily discounted. As our sole firsthand witness to the negotiations between Richard I. and Saladin, Baha-ed-din’s simple veracity is especially a quality of importance.
If Baha-ed-din is an avowed hero-worshipper, in the other prime authority we find a useful corrective to undue admiration. Ibn-el-Athir had every political reason to decry the supplanter of his local lords, and his annals contain criticism of Saladin’s generalship and one or two graver accusations. Ibn-el-Athir, who was also an Arab, of the tribe of Sheyban, was fifteen years younger than Baha-ed-din, and was born in 1160 at Jezirat-ibn-Omar on the Tigris, over which city his father was Waly or prefect. The historian spent most of his life in laborious study at Mosil, where his brother was a distinguished councillor of the Atabeg who ruled Mesopotamia. Another brother held a post in Saladin’s chancery. Ibn-el-Athir, like Baha-ed-din, was present when Saladin besieged Mosil in 1185, and he accompanied the contingent which the Mesopotamian princes afterwards sent to join the Sultan’s army in his north Syrian campaign of 1188; he was also a traveller, and in his journeys to Damascus, Jerusalem, and Aleppo, he had means of verifying his information. His History of the Atabegs of Mosil, completed in 1211, is as much a panegyric as Baha-ed-din’s biography of Saladin, but it is a panegyric of Saladin’s enemies; its author can never forgive him for supplanting the dynasty of the Atabegs in Syria, and making even the great lord of Mosil his vassal. Thus, if anything can be urged in disparagement of Saladin, we may be sure that Ibn-el-Athir will not pass it over. Yet, with this natural bias in favour of his family’s old masters and benefactors, he is not usually unfair. He recognises Saladin’s great services to Islam, and in his later work, the Kamil, or Perfection of History, which is brought up to within three years of his death in 1233, he shows a more impartial spirit than in his special eulogy of the Atabegs of Mosil.
These two historians must be the prime authorities for a Life of Saladin; but there are others of great value for particular portions or aspects of his career. Of these Imad-ed-din of Ispahan, generally known as el-Katib, “the Scribe,” Saladin’s chief secretary or chancellor for the Syrian provinces, is of the first importance; but unfortunately only a small part of his work has been printed. He was with his master at the siege of Acre, and his writings, despite their intolerable rhetoric, have the merit of firsthand documents. The Autobiography of Osama, an Arab prince and poet, of the castle of Sheyzar on the Orontes, who witnessed the greater part of the Crusading period from his birth in 1095 to his death in 1188, presents a vivid picture of the times; but although in his old age he lived for some years at Damascus in frequent intercourse with Saladin, his reminiscences in this regard are disappointing: the old Arab was too full of himself to give much space to the sayings and doings of others. Ibn-Khallikan, the assiduous biographer of eminent men, and AbuShama , the author of The Two Gardens, were neither of them contemporaries; but both knew people who knew Saladin, and their writings sometimes supply what was missing, or amplify what was meagre, in the contemporary records.
Among the Christian chroniclers we are fortunate in the presence in Palestine of the incomparable Archbishop William of Tyre, whose Historia, far transcending in vividness, grasp and learning all Latin or Arabic annals of the time, deals with the events in the East from 1144 to 1183 from personal knowledge. The Archbishop left no successor of his own calibre, and that he should not have lived to carry his history ten years further, to the end of the Third Crusade, is a loss which every student of the period, and not least the biographer of Saladin, must lament. The various continuators of his work cannot lay claim to his great qualities as an historian, but their merits are not to be undervalued, and the Chronicle of Ernoul in particular supplies valuable contemporary evidence. Ernoul was squire to Balian of Ibelin, who played a prominent part in the Holy War and was frequently in personal relations with Saladin; and the squire doubtless attended his master to the memorable field of Hittin and afterwards in the defence of Jerusalem. Ernoul’s narrative, which is full of vivid personal touches, is thus extremely valuable as representing the Christian side of events which the Arabic writers describe from a Mohammedan point of view. It is also useful, in a less degree, in checking the exuberant Ricardolatry of the Itinerarium Rigis Ricardi, which forms our fullest authority for the Third Crusade, and, despite its exaggerations and party spirit, is a marvellously graphic recital of the achievements of the English hero.
These then are the chief sources from which the present Life of Saladin is drawn. They are nearly all contemporary, and a large part of the story is told by actual eye-witnesses, whilst in no instance has an authority been relied upon who was more than one generation removed from the events he relates. References to these sources are given when a statement seemed to require authentication, and in the later chapters, when it is important to distinguish the testimony of Christian from that of Moslem witnesses, such footnotes are frequent; but in the earlier part, where nearly everything rests upon the authority of Ibn-el-Athir and Balia-ed-din, references are given only when there is a serious discrepancy between the two. In an historical study founded upon original research such verification is, of course, essential; but where none is given, some confidence, it is hoped, will be placed in the biographer. There is not a line in this volume that cannot be substantiated by practically contemporary evidence.
It has been remarked as strange that such abundant materials should not long ago have been utilised in an exhaustive Life of Saladin, but it would not be fair to ignore the admirable labours of M. Marin, “un écrivain aussi connu par la douceur de ses moeurs que par l’étendue de ses lumières et l’élégance de sa plume.” M. Louis - François - Claude Marin was born in Provence, where he eventually held the posts of Censeur Royal et de la police, and Sécrétaire général de la Librairie et des Académies de Marseille et Nancy. In 1758 he published in two charmingly printed duodecimo volumes an Histoire de Saladin, Sulthan d’Egypte et de Syrie (Paris, chez Tilliard, Libraire, Quai des Augustins, à l’Image Saint Benôit). The book appears to be almost unknown, or it would surely have found a translator. At once scholarly, philosophic, and written with that light touch by which the French, preëminently, are able to carry off the ponderous effect of real learning, M. Marin’s biography has only to be read to be admired. He made a full use of the Crusading chronicles, and of Schultens’ edition of Baha-ed-din, and he consulted Ibn-el-Athir Atabegs in an Arabic manuscript at Paris. So far as his contemporary materials go, he is excellent; but he relied overmuch on later writers, and on unequal though learned compilations such as Herbelot’s Bibliothèque Orientale; and of course a great deal has been discovered and published since his time. Still, considering his necessary limitations, he achieved a remarkable success, and the only serious fault to be found with his manner of dealing with such authorities as he was able to use is a tendency to read more “between the lines” than the text really justifies. M. Marin employed what is called “the historical imagination” over freely, and despite his frequent references to original sources one can detect a personal equation which has to be eliminated. It is much more inter. esting to give oneself a free hand in writing history, but the temptation must be subdued and the letter of the text must be respected.
Some authors, in treating of the history of Mesopotamia, have thought it necessary to prepare their readers by beginning at the Flood. M. Marin considered that his Life of Saladin demanded an introduction which went back to Mohammed and the first preaching of Islam. I have not tried the patience of the reader quite so severely, but without some account of the course of history in western Asia during the eleventh and twelfth centuries, the political situation in which Saladin began his career would be unintelligible. Especially important is the position achieved by his great forerunner, Zengy, the conqueror of Edessa, whose unfulfilled ambitions prepared the way for the imperial realisations of Saladin. The introductory chapters, however, have been reduced to as small a compass as possible.
Oriental names are naturally a stumbling-block to western readers, and the use of accents, long marks, dots, and the like, does not seem to be of much assistance to the unlearned. In the present work, therefore, the names are written as simply as possible, and the reader is only asked to pronounce the vowels after the Italian manner. Those who are curious as to the more precise transliteration will consult the index, where every name is furnished with the proper accents and distinguishing marks, and can be at once converted by the scholar into the Arabic character. In the text, the article el is generally omitted before the well-known names of towns, such as el-Mosil, erRamla, and western names are given when familiar, as in the case of Edessa (for el-Ruha), Aleppo (for Halab), and Cairo (for el-Kahira). When a town has two names, one used by the Arabs, the other by the “Franks” or Crusaders, both are given on its first occurrence, and Crusading names are retained so long as the place remained in the hands of the Crusaders...
IN THE YEAR 1132 A broken army, flying before its pursuers, reached the left bank of the Tigris. On the other side, upon a steep cliff, stood the impregnable Fortress of Tekrit, defended landwards by a deep moat and accessible only by secret steps cut in the rock and leading from the heart of the citadel to the water’s edge. The one hope of the fugitives was to attain the refuge of the castle, and their fate turned upon the disposition of its warden. Happily he chose the friendly part, and provided a ferry by which they crossed to safety. The ferry boats of the Tigris made the fortunes of the house of Saladin. The flying leader who owed his life to their timely succour was Zengy, the powerful lord of Mosil; and in later days, when triumph returned to his standards, he did not forget the debt he owed Tekrit, but, ever mindful of past services, carried its warden onward and upward on the wave of his progress. This warden was Saladin’s father.
Ayyub (in English plain Job), surnamed after the fashion of the Saracens Nejm-ed-din, or “Star of the Faith,” the fortunate commandant at this critical moment, although an oriental and a Mohammedan, belonged to the same great Aryan stock as ourselves, being neither Arab nor Turk, but a Kurd of the Rawadiya clan, born at their village of Ajdanakan near Dawin in Armenia. From time immemorial the Kurds have led the same wild pastoral life in the mountain tracts between Persia and Asia Minor. In their clannishness, their love of thieving, their fine chivalrous sense of honour and hospitality, and their unquestioned courage, they resembled the Arabs of the “Days of Ignorance” before Islam, or the Highland Scots before the reforms of Marshal Wade. They have ever been a gallant and warlike people, impervious as a rule to civilisation and difficult for strangers to manage, but possessed of many rude virtues. At least, they gave birth to Saladin. Of his more distant forefathers nothing is known. His family is becomingly described by his biographers as “one of the most eminent and respectable in Dawin,” but even if true this is at most a provincial and limited distinction. Dawin, formerly called Dabil, was the capital of Inner or Northern Armenia in the tenth century, long before Tiflis attained to its greater importance. It was a large walled city, the residence of the governor of the province, and its inhabitants were chiefly Christians, who carried on a rich trade in the goats’. hair clothes and rugs which they wove and dyed with the brilliant crimson of the kirmiz worm. Jews, Magians, and Christians dwelt there in peace under their Mohammedan conquerors, and the Armenian Church stood beside the Mosque where Moslems prayed.
But Dawin was already in its decline when Saladin’s grandfather, Shadhy, son of Marwan, inherited the family position of “eminence and respectability”; and having a large number of sons he resolved to seek careers for them in the more stirring life of Baghdad, where the courts of the Caliph and the Sultan offered prizes to the ambitious. Shadhy is but a name; nothing is known of his character or history, except that he had a close friend in the Greek Bihruz, who rose from slavery at Dawin to high office at the Persian court, became the tutor of Seljuk princes, and was rewarded with the important government of the city of Baghdad. To this old friend Shadhy resorted, and Bihruz out of his large patronage presented his comrade’s son Ayyub to the post of commandant of the castle of Tekrit. Probably the whole family accompanied the fortunate nominee; certainly Shadhy and his son Shirkuh joined Ayyub; and if the last justified his patron’s trust by the wisdom and prudence of his rule, Shirkuh, ever hasty and passionate, wrecked, as it seemed, the good fortune of the family by an act of chivalrous homicide: he killed a scoundrel to avenge a woman’s wrong. Bihruz was already annoyed at the escape of Zengy, whom he did not love; and he was not inclined to overlook the violence of Shirkuh. The brothers were commanded to seek employment elsewhere. They departed from Tekrit, oppressed with a sense of misfortune, and drew a sinister omen from the fact that on the very night of their flitting a son had been born to Ayyub. Never, surely, was augury worse interpreted; for the infant whose first cries disturbed the preparations of the journey that night in the castle of Tekrit in the year of Grace 1138, was Yusuf, afterwards renowned in East and West under his surname of “Honour of the Faith,” Salah-ed-din, or, as we write it, SALADIN.
Before attempting to relate whither Ayyub carried the baby Saladin, or what befell them, we must glance briefly at the political conditions in which the future leader of the Saracens would have to shape his career. The eastern world of that day was widely different from the old empire of the Caliphate; it had vitally changed even in the lifetime of Saladin’s father. The flaming zeal which had at first carried the armies of Islam, like a rushing prairie fire, from their ancient Arabian musterground to the desert of Sind in the east and the surge of the Atlantic on the west, had not availed to keep together, in a well-knit organisation, the vast empire so suddenly, so amazingly, acquired. The Caliphate lasted indeed for over six hundred years, but it retained its imperial sway for scarcely a third of that time. In the seventh century, the soldiers of the Arabian Prophet had rapidly subdued Egypt, Syria, Persia, and even the country beyond the Oxus, and early in the eighth they rounded off their conquest of the Barbary coast by the annexation of Spain. Such an empire, composed of contentious and rival races, and extending over remotely distant provinces, could not long be held in strict subjection to a central government issuing its patents of command from Damascus or Baghdad. The provincial proconsul of the Mohammedan system was even more apt to acquire virtual independence than his Roman prototype. The very idea of the Caliphate, which was as much an ecclesiastical as an administrative authority, encouraged the local governors to assume powers which were not irreconcilable with the homage due to a spiritual chief; and the religious schisms of Islam, especially the strange and fanatical devotion inspired by the persecuted lineage of Aly, led by a different road to the dismemberment of the state.
Already in the ninth century the extremities of the Mohammedan empire were in the hands of rulers who either repudiated the authority of the Abbasid Caliph of Baghdad, or at least tendered him, as Commander of the Faithful, a purely conventional homage. The Caliph’s writ – or its Arabic equivalent, – even in the days of “the good Harun er-Rashid,” did not run in Spain or Morocco, and met but a qualified respect in Tunis. Egypt on the one hand, and north-east Persia on the other, soon followed the lead of the extreme west, and by the middle of the tenth century the temporal power of the Caliph hardly extended beyond the walls of his own palace, within which his authority was grievously shackled by the guard of mercenaries whom he had imprudently imported in self-defence. This state of papal impotence continued with little change until the extinction of the Baghdad Caliphate by the Mongols in 1258. Now and again, by the weakness of their neighbours or the personal ascendency of an individual Caliph, the Abbasids temporarily recovered a part of their territorial power in the valley of the Tigris and Euphrates; yet even then, although the Caliph had a larger army and possessed a wider dominion than his predecessor had enjoyed, his authority was restricted to a narrow territory in Mesopotamia, and his influence, save as pontiff of Islam, was almost a negligible quantity in Saladin’s political world.
This political world was practically bounded by the Tigris on the east and the Libyan desert on the west. For a century and a half before Saladin began to mix in affairs of state, Egypt had been ruled by the Fatimid Caliphs, a schismatic dynasty claiming spiritual supremacy by right of descent from Aly the son-in-law of the Prophet Mohammed, and repudiating all recognition of the Abbasid Caliphate of Baghdad. Still more nearly affecting the politics of the Crusades was the situation in Syria and Mesopotamia. The whole of these districts, from the mountains of Kurdistan to the Lebanon, are in race and politics allied with Arabia. Large tribes of Arabs were settled from early times in the fertile valleys of Mesopotamia, where their names are still preserved in the geographical divisions. Bedawy tribes wandered annually from Arabia to the pasture lands of the Euphrates, as they wander to this day: and many clans were and are still permanently settled in all parts of Syria. The decay of the Caliphate naturally encouraged the foundation of Arab kingdoms in the regions dominated by Arab tribes, and in the tenth and eleventh centuries the greater part of Syria and Mesopotamia owned their supremacy; but by the twelfth these had all passed away. The Arabs remained in their wonted seats, and camped over all the country to the upper valleys of Diyar-Bekr, as they do now; but they no longer ruled the lands where they pastured their flocks. The supremacy of the Arab in those regions was over for ever, and the rule of the Turk had begun.
The Turks who swept over Persia, Mesopotamia, and Syria in the course of the eleventh century were led by the descendants of Seljuk, a Turkman chieftain from the steppes beyond the Oxus. In a rapid series of campaigns they first overran the greater part of Persia; other Turkish tribes then came to swell their armies; and the whole of western Asia, from the borders of Afghanistan to the frontier of the Greek empire and the confines of Egypt, was gradually united under Seljuk rule. Persians, Arabs, and Kurds alike bowed before the overwhelming wave of conquest. But wide as was their dominion, the significance of the Seljuk invasion lies deeper than mere territorial expansion. Their advent formed an epoch in Mohammedan history by creating a revival of the Moslem faith.
“At the time of their appearance the Empire of the Caliphate had vanished. What had once been a realm united under a sole Mohammedan ruler was now a collection of scattered dynasties, not one of which, save perhaps the Fatimids of Egypt (and they were schismatics), was capable of imperial sway. The prevalence of schism increased the disunion of the various provinces of the vanished empire. A drastic remedy was needed, and it was found in the invasion of the Turks. These rude nomads, unspoilt by town life and civilised indifference to religion, embraced Islam with all the fervour of their uncouth souls. They came to the rescue of a dying State, and revived it. They swarmed over Persia, Mesopotamia, Syria, and Asia Minor, devastating the country, and exterminating every dynasty that existed there; and, as the result, they once more reunited Mohammedan Asia, from the western frontier of Afghanistan to the Mediterranean, under one sovereign; they put a new life into the expiring zeal of the Moslems, drove back the re-encroaching Byzantines, and bred up a generation of fanatical Mohammedan warriors to whom, more than to anything else, the Crusaders owed their repeated failure.”
Melik Shah, the noblest of the Seljuk emperors, was one of those rulers who possess the power of imposing their minds upon their age. To belong to his household, to hold his commands, was not merely an honour and a privilege; it was also an apprenticeship in principles. In serving the Sultan, one grew like him; and a standard of conduct was thus set up, modelled upon the life of the royal master, the pattern and exemplar of the age. It is recorded by an Arab historian that a chief or governor was esteemed by public opinion in accordance with the degree in which he conformed to the Sultan’s example; and the standard thus adopted formed no ignoble ideal of a prince’s duties. Justice was the first aim of Melik Shah; his chief effort was to promote his people’s prosperity. Bridges, canals, and caravanserais bore witness to his encouragement of commerce and inter-communication throughout his dominions. The roads were safe, and it is stated that a pair of travellers could journey without an escort from Merv to Damascus. Generous and brave, just and conscientious, he fulfilled the ideal of a Moslem Prince, and his example impressed itself far and wide upon the minds of his followers.
Great as he was in character and statesmanship, Melik Shah owed much of his principles and his successful organisation to the still wiser man who filled the highest office in the realm. Nizam-el-mulk stands among the great statesmen of history. His Mohammedan eulogists dwell fondly upon his spiritual virtues, and recount with unction how he could repeat the entire Koran by heart at the age of twelve; but the supreme testimony to his ability is seen in the prosperity and progress of the great empire for nearly a third of a century committed to his charge. His capacity for affairs was joined to a profound knowledge of jurisprudence and an enlightened support of learning and science. He it was who encouraged Omar Khayyam in his astronomical researches, – less famous to-day but certainly not less important than his well-known Quatrains, – and founded the famous Nizamiya college at Baghdad. And it was he who in his Treatise on the Principles of Government, drawn up at the bidding of Melik Shah and adopted by the Sultan as his code, set forth an ideal conception of kingship that embodies an uncompromising doctrine of Divine Right. The sovereign, he holds, is without doubt God’s anointed; but the doctrine is tempered with a stern insistence upon the king’s responsibility to God for every detail of his conduct towards the subjects entrusted to his protection. Παντὶ δὴ ᾧ ἐδόθη πολὺ, πολὺ ζητηθήσεται παῤ αὐτοῡ, “ For unto whomsoever much is given, of him shall be much required,” is the Vezir’s principle, as it was of a greater Teacher before him, and his ideal of a true monarch savours of a counsel of perfection. He defines the character of a king by a quotation from an old Persian anecdote:
“He must subdue hatred, envy, pride, anger, lust, greed, false hopes, disputatiousness, lying, avarice, malice, violence, selfishness, impulsiveness, ingratitude, and frivolity; he must possess the qualities of modesty, equability of temper, gentleness, clemency, humility, generosity, staunchness, patience, gratitude, pity, love of knowledge, and justice.”
One weighty judgment, it is alleged, is of more service to a king than a mighty army. He is cautioned to avoid favouritism and disproportionate rewards, to eschew excess in wine and unkingly levity, and recommended to be strict in fasting, prayer, almsgiving, and all religious exercises. In every circumstance he is to “observe the mean”; for the Prophet of Islam said, unconsciously quoting Aristotle, that in all things “the mean” is to be followed.
The most striking feature in the system of govern, ment outlined by Nizam-el-mulk is his constant insistence on the duties of the sovereign towards his subjects, and the elaborate checks suggested for the detection and punishment of official corruption and oppression. Twice a week the Sultan was obliged to hold public audience, when anybody, however humble and unknown, might come to present his grievances and demand justice. The Sultan must hear these petitions himself, without any go-between, listen patiently, and decide each case in accordance with equity. Various precautions are recommended to ensure the free access of the subject to the king. The example is cited of a Persian sovereign who held audience on horseback in the middle of a plain, so that all might see and approach him, when the obstacles of “gates, barriers, vestibules, passages, curtains, and jealous chamberlains” were thus removed. Another king made all petitioners wear red dresses, so that he might distinguish and take them aside for private audience; and the example is approved of a Samanid prince who sat alone and unattended all night during heavy snow, in the middle of the great square of Bokhara, on the chance that some oppressed subject, who might have been turned away by his chamberlains, should see him and come for redress.
Extraordinary pains were to be taken lest the maladministration of local governors should escape detection:
“When an officer is appointed to a post, let him be benevolent to God’s creatures. One must not exact from them more than is right, and one should demand it with gentleness and consideration. Taxes should never be claimed before the fixed legal day, else the people, under pressure of need will sell their goods at half-price, and become ruined and dispersed.”
Constant inspection of the tax-gatherers and other officials is recommended, and severe punishment is to be meted out to the unjust. “Spies,” he says, “must perpetually traverse the roads of the various provinces, disguised as merchants, dervishes, etc., and send in reports of what they hear, so that nothing that passes shall remain unknown.” Another precaution was to change all tax-gatherers and agents every two or three years, so that they should not become rooted and overbearing in their posts. Further, inspectors of high character, above suspicion, paid by the treasury and not by local taxation, were appointed to watch the whole empire; “the advantages which their uprightness brings will repay an hundredfold their salaries.” A prompt and regular system of post-messengers maintained rapid communications between the inspectors and the central government. Finally, the good behaviour of vassal chiefs was ensured by their sending hostages, relieved every year, to the imperial court, where no fewer than five hundred were constantly detained.
These provisions for just administration and frequent inspection were all the more necessary in an empire which was founded upon a military organisation, wherein the government was vested in the hands of foreigners. The Seljuk power rested on an army composed, to a great extent, of hired or purchased soldiers, and officered by slaves of the royal household. Freemen were not to be trusted with high commands, at least in distant provinces; native Persians and Arabs could not, as a rule, be expected to work loyally for their Turkish conquerors; and it was safer to rely on the fidelity of slaves brought up at the court, in close relations of personal devotion to the Seljuk princes. These white slaves or mamluks, natives for the most part of Kipchak and Tartary, formed the bodyguard of the Sultan, filled the chief offices of the court and camp, and rising step by step, according to their personal merits and graces, eventually won freedom and power. They were rewarded by grants of castles, cities, and even provinces, which they held of their master the Sultan on condition of military service. The whole empire was organised on this feudal basis, which seems to have been usual among the Turks, and which was inherited from the Seljuks and carried into Egypt by Saladin, where it was for centuries maintained by the Mamluk Sultans. The greater part of Persia, Mesopotamia, and Syria was parcelled out in military fiefs, and governed by Seljuk captains – quondam slaves in the mamluk bodyguard – who held them in fee simple by letters patent, revocable at the Sultan’s will, and who levied and lived on the land tax, on the sole condition of furnishing troops at the Sultan’s call.
The greater feudatories in turn let out portions of their fiefs to sub-vassals, who were bound to furnish troops to their overlord, just as he was required to bring his retainers to the support of his sovereign. We read of a primitive method of summoning the military contingents, by sending an arrow round from camp to camp, or village to village, as a signal for assembly. After a campaign the feudal troops were dismissed to their homes, whither they always retired during the winter, under an engagement to join the colours in the spring. In the interval a general was obliged to be content with his own immediate followers, his bodyguard, and any mercenaries who could be induced to remain in the field. Saladin, as will be seen, invariably observed this custom. When living on their lands, the vassals were only allowed to collect the legal tax, amounting apparently to about one-tenth of the produce, and were straitly enjoined not to oppress the people or seize their goods. “The land and its inhabitants are the Sultan’s,” wrote the great Vezir, “and the feudal lords and governors are but as a guard set for their protection.” No doubt, so long as the Seljuk empire held together, the omnipresent spy kept license and corruption at bay; but when there was no supreme government, during the troublous times that preceded the establishment of Nur-ed-din’s and Saladin’s organised rule, much misery, instead of “protection,” must have come in the train of feudalism. We read constantly of the barons or emirs setting forth on the war path, followed by their retainers, and such a party was as likely as not to meet a rival troop somewhere along the rugged tracks of Mesopotamia, with the usual result of a skirmish, perhaps a victory, and then slaughter and pillage. The life of the shepherd, the husbandman, and the trader, must have been sufficiently exciting, and not a little precarious, in the midst of the valorous activity of neighbouring chiefs; and the equitable precepts of Melik Shah and his wise Vezir must often have been forgotten in the flush of victory.
The Arab chronicler, however, prone as he is to dwell upon feats of arms, never quite overlooks the condition of the peaceful population; and it is worth noticing that in signalising the virtues of a great lord he puts prominently forward the justice and mildness he displayed towards his subjects. The “Gyrfalcon” (Ak-Sunkur) of Mosil is held up to admiration as a wise ruler and protector of his people. Perfect justice reigned throughout his dominions; the markets were cheap; the roads absolutely safe; and order prevailed in all parts. His policy was to make the district pay for its own misdeeds, so that if a caravan were plundered, the nearest villages had to make good the loss, and the whole population thus became a universal police for the traveller’s protection. It is recorded of this good governor that he never broke his word, and the same might be said of more Moslem than Christian leaders of the Crusading epoch. The example of a just and virtuous chief naturally inspires emulation among his retainers, and it is not difficult, in many instances, to trace the effects of such influences. The constant endeavour of a great baron was to surround himself with a loyal body of retainers and minor feudatories, who could be trusted to support his arms, extend his dominions, and carry out his policy in the management of their domains. Upon their loyalty depended the succession of his family. When a baron died, his vassals and mamluks would rally round his heir, obtain for him the succession in the fief, and uphold him on the throne. No feeble ruler, however, had a chance in that strenuous age; he must be strong in war and firm in peace. It sometimes happened that an emir failed to satisfy the demands or retain the loyalty of his followers, who would then transfer their services to a more popular master.
In spite of its military character and the truculence of many of its leaders, nothing is more remarkable in Seljuk civilisation than the high importance attached to education and learning. Although colleges existed before in Mohammedan countries, we must ascribe to Seljuk patronage, above all to the influence of Nizam-el-mulk, the great improvements in educational provision in the East during the eleventh and twelfth centuries. The celebrated Nizamiya medresa or university at Baghdad, founded by the Vezir himself, was the focus from which radiated an enthusiasm for learning all over Persia, Syria, and Egypt, where it met a kindred stream of erudition issuing from the Azhar university of Cairo. To found a college was as much a pious act among Seljuk princes, as to build a mosque or conquer a city from the “ infidels.” The same spirit led the great vassals and the numerous dynasties that sprang up on the decay of the Seljuk power, to devote particular attention to questions of education, and by Saladin’s time Damascus, Aleppo, Baalbekk, Emesa, Mosil, Baghdad, Cairo, and other cities, had become so many foci of learned energy. Professors travelled from college to college, just as our own medieval scholars wandered from university to university. Many of these learned men and ministers of state (the two were frequently united) were descendants or household officers of Seljuk Sultans. The Atabeg Zengy of Mosil, with all his vast energy and military talent, could scarcely have held the reins of his wide empire without the aid of his Vezir and right-hand-man Jemal-ed-din, surnamed el-Jawad, “the Bountiful,” whose grandfather had been keeper of the coursing leopards in Sultan Melik Shah’s hunting stables. So ably did he administer the several governments successively committed to his charge, and so charming were his manners and conversation, that Zengy received him into the intimacy of his friendship and advanced him to the post of Inspector-General of his principality and President of the Divan or Council of State. His salary was a tenth of the produce of the soil and he spent his wealth in boundless charity; ministered lavishly to the necessities of the pilgrims at Mekka and Medina; built aqueducts and restored mosques; and kept a gigantic roll of pensioners. When he died, “the air resounded with the lamentations” of widows and orphans and of the countless poor who had hailed him benefactor.
The ranks of the wise and learned were recruited from all parts of the Moslem world. Professors from Nishapur delighted audiences at Damascus. Persian mystics like es-Suhrawardy met traditioners like Ibn- Asakir, whose funeral Saladin himself attended in 1176. In the same year there arrived at Cairo a stranger from Xativa in distant Andalusia, drawn eastward by the fame of the revival of learning; it was Ibn-Firro, who had composed a massy poem of 1173 verses upon the variœ lectiones in the Koran, simply “for the greater glory of God.” This marvel of erudition modestly confessed that his memory was burdened with enough sciences to break down a camel. Nevertheless, when it came to lecturing to his crowded audiences, he never uttered a superfluous word. It was no wonder that the Kady el-Fadil, chief judge and governor of Egypt under Saladin, lodged him in his own house and buried him in his private mausoleum. The presence of such philosophers tempered with cool wisdom the impetuous fire of the predatory chiefs. Many of the great soldiers of that age delighted in the society of men of culture; and though the victorious Atabeg might exclaim that to him “the clash of arms was dearer far than the music of sweet singers, and to try conclusions with a worthy foe a greater delight than to toy with a mistress,” yet he loved the company of his wise counsellor el-Jawad. His successor Nur-ed- din was devoted to the society of the learned, and poets and men of letters gathered round his Court; whilst Saladin took a peculiar pleasure in the conversation of grave theologians and solemn jurists. The most bloodthirsty baron of them all could not do without his poet and historian. It was the same in later centuries with the Mamluk Sultans of Egypt. Barbarous and savage as they seemed, prone to deeds of blood and treachery, they loved the arts, encouraged belles-lettres, and made Cairo beautiful with their exquisite architecture. It would seem that in the East, at all events, violence may go hand in hand with taste and culture, and it was not Saul alone whose moody fits were relieved by the music of sweet singers.
The effects of the Seljuk domination reached far and wide; but the dynasty itself was shortlived. Less than half a century after they had entered Persia as conquerors, the vast fabric they had audaciously planned and splendidly maintained split up into fragments. Three Seljuk emperors in succession held their immense dominions under their personal rule without fear of rivalry or revolt; but when Melik Shah died in 1092, civil war broke out between his sons, and the empire was divided. Seljuks continued to rule at Nishapur, Ispahan, and Kirman; Seljuks at Damascus and Aleppo; Seljuks in Anatolia: but they were divided planks of the mightly bole, unable long to resist the forces which pressed upon them from within and without. Their overthrow was the inevitable consequence of their feudal organisation; they were hoist with their own petard. The slaves whom they imported for their defence became their destroyers, and the great fiefs that they had constructed for the protection of the empire proved to be its chief danger. The prime defect of European feudalism was equally conspicuous in the Seljuk system. The slave owed his master service, the vassal was bound to his overlord, but the service and loyalty did not extend beyond the immediate superior. If a chief vassal found himself strong enough to rebel against his overlord, his retainers, sub-vassals, and slaves followed him; they owed no service to the overlord. Nor was there any equivalent to a direct oath of allegiance to the sovereign, though one sometimes finds the sentiment of loyalty that induced sub-vassals to leave a rebellious overlord and go over to the side of the Crown. As the sovereign power grew weaker, this sentiment ceased to operate, and the great feudatories were able to found independent kingdoms of their own with the full concurrence of their vassals. When the empire became divided against itself, the captains who had fought its battles and reaped its rewards became independent princes; the mamluks who had won victories for their emperors became regents or governors (Atabegs) of their emperors’ heirs; and the delegated function was presently exchanged for the full rights of sovereignty and the transmission of hereditary kingship.
The twelfth century saw the greater part of the Seljuk empire in the hands of petty sovereigns who had risen from the ranks of the mamluks and converted their fiefs into independent states. In Persia, and beyond the Oxus, a cupbearer and a major domo had founded powerful dynasties; and the slaves of these slaves, a generation of “gentlemen’s gentlemen,” had established minor principalities on the skirts of their masters’ dominions. In this way a slave became regent over his master’s heir and on his death assumed regal powers at Damascus; thus Zengy, founder of the long line of Atabegs of Mosil, was the son of one of Melik Shah’s slaves; and the Ortukids and other local dynasts of Mesopotamia traced their fortunes to a similar source. However servile in origin, the pedigree carried with it no sense of ignominy. In the East a slave is often held to be better than a son, and to have been the slave of Melik Shah constituted a special title to respect. The great slave vassals of the Seljuks were as proud and honourable as any Bastard of medieval aristocracy; and when they in turn assumed kingly powers, they inherited and transmitted to their lineage the high traditions of their former lords. The Atabegs of Syria and Mesopotamia carried on the civilising work begun by the wise Vezir of Melik Shah. The work was interrupted, indeed, by internal feuds, but its chief hindrance during the twelfth century came from the Crusades.
MELIK SHAH, THE GREAT SELJUK