history file the scandalmongers say they became lovers. Al-Mu’tamid’s fearsome father was outraged — not by the suggestion his son might be homosexual, for that was neither here nor there in the Bohemian atmosphere of Seville in those days — but because his son, Allah forfend, had become intimate with a commoner. He could have ordered ibn ‘Ammar’s summary execution, but that would have upset his son, so he compromised by having him exiled. It didn’t work. Al-Mu’tamid was nothing if not loyal to his friends and lovers. He stayed in touch, and when in time he assumed the throne, he not only restored ibn ‘Ammar to his court, but made him his prime minister. Almost inevitably, it ended in tears. At some point al-Mu’tamid got it into his head that ibn ‘Ammar had betrayed him. The story, though coated in legend, has all the hallmarks of a violent lover’s tiff. The king, in an uncharacteristic fit of rage, killed his long-time friend then, racked with remorse, had him buried with full military honours. But back in happier times, when the pair were still inseparable, they were, it is said, walking together in disguise beside the Guadalquivir River (they knew it as al-Wadi al-Kabir) when they chanced upon a group of young ladies washing their laundry in the river. Al-Mu’tamid, momentarily possessed by the Muse that hovered perpetually above his head bombarding his brain with inspiration, suddenly gave voice to the opening line of a poem. It was a game that he and ibn ‘Ammar played frequently. One would throw out a line of verse, and the other would have to take up the thread and complete the couplet immediately or pay a forfeit. Sana’a ‘r-ribu min al-ma I zarad… Ibn ‘Ammar’s genius in the contest was legendary, and he would doubtless have thrown back a line of incandescent wit and sizzling brilliance, had not one of the young laundresses beat him to it: Ayyu dir’rin li-qitdlin law jamad! In the cloistered salons of the court this improvised exchange would have had the fawning courtiers bowing to their knees and lustily crying Bravo! And admittedly it does sound pretty impressive. When we learn, however, that roughly translated, the lines are “The wind has turned the water to chain mail” (alMu’tamid) and “What armour for a battle if it froze!” (laundress), we may be forgiven for wondering what all the fuss was about. Nevertheless, al-Mu’tamid was captivated, not only by the young laundress’s repartee, but also by her beauty. Her name was I’timad, and she was a slave and mule driver for a certain Rumaik. The king bought her freedom, carried her off to his palace, and married her. Surely the most extravagant reward for a single line of extemporised doggerel in history. The best I ever got was a look of genuine concern and the offer of an aspirin. In his grave, al-Mu’tamid’s unspeakable snob of a father must have been spinning like a windmill in a gale. They said it wouldn’t last. In the court and across the kingdom heads shook and tongues wagged. The king had taken leave of his senses and the world as the average person knew it had been stood upon its head. In a matter of months,
GIBRALTAR MAGAZINE • NOVEMBER 2011
if not weeks, he would tire of her, and send her back with a refund to Rumaik and his mules. They were wrong. Al Mu’tamid’s devotion to his wife, if anything, grew stronger with the years, and the knowledge that she could twist her infatuated husband around her finger like a piece of string became, to her, as the taste of honey. One February it snowed in Córdoba. Nothing there to excite an Inuit or a coal miner in Durham, but a rare sight in that part of Spain. I’tamid, God help us, burst into tears and told her husband between her melodramatic sobs that he was heartless not to provide her with such a beautiful sight every winter. The normal reaction would have been to have her sectioned, but no. Instead, al Mu’tamid ordered the sierra to be thickly planted with almond trees so that in springtime their white blossoms would, from a distance, replicate the appearance of his wife’s beloved snow. I think I’m going to be sick. Despite being a lapdog to his capricious (I will not say demented) wife, al Mu’tamid had some notable successes. Within two years of assuming the throne he managed to add Córdoba to his portfolio, and he trumpeted his triumph in verse: I have won at the first onset The hand of the lovely Córdoba; That brave Amazon who with sword and spear Repelled all those who sought her in marriage. And now we celebrate our nuptial in her palace,
The king bought her freedom, carried her off to his palace, and married her. Surely the most extravagant reward for a single line of extemporised doggerel in history
While the other monarchs, my baffled rivals, Weep tears of rage and tremble with fear. With good reason do ye tremble, despicable foemen! For soon the lion will spring upon you! Whether his baffled rivals, his despicable foemen, were trembling with fear or laughing their heads off we leave our readers to decide. While he lay upon his richly ornamented couch writing poems, the world beyond his palace walls was in increasing turmoil. The various Moorish rulers of their fragmented, tinpot kingdoms were fighting among themselves like myopic cats in a very small sack, and consequently the Christian reconquest of what would ultimately be called Spain was slowly getting underway. It would not be completed for another four centuries, but by the time of al Mu’tamid the writing was already clearly on the walls. The graffiti have not been preserved, but we may be sure that a fine example was scrawled on at least one side of the Gibraltar watchtower. Al Mu’tamid panicked, and along with the kings of neighbouring Granada and Badajoz, made the biggest mistake of his life. Together, they sent an invitation to the Berber Almoravids in Morocco to come to their aid. It seemed like a good idea at the time, but it was like a flock of frightened chickens begging help from a gang of foxes. The Almoravids certainly roughed up the Christians, but what they did to their short-sighted Moorish brothers was worse. One by one their kingdoms fell to the invited invaders. In Seville, which the Berber army sacked with joyous abandon, al Mu’tamid characteristically snatched up his bejeweled quill to pen a wistful verse: When my tears cease to flow, And a calm steals over my troubled heart, I hear voices crying “Yield! That is true wisdom!” But I reply, “Poison would be a sweeter draught to me Than such a cup of shame!” There is more, but time is precious and we must move on. Typically, his vow to swallow poison proved mere poetic licence and he decided instead to wait for the Berber wolves to arrive at his door and wreak havoc. Most of the rulers of the Andalusian kingdoms were murdered by the ruthless Almoravids, but their king, Yusuf ibn Tashufin, spared al Mu’tamid. Perhaps it was against his principles to assassinate poets. For whatever reason, the celebrated poet king was allowed to live, but told he must leave the country and find exile in Morocco. To mingled cheers and tears he, his wife and their entourage, left Andalucia forever, crossing the Strait of Gibraltar in a fleet of sombre black barges. Thereafter they lived in abject poverty in the village of Aghmat. While his wife and daughters earned a crust by spinning yarn, al Mu’tamid sat morosely in a corner writing poems of the “Woe is me” variety. The death of I’tamid proved an unbearable blow. Without his wife to spin the wool, where would the next meal come from? He died, aged 55, in 1095. The Gibraltar tower has long since returned to the dust. Look on my works, ye mighty, and despair… n
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