Layla and Majnun (6 page)

I
t was a day like any other day. Majnun and Nowfal were sitting together, relaxed and happy in each other’s company, friendly conversation flowing from their lips. Suddenly, Majnun’s smile died and his face clouded over. Tears filled his eyes and he started to recite:

Nowfal sat in unhappy silence, wondering how so bitter a drop could have fallen undetected into the cup of their friendship. What could he say? How was he to respond? He had no weapon against this attack, no words with which to repel this sudden assault. All he could do was lower his eyes to hide the hurt he was feeling.

It was clear that the events of the past few months had done nothing to diminish Majnun’s desire for Layla; it burned more fiercely than ever. It did not matter to Majnun how difficult the task was: whatever risks or dangers it involved, Nowfal had given his word and was now duty-bound to carry it out. He had to fulfil what he had promised. Bitterly, Majnun continued: ‘How quick you were to make those promises, yet how silent you are now! Are you content to sit there and watch my heart break, while you yourself do nothing? My well of patience has dried up; my stock of reason has run out. If you do not help me, I shall die! Or perhaps I should seek assistance from better friends? I was weak, friendless, broken and dying of thirst for the water of life, and you promised to change all that. Yet you do nothing — nothing, that is, except break your promises. What kind of man are you? Has the Lord not commanded His bondsmen to give food to the hungry, to give water to those who are dying of thirst? Fulfil what you have promised or else this madman shall return to the desert where you found
him. Bring Layla and me together or else I shall put an end to my wretched life!’

M
ajnun’s words were like flame-tipped arrows; Nowfal’s heart was like wax. Nowfal knew that he had to act immediately. Exchanging his robes for a suit of armour, and his goblet for a sword, he went to work without delay. Within the hour, a hundred horsemen — all of them skilled in the art of battle — had been gathered together under Nowfal’s banner.

Nowfal rode at the front, his hair streaming in the wind like the mane of lion possessed, and Majnun rode at his side. After a while, they reached the outskirts of the camp where Layla’s tribe had pitched their tents. Nowfal ordered his men to dismount and set up camp. Then he sent a herald to the head of Layla’s tribe with this message:

‘I, Nowfal, hereby state my intention to wage war on you. My troops are assembled and we are ready to fight you to the very last man until we are victorious. There is only one way out for you, and that is if you bring Layla to me; if you refuse to obey, then the sword shall decide between us. I am determined to hand Layla over to the one man who truly loves her, the one man in all the world who is worthy of her. That is my goal.’

Ashort time later, the herald returned with this reply:

‘We have duly taken note of what you have said. Our word on the matter is this: Layla is no plaything to be had at will by whoever so desires. However beautiful the moon may be, it cannot be reached by everyone who falls in love with it. Do you wish to steal what is not rightfully yours? Are you waging war on us for the sake of something to which you have no right? Do you dare to ask the impossible, and then threaten us with death when we deny it you? You demon from hell! Then ride against us, if you will, and put us to the sword, if you are able!’

His anger rising, Nowfal sent a second message:

‘You pathetic fools! Are you blind? Do you not see how powerful we are, and how sharp our swords? Do you really think that you can resist us? Can a few,
ill-equipped
wretches hold back a tidal wave of steel and fury? Come, see reason while you are still able! Do what we ask and spare yourselves, otherwise disaster will overwhelm you!’

But again the herald returned with a rejection that was couched in terms of abuse and derision. Nowfal was fit to burst with rage. Tearing his sword out of its
scabbard, he gave his men the signal to move forwards. Their blades glinting in the sunlight and their fists punching the air, Nowfal’s men descended like a flock of hungry vultures on to Layla’s camp.

The clash of steel on steel, the terrified whinnying of horses, the shouts and the screams and the
bloodcurdling
cries of the wounded. The thrust of dagger into breast, of spear into thigh, of axe into skull. The sobs of the women and children, huddled together in their tents. The severed limbs, the heads torn from their bodies, the flesh trampled under foot and hoof. The blood running in rivulets, turning the earth below scarlet, purple, black. And everywhere the bittersweet stench of death …

Among the men, only Majnun did not take part in the fighting. Was not this harvesting of limbs, this massacre, for his sake? Yet he stood to one side, his sword sleeping in its scabbard, and looked on helplessly. His inaction was not out of fear or cowardice; no, it was much more terrible than that. He could not move because he was, quite literally, pulled between the two camps: he was sharing the suffering of both sides. Every blow of the sword, every thrust of the dagger, be it from friend or foe, struck him. Abandoning his weapon, he threw himself into the thick of the fighting, praying to God and imploring the warriors to lay down their arms and sue for peace. But few could hear him, and those who did hear him would not listen. It was a miracle that he was not killed.

Majnun knew that his heart should have been with Nowfal; he knew that Nowfal was fighting for his sake
and that he should have been praying for his benefactor’s victory. Yet, as the battle wore on, his mind became more confused. Had he himself not always said that he was ready to die for Layla? Yet here were Layla’s menfolk, being killed for his sake. And by whom? By Nowfal and his men — Majnun’s own friends!

A shameful thought crept into his mind. Were Nowfal and his men really his friends? Were they not really his friends’ enemies? While the battle raged all around him, another battle was taking place in his own soul, every bit as fierce as the one on the field. Majnun reckoned that had shame not immobilised him, he would have drawn his sword against his own side, against Nowfal’s men. But that, he said to himself, would have made him infamous in the eyes of Layla’s tribe. He could almost imagine the laughter and the jeers of the enemy fighters, entertained by the spectacle of Majnun as he attacked from behind the very men whose goal it was to help him. Nevertheless, had Fate so decreed, he would have gladly fired his arrows against those who were now attacking Layla’s tribe. His heart was with the kinsmen of his beloved; even now, he mouthed a silent prayer for their victory.

Finally, these feelings became too strong to subdue. Whenever an enemy horseman advanced, or threw one of Nowfal’s men from the saddle, he would cheer; whenever one of Nowfal’s men scored a hit, he would howl with dismay.

Eventually, one of Nowfal’s men saw how Majnun was behaving, turned to him and said, ‘What is wrong
with you, sir? Why do you enjoy the proceedings from afar? And why do you rejoice when the enemy advances? Have you forgotten that we are here on your account? Do you not realise that we are all risking our lives for you?’

‘If they really were my enemies,’ Majnun replied, ‘I would be able to fight them, but they are not. Those people are my friends. In truth, I have no place here. The heart of my beloved beats for the enemy, and where her heart is, that is where I must be. I want to die for her sake; it was never my wish to kill other men. How can I be on your side, when I have given up my soul to her?’

Meanwhile, Nowfal was on the edge of victory. Like a madman unchained, he stormed the enemy walls time and time again, cutting down man after man as he advanced, intoxicated by the scent of glory. Yet as dusk began to fall, the battle was still undecided. Soon, as night threw its veil of black over the burnt shoulders of day and the serpent of darkness swallowed the last pearl of light, the fighters were unable to see each other on the field. Nowfal declared the battle over — for now — and it was agreed, given that there were neither victors nor vanquished, that they would meet again at dawn.

Many brave men had fallen, and the number of wounded was even greater than the number of dead. Yet Nowfal was sure that he would be able to effect one final push and achieve a decisive victory on the following day. But when, as dawn broke, Nowfal was just beginning to round up his men and lead them into
battle, one of his scouts rode into camp with the news that the enemy had been reinforced with troops from other tribes.

Now, Nowfal might have been hot-headed, but he was no fool. After consultation with his men, a decision was reached. They would opt for the only move left open to them. Then he called his herald and sent a message to the enemy camp.

‘Enough! Enough of this senseless bloodshed,’ the message read. ‘It is time to sue for peace. What I desired from you, and what I still desire, is Layla. She is the only one who can break the spell and tear the chains of delusion from Majnun’s soul. In return for her, I am ready to pay you camel-loads of treasure. Think long and hard about my proposal. But even if you refuse, we should lay down our arms and make peace. It is the only way.’

No one expected Layla’s tribe to comply with Nowfal’s request, and when the herald returned with the letter of rejection, no one was surprised. The call for peace, however, was accepted. No more blood was to be shed. Layla was safe with her people, and Nowfal and his men were to return to their own land.

M
ajnun rode in silence at Nowfal’s side. For an hour they had not exchanged a single word, but finally, when the re-opened wound in Majnun’s soul had smarted and stung so much that he could no longer hold his tongue.

‘Is this how you help me?’ he cried out. ‘Is that the only way you know of bringing together two people in love? Is that the last resort of wisdom, to fight with men and weapons? Is that the secret of your power? Is that the proof of your strength? Is that the way you go into action for the sake of your friends? For God knows that I never wanted you to help me in that way; God alone knows that I never asked you to spill blood on my account!

‘And now you have succeeded in making enemies of my friends. The door I wished to enter in peace they
have, thanks to you, locked for ever and thrown away the key!

‘You have turned my good cause to infamy, all in the name of friendship! You are no friend of mine; I hereby renounce all ties of friendship with you. How can we be friends? I feel like the king in chess who is checkmated by his own knight! I feel like the sheepdog, pierced by the arrow that the shepherd aimed at the wolf!

‘True, you may be great when it comes to generosity, but when it comes to fulfilling your promises you are small, very small indeed!’

There was nothing Nowfal could do to defend himself against these words. Gently, he tried to remonstrate with his friend.

‘You must understand that we would have been outnumbered: the enemy was superior on every front. That is why I was unable to achieve our goal and win Layla for you. But it is not over yet, believe me. True, I made peace and we departed. But that was a stratagem forced on me by Fate.

‘Rest assured, my friend, that I shall return! My aim now is to muster support from the surrounding tribes; I shall gather together an army the likes of which Layla’s tribe has never seen! I shall not rest until I have done what I first set out to do. I shall not rest until the treasure you most desire is in your hands.’

And Nowfal did exactly as he said he would. He sent envoys to all of the tribes in the area, from Medina to Baghdad and beyond. With his untold wealth he assembled an army that swelled from horizon to horizon
like a sea of iron. Then, for a second time, he went to war in order to win Layla for his friend.

L
ike a vast sea of men and iron, Nowfal’s army swept across the plain. The drums of war were beating, the horses’ hooves were pounding, and the war-cries of the men were enough to cause a dead man’s heart to tremble. Blood-red banners fluttered in the breeze, swords and daggers glinted menacingly in the bright sunlight. At noon, Nowfal’s army reached the outskirts of Layla’s camp. There, the sea of men and iron became calm — the calm before the coming storm.

Scouts from Layla’s tribe had relayed the news of Nowfal’s approach back to her camp, and although they knew they were vastly outnumbered, they did not lose heart. They were still determined not to acquiesce, not to give way to force: they were willing to die rather than hand over Layla to the aggressor.

The battle commenced, with fighting more fierce
than either side had ever experienced. The whole plain was soon one vast crush of men and horses; so locked in battle did they become that there was little room to move, and no chance for anyone to escape. And so every thrust of the dagger hit its mark, every swing of the sword found its victim. Blood gushed like ruby wine from a thousand goblets; so red did the sands become that it looked as though countless desert poppies had suddenly bloomed from nowhere.

Finally, the slaughter became too much for even the hardiest of warriors to stomach: many men were beginning to hesitate before they struck, as though tired and ashamed of wounding yet another foe, of taking yet another life. But Nowfal pressed on, spewing fire and destruction like a dragon possessed in the front line. No head was secure from the swing of his club, no heart safe from the thrust of his sword. He moved forward like some scythe of death, mowing down all in his path, never stopping to look back, unaware of the extent of the carnage he and his men had brought about.

As night began to fall, it was clear that the day had been won by Nowfal and his men. Layla’s tribe had been well and truly defeated. Many of them had been killed or wounded, and those who had been spared were exhausted beyond description. As a symbolic gesture of surrender and a sign of mourning, the elders of the defeated tribe poured earth over their heads and made their way in silence to the victor’s tent. There, they prostrated themselves before Nowfal and cried, ‘O, Nowfal! Today the victory is yours and we have tasted a bitter defeat. Now, for the sake of God, let
justice reign! Let those of us who have survived this bloodbath live in peace. Allow us to rise after our fall, remembering that soon we shall all be summoned to rise once more before Him on the Day of Judgement. Lay down your arms, for you no longer need them: we are defenceless men who wish you no ill. Put your spears and arrows away; you have no use for them now. We, for our part, have thrown down our shields and placed our fate in your hands. For the love of God, have mercy.’

Nowfal was moved by the elders’ speech and, for a while, he was unable to reply. He, too, was ready to forget all that had happened and put the past to rest. Solemnly he agreed to a truce, but not without mentioning his price: ‘I have listened to what you have said and I agree that peace is our only solution. Therefore, I agree to a truce. Now I shall depart, but before I leave I must ask for that which I have won from you here today. Bring me Layla — only then shall I be satisfied and leave you be.’

Just as he finished speaking, a man stepped forward from the defeated tribe and approached Nowfal. It was Layla’s father, his back bent low by grief and humiliation. Slowly, he knelt down in front of Nowfal, prostrated himself in the dust at the victor’s feet and began to sob. ‘O Nowfal! You are the pride of all Arabs and a prince among men! I am an old man — an old man whose heart is broken and whose back has been bent low by the vicissitudes of time. Disaster has brought me to my knees; grief has pushed me to the edge. Blame and infamy are being heaped upon me as
we speak, and when I think of the blood that has been shed because of me, I wish that God’s earth would open up and swallow me whole. It is now for you to decide. If you spare me my daughter, then the gratitude is mine. If you wish to kill her, then kill her! Slit her throat with your dagger, thrust your sword into her heart, trample her body into the dust under the hooves of your horse if you will. I shall not question your decision.

‘But there is one thing I can never accept. Never, while I am her father, shall my daughter be given to this lunatic, to this demon in human guise, to this madman, this ‘majnun’ — never! To be sure, he should be shackled with chains of iron and locked away, not tied with bonds of marriage and set free!

‘After all, what is he? He is a fool, a common vagrant and vagabond, a homeless, good-for-nothing tramp who roams the mountain wastes like a filthy hermit possessed by Satan and his minions. Is he fit to sit with other humans, let alone take a wife? Am I to have as a son-in-law some perfidious poet who has dragged my name through the dirt? There is not one corner in the whole of Arabia where my daughter’s name is not part of some sick little verse on the lips of common people. And you, in all seriousness, ask me to hand my daughter over to him? My name would be dirt for ever, my honour soiled beyond redemption. You are asking the impossible, sir, and I beg you to desist. Why, I would rather cut off her head with my own sword than give her to Majnun: it would be like feeding my own child to a lion. It is better that she die a quick
death by my sword than be placed in the jaws of a dragon like Majnun!’

For a second, the audacity of the old man’s polemic and the violence of his threats stunned Nowfal into silence. Yet he bore no resentment towards the bent figure in the dust before him. Firmly, but politely, he replied, ‘Stand up, old man! Even though I have the upper hand, I do not intend to take your daughter by force. A woman taken by force is like food without salt: I shall take her from you only if you give her willingly.’

Nowfal’s aides and advisers agreed with him. If Majnun could not have Layla, he had only himself to blame. After all, the whole thing was Majnun’s doing; the blame for the bloodshed was his. And had he not, during the first encounter, taken the side of the enemy and acted treacherously towards those who were fighting for his sake? The very same horseman who had berated Majnun for his behaviour during that first battle now stepped forward and addressed Nowfal.

‘The old man is right,’ he said. ‘This fool, Majnun, is a slave to lust. Thoughts of disobedience and rebellion dominate his whole being and he is in no fit state to ask for anyone’s hand in marriage. He is clearly of unsound mind and is not to be trusted. Did we not risk our lives on his account? Were we not ready to fight to the death? In spite of all that, his hope was that the enemy would emerge victorious! On his behalf we presented our bodies as targets for their arrows — arrows that he, in secret, was blessing! No sane man acts in such a way. Look at him, see how he laughs
without reason and cries with no excuse! Even if he were to win Layla, Fate would not bless their union. The man has no redeeming qualities and you, Nowfal, will live to regret ever having come to his aid. The honour and shame so far apportioned are enough: let us cut our losses now and wash our hands of the whole affair.’

What was Nowfal to do? Layla’s father was inexorable even in defeat; he even enjoyed the support of Nowfal’s men. And given that his own mind was filled with doubts concerning Majnun, Nowfal could hardly blame them.

And so he decided. Electing to withdraw his request for the spoils of victory, Nowfal signalled to his men to break camp and depart.