At the northern outskirts of Cairo ‘Abd al-Rahman caught up with the sultan’s retinue and accompanied him into the city while steering well clear of all the pomp and ceremony. When they reached the approaches to the Ablaq Palace, he rushed off home, eager to kiss his wife and daughter.
The master’s hunches about the young sultan’s proclivities toward intrigue and slackness proved to be correct. Toward the end of 802 there was a noticeable change in attitude toward him, all accompanied by abuse and defamation. All the while Sultan Faraj paid no attention and did nothing. His retinue set about organizing ‘Abd al-Rahman’s dismissal as judge and the sale of the office for hard cash to the totally unknown judge named Nur al-Din ibn al-Khilal; no one either objected or saw anything wrong with it. The accusation leveled against ‘Abd al-Rahman was exactly the same as had been used when he had first served as a judge: being too severe in imposing sentences and punishments — or, to put it in terms closer to the reality of the situation, the Maliki judge refused to close his eyes and “take in the broader picture.” What he was supposed to do was to put on a robe crafted by the new military and administrative authorities and accept bribes from their friends who were owners of livestock, farms, and estates. That was how he was to behave if he wished to stay in the good books of political, state, and financial officials. The whole thing involved adjusting God’s laws in accordance with their private desires and interests. What God had explicitly forbidden was to be declared legal. He was to turn a blind eye to crooked sales practices, deceit, and graft, and to go easy on opportunists and monopolists and other types of fraudulent operators.
No, no, a thousand times, no! That is what ‘Abd al-Rahman said to Aqbay, the chamberlain who was intriguing against him as hard as he could. And ‘Abd al-Rahman went on to say, “By God, in whose hands lies my own soul, no sultan, however great his sway may be, will ever dissuade me from passing judgment according to what is right.” Those were inflammatory and crushing words, and they made his enemies realize that things had now come to a head. They forced the chamberlain not merely to fire the judge but to throw him in prison in the Citadel for a week. During that time ‘Abd al-Rahman was allowed to read and to receive his servant, Sha‘ban, who brought him comforting news about his family.
“Everything at home is fine, sir. Your friends have told me what had happened. Never mind, I told myself, I’ll have to tell your wife that my Master is the guest of the sultan.”
“That’s fine, Sha‘ban. Tell my wife that I’m the sultan’s guest, and no one knows for how long.”
While in prison ‘Abd al-Rahman thought less about his own circumstances than he did about the cracks that were appearing in Egyptian military ranks and the ever- increasing advantages for the Mongol invasion. The sultan was very young; now he was aware of exactly how young! A plaything in the hands of evil cliques, only emerging from one crisis to fall into another. Those religious scholars who were both intelligent and well-meaning had neither role nor authority against the political power of clashing ambitions and intrigues. It was better to stay in prison than to be turned into a bridge for the exploitation of thugs and con men.
At the end of the week ‘Abd al-Rahman was ordered released from prison and confined to his house. One of the walls in the prison preserved for posterity a line of poetry composed by its illustrious occupant:
On earth the noble man finds a retreat from wrong;
In it is a refuge for one who fears hate.
Barely had ‘Abd al-Rahman hugged his wife and daughter before he squelched his anger by saying loudly, “This time, Umm al-Batul, we must leave this benighted country. Egypt is no longer a place of refuge from wrong. The Maghrib is my homeland, and it remains so even though it may have treated me badly. The voice of the Maghrib inside me keeps telling me to come home. Fez is waiting for us. Pack up our bags and make ready to leave.”
His wife trilled three times in sheer delight. “Where do I start?” she kept saying as she paced around the rooms. “Sha‘ban, help me!”
The old servant looked sadder than a raven. “Worries are half the burden of old age, sir,” he said, “With your departure, my old age has finally arrived for good. The happiest days of my life have been spent in your service. How can I stand the thought of your leaving?”
‘Abd al-Rahman had no idea how to talk to his faithful servant. He gave him a distracted look full of affection, but left it to his wife to come up with the right reply.
“You’re one of us, Sha‘ban. When we go, you can come with us.”
“For me, Umm al-Batul,” Sha‘ban replied, “the world’s boundaries stop at Fustat and Cairo. Even when I was in the prime of life, I’ve never left my homeland. How can I possibly do it now when my back is bent by old age? If you have to leave, then do it slowly and deliberately out of kindness to me.”
‘Abd al-Rahman immediately set about calming Sha‘ban down. He told his wife to think about the idea and to take things slowly. With that, he went up to his study to read and write.
The next day, ‘Abd al-Rahman received a visit from the dawadar Yashbak al-Sha‘bani. After welcoming him warmly, he told his visitor that he intended to return to his homeland, saying merely that he longed to go back. However, his visitor immediately revealed the reason for his visit.
“Wali al-Din,” he said, “I’ve just spent more than a month in Syria, keeping track of news about Timur. I’ve been consulting with the amirs and also with the viceroy of al-Ghiba. If I’d been in Cairo, no one, not even the sultan in person, would have been able to harm you. Aqbay, the chamberlain, is stupid and dishonest; his only virtue is that he sided with Faraj during the recent revolt. As soon as I got back to Cairo and heard you’d been put in prison, I immediately went and told him about the documents I had written down when you had met with his father, the late Sultan Barquq. That made him shed bitter tears. He has asked me to apologize to you on his behalf and to offer you a Maliki teaching post at the endowment of Umm Salih. Then, so help me God, if Aqbay were not already heading for a downfall, I would ask that he be ordered to beg your forgiveness and to walk from the chamberlain’s office on foot, just as he made you do when he summoned you.”
‘Abd al-Rahman burst into a smile.
“May God reward you well, Yashbak,” he said earnestly, yet humbly. “God bless you for all your efforts on my behalf. Walking, I would remind you, is healthy exercise, warmly recommended by doctors and physicians. For old people like me it has well documented benefits. The primary damage resulted from the type of prison I was in before you returned from Syria. In my view there are two types of prison: one is an object of pride, the other a source of humiliation and degradation. I savored the first type when I was young. I served two years in prison in Fez during the reign of the Marini sultan, Abu ‘Inan. The second type I have had to endure for totally unjust reasons at the beginning of the reign of a sultan who is still a minor and whose father I had served loyally. But let’s not waste time talking about a trial that many people hoped would totally humiliate me, but now they’ve been proved wrong. I survived it in one piece, all because I spent much time contemplating the Mighty and Infinite One and the collected wisdom of India, Greece, the Arabs, and the Persians. I gave my memory a free hand and opened the gates to the spiritual inspiration of the mystical path. The Sufis of Islam gave me the benefit of their choicest moments. Al-Karkhi was watching over me as we both intoned: ‘Sufism involves grasping genuine truths; despair what is in mortals’ hands.’”