by Tariq Ali
As the months passed, Messud would look for opportunities to send Kamil on special missions. He would be drafted to Fustat, or to supervise the construction of the new citadel, or to train young soldiers in the art of sword-fighting, or sent on any other mission that occurred to Messud’s twisted and obsessed mind.
Halima told me that they had found a trysting place, not far from the Mahmudiya quarter where she lived. Unbeknown to her, Kamil’s mother had started having her followed by a loyal servant, until the lovers’ routine had become well-established. One day she sent a messenger to fetch her son. She pretended that death itself was knocking on her door. Kamil, sick with worry, rushed home and was relieved to see his mother well. But the look on her face told him everything. She did not speak a word, merely nodding to the twelve-year-old servant-spy and indicating to her son to follow him. Kamil was about to leave his sword behind, but she told him he might soon have some use for it.
The boy walked at a brisk pace. Kamil followed him in a daze. He knew his mother disliked Halima. He knew that wherever he was going, there he would find her. But he was hardly prepared for what he saw when he entered the room. Messud and Halima, lying naked on the floor, were drowning each other in bliss.
Kamil screamed. It was an awful scream. Anger, betrayal, jealousy were all wrapped up in that scream. Messud covered himself and got up on his feet, his face disfigured by guilt. He did not put up a fight. He knew what was his due, and he waited patiently for his punishment. Kamil ran his sword through his friend’s heart.
Halima did not scream. She grabbed her cloak and left the room. She did not see her lover’s spurting blood send her husband into a frenzy. But the boy observed everything. He saw his master punish the dead body of his friend. He saw him cut off the offending organ. Then, his anger spent, Kamil sat down and wept. He talked to his dead friend. He pleaded to be told why Messud had regarded Halima’s body as more important than their friendship.
“If you had asked me,” he shouted at the body, “I would have given her to you.”
At this point in the Kadi’s story, the Sultan interrupted him.
“Enough, al-Fadil. We have heard all that we need to know. It is a wretched business. One of my finest horsemen lies dead. Killed, not by the Franj, but by his best friend. My day had started so well with Ibn Yakub, but now you have ruined it with this painful story. There is no solution to this problem. The solution lay within the problem. Is that not the case?”
The Kadi smiled sadly.
“At one level, of course, you are correct. Yet looked at from the point of view of the state, this is a serious offence, a question of discipline. Kamil has killed a superior officer. If he were to remain unpunished, news would spread. It would demoralise the soldiers, especially the Syrians who loved Messud. I think punishment is necessary. He should not have taken the law into his own hands. Justice in Your Highness’ realm is my responsibility and mine alone. Only you can override my decision. What do you suggest in this case?”
“Your choice, al-Fadil.”
“I demand Kamil’s head.”
“No!” screamed the Sultan. “Flog him if you must, but nothing more. The offence was caused by a fit of uncontrollable passion. Even you, my friend, would have found it difficult to exercise restraint in such circumstances.”
“As the Sultan desires.”
The Kadi remained seated. He knew instinctively, from long years of service to his Sultan, that Salah al-Din had not yet finished with this story. For a few minutes, none of us spoke.
“Tell me, al-Fadil,” said the familiar voice, “what has become of the wench?”
“I thought you might like to question her yourself, and I took the liberty of bringing her to the palace. She should be stoned to death for adultery. The Sultan must decide the sentence. It would be a popular decision. The talk in the bazaar is that she is possessed by the devil.”
“I am intrigued. What kind of animal is she? As you leave, have her sent to me.”
The Kadi bowed and, without the tiniest acknowledgement of my presence, he left the room.
“What as yet I cannot understand, Ibn Yakub,” said the Sultan, “is why al-Fadil brought this case to me. Perhaps it was because he could not risk executing a Misrian officer without my approval. Perhaps. I suppose that’s the reason. But one must never underestimate al-Fadil. He is a sly camel. I’m sure there was a hidden motive.”
At this point a retainer entered, and announced that Halima was outside the door. The Sultan nodded, and she was ushered before him. She fell on her knees and bowed, touching his feet with her forehead.
“Enough of this,” said the Sultan in the harsh voice of a ruler sitting in judgement. “Sit down in front of us.”
As she sat up, I saw her face for the first time. It was as if a lamp had lit the room. This was no ordinary beauty. Despite her sadness, her tearful eyes were shining and intelligent. This one would not go willingly to the executioner. She would fight. Resistance was written on her face.
As I turned to the Sultan, pen poised and waiting for him to speak, I could see that he too was bewitched by the sight of this young woman. She must have been twenty years old, at the most.
Salah al-Din’s eyes betrayed a softness I had not seen before, but I had not been with him before in the presence of a woman. He was staring at her with an intensity which would have frightened anyone else, but Halima looked straight into his eyes. It was the Sultan who finally averted his gaze. She had won the first contest.
“I am waiting,” he finally said. “Tell me why I should not hand you over to the Kadi, who will have you stoned to death for your crime.”
“If love is a crime,” she began in a self-pitying tone, “then, Commander of the Merciful, I deserve to die.”
“Not love, wretched woman, but adultery. Betraying your husband before God.”
At this her eyes blazed. The sadness had evaporated and she began to speak. Her voice changed too. She spoke with confidence and with no trace of humility. She had entirely regained her self-possession, and spoke to the Sultan in a confident voice as though addressing an equal.
“I could not understand how small this world can be for two people. When Messud was not with me, the memory of him became a torment. I care not whether I live or die, and I will submit to the Kadi’s punishment. He can have me stoned to death, but I will not beg for mercy or shout my repentance to the vultures. I am sad, but I am not sorry. The short spell of happiness was more than I had thought possible in this life.”
The Sultan asked if she had any relatives. She shook her head. He then requested Halima to tell her story.
I was two years old when I was sold to the family of Kamil ibn Zafar. They said I was an orphan, found abandoned miles away by Kurdish traders. They had taken pity on me, but the term of their pity was limited to only a couple of years. Kamil ibn Zafar’s mother could not conceive again. Her husband, they told me at the time, was dead. She lived in her father’s house, and this kind old man bought her a child from the streets. I was part of the seasonal trade. That is all I know of my past.
Kamil was ten or eleven years old at the time. He was kind and loving even then, and always attentive to my needs. He treated me as though I was his real sister. His mother’s attitude was different. She could never decide whether to bring me up as a daughter or as a slave girl. As I grew older, she became clearer as to my functions in the house. I still ate with the family, which annoyed the other servants, but I was trained to become her serving woman. It was not such a bad life, though I often felt lonely. The other serving women never fully trusted me.
Every day an old man came to the house to teach us the wisdom of the Koran, and to recount the deeds of the Prophet and his Companions. Soon Kamil had stopped attending these lessons. He would go riding with his friends, and shooting arrows at the mark. One day the teacher of holy texts grabbed my hand, and put it between his legs. I screamed. Kamil’s mother rushed into the room.
The teacher, mutteri
ng the name of Allah, told her that I was indecent and licentious. In his presence she slapped my face twice, and apologised to him. When Kamil came home, I told him the truth. He was angry with his mother, and the teacher was never allowed near our house again. I think that she was nervous of Kamil’s affection for me, and she soon found him a wife. She chose her sister’s daughter, Zenobia, who was two years older than me.
After Kamil’s wedding, I was made to attend to the needs of his young wife. I liked her. We had known each other since I had first entered the household, and we often shared each other’s secrets. When Zenobia bore Kamil a son, I was as delighted as all of them. I looked after the child a great deal, and I grew to love it as if it were my own. I envied Zenobia, who Allah had blessed with unlimited amounts of milk.
Everything was fine—even Kamil’s mother had become friendly again—until that fateful day when Kamil took me aside and told me that he loved me, and not just as a brother. Allah is my witness, I was wholly surprised. At first I was scared. But Kamil persisted. He wanted me. For a very long time, I resisted. I felt much affection for him, but no passion. Not so much as a trace.
I know not what would have happened, or even how it would have ended, had Kamil’s mother not attempted to marry me off to the son of the water-carrier. He was a rough type, and did not appeal to me. Yet marriage, as Your Grace knows, is never a free choice for women. If my mistress had decided my fate, I would have married the water-carrier’s boy.
Kamil was upset by the news. He declared that it would never happen, and immediately asked me to become his wife. His mother was shocked. His wife declared that she was humiliated by his choice, taking her servant as a second wife. Both women stopped speaking to me for many months.
Imagine my situation. There was no one to talk to about the problems of my life. In bed at night, I used to weep, yearning for the mother I never knew. I considered the choices confronting me quite coldly. The thought of the water-carrier’s son made me feel ill. I would rather have died or run away than bear his touch. Kamil, who had always been kind and loving to me, was the only possible alternative. I agreed to become his wife.
Kamil was overjoyed. I was satisfied and not unhappy, even though Zenobia hated me, and Kamil’s mother treated me as if I were dirt from the street. Her own past hung over her like a cloud. She could never forget that Kamil’s father had deserted her for another, while she was heavy with their child. He had left Cairo one night, never to return. I am told he has a family in Baghdad, where he trades in precious stones. His name was never mentioned, though Kamil used to think of him a great deal. What I have recounted is his mother’s side of the story.
In the kitchen, there was another version which is common knowledge. I was told it only after the servants were convinced that I would not carry tales to the mistress. For the truth is that Kamil’s father ran away from our city when he discovered, on returning from a long voyage abroad, that his wife had coupled with a local merchant. The child in her belly did not belong to him. Kamil confirmed this to me after we were married. His mother knew that I had been told, and the very thought filled with her hatred. What would have happened to all of us Allah alone knows.
Then Messud, with eyes like almonds and lips as sweet as honey, entered my life. He told me tales of Damascus, and how he had fought by the side of Sultan Yusuf Salah al-Din ibn Ayyub. I could not resist him. I did not wish to resist him. What I felt for him was something I had never experienced before.
That is my story, O great Sultan. I know that you will live without misfortune, you will win great victories, you will rule over us, you will pass judgement, and you will make sure your sons are brought up as you wish them to be. Your success has put you where you are. This benighted, blind and homeless creature puts her trust in you. Allah’s will must be done.
While Halima had been talking, Salah al-Din had drunk in every word, observed every gesture, and noticed every flash of the eyes. She had the look of a wild, but cornered, cat. Now he inspected her with the steady, emotionless gaze of a Kadi, as though his face were made of stone. The intensity of the Sultan’s gaze unnerved the girl. This time, it was she who averted her eyes.
He smiled and clapped his hands. The ever-faithful Shadhi entered the chamber, and the Sultan spoke to him in the Kurdish dialect, which I could not understand. The sound struck some deep chord in Halima. Hearing them talk in their tongue startled her, and she listened carefully.
“Go with him,” the Sultan told her. “He will make sure you remain safe, far away from the Kadi’s stones.”
She kissed his feet, and Shadhi took her by the elbow and guided her out of the chamber.
“Speak frankly, Ibn Yakub. Your religion shares many of our prescriptions. In my place, would you have allowed such a beautiful creation to be stoned to death outside the Bab-el-Barkiya?”
I shook my head.
“I would not, Your Highness, but many of the more orthodox within my religion would share the view of the great Kadi.”
“Surely you understand, my good scribe, that al-Fadil did not really want her to be killed. That is what all this business is about. He wanted me to take the decision. That is all. Had he wished, he could have dealt with the whole matter himself—and then informed me when it was too late to intervene. By asking me to listen to her story, he knew that he was not consigning her to the cruel uncertainties of enigmatic fate. He knows me well. He would have been sure I would keep her alive. If the truth be told, I think our Kadi, too, fell under Halima’s spell. I think she will be safe in the harem.
“Now, it has been a tiring day. You will break some bread with me, I trust?”
Four
A eunuch kills the great Sultan Zengi and the fortunes of Salah al-Din’s family take a turn; Shadhi’s story
THE FOLLOWING MORNING, I arrived at the palace at the agreed time and was taken to the library by Shadhi. The Sultan himself did not appear. I busied myself with volumes hitherto unknown to me.
At noon I was told by a messenger, with Shadhi trailing behind him, that matters of state were occupying the Sultan and that he had no time that day.
I was about to leave when Shadhi winked at me. I was wary of this stooped old man, who was still vain enough to dye his white beard with henna and whose well-oiled bald head glistened dangerously in the sun. My face must have registered confusion.
“Matters of state?”
The old man laughed, a rasping, loud, vulgar, sceptical laugh, as if to answer his own question.
“I think the Defender of the Weak is not inspecting the citadel as he should be at this hour. Instead, he is exploring the cracks and crevices of the girl with red hair.”
I was slightly shocked, not even sure myself whether I was disturbed more by the words that Shadhi had spoken or by the message they conveyed. Could it be true? The Sultan’s speed on horseback was legendary, and I wondered whether this same impatience had characterised his movements in the bedchamber. And Halima? Had she yielded willingly, without a struggle or, at the very least, a verbal plea for patience? Was it a seduction, or a violation?
The report was probably accurate. I was desperate for more information, but I refrained from comment, not wishing to encourage Shadhi further. This irritated him. He was trying to develop a familiarity with me by sharing a secret, and he took my lack of response 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.