by Tariq Ali
If I shut my eyes and think of my earliest memories, the first image that fills my mind is the ruins of the old Greek temples at Baalbek. Their size made one tremble in admiration and awe. The gates leading into the courtyard were still intact. They were truly built for the gods. My father, as representative of the great Sultan Zengi of Mosul, was in charge of the fortress and its defence against the Sultan’s rivals. This was the town where I grew up. The ancients named it Heliopolis, and worshipped Zeus there, and Hermes and Aphrodite.
As children, we used to divide into different groups at the feet of their statues, and hide from each other. There is nothing like a ruin to excite the imagination of a child. There was magic in those old stones. I used to daydream about the old days. Till then the world of the ancients had been a complete puzzle. The worship of idols was the worst heresy for us, something that had been removed from the world by Allah and our Prophet. Yet these temples, and the images of Aphrodite and Hermes in particular, were very pleasing.
We used to think how exciting it would have been if we had lived in those times. We often fought over the gods. I was a partisan of Aphrodite, my older brother, Turan Shah, loved Hermes. As for Zeus, all that remained of his statue was the legs, and they were not very attractive. I think the rest of him had been used to build the fortress in which we now lived.
Shadhi, worried at the corrupting effect of these remnants from the past, would try and scare us away from the ruins. The gods could transform humans into statues or other objects without their losing their minds. He would invent tales of how djinns and demons, and other ungodly creatures, would gather at these sites whenever there was a full moon. All they discussed was how to grab and eat children. Hundreds and thousands of children have been eaten here by the djinns over the centuries, he would tell us in his deep voice. Then, seeing the fright on our faces, he would qualify what he had said. Nothing would harm us, since we were under the protection of Allah and the Prophet.
Shadhi’s stories only added to the attraction. We would ask him about the three gods, and some of the scholars in the library would talk openly of the ancients and of their beliefs. Their gods and goddesses were like humans. They fought and loved, and shared other human emotions. What distinguished them from us was that they did not die. They lived for ever and ever in their own heaven, a place very different from our paradise.
“Are they still in their own heaven now?” I remember asking my grandmother one night.
She was enraged.
“Who has been filling your head with all this nonsense? Your father will have their tongues removed. They were never anything else but statues, foolish boy. People in those times were very stupid. They worshipped idols. In our part of the world it was our own Prophet, may he rest in peace, who finally destroyed the statues and their influence.”
Everything we were told increased our fascination with these things. Nothing could keep us away from them. One night, when the moon was full, the older children, led by my brother, decided to visit the sanctuary of Aphrodite. They were planning to leave me behind, but I heard them whispering and threatened to tell our grandmother. My brother kicked me hard, but realised the danger of not including me.
It was cold that night. Even though we had wrapped ourselves in blankets, my teeth were trembling and the tip of my nose was numb. I think there were six or seven of us. Slowly we crept out of the fortress. We were all frightened, and I remember the complaints when I was compelled to stop twice to water the roots of an old tree. We became more confident as we approached Aphrodite. We had heard nothing except the owls and the barking dogs. No djinns had appeared.
Yet just as we entered the moonlit temple courtyard, we heard strange noises. I nearly died, and clung tightly to Turan Shah. Even he was scared. Slowly we crept towards the noises. There stretched out before us was the bare backside of Shadhi as he heaved forwards and backwards, his black hair waving in the wind. He was copulating like a donkey, and once we realised it was him we could not restrain ourselves. Our laughter swept through the empty yard, striking Shadhi like a dagger. He turned and began to scream abuse at us. We ran. The next day my brother confronted him.
“The djinn had a very familiar arse last night, did it not Shadhi?”
Salah-ud-Din paused and laughed at the memory. As luck would have it, Shadhi entered the library at that moment with a message. Before he could speak, the Sultan’s laughter reached a higher pitch. The bewildered retainer looked at us in turn, and it was with great difficulty that I managed to control my features, though I too was inwardly bursting with laughter.
Shadhi, by way of explanation, was told of the story that had just been recounted. His face went red, and he spoke angrily to Salah al-Din in the Kurdish dialect, and stormed out of the room.
The Sultan laughed again.
“He has threatened revenge. He will tell you tales from my youth in Damascus, which he is sure I have forgotten.”
Our first session was over.
We left the library, the Sultan indicating with a gesture that I should follow him. The corridors and rooms we passed through were furnished in an endless variety of silks and brocades, with mirrors edged in silver and gold. Eunuchs guarded each sanctuary. I had never seen such luxury.
The Sultan left me little time to wonder. He walked quickly, his robe streaming in the wind created by his rapid movements. We entered the audience chamber. Outside stood a Nubian guard, a scimitar by his side. He bowed as we entered. The Sultan sat on a raised platform, covered in purple silks and surrounded by cushions covered in satin and gold brocade.
The Kadi had already arrived at the palace for his daily report and consultations. He was summoned to the chamber. As he entered and bowed, I made as if to leave. To my surprise, the Sultan asked me to remain seated. He wanted me to observe and write down everything of note.
I had often seen the Kadi al-Fadil in the streets of the city, preceded and followed by his guards and retainers, symbols of power and authority. The face of the state. This was the man who presided over the Diwan al-insha, the chancellery of the state, the man who ensured the regular and smooth functioning of Misr. He had served the Fatimid Caliphs and their ministers with the same zeal he now devoted to the man who had overthrown them. He embodied the continuity of the institutions of Misr. The Sultan trusted him as a counsellor and friend, and the Kadi never flinched from offering unwelcome advice. It was also he who drew up official and personal letters, after the Sultan had provided the outlines of what he wished to say.
The Sultan introduced me as his very special and private scribe. I rose and bowed low before the Kadi. He smiled.
“Ibn Maymun has talked much of you, Ibn Yakub. He respects your learning and your skills. That is enough for me.”
I bowed my head in gratitude. Ibn Maymun had warned me that if the Kadi had become possessive of the Sultan, and resented my presence, he could have me removed from this world without much difficulty.
“And my approval, al-Fadil?” inquired the Sultan. “Does that mean nothing at all? I accept that I am not a great thinker or a poet like you, nor am I a philosopher and physician like our good friend, Ibn Maymun. But surely you will admit I am a good judge of men. It was I who picked Ibn Yakub.”
“Your Excellency mocks this humble servant,” replied the Kadi in a slightly bored fashion, as if to say that he was not in the mood for playing games today.
After a few preliminary skirmishes, in which he refused to be further provoked by his master, the Kadi sketched out the main events of the preceding week. This was a routine report on the most trivial aspects of running the state, but it was difficult not to be bewitched by his mastery of the language. Every word was carefully chosen, every sentence finely tuned, and the conclusion rewarded with a couplet. This man was truly impressive. The entire report took up an hour, and not once had the Kadi had occasion to consult a single piece of paper. What a feat of memory!
The Sultan was used to the Kadi’s delivery, and had appeared t
o shut his eyes for long spells during his chancellor’s exquisite discourse.
“Now I come to an important matter on which I need your decision, Sire. It involves the murder of one of your officers by another.”
The Sultan was wide awake.
“Why was I not informed earlier?”
“The incident of which I speak only happened two days ago. I spent the whole of yesterday in establishing the truth. Now I can report the whole story to you.”
“I’m listening, al-Fadil.”
The Kadi began to speak.
THREE
A case of uncontrollable passions: the story of Halima and the judgement of the Sultan
MESSUD AL-DIN, AS YOU will recall, was one of Your Grace’s bravest officers. He had fought by your side on many an occasion. Two days ago, he was dispatched by a much younger man, Kamil ibn Zafar, one of the most gifted swordsmen, I am told, in our city. The news was brought to me by Halima, herself the cause of the conflict between the two men. She is now hiding under my protection till the matter is resolved. If the Sultan were to see her, he would understand why Messud lies dead and why Kamil is prepared to suffer a similar fate. She is beautiful.
Halima was an orphan. There was no rosy childhood for her. It was as if she knew the transgressions that were destined to flow from her. She stepped into adult life and startled it with her beauty, her intelligence, her audacity. She became a serving woman in the household of Kamil ibn Zafar, where she worked for his wife and looked after his children.
Kamil could have done what he wanted with her. He could have used her body when overcome by desire, he could have installed her in his house as an official concubine. But he loved her. She was not the one to demand that he should marry her. The pressure came from him, and the marriage duly took place.
Halima insisted on behaving as if nothing had changed. She refused to stay at home the whole day. She would serve Kamil at home, and then remain in the room while his male friends were present. She told me that although Kamil was a kind and considerate man, she did not feel the passion for him that he felt for her. Her explanation of the marriage was that it was only through such a link that he felt she would be his property for life. Yes, Sire, that is the word she used. Property.
Messud had first seen Halima at the house of his friend, Kamil, who had opened out his heart to him. Kamil told Messud of his love for Halima, and how he could not live without her. The two men spoke of her a great deal, and Messud came to learn of her most appealing qualities.
On the occasions when Messud called to enjoy a drink with his friend, and Kamil was absent, he would accept a small glass of tea from Halima. She would speak to him as an equal, and regale him with the latest stories and jokes from the bazaar, often at the expense of your Kadi, O merciful Sultan. And sometimes the darts were aimed at the Caliph in Baghdad and at your own good self.
Kamil’s mother and his oldest wife were shocked by Halima’s behaviour. They complained bitterly, but Kamil was unmoved.
“Messud is like my own brother,” he told them. “I serve under him in the glorious army of Yusuf Salah al-Din. His family is at home in Damascus. My house is his house. Treat him as you would someone who is part of our family. Halima understands my feelings better than you. If Messud displeases you, then keep out of his way. I do not wish to impose him on you.”
The subject was never raised again. Messud became a regular visitor.
It was Halima who made the first move. Nothing is more attractive than forbidden fruit. One evening, when Kamil and the rest of the family were at the funeral of his first wife’s father, Halima found herself alone. The servants and armed retainers had accompanied their master to the burial. Messud, unsuspecting Messud, unaware of the death in the family, arrived to eat with his friend. He found the beautiful Halima greeting him in the empty courtyard. As the setting sun shone on her light red hair, she must have reminded him of a fairy princess from the Caucasus.
She did not give me an exact account of how our noble warrior Messud ended the afternoon by resting his satisfied body on hers, his head pressed gently on her peach-like breasts. I know Your Grace appreciates every detail, but my modest imagination is incapable of satisfying you today. Their passion for each other became like a slow-working poison.
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 t
he 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.
