Tariq Ali - The Book of Saladin

The Sultan was used to the Kadi’s delivery, and had appeared to 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.

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.”