The Tale of the Three Apples

In the days when Harun al-Rashid ruled as Caliph of Baghdad, the city flourished as the jewel of the Islamic world, and the Caliph’s court was renowned for its justice and wisdom. Harun al-Rashid himself was known throughout the lands as a ruler who valued truth above all else and who would spare no effort to ensure that justice was served, no matter how complex the circumstances might be.

One morning, as the Caliph held court in his magnificent palace, Jafar the Barmecide, his trusted vizier and closest advisor, approached the throne with evident distress written across his usually composed features. The courtiers noticed his agitation immediately, for Jafar was famous for his calm demeanor even in the most challenging situations.

“Commander of the Faithful,” Jafar said, bowing deeply before the throne, “I bring news that will trouble your noble heart. A terrible crime has been discovered that demands your immediate attention.”

Harun al-Rashid leaned forward, his dark eyes sharp with concern. “Speak, Jafar. What crime is so heinous that it disturbs your usual tranquility?”

“My lord,” Jafar replied, his voice heavy with sorrow, “this morning the city guards discovered a large chest floating in the Tigris River. When they brought it ashore and opened it, they found within the body of a young woman, most foully murdered. She had been cut into pieces, and the manner of her death suggests a crime of passion rather than mere robbery.”

A murmur of shock rippled through the assembled courtiers, but the Caliph’s face remained stern and controlled. “Such wickedness cannot be tolerated in our realm,” he declared. “Justice must be swift and certain. Jafar, I give you three days to find the murderer and bring him before me. If you fail in this task, you yourself shall pay the price for this unsolved crime.”

Jafar’s face paled at these words, for he knew the Caliph’s reputation for keeping his promises, even when they involved harsh consequences for those he loved. But he also understood that Harun al-Rashid’s commitment to justice was what made him a great ruler, and that no one, not even the vizier himself, could be exempt from the law.

“I hear and obey, Commander of the Faithful,” Jafar replied. “I shall leave no stone unturned in seeking the truth of this matter.”

For two days and nights, Jafar and his men searched throughout Baghdad, questioning merchants, guards, servants, and citizens of every station. They examined the chest for clues, studied the woman’s clothing and jewelry for any sign that might lead them to her identity, and interviewed everyone who lived or worked near the river where the body had been found.

But despite their exhaustive efforts, they discovered nothing that would help them identify either the victim or her killer. The woman appeared to be from a respectable family, judging by her fine clothes and delicate hands, but no one they questioned recognized her description, and no family had reported a missing daughter or wife.

As the third day dawned, Jafar found himself in despair. He had served the Caliph faithfully for many years, and the thought of failing him now filled his heart with grief. But even worse was the knowledge that his failure would result in his own death, leaving his family without protection and his duties to the state unfulfilled.

Just as Jafar was preparing to return to the palace and confess his inability to solve the crime, one of his guards came running to him with news. “My lord,” the guard panted, “we have found something! In the market square, a merchant is arguing with a young slave over three apples that the slave claims to have stolen from his master’s house.”

“What bearing could stolen fruit have on our investigation?” Jafar asked wearily, but his years of experience had taught him that sometimes the smallest details could unlock the greatest mysteries.

“The slave says that his master is mad with grief over these particular apples,” the guard explained. “According to the boy, his master had traveled to Basra specifically to obtain these fruits for his sick wife, but when he returned home, he found that the apples had disappeared. The master accused his wife of giving them away, and in his rage…” The guard hesitated, clearly uncomfortable with what he had to report.

“Continue,” Jafar ordered, though his heart was beginning to race with a terrible suspicion.

“The slave says his master killed his wife in his fury, then cut up her body and threw it in the river. The boy only confessed to stealing the apples because he couldn’t bear to see his master’s torment over their loss.”

Jafar felt his blood turn cold as the implications of this story became clear. “Bring this slave to me immediately,” he commanded. “And summon his master as well. If this tale is true, we have found our murderer.”

Within the hour, Jafar found himself face-to-face with a young slave boy whose eyes were red with tears and terror, and a middle-aged man whose grief and guilt were written clearly on his haggard features. The man’s name was Hassan, and he was indeed a respectable merchant of the city.

“Tell me your story,” Jafar commanded Hassan, though the man’s obvious anguish made the interrogation painful to conduct.

Hassan’s voice broke as he began to speak. “My lord, my wife Aminah was the light of my life, the mother of my children, and the most virtuous woman in all of Baghdad. When she fell ill with a fever that would not break, she developed a craving for the sweet apples that grow only in the orchards of Basra.”

He paused to compose himself before continuing. “Despite the expense and difficulty of the journey, I traveled to Basra to obtain these apples for her, hoping that fulfilling her wish might help restore her health. I purchased three of the finest fruits I could find and hurried back to Baghdad, eager to see the joy in her eyes when I presented them to her.”

“But when I returned home,” Hassan continued, his voice growing thick with emotion, “I found that the apples were gone from the place where I had left them. When I asked Aminah what had become of them, she swore that she had never seen them and knew nothing of their disappearance.”

Jafar listened grimly as Hassan described how his exhaustion from the long journey, combined with his frustration over his wife’s illness and the mysterious disappearance of the expensive fruits, had caused him to lose his temper completely.

“I accused her of lying to me,” Hassan confessed, tears streaming down his face. “I said terrible things, claimed that she had given the apples to another man, questioned her virtue and her love for our family. In my madness, I convinced myself that she was deceiving me about more than just the fruit.”

“And then?” Jafar prompted, though he dreaded to hear the answer.

“In my rage and suspicion, I… I killed her,” Hassan whispered. “The moment the deed was done, I realized the enormity of my crime, but it was too late. In my guilt and terror, I dismembered her body and cast it into the river, hoping to hide my sin from the world.”

“But the truth has a way of revealing itself,” Jafar observed. “How did the apples come to be in the market?”

At this, Hassan looked at his young slave with a mixture of love and sorrow. “This morning, I discovered that my son—my own dear boy—had taken the apples from our house to play with, then lost one of them while running through the streets. My slave, Rayhan, found the child crying and learned what had happened. In his loyalty to our family, Rayhan went to the market to try to recover the lost apple, hoping to spare my son any punishment.”

The young slave, Rayhan, stepped forward with tears in his eyes. “My lord,” he said to Jafar, “I heard my master speaking to his friends about the three apples and how their disappearance had led to his wife’s death. When I saw the fruit vendor with an apple that matched the description, I tried to get it back, claiming it was stolen from our house. I thought that if I could reunite all three apples, somehow the tragedy might be undone.”

Jafar felt his heart heavy with the weight of this tragic tale. Here was a crime that, while legally requiring punishment, had been born not of evil intent but of love transformed into destructive jealousy and grief. Hassan was clearly a man destroyed by his own actions, and his family had suffered beyond measure.

“Hassan ibn Ahmad,” Jafar said formally, “you have confessed to the murder of your wife. By law, you must answer for this crime before the Caliph himself.”

Hassan nodded, accepting his fate with the resignation of a man who had lost everything that mattered to him. “I am ready to face whatever justice the Commander of the Faithful deems appropriate. My only request is that provision be made for my children, who are innocent of their father’s sins.”

When Jafar brought Hassan before Harun al-Rashid and related the full story of the three apples, the Caliph listened with the gravity befitting a ruler who understood that justice must be tempered with wisdom and mercy.

“Hassan ibn Ahmad,” the Caliph said when the tale was complete, “you have committed a grave crime against an innocent woman and against the order of our society. By law, your life is forfeit for this deed.”

Hassan bowed his head, accepting the verdict without protest.

But Harun al-Rashid continued: “However, it is clear that your crime was born of love corrupted by suspicion and grief, rather than inherent evil. The loss of your wife is itself a terrible punishment, and your genuine remorse speaks to the goodness that still exists in your heart.”

The Caliph paused, considering his words carefully before pronouncing judgment. “You will be imprisoned for seven years, during which time you will work to support the families of other victims of crime. Your children will be cared for by the state during your imprisonment, and when you are released, you will dedicate your life to serving those who have suffered as your family has suffered.”

“Moreover,” the Caliph added, “your slave Rayhan has shown such loyalty and selflessness in trying to undo the consequences of a tragedy he did not cause, that I hereby grant him his freedom and a position in my own household.”

Hassan wept with gratitude for the mercy he had been shown, while Rayhan prostrated himself before the throne, overwhelmed by the unexpected honor.

But the Caliph was not finished. “Let this tale be recorded in our chronicles,” he declared, “as a reminder that suspicion without foundation can destroy the very thing we seek to protect, and that love without trust is a poison that corrupts the heart.”

“The three apples,” Harun al-Rashid continued, “represent the fragility of happiness and the importance of communication between those who love each other. Had Hassan trusted his wife enough to question her gently rather than accusing her harshly, had he taken time to discover the innocent truth behind the missing fruit, this tragedy would never have occurred.”

As Hassan was led away to begin his imprisonment, he paused to speak to his former slave. “Rayhan,” he said with deep emotion, “your loyalty has been a light in the darkness of my guilt. Please, when you have established yourself in your new position, watch over my children and tell them that their father loved them, even though his love for their mother was corrupted by his own weakness.”

Rayhan promised that he would honor this request, and indeed, he proved as faithful to Hassan’s children as he had been to Hassan himself. Under his protection and guidance, they grew up to be honorable citizens who dedicated their lives to helping others, as if seeking to atone for their father’s crime through their own good deeds.

Years later, when Hassan was released from prison, he found that his children had prospered under Rayhan’s care and that they welcomed him back with forgiveness and love. Hassan spent the remainder of his life working with families who had suffered from domestic violence, sharing his story as a warning about the dangers of jealousy and the importance of trust in marriage.

The tale of the three apples became one of the most famous stories told in the court of Harun al-Rashid, serving as a reminder that even the smallest misunderstandings can have tragic consequences when pride and suspicion are allowed to overcome love and trust. The Caliph would often refer to this case when counseling married couples, urging them to communicate openly and to choose trust over suspicion when faced with unexplained circumstances.

And the three apples themselves were preserved in the royal treasury, not for their monetary value, but as a symbol of how precious and fragile happiness can be, and how important it is to guard against the destructive power of unfounded jealousy. They served as a reminder to all who saw them that true love requires not only passion and devotion, but also patience, trust, and the wisdom to seek truth through understanding rather than accusation.

In later years, scholars and judges would study this case as an example of how justice could be served while still acknowledging the complex circumstances that sometimes led good people to commit terrible acts. The balanced judgment of Harun al-Rashid—punishment that was just but not vengeful, mercy that acknowledged human weakness without excusing criminal behavior—became a model for Islamic jurisprudence that influenced legal thinking for centuries to come.

And so the tale of the three apples passed into legend, teaching generations of listeners that love without trust is a foundation built on sand, that jealousy is a fire that consumes everything it touches, and that the search for truth and justice must always be guided by wisdom and tempered with mercy.