“Why don’t you enjoy yourself, my dear? Horseback riding is such fun.”
And only in bed does the colonel manage to forget the Duke of Wellington’s cyphered cable: “Not pleased with guarantees you are offering. Use them and any other circumstance to persuade shah and prince to enter into alliance with Turkey.”
6
The Qajars are adorned with silver.
But their horses are covered in gold.
▶ Avar folk song
From the outside, they look like gigantic pots turned upside down.
On the inside, they are hollow—and piled up with night soil. These are the Tehrani city wall towers. If they were made not out of clay but out of flagstone, they would look like the wall towers of the Russian city of Pskov, which repelled the attacks of Stephen Báthory. But these walls are made of earth, and Fat’h-Ali-shah, also known as Baba-Khan, sits on a golden throne in godforsaken, earthy Tehran.
He is of short stature, once with the same lively eyes as Abbas but now dull and inflamed, an elderly handsome man with a fleshy, Turkic nose.
The best thing about him is his beard, considered to be the longest in all of Persia, the beard that goes down in two Assyrian columns to “the lower regions of the stomach,” as a decorous traveler once wrote, the beard that by now crawled up to his eyes and covered his ears.
Had Baba-Khan lived in old Russia, court sycophants would have called him “the quietest one,” and behind his back would have referred to him as “Chernomor.”5
Baba-Khan, who took no part in state affairs, was intelligent, probably no less intelligent than his son Abbas, who dealt with such matters.
He knew the taste of destitution and remembered the murder of the military leader—the eunuch.
In his youth, he had lived in great poverty. His mother would cook meager pilaf using rice bought with money borrowed from neighbors.
When he was very young, the life of his uncle, the famous eunuch, the founder of the Qajars, served as a warning to him.
Nothing good came out of that famous life.
His uncle was a eunuch. According to the reports of Prince Menshikov of 1826, the shah, Baba-Khan, had:
Sons 68
Older grandsons 124
---------------
Total: 192
Married daughters 53
Their sons 135
---------------
Total: 188
“As for the shah’s wives,” wrote Menshikov, “it is difficult to calculate their exact number since in the harem, they come and go so quickly. The number is estimated as 800 women, two-thirds of whom can be considered the shah’s actual wives.” In the 1830s, travelers estimated the number to be up to “a thousand souls of the female gender (!)” By the eightieth year of his life, the number of his descendants (sons, daughters, grandchildren, great-grandchildren) was calculated to be 935, which was a sizable portion of the population of Tehran, where Fat’h-Ali-shah lived.
His uncle had spent his life waging wars. Appreciating that one cannot live without a war in this world, Baba-Khan had left this side of things to his son.
And what was left?
Wives, money, possessions, and his beloved tranquillity.
These were the foundations of Baba-Khan’s politics.
All in all, he had gained everything without losing anything at all.
He had given over the management of the provinces to his sons. These sons, the governors, who delivered the money on time and in sufficient quantity, were good governors, but the son who was in charge of Fars, who was too eager for his father’s imminent demise, did not pay the tribute, and owed six thousand tumen, was a bad governor.
How did the governors rule?
Very simply.
Baron Korff, a Russian official in the 1830s, who was probably familiar with Emperor Nicholas’s court and who might have had a few friends who were Russian governors and mayors, wrote about the Persian state as follows: “The ruling princes, mostly burdened by huge families and used to the luxury of the shah’s court in which they had been brought up, spend far more than they can afford. How to make up the balance—where to take it from?—Certainly from their deputies. And where would they take the money from?—From the khans. And the khans?—From the beks. And the beks?—From the people.—This is how the people became paupers. The calculation was quick, simple, and foolproof.”
But it has to be said, to the credit of that simple and open arrangement, that Fat’h-Ali-shah did not fence himself off from the common folk. He was not unapproachable.
Ordinary Persian peasants come to this bare earth courtyard and bring, according to the official “Note on Tehrani News of 1822,” “six chickens, 100 eggs, and a small pot of oil each, for which their requests are almost always granted.”
The very same reliable source described a falcon hunt of the quietest Baba-Khan: “The shah, when he intends to profit from his courtiers or ministers, invites them to witness his bowmanship. He has with him a treasurer carrying money, though it’s not for distribution. As soon as the shah hits the target, the one willing to demonstrate his loyalty to His Majesty takes 50, 100, or 200 tumen from the treasurer and proffers it to the shah who, having noticed such a pleasant turn of events, stretches out both of his hands to accept the gift. The donor kisses His Majesty’s hands, and His Majesty expresses his gratitude.”
As with Louis XIV, Baba-Khan knew no misses as either an archer or a rifleman or a spearsman: for such occurrences, his servants brought along enough “game killed in advance.”
And so? His uncle, the eunuch, had on occasion slept on the ground or on a piece of felt. Baba-Khan slept in a bed that is described in historical literature. The bed was made of crystal. It was presented to him by Emperor Nicholas when he ascended to the throne. Nicholas seems to have quietly invited the shah to luxuriate in bed instead of starting wars. Persian poets elaborated on the subject. According to one poem, “It sparkles like 1,001 suns.”
Baba-Khan was also a poet, but he did not extol his bed, though his themes were inspired by the very same celebrated bed. Here is an example of his poetry, compiled in a sizable collection, a divan:
Your tresses are like the flowers of paradise,
Your eyes torture souls with their arrows.
The jasper of your lips pours strength into a dying man.
Your glance offers immortality both to old and young.
The jasper of your lips sucks out the soul, traded for kisses.
O my sweet! take my soul and grant me a kiss.
The poem was not bad at all, but the luxury of the court was generally greatly exaggerated. Most of the country’s revenue was consumed by the harem.
7
Harem.
Let’s look beyond the words associated with it: cushions, hookahs, shalwar, breasts, and eyes.
It comprised a thousand cushions, three or four thousand hookahs, a thousand shalwar, and two thousand eyes.
The harem was not only a harem, it was an official institution; a military camp; an army of females, with their leaders and staff; an accountancy department of fabrics and kisses; a timetable of menstrual periods and an audit of pregnancies, together with bedside intrigues.
And just as in wartime, a soldier of the defeated army would be body-searched by his victors before interrogation, so a woman would appear before the shah, already three times searched and completely naked.
Promotions and demotions were possible—a constant internal war was raging in this army.
So, the favorite wife, Baba-Khan’s eldest daughter, used to be a dancer, the daughter of a kebabchi, who traded in roast meat at the bazaar; her name was Tadji-Doulet—the jewel in the crown of the kingdom. But her rival was the daughter of Karabakh khan; a long consultation took place to debate the issue, and the khan’s daughter triumphed over the kebabchi’s. The name of the winner was Aga-Begium-Aga.
But the older wife had an adolescent daughter—her daughter with the shah. And when she atta
ined puberty and became even more beautiful than her mother had once been, she became the shah’s wife. And the khan’s daughter humbled herself before her because the shah’s new wife was also the shah’s daughter. She had her own numerous court and the whole detachment of ghulam-pishkhedmet—Kammerjunkers.
Instead of furniture in her room, the floor was covered with porcelain or glass decanters, washbasins, tumblers, wineglasses, milk jugs, and sauce boats. They stood randomly and in such quantities that only narrow passages were left free.
She had two sons—and since they were both the shah’s sons and grandsons, they were sickly.
They were treated by an experienced doctor, Dr. McNeill.
He made them open their mouths, felt their tummies, and gave them purgatives in the presence of the shah himself and his chief eunuchs. Dr. McNeill checked the children’s pulses, but his interests clearly lay elsewhere. He might have talked to the shah about a lot more than catarrhs and rashes.
Who could lead this army, who could be entrusted with it?
Neither woman nor man could cope.
That’s why the ones in charge were the eunuchs who were attached to the harem as watches in the same way as castratos used to be with the Russian money changers. There were three chief eunuchs: Manouchehr-Khan, born Enikolopov; Khosrow-Khan, born Ghaytmazeants; and Khoja-Mirza Yakub, born Markarian.
Any notion that these eunuchs were pathetic and even comic figures like the eunuchs in all those comedies about the Orient should be discarded at once.
The title of mirza is bestowed in Persia on men who are good with the pen, the title of khan to the men of power.
The men presiding over the thousand-strong army of women were in a powerful position; they were powerful people.
Manouchehr-Khan, the brother of a Russian colonel, was the shah’s chief eunuch. He had the right to report to the shah personally on any matter and as he saw fit. And naturally, he met the shah often. Abbas Mirza, the Pearl of the Shah’s Sea, sought the patronage of this powerful eunuch, but he refused to grant it. The eunuch was the keeper of the shah’s entire fortune—of wives and coffers.
And Khoja-Mirza-Yakub was the most experienced accountant of the state, hardheaded in the double-entry bookkeeping system. He drew annual reports for the shah; he was the first in Persia to replace the age-old Persian numerals, confusing and accessible only to the metofs, with the Indian numbers that in Europe are known as Arabic. And the metofs of the country, the old scholars, were his enemies.
Manouchehr-Khan, Khozrow-Khan, and Khoja-Mirza-Yakub formed a commercial partnership.
They set the prices for the goods and jewelry required by the harem, purchased them, and then resold them to the women.
After the shah, they were the wealthiest men in the country.
The news of Dr. McNeill’s arrival was of interest to the wife-daughter of the shah and to Fat’h-Ali himself: the boys were sick again.
The news of Vazir-Mukhtar’s arrival was of little interest: that was Abbas Mirza’s business.
But having learned of Griboedov’s arrival, one of the eunuchs fell deep in thought.
The pensive one was Khoja-Mirza-Yakub.
8
A narrow street very similar to a provincial Russian lane separated the shah’s palace from Samson-Khan’s house.
Samson woke up early as usual. He looked at his sleeping wife, thrust his bare feet into his shoes, pulled on his blue uniform trousers, and threw on a robe. Quietly, so as not to wake up his wife.
He stood over her, looking at the tangled black hair, at the mouth half-ajar, and at the breasts, golden and ample, stuck his pipe in a bottomless pocket, and went out onto the balcony.
His wife was a Chaldean.
He had killed his first wife, an Armenian, for infidelity, and then built with his own money a mosque and a school attached to it to atone for his sin. His second wife was the illegitimate daughter of a Georgian tsarevich, Alexander. Through her, Samson had dealings with the tsarevich, but he did not love her. She died.
Dragging his shoes, he shuffled along the corridor. His legs were those of a cavalryman, as bandy as the letter O.
His daughters were already chattering in the female half of the house, though it was still early, and a female head with a black fringe down to the eyes stuck itself through the door.
This was Samson’s favorite daughter, from his first wife, the Armenian.
The daughter immediately darted out into the corridor.
A tight-fitting arhaluk had slid down her shoulders and drawn them back, and the bracelets adorning her arms had scraps of paper on them, inscribed with verses from the Quran. Wide silk trousers, as wide as two crinolines, barely held up on her narrow hips, and her belly was bare.
With her bare feet decorated with dark-orange, almost black dye, she darted toward Samson. His daughter was a slave of fashion.
“Chirping cricket jumping high, squeaky booties in the sky,” said Samson to her in Russian. “Go to bed, it’s still early,” he told her in Persian and pecked her on the forehead.
The dark-eyed daughter reached out toward Samson’s brow, stroked it, and slipped back into the female half of the house.
This was how they greeted each other every morning.
Samson washed his face in lukewarm, turbid water from a crystal washbasin, and with his hair still wet, went to the edge of the balcony to sit for a while.
His salt-and-pepper hair was worn long. Zulfa—the long hair—showed that he belonged to the military estate. Samson had his hair cut evenly all round his head, like religious schismatics. From the balcony, he could see a lane and a rectangular inner courtyard.
Cypresses thick with dust and a few trimmed plane trees grew in the yard, but the flowerbeds had withered.
An old man wearing a white shirt was sweeping the yard.
“Morning, Samson,” he said and nodded.
He was an old schismatic who had fled to Persia before Samson. Samson employed him as a janitor.
The khan filled and lit his pipe.
“Too much work brings an early death, old man,” he said impassively.
The old man answered grumpily:
“I’ll see you out if you are not too careful.”
Samson chuckled into his beard.
Two of his soldiers, bahaderan, sat at the shah’s harem-hane, across the lane, sleeping peacefully.
Samson took a puff at his pipe, observing them. At that early hour, the sun was not yet scorching and the sentries were having a sweet sleep.
An officer wearing a conical hat came out of the battalion barracks—a long, red, one-story building on the other side of the palace. He approached Samson’s house and the sentries. His gait was quick and measured. He was young.
Samson hailed him from above:
“Coming off duty, Astafy Vasilich?”
This was Naib-serheng Skryplev, a recently escaped ensign. He drew himself up to attention before the khan and saluted him.
“Have a look at these dashing fellows guarding the shah, will you? Are they from your unit?”
Skryplev approached the sleeping soldiers.
“Up,” he said harshly. “Are you on duty or in bed with floosies?”
The sentries got up.
“Two extra guard duties,” said Skryplev. One of the sentries, an old soldier, knitted his brow. But he was groggy and said nothing. Having noticed Samson, they stood at attention. Samson beckoned Skryplev with his finger.
“Good,” he said quietly. “Come up here, will you?”
He continued to smoke while watching the young officer.
“It’s no good. The other soldiers are gone, so these ones are green with envy and down in the dumps.”
In summertime, Samson would temporarily disband his battalion. The battalion owned some land not far from Tehran. The bachelors stayed in town.
“You are too young, Astafy Vasilich. Don’t drag it out. Give them a good but short scolding. That way, they take it easier.”
/> “Yes, sir, Your Excellency.”
The ensign felt slightly affronted.
“And forget this ‘Excellency’ nonsense. It’s true that I am Excellency and you are lieutenant colonel. So, I am sartip-evvel and you must be naib-serheng. I am only a sergeant-major, and you are an ensign. Over here, Excellencies don’t matter. How are the young ones doing?”
“Not bad, Samson Yakovlich. Colonel Enikolopov is quite pleased with them.”
Serheng Enikolopov was the brother of the eunuch—Manouchehr-Khan, a fugitive Russian lieutenant. The young ones were the deserters’ children. Samson had sent them to an Armenian school, and upon leaving school, they were given a choice: to join the battalion or to learn a trade.
“Is the kharaj all right?”
“Not bad.”
“That’s good.”
“Samson Yakovlich,” said naib-serheng respectfully, “the men are uneasy.”
“About what?” said Samson, blowing out smoke.
“The other day, somebody said that a Russian ambassador is arriving and that apparently he has orders to take the battalion out of here. And apparently His Royal Highness has sent you an order to comply.”
Samson kept smoking.
“Bring that somebody to me, will you? I’ll have a word with him. And when you get the chance, explain to your men how things really stand.
“Yes, sir.”
“It is true that an ambassador is coming. Mr. Griboedov, an old acquaintance of mine. That’s true. And I have received an order from the shah-zade. So it would seem that somebody is right.”
“Yes, sir,” said Skryplev, gaping.
“What is wrong is that it’s a different kind of an order. I have received a firman from Abbas. Since I was military adviser in his campaign and distinguished myself, he is granting my men lands of their choice not far from Tabriz. The land is better over there. This is what the order is about. And as far as extraditing us from here—that somebody has dreamed it all up.”
Skryplev smiled.
Small vendors darted about the street, and two traders came sauntering by. A unit of idle-looking, poorly dressed sarbazes appeared from around the corner. The little boys ran around, whistling.
The Death of Vazir-Mukhtar Page 36