“If you doubt God’s care for the Jews, consider the fact that he gave us Palestine for our home. The sons of Japheth occupy the frozen north, the children of Ham the blazing south; but to the descendants of Shem was apportioned the temperate centre of the earth. Our land is holy, a place of pilgrimage, to both Muslims and Christians.
“You might ask why it should be so, why God would not watch over all men equally. Yet that is not how He has ordered His creation. Everything has its place in the divine order. Plants are superior to inanimate objects because they are infused with the breath of life. Animals are superior to plants, man is over the animals, and the prophets and patriarchs highest of all. You may as well ask why God has not given animals the power of reasoning, so that their souls too can survive the death of their bodies.
“You must understand, mighty bek: if you adopt our faith, it will not make you one of us. The blood of Ibrahim and Ishaq does not run in your veins. However, it will make your actions pleasing to God, and bring you closer to him.
“Both the Christians and the Muslims will have you believe that God will forgive all your sins, if you speak but a single word of repentance. How can He be a just God if that is so? How can a man come to God, except through right deeds, right prayer, and meticulous observance of the rituals prescribed by Him? Circumcision, resting on Shabbat, eating only what is lawful: these are the practices that bring a man into harmony with the divine order. The good man is like a righteous prince, who nourishes his organs, disciplines his senses, masters his desires, and finally marshals all his faculties in order to attain the highest degree of union with the Lord.
“All of this should be self-evident, and the father of religions should be held in the highest respect, as the elder takes precedence over the younger in any well-regulated society. Yet we are, as the qadi pointed out, few, scattered, and of low status everywhere, exiled from our homeland and with no place where we are sovereign. The qadi and the priest will offer this as evidence that we have been rejected by God. On the contrary, it is the final proof that we are the Chosen People.
“The father who punishes his children does not do so because he hates them, or no longer cares for them. He does so because he hopes to guide them to righteousness. The heart, as the seat of the soul, is affected by every sickness that afflicts the body, such as sadness, anxiety, wrath, envy, enmity, love, hate, and fear, and in its fine sensibility the heart continues to suffer when lower organs such as the limbs sleep peacefully. In the same way the children of Isra’il could not hope to avoid the wrath of God, when mankind is so disobedient.
“Both Christianity and Islam, when they were new, endured slander and persecution, and now take pride in the adversity they bore. We Jews must atone for our sins, and our burden is greater in proportion to the reward that is promised to us. And so we bear it gladly, knowing that one day we will return to Palestine, to be reunited with God.”
The flame of the candle winked out, and a thin wisp of smoke ascended to the grey skies. The bek got to his feet. Somewhere on the brow of the hill a baby cried, its wailing clear in the hushed valley. Bhulan turned to Abu Yusuf.
“Qadi, if I tell you that I cannot accept Islam, which of the other faiths would you advise me to adopt?”
There was an involuntary cry of disappointment from one of the scribes, but Abu Yusuf was impassive.
“Then I would tell you to listen to the rabbi.”
“And you, priest, if I say that I cannot be a Christian, what would be your counsel?”
Theodore spoke sadly, as if knowingly walking into a trap but unable to help himself.
“I cannot ask you to damn yourself by following a false prophet. I must urge you to convert to Judaism.”
“Then my decision is clear.”
The bek spread his arms wide, encompassing the whole valley.
“Khazars, you have listened to these wise sages, and the subtle arguments they have adduced in defence of their beliefs. It is obvious that, for all their cleverness, they cannot all three be correct. The Muslims and the Jews do not accept that Isa ibn Maryam was the Son of God; the Jews and the Christians do not consider Muhammad to have been the Messenger of God. However all agree that God spoke to the children of Isra’il, and sent prophets to guide them. So I choose Judaism. I will be circumcised, and follow the law of Musa. I will ask the rabbi to be my instructor in the path of righteousness. And I pray to God that He will help me lead you to peace and prosperity.”
The valley rippled and rumbled as if a great storm had been unleashed, and perhaps it had. On the other hand, perhaps it had been averted. The bek did not stay to watch. He left with his usual unfussy swiftness, guards manoeuvring silently to cover his exit. Yitzhak ha-Sangari came over to me.
“I am sad to hear that you will be leaving us. I understand, though, that the bek is keen for you to be on your way.”
“Call yourself a holy man, rabbi? You have proved yourself more devious than a brace of spies.”
“Oh, I am no saint, just a simple teacher. I was only making sure the game was played by its rules.”
“Game? A young man, brilliant and beautiful, died playing your game.”
“Yes, and for that I am truly sorry. However it was you who brought him into the game, ibn Hani al-Hakami, not I. And the bek’s decision may yet save the lives of thousands more young men, and old men, and women and children.”
“What do you mean?”
“Do you think the Roman Emperor would tolerate an expansion of Muslim influence across the Black Sea? He would feel surrounded, sense that the balance of power is tipping irreversibly against him. And if Christianity had triumphed, how would your Khalifah have viewed a new enemy on his northern border?
“The result would have been war, either way; and not the polite formality of a war you go through every summer, to sate your hotheads and blood your youths. When Christianity and Islam fight in earnest, there will be no quarter, no truces, no single combat, no prisoners. It will be the kind of war where cities are burned, women raped, and children butchered. It will be the kind of war where even the winners lose.
“Perhaps our bek will find a way to steer between the rocks after all. He is no fool, as you have seen. By choosing Judaism he declares his neutrality, and that of all the Khazars. And so we shall live free and independent; at least for now. That is why I won the disputation.”
The rabbi smiled.
“And, of course, because I am so marvellously clever.”
VIII
“So you were bested by your enemy?”
“On this occasion, Commander of the Faithful. However, this was only the first of our encounters. There was the time in Aksum, City of Thrones and Pillars, when we contested for the Ark of the Covenant —”
“Is that another immoral story? Does it have men — doing it with other men? I really don’t wish to hear any more of that sort of thing.”
Ismail stepped forward.
“My prince, in his eagerness to please you, the Father of Locks forgets that he has engaged me to speak on his behalf. Allow me to take up the tale, and I shall regale you with such wonders, that you will be transported with delight.”
“Well, mind that you do. I seem to recall that I was promised beautiful princesses.”
“Indeed, my prince, and that is the very story which was springing to my lips. With your permission, Commander of the Faithful, I shall recount to you…”
The Tale of the Palace in the Sky
The third most exciting thing to happen in the life of Princess Citta was when she found the dead body. That is to say, of the three most exciting things that had ever happened to her, it was the last in sequence, not in precedence. She did not rank them, as if they were horsemen in a tournament. Each had been beautiful in its own way. Each was a sweet, sharp storm, which had made her belly tingle with the realisation that this slow life in the palace in the sky would not go on forever. Gods, too, must die in the end, and their heavens crumble away.
Th
e dead body was not beautiful in itself, like a painting or a prayer. It was the corpse of a man, an enormous stinking hairy one. It was obvious that in life he had not been clean and handsome, as were her father and brothers and cousins and even her servants, and death had done him no favours. An unshaven growth hung from his hollow cheeks, and his cracked lips sagged open.
No, it was not the cadaver itself that was beautiful, but the incongruity of its appearance in her flower garden, the odd juxtaposition of disordered limbs sprawling across neat beds, the scattered petals of crushed orchids. The lifeless hand trailing in the lotus pond. It was startling and evocative, like a poem.
The man wore farmer’s clothes, but did not have the bent frame that characterised the few peasants whom the princess had encountered, in the palace in the sky. In fact, as she examined him from a careful distance, she began to wonder whether he was human at all. Certainly he was not of the Lion People. Perhaps he was a naga, a snake spirit who had crawled up from the seventh underworld to die on earth, in human form. Manichandra once told her a story about a naga who approached the Awakened One and asked to join his followers, but was told that a spirit could not achieve enlightenment until he was reborn as a man. This, apparently, was to remind her to be grateful for her humanity.
She knew she should tell Ayah about the corpse. She certainly would tell Ayah, very soon. Then Ayah would scream for help and rush her away, and Citta would have to spend the day in the house, and by the time she was permitted to enter the garden again there would be no trace that the man had ever been there. But first she would tell Nimali.
The arrival of Nimali had been the first most exciting thing to happen to Citta. Before it everything was a jumble of images, the chants of the monks, running in the stubble fields, the moth that landed on her hand, her mother’s smiling face. Then there were the strange, sad farewells, the rough riding blanket, the stench of horses.
Her real memories began where that journey ended. Suddenly it was evening, and the long shadows sloped across the royal road. The Lion Rock itself crouched ominously on the horizon, awaiting her.
With its flat top and nearly vertical sides, the Rock looked nothing like a mountain, and more like the footstool of a giant asura. In the low sun, Citta stepped into the cold and dark cast by the rock half an hour before she reached its foot. There was little talk as she and her attendants struggled up the carved staircase, icy slivers of gravel nipping at her toes. It seemed that the climb would go on forever, but at last they came to the Lion itself, the talons on its paws bigger than her entire body. As darkness fell, Princess Citta stepped into the Lion’s mouth, and onward to the palace in the sky.
The dawn was bright, in the palace in the sky, the warmth of the sun tempered only by a perfumed breeze that tingled the skin. Yet the chill did not leave her flesh from the night she arrived at the Rock, and her sight was clouded. She missed her mother, and did not understand why they had to part. Despite the kindness shown to her by the maids and the gardeners and the monks, she paled and sickened.
Citta was lying on her couch when Nimali entered, although it was mid-afternoon. The princess had a headache, and could not stand the light on her skin. A girl walked in, defying Citta’s order that she be left alone, a tall, skinny girl a year or two older than her.
“Hullo, Citta. Do you remember me?”
“Nimali?”
They had been playmates, before Citta could remember, in the old days. Their mothers had been friends, and the two girls had been left to run around with each other while the women gossiped. Nimali had enjoyed bossing the younger girl around, and Citta was awestruck by her elder’s knowledge and sophistication. Now, Nimali’s sudden appearance in the palace in the sky left the princess speechless.
“They’ve sent me to live here, with you. I think I’m meant to cheer you up, or something. What’s the matter with you, anyway?”
Citta looked down at her young body shrouded in blankets and gloom, and found she couldn’t remember what the matter had been, to begin with.
“Come on, let’s go outside. The bearer that brought my baggage was chatting up one of the maids. Let’s see if we can catch them kissing.”
Six summers had passed since then, and she had barely spent an hour of it that was not spent in the company of Nimali. The princess saw herself reflected in her friend, saw how she appeared in the eyes of others: spoilt, moody, ungrateful. Yet the bitter truth was sweetened by the love that Nimali felt for her, and Citta was inspired to try to be the person that love deserved: calm, kindly, and clear-headed.
Now, however, there was no doubt that she must tell Nimali about the dead man, before she told Ayah. For all the invented romances, breathless laughter and breaches of minor rules that enlivened their days, life was mostly dull in the palace in the sky. Any excitement, however small, was treasured, each aspect of it discussed and debated. If Citta did not share this extraordinary gift, this harbinger of mortality, with her friend, she would never be forgiven.
She found Nimali bathing in the pool, still sulking over the row they had had earlier.
“Here comes the princess. I hope you’re ready to apologise, Ummadha Citta. I am not a servant, for you to abuse whenever you —”
“Never mind that, Nimali. I have to show you something.”
Nimali lay back so that the water covered her ears, and her hair floated in a fan spreading out from her head.
“I can’t hear you.”
Citta looked around at the servants, at Ayah dabbling her feet. She gave her friend the secret sign that meant “I need to talk to you in private.”
“I am sorry, Nimali. I didn’t mean to hurt you. Please, just come and see. Please…?”
Nimali examined Citta through narrowed eyes. Slowly she stood up, water streaming down her long body, and climbed up the steps and out of the pool. Citta grabbed her hand and dragged her to the flower garden.
“Why all the mystery, Citta? I’m still dripping wet. I don’t understand what — oh.”
They held hands and stared at the corpse.
“Who is it? I don’t recognise him. How did he get here?”
“I don’t know.”
Suddenly Citta gave a little shriek.
“His foot! It was in the pond before. Now it’s on the grass.”
“Could somebody else have found him?”
“And moved his foot, then just left him here? No, he must be… alive.”
They edged forward, hands clasped tightly together. Now they could see the faint shifting of the man’s chest, and hear the thin whistle of his breathing. Nimali released her friend’s grip and crept closer.
“Careful! He might —”
“What might he do? He is unconscious, and close to death.”
She scooped up water in a cupped palm, and trickled it onto the man’s mouth. His lips twitched. Then his eyes opened.
That was when they decided not to tell anybody about him. The pact was unspoken but immediate, and afterwards it seemed that there had never been any choice. All that happened was that Nimali said:
“We will have to move him. He will be found here.”
It was hopeless, of course. Two young women, unaccustomed to physical labour, had no chance of lifting the dead weight of a fully grown adult male. However the prolonged grappling seemed to rouse the man, and finally he groaned, rolled over and pulled himself onto his hands and knees.
“Where can we put him?”
“The south terrace. In the mango grove.”
The journey to the mango grove was agonising. The man dragged himself across the gardens with Citta hovering nervously over him, guiding him with pats as if he were a mule. Meanwhile Nimali danced around, checking that they were unobserved. A young groundsman obstructed their path, sweeping gloomily, and a blushing Nimali had to flirt with him to lure him away. Citta was left to escort the man alone down the final stairs to the south terrace.
The terrace lay at the very edge of the palace in the sky. Beyond the mango
grove was a bone-shattering drop to the city below. However, it was the most secluded place on the rock, being at the opposite extremity to the Lion Gate, and gave a godlike perspective over the lands to the south, reducing the canals, and fields, and the great iron mines at Alokalavava, to slug trails and anthills.
Consequently it had always been a favoured haunt of the girls, and it was not unusual for them to order the servants to keep away. Sometimes during the dry season they would sleep there, lying on thick rugs in the gazebo and watching sparks of distant torches creep along invisible roads. It was there that they practised kissing one night, laughing each other into euphoric exhaustion. Their guardians did not worry about them being alone there, for what harm could come to them in the gardens of the palace in the sky?
The man tumbled down the last few steps to the terrace, and crawled under the shelter of the gazebo. Citta pulled over a cushion, and found an apple left over from their last picnic. The man stared at her, his green eyes glittering in the darkness. He did not speak, although he still wheezed noisily. She held out the apple to him.
“Here. Do you speak Sinhala?”
He made a slight movement of his head that might have been a nod.
“Take it. It’s not poisoned.”
He passed a rough tongue over his lips and gasped out a single word.
“Water.”
Citta shuddered at the suggestion of command, at the idea that a scruffy foreigner could issue orders to a royal princess descended from a lion. However she decided that the urgency of the situation warranted indulgence, and went outside to where a rivulet trickled down an artificial waterfall into a stone basin. There were no cups, so she filled a discarded coconut shell with water, and took it back to him. He tried to grasp the shell, but his hands were shaking too badly. Citta held it to his mouth, awkwardly conscious of his bitter odour and the intensity of his gaze.
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