The Khalifah's Mirror

  This time she did not have to wait to be summoned. Her father must have barely settled himself in the throne room before she was escorted into his presence.

  “My precious daughter. This is your husband, Prince Thandivarman.”

  The man who stood beside him was short, his head little higher than her father’s although the king was seated. Remarkably he resembled his portrait, being smooth and fragrant, with a long moustache. Citta bowed, and he addressed her, incomprehensible words in his own language. Another voice spoke at the same time.

  “I am overjoyed to meet you, Princess Ummadha Citta. I have heard tell of your beauty, but all the poets of all the nations singing at once could not do it justice.”

  Citta wondered who the portly official was, who dared to talk over a royal prince. Then she realised that the man was translating Thandivarman’s words. He appeared to have the ability to listen and speak at the same time, as he did not wait for his master to finish before he began interpreting.

  Unsure how to respond, she bowed again, and again, while the official burbled about how the Pallava rejoiced that she was to be their queen, the skies and the seas themselves frolicked at the prospect of their union, and the earth trembled in anticipation of the mighty line of kings and warriors that would spring from her loins. The prince, it was suggested, wished he could hasten the turning of the sky, so that two sunsets would pass in a flash, and the day of their wedding would be upon them. Then Thandivarman bowed, and she bowed again, and she was ushered from the room, and the audience was over.

  It was only when she was outside that Citta understood what she had been told. Two sunsets; she was to be married the day after tomorrow.

  Later that evening, after dispatching Nimali to tend to Hashan, Citta crept through the corridors of the palace. As she approached the guards outside her father’s private chambers though, she stood upright and announced herself.

  “Princess Ummadha Citta, to see the king.”

  Never before had she dared to present herself in this way. Always she had waited to be summoned, and to do otherwise seemed an inversion of the natural order, like a river running uphill. One of the guards went to seek instructions, while the other stared six inches above her head. In time the first guard returned, and silently gestured her through the open door.

  Her father sat on a stool wearing only a sarong. He seemed smaller, older without his regalia. His head was bowed and his shoulders stooped, as though the weight of his responsibility was crushing him. He gave her a thin smile.

  “What is it, child?”

  There was a woman with him, in his room. Citta halted in the doorway, thinking for a moment that she had interrupted her father’s lovemaking. The woman, though, was tall and heavy, with thick brows and a long face. Her skin was dark, and streaked as though dirty. She covered her chest in the Tamil manner, but Citta could see that her breasts were low and sagging.

  “Father, I am not sure I want to marry Prince Thandivarman.”

  Citta thought for a moment he was about to strike her, and flinched. However he mastered himself, and took a deep breath.

  “Why not?”

  “I fear that some day my sons will contend with my brothers and their children for supremacy over the Island.”

  The king’s laughter was so brutal and bitter that a guard stuck his head into the room to check all was well.

  “Oh, Ummadha Citta! I thought you would say you do not love him, or some such girlish nonsense! But no, your concern is for your people. That is why you are my favourite; if only your brothers had your perspicacity and sense of duty.”

  Citta was slightly shamed by this praise, which she did not feel she deserved. She was relieved when her father went on.

  “Believe me, child, I have considered that possibility. I have lain awake at nights pondering it, ever since King Nandivarman proposed the union.

  “However no man can predict the future. Anyone who pretends to is a charlatan, whether they observe the skies, examine entrails or claim that God is talking to them. It may come to pass that you have no sons, although I do not wish that fate on you. It may be that the Pandyas finally defeat the Pallavas, and the situation on the mainland changes. It may be that another, presently unknown force will come and blow us all away.”

  Citta fancied she saw him glance at the woman, who stood, arms folded, in the shadows.

  “Besides, if my sons and my grandsons cannot defend their kingdom, then they do not deserve to be kings. Your marriage will strengthen our position, for now. Let those to whom the future belongs worry about the future.”

  “Thank you, father.”

  She ran from the palace into the gathering gloom. On the way down to the south terrace, she passed the bathing pool, and was astonished to see a red cloth lying on the path. It was the sarong which they had brought for the Moor to wear. As she bent to pick it up, there was a slosh from the water beside her.

  Hashan emerged from the pool, rising slowly into view. Threads and ribbons of water streamed from his long, tangled locks and crawled down his hairy body. He was healthy now, his skin golden and his muscles swelling. As he stepped out she could see that he was naked, his cock hanging and swinging with each step.

  “What are you doing? My father is in the palace! If they found you here —”

  In response he stretched, thrusting his chest and groin slightly forward.

  “I have to bathe occasionally, or they will track me down by my scent.”

  She grabbed the sarong and shoved it at him.

  “You must leave by tomorrow. On the day of the wedding there will be nowhere to hide. Is your wound healed?”

  “I am not sure. What do you think?”

  He took her hand and placed it on his thigh, pulling her closer to him. In response his member twitched and lengthened. It lolled to one side, stretching and shaking, before raising its head like a snake bewitching its prey.

  Citta snatched her hand away. Hashan chuckled. He lazily pulled the sarong around his waist, but his member stuck out like a tentpole, lifting the fabric out from him. It looked so ridiculous that Citta laughed, her fear falling away.

  “Come on then, ape man. If you want me you’ll have to catch me.”

  She ran to the south terrace, heedless of risk. Hashan puffed behind her. He was strong and long legged, but she knew the ground, and he stumbled and cursed in the dark. Once under the sheltering safety of the gazebo she collapsed on the ground giggling. He fell next to her, his member hard and shockingly long against her thigh, but she pushed him away.

  “No. In two days I am to be married, and there is nothing you can do to stop it. You can leave before then, or you can hurl yourself to your death on the sharp spears of my father’s guards, as you choose.”

  He shrugged. A mad thought possessed her.

  “So you like danger, ape man? Then come with me.”

  She jumped to her feet, and raced back to the herb garden. There she found the handcart which she had noticed earlier, left behind by a careless groundsman, next to a pile of cuttings to which he had obviously intended to return. Hashan stood behind her, puzzled. She pointed to the cart.

  “Get in there.”

  “Why?”

  “I want to sprinkle some salt on my life, while I still can.”

  Reluctantly he clambered into the cart. She piled the branches on top of him until he was covered, ignoring his complaints.

  “Shut up. Your life might depend on your silence.”

  Once he was concealed, she lifted the cart’s handles, and pushed it clumsily along the path. The man was heavy, but the cart well balanced, and she managed to struggle along to the Lion Gate, where the guards eyed her approach curiously. She gave them a rueful grin.

  “I have been guilty of pride, and Sri Manichandra has prescribed gardening work as a corrective.”

  The guards looked dubious, but she was after all a princess. They stood aside to let her pass, and watched as the cart bumped down the steps.


  The Lion Gate guarded the final ascent to the palace in the sky. When Citta had first encountered its fearsome gaze, she had been a child, no taller than one of its paws. She had walked into its mouth in terror, expecting the stone jaws to crush down, devouring her hungrily. Of course it was no more than carved rock, but she felt that in some way the Lion had indeed consumed her. Although she had often come and gone through the gate since then, part of her seemed to remain in the palace, and her forays to the world below were brief and reluctant.

  Now Citta felt that she was smuggling that part of her back out of the Lion’s maw. She ignored the pain in her hands and arms, concentrating on manoeuvring the cart down the steep walkway. Once the path had curved round the edge of the rock so that she was out of sight of the guards, she stopped, and pulled away the branches.

  “Get out.”

  Hashan clambered from the cart, groaning and rubbing his bruised limbs.

  “What are we doing here?”

  “I wanted to show you this.”

  She indicated the wall which ran alongside the path. It was coated with a ceramic glaze, that shone even in the darkness. Their faces glowed reflected in its sheen, staring back at them like ghosts.

  “It is known as the Mirror Wall. It has stood here for three centuries, pristine and perfect.”

  “Very impressive, but surely you did not bring me here to admire the brickwork.”

  He pressed her against the wall and moved to kiss her, but she put her hand over his mouth.

  “Give me your knife.”

  He took out the sharp little knife she had given him, but there was a glint of fear in his eyes. He glanced down at his groin, as if he suspected she would castrate him. Instead she turned toward the wall.

  “Tell me if you see anyone coming.”

  And with the knife Princess Ummadha Citta, daughter of a king, began scratching symbols into the shiny surface of the Mirror Wall. Hashan peered over in interest.

  “What are you writing?”

  “Can’t you read?”

  “Not in your language. I have learned to speak it, but do not know your script.”

  “It is my poem. About the bee.”

  Her hand shook slightly, but she etched the four lines of verse neatly onto the wall, then stood back to contemplate her handiwork.

  “Aren’t you going to sign it?”

  She looked askance at him.

  “I’m sure my father would be very impressed to learn that I have damaged one of our national treasures. No, it’s enough that my work will endure for centuries. I don’t need my name to be attached to it.”

  “Very nice. So what now, Ummadha Citta?”

  “Now? I return to the palace. And you go home.”

  Hashan’s jaw fell.

  “You didn’t think I was going to wheel you back up the path, did you?”

  “Was he there? The man I told you about — was he with your father?”

  Citta could not meet his eyes.

  “There was a woman…”

  “That is him. Sometimes he passes himself off as female. But you knew, didn’t you? As I said you would. You knew when you saw him.”

  “Who is he?”

  “He is an agent, from a distant empire. It is he who has convinced your father to marry you to the Pallava prince. He is my enemy.”

  It took a moment before Citta remembered what the word meant.

  “Your… enemy?”

  “He killed the one I loved.”

  The expression on his face was so terrible that she almost believed him. However, she had already made her decision.

  “No, Hashan the Moor. I saved you, tended you, nursed you because I was trying to do the right thing. Now I understand the skilful course. My path is clear, and I will not be swayed by your cunning tongue.

  “I’ve got you past the Lion Gate. I’m sure you’re resourceful enough to escape from here. I’ll let you have the knife, but you are not to hurt anybody with it.”

  “And how will you stop me?”

  “You will respect my wishes, Hashan the Moor, or whatever your real name is, because I saved your life. And out of friendship. And because it is the right thing to do.”

  Hashan bowed.

  “Princess, if anybody comes at me with a weapon, seeking to take my life, then I will do what I have to do to survive. But I swear to you, I will not use this knife to harm any unsuspecting victim.”

  “Good enough.”

  Citta stood on tiptoe and kissed him on the cheek.

  “Goodbye, and good luck.”

  She turned and ran back to the Lion Gate. The guards ducked and lowered their weapons at her approach, and she danced past them, feeling more free than she had at any other time since first arriving at the palace in the sky. That night she could not sleep, her head exploding with liberation. She had to stroke herself between the legs, thinking of life and death, of poetry and destruction, and most of all of Hashan’s ugly, outrageous member, until everything shuddered to an overwhelming culmination.

  The next morning she followed Ayah and Nimali to the herb garden, but a retainer stood in her way.

  “Your father wants to see you, my lady.”

  Citta gagged in terror, but tried to hide her reaction. She trailed behind the servant on the path up to the palace, gazing at the flowers as if it was the last time she would see them. She could not even imagine what might be the punishment for defacing the Mirror Wall. Such a thing was without precedent.

  Instead, however, the king met her at the door. Thandivarman stood beside him.

  “Peace, daughter. Your husband would like to walk with you, in the grounds of the palace. I said you would be pleased to accompany him.”

  The princess bobbed and wavered, until Thandivarman stepped forward to take her arm. He steered her gently but firmly back toward the gardens. Courteously, he waited until she had steadied herself before he spoke.

  “Your father tells me you are worried, about our marriage.”

  Citta had not even noticed the interpreter jogging along beside them, until his sonorous tones chimed in, drowning out Thandivarman’s voice. She said nothing, hoping that her betrothed could not feel the tension in her muscles.

  “It is natural, that you feel concern. I, too, have asked myself whether it is right that I should ally myself with a woman of a different faith, a different tongue.”

  It came as a shock to Citta to discover that Thandivarman might feel reluctant to marry her. She was pretty, and clever, and accomplished, with a slender waist and full, firm breasts. Why was he not madly in love with her? The two voices chimed on, muddying and clashing.

  “However I have reassured myself by considering my duty. Those of us born to be leaders and warriors have privileges, but we also have responsibilities. It is the burden of our caste that we may not marry according to our whim, but must consider the needs of our nation.”

  “I do not believe in caste. The Awakened One taught that it is not birth that makes one a priest or a pariah, it is how one behaves.”

  The interpreter, who seemed to hear only his master, only noticed she had interrupted when the prince stopped talking, and had to ask her to repeat herself before translating uncertainly into Tamil. Thandivarman looked at her properly for the first time.

  “With your gentle heart it is natural that you would have concern for all men, no matter what their status. However I too care for my people, which is why I sacrifice myself to maintain order and stability. It is not compassionate to ask a herdsman to be a warrior, or a carpenter to be a scholar. It is cruel.”

  Citta pictured Hashan listening secretly nearby, sneering at the prince’s words. Thandivarman was warming to his theme.

  “The Creator does not make all animals alike. The elephant is not the same as the mouse, the eagle unlike the eel. Each has their place; the eagle can no more live in the water than the eel in the air. And every beast only mates with its own kind.

  “That, in the end, is what unites you and me.
Whatever our differences of language or belief, we come from the same class, and that is what is important. However repugnant this union might be to us, we must obey our elders, and trust that we will come to admire each other in time. What is the matter, princess? Are you unwell?”

  Citta spent the rest of the day in her room, complaining of a headache. Ayah brought her food at sunset, but the princess did not acknowledge her. Later that evening, Nimali crept through the door.

  “Citta? How are you feeling?”

  The princess turned over.

  “I suppose they have sent you to see what is wrong? Is that it, Nimali? Are you their spy?”

  “You would know all about spies, wouldn’t you, Ummadha Citta? No, I have come to see how you are, because I am your friend.”

  “I have not been a good friend to you recently, Nimali. I have neglected you.”

  Nimali lay down beside her.

  “I understand, Citta. These are strange times — with your marriage looming, and…”

  “Nimali, I cannot marry Thandivarman.”

  Nimali stroked her hair.

  “I guessed that might be it. You do not love him?”

  “He does not love me! He did not even bother to pretend. Why does he not love me, Nimali? What is the matter with me?”

  “You are the sweetest darling on earth, and he is an idiot if he does not love you. Perhaps —”

  “Don’t you dare say we may come to love each other in time! I do not intend to take that chance. Besides —”

  Citta hesitated.

  “Nimali, can you keep a secret? I think I am in love with someone else. With Hashan the Moor.”

  She had expected her friend to be shocked, perhaps scared, by this revelation. What she had not anticipated was the cold fury that seized Nimali’s face.

  “You – you — princess! You always have to have everything, don’t you? You always have to be the first, the loudest, the cleverest, the sickest, the most important, the centre of the world. Thanks to you I was dragged away from my family and brought to live in this — this prison disguised as a paradise, just because you were feeling sorry for yourself. Now the handsome prince is not enough for you, you must have the glamorous stranger too.