“As it does for us all, Commander of the Faithful. However, we also come close to the truth, which at times shines so bright as to blind, or burn. Let the children be shielded from its glare; I beseech you, send the young princes away.”
Harun al-Rashid stared, dumbstruck at the ragged storyteller’s audacity. In the end, though, he nodded. and the princes departed, al-Ma’mun in silent fury, al-Amin with lofty grace.
Ismail closed his eyes for a moment, then raised a hand.
“And now, with your indulgence, Commander of the Faithful, I shall relate the dark deeds of last night and this morning, the events which have led us to stand here before you, the sentence of death hanging over our heads. It is a tale never told before, and never to be told again. It is called… .”
The Tale of The Tenth Element
I was not sure why I was running; but what was beyond doubt was that the men were running after me. I stopped for a moment when I reached the canal, gasping for breath and hoping that they had abandoned the pursuit, but almost immediately they both appeared at the end of the alley, loping toward me with the steady, tireless gait of wolves. Their booted feet thudded in unison, suggesting military training, although they wore the cheap clothes of labourers.
Perhaps it was this that had warned me, although they had approached with smiling faces. It was not unusual for people to wait around to speak to me after I had finished performing: to enthuse or pick faults, to offer me a tale of their own, or simply so they could say they had met the famous storyteller al-Rawiya. My years on the road, though, had given me an animal instinct for danger. I had noticed these two men striding toward me, their ragged clothes contrasting with well-fed faces and sturdy boots, their ingratiating expressions unable to conceal an habitual air of menace, and I turned and ran. I was alarmed, though unsurprised, when they took off after me.
The canal was too wide to jump. I considered swimming across, but the idea of struggling through the filthy water while my pursuers closed on me was unappealing. Instead I sprinted along the bank, heart racing as fast as my bare feet, seeking a means of escape.
There was nobody around. I ducked down a side street, and in the brief interval while I was out of their sight scrambled up the wall of a building, fingers and toes digging into cracks between the mud bricks. I hauled myself onto the rooftop and lay still, trying to quiet my noisy breath.
I could hear the men’s rhythmic footsteps drumming below, but to my horror the beat slowed and stopped, directly beneath my hiding place. No whispered conversations reached my ears; they must be communicating with signals. Whoever they were, it was clear they were seasoned hunters. In the silence the call to noonday prayer pealed from the minarets, the words darting and spiralling around each other like playful skylarks. At last my pursuers began to move on, slowly at first but away from me, until they could no longer be heard.
I waited on the rooftop until I had counted one hundred breaths. Then I counted another hundred, just to be sure, before dropping lightly to the ground and walking back the way I had come, toward the canal.
They grabbed me as soon as I turned the corner. They must have circled round and simply waited for me to double back. One of the men hauled me into a recess where two ramshackle walls leaned drunkenly together. The other stood in front of me, hands on hips.
“What did you run away for? That wasn’t very friendly. All we wanted to do was talk to you.”
His reasonable words were contradicted by his cruel smile, and by the fact that his friend was pushing my right arm up behind my back as far as it would go, and then a little further. I could barely gasp the words.
“So talk.”
The man put his face closer.
“Where is he?”
“Who?”
“You know who. Your friend, the poet. The Father of Locks. We went to his house but the door was broken in and the place was empty. Where is he hiding?”
“I don’t know.”
The man behind me twisted my wrist, and I could not help crying out. The other man lifted an object from his belt, a curved piece of metal blotched with black clots, ending in a vicious barb. It was a butcher’s hook.
“We should introduce ourselves. You can call me Munkar, and my friend here is Nankir.”
He was expecting some reaction, but the names meant nothing to me. Munkar snickered.
“I see you have not been properly schooled in the true faith, or you would show us angels more respect. Let me be your tutor, then. Let me teach you about the Torture of the Grave.”
He put his hook to my face, and I felt the sharp point dig into my skin.
“When you die, storyteller, which might be sooner than you had hoped, your soul will not fly straight to the afterlife, but will stay buried in the earth until the Day of Judgement. It will listen to the fading footsteps of the last mourner leaving your funeral, if you are fortunate enough to have one. Then two angels will come. They have twelve blue eyes that flash like lightning, teeth that curve like the horns of a cow, and long black hair that hangs to their feet; and the names of these angels are Nankir and Munkar. They will sit your soul upright in your grave, and ask it three questions: ‘Who is your Master? Who is your Prophet? What is your Religion?’
“Your soul cannot dissemble, as your body can. If you have lived by the Shari’ah, prayed and fasted at the proper times, then you will answer correctly: God, Muhammad, Islam. If you cannot answer, then… the angels begin your punishment. Shall I tell you, storyteller, the punishment for those who spread deceit?”
I held myself still, as the barb scratched down my cheek.
“The angel jabs a hook into the liar’s mouth, and rips his face from front to back. Next he hooks his nose, and again gashes him front to back. Thirdly he sticks his hook into the liar’s eyeball, and gouges round to the ear. Then he starts on the other side…”
Nankir cackled.
“Munkar is generous with his learning. You must enlighten us in return. Tell us where we can find the poet.”
“I don’t know where he is. I left Baghdad five years ago and haven’t seen him since.”
Munkar peered into my face.
“Do I believe you, storyteller? I think not. I think you are a deceiver, and need to be punished. Of course, the torture of the soul differs from that of the body in one important respect: in the grave your face will grow back each time, so that you can suffer until Judgement Day. I, on the other hand, will only be able to punish you once. When I have finished with you, there will not be anything left worth calling a face. So, I will give you one last chance to spare yourself. Where is the Father of Locks?”
“Is someone looking for me?”
A tall figure stepped from the shadows. Munkar drew a long knife, leaving the hook hanging from my mouth, and Nankir tightened his grip on my arm. Abu Nuwas bowed.
“Peace be upon you, brothers. And upon you too, Ismail; it has been too long. Is nobody going to wish me peace in return? The Holy Quran enjoins us, when offered a friendly greeting, to answer it with a better one. No? Then perhaps you could allow my friend to leave, if it’s me you were looking for.”
“Give us your sword, then we’ll let the storyteller go.”
“My sword?”
Abu Nuwas brought his right hand round from behind his back, and seemed surprised by the length of glittering steel in its grip.
“This? A mere toy, of no account. Release my friend, and you can have it.”
Munkar shook his head. I felt Nankir’s grip loosen slightly as the man reached for a hidden weapon, and I saw my opportunity. I span round so that my arm untwisted, and at the same time snatched the hook out of my mouth and jabbed it into Nankir’s groin. Munkar’s knife flashed past my ear, and I danced away.
Nankir was howling on his knees, blood dripping through his cotton breeches. Munkar stabbed at Abu Nuwas, but the parry knocked the knife from his hand, and Abu Nuwas kicked it into the river. The self-styled angel contemplated the swordpoint wavering in fron
t of him, and fled. Abu Nuwas put his sword to the throat of the injured Nankir.
“Now, let us see what we can learn. Who sent you? What did you want with me?”
Nankir spat.
“See you in Jahannam, traitor.”
Abu Nuwas pressed his swordpoint against the man’s gullet, but I restrained him, to his great indignation.
“But he —”
“No. We are not butchers.”
Abu Nuwas sighed, and contented himself with a kick to Nankir’s injured groin, which left him screeching on the ground.
“Come on then. We’d better go, before Munkar comes back with help.”
We ran until we had left the deserted warehouses of the docks and arrived at the markets of Karkh, where we took refuge in the anonymity of the crowds. Abu Nuwas led the way to an unremarkable green door on a side street. In answer to his knock a greasy man admitted us to a dingy courtyard, and brought us drinks. I refused the offered wine, and instead sipped at a cup of sheep’s milk, while Abu Nuwas grinned at me.
“By God, I am glad to see you again, Ismail al-Rawiya.”
“I wish I could say the same, but I would not imperil my immortal soul by telling lies.”
“Such cruel words. Is this the thanks I get for saving your life?”
“My life would not have been at risk if it were not for you. Who were those men? They seemed rather more formidable than the usual debt collectors and outraged fathers that come looking for you.”
“I don’t know; but they are not the first. Three men battered down the door of my home last night, and tried to kill me in my bed. I fled to a lover’s house, but he betrayed me to my foes, and I had to leap from a window to escape. I didn’t know who else to turn to, so when I heard my old friend Ismail was back in Baghdad, I came looking for you. Unfortunately, it appears my enemies got to you first.”
“Your enemies are determined, but they lack subtlety. If I wanted to kill you, Father of Locks, I would not send men with swords and knives. I would send a pretty boy with a cup of poisoned wine.”
Abu Nuwas started, spilling his drink slightly. Then he smiled.
“My friend, there are some things for which it is worth risking your life. Besides, wine is a very poor means of administering poison. Most toxins stink, or taste repulsive, when present in enough quantity to do you harm.”
“So what do you want from me? I have no home in which to hide you.”
“I want you to come with me.”
“Why? I would be little use as a bodyguard.”
“I don’t need a bodyguard. I need a friend. My enemies are everywhere, and I have no idea whom I can trust — except for you, Ismail.”
“Your friendship brings me nothing but trouble, Father of Locks. I left Baghdad to get away from you. Whenever I go anywhere with you, I end up with a knife at my throat, or in a prison cell, or running for my life.”
“But we always have fun, don’t we?”
Abu Nuwas smiled, rather desperately. I looked at his eager face, more like that of a child hoping for a treat than a man facing death, and sighed.
“Begging does not become you. I don’t suppose I have much choice in any case. I notice that our greasy host has disappeared; I suspect he will not be alone when he returns. So where are we going?”
The nervous smile on Abu Nuwas’ face became a delighted beam.
“I knew you would not let me down. We are going, Ismail, to see the Wazir.”
***
The palace of Ja’far ibn Yahya al-Barmaki, while built for pleasure, defends him from the intrusion of the impertinent as securely as any fortress. Guards stand at the door, and more fearsome still are the secretaries who govern access to his diwan. Few, indeed, are those who can drop in on the Wazir uninvited.
Abu Nuwas and I did not present ourselves for the scrutiny of the guards or the secretaries. We sidled round to a small, undistinguished door in a back alley where shops and boarding houses slouched up against the palace walls. The poet fumbled in his sleeve, and pulled out a tarnished key. He jiggled it in the lock for some time before turning to me sheepishly.
“They appear to have changed the lock. How embarrassing. I don’t suppose you could…?”
I pushed him aside from the door roughly, and worked at the lock with two bent pins, until it clicked open.
“There. They watch who comes in this way, you know.”
“Oh, don’t worry about that little misunderstanding over the key. The Barmakid will be delighted by our visit.”
We entered, and followed a short corridor to where it opened out into a hall lined with sleeping rugs. Ilig the Khazar was waiting for us. His northern accent was still heavy despite half a lifetime as Ja’far’s bodyguard.
“The Wazir will see you, but he tells me to tell you he is very cross.”
The attendants bowed as the Khazar passed, and the guards stepped aside. The secretaries tutted and pretended not to see him, but they did not bar our passage. At last we entered the diwan of Ja’far al-Barmaki.
The Wazir sat in a bright garden, where shrubs of sandalwood scented the air. A spring bubbled nearby. The spring always bubbled when the Wazir was in the garden, but only when the Wazir was in the garden. This was because the bubbles were produced by a slave, concealed from view in an adjacent room, frantically pumping air into a pipe that ran beneath the ground. No sign of this industry, however, disturbed the tranquillity of the afternoon.
Around the garden sat the petitioners, screened and shepherded by discreet rings of bureaucrats. To reach this far, they had pleaded and argued, leaned on tribal loyalties, and where necessary paid hefty bribes. They had invested heavily, in time, effort and money, just for the chance to be heard, each driven by his own cause, his burning desire for justice or his overpowering sense of self-worth. Now they stared angrily at the huge Khazar and two other interlopers trampling across the invisible lines that structured their world.
The Wazir dismissed the man in front of him with a curt wave as we bowed before him.
“Go — I will see that your business is taken care of. Abu Ali, peace be upon you. Such a joy to see you. And who is this with you? Can it be Ismail al-Rawiya? It is many years since I caught you in the tower of the House of Wisdom.”
“It is, my lord.”
“You should visit the House of Wisdom, now you are back in Baghdad. You will find it much altered. What brings you to my diwan, Abu Ali? You have not visited for some time.”
“You changed the locks, my lord.”
Ja’far smiled, with what appeared to be real affection, and spoke quietly.
“I am sure you understand, my friend. Your moon is on the wane, and the Khalifah does not favour you. However the heavens will turn again. The fashion for prayer and piety will grow old, and there will once more be a demand for good booze and dirty jokes. In the meantime I must keep a distance between us.”
“I understand, my lord. I hear that you, too, have felt the Khalifah’s indifference.”
The warmth disappeared from Ja’far’s handsome face.
“You should be careful where you put your ears, Abu Ali, or you may find that someone cuts them off. What boon do you seek?”
“Somebody is trying to kill me.”
“I see. Who is this man?”
“I do not know.”
Ja’far leaned back on his rug.
“Then what, Abu Ali ibn Hani al-Hakami, would you have me do? I cannot arrest every man you had ever offended, insulted or argued with — there are not enough policemen in all Baghdad.”
“No, my lord.”
“And I cannot offer you an armed guard. It would look, you must agree, rather odd.”
“I could not ask such a thing, my lord.”
“So your petition is…?”
The Wazir’s patience was wearing fast. Abu Nuwas raised his hands awkwardly in supplication.
“You see all and hear all, my lord. Who comes and who goes, who lives and who dies, who attacks and who defend
s. If there is anything that could help me, any dark place in which I can delve to find my foe, then you can tell me. You are the All-Knowing, the Merciful One; save me, my lord.”
Ja’far whispered.
“Be careful of your blasphemy, Father of Locks. Such words are dangerous in these times.”
Abu Nuwas waited with his head bowed. Finally the Wazir leaned back and addressed the winter skies.
“My sources tell me that al-Sifr is in Baghdad. Yes, I too had believed him dead. If I had known he was still alive, I would have used every means at my disposal to hunt him down. And when I caught him, I would have ordered my men to cut him into pieces, and then burn the pieces, and then to bury the ashes, just to be sure that he could not come again to bring deceit and disaster to the Family of Islam.
“Now, however, it is too late. Somehow he has infiltrated the capital, and has disappeared into the crowd, lost among the suqs and alleys. In what guise he has come, and what he is plotting, I cannot tell you.”
“Then how, my lord, are we to track him down? Even I have never seen his face undisguised.”
“Go and see Yaqub al-Mithaq. He has retired from my service, but he fought al-Sifr at your side in the past. Perhaps he can help you.”
With that, the Wazir turned away. Abu Nuwas and I hurriedly bowed as Ilig hustled us out, and moments later, we were back on the street. I had been pondering Ja’far’s words, and found them troubling.
“You know, Father of Locks, I have been informing my audiences that al-Sifr was killed by an elephant three years ago. Have I been misleading them?”
“How flattering that you are still telling stories about me. I must confess that in my haste to flee that horrible place I neglected to ensure that he was truly dead.”
“That was careless of you. Still, it seems to me that if the Wazir really wanted to help us, he would have given us more information. If he does not know what al-Sifr is doing, where he is or what he looks like, I wonder why he is so sure the Roman is in Baghdad at all.”
“Ah, it was ever thus. Ja’far al-Barmaki tells as much as he wants to tell, and no more. If we had asked, he would only have told us that the Khalifah saw him in his magic mirror, or some such nonsense. However, while his advice may be equivocal, it is usually well-informed. I find it best to do as he says.”
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