The Khalifah's Mirror

  “Well, I have no better plan to suggest. Where does one find Yaqub al-Mithaq these days?”

  Harbiya used to be a wild part of town, back when Baghdad and I were still young: a rough and riotous neighbourhood, the ex-soldiers who lived there having never quite shed the habits of barracks and camp. Now, most of the veterans have left the luxurious houses that were their earthly reward, and passed onto still finer dwellings in Paradise. Their sons, who grew up in wealth and comfort, are quieter in their ways, having driven the whores and gamblers from its streets, but no less independent of spirit.

  We crossed the Tigris by the North Bridge, and arrived at a long building with a high roof. Its windows were unshuttered, and the chatter of women, the clack of wood and the slosh of water could be heard from within. Wide double doors stood open at one end. Abu Nuwas took off his shoes and we entered.

  Shafts of light from the windows illuminated the industry inside. Skeins of wool and silk hung from the ceiling, or stretched the length of the workshop, veined like rainbows in bands of bright colour: crimsons, golds, greens and purples. At the end of each skein women sat, hunched and cackling, fingers threading and knotting faster than my eyes could follow. Half-finished carpets were stretched on frames, their elegant designs dissolving at their base into rivulets of yarn. In corners heavy hanks of thread were soaked in tubs of dye, or hauled out dripping and darkening.

  “Abu Ali! I thought I told you — Ismail? Is that you?”

  I felt arms round my waist, squeezing me so that I could barely breathe. I craned my head round, and found myself nose to nose with the grinning face of Yaqub al-Mithaq.

  “Peace be upon you, Ismail al-Rawiya! It is good to see you after all these years. Follow me — you, there! Bring refreshments for my guests. Yes, Abu Ali, I suppose you had better come too.”

  He led us to a wooden platform, reached by a short flight of stairs like the pulpit in a masjid. From the top there was a clear view right to the other end of the workshop. The platform was covered in thick rugs, and I sank down, grateful for its comfort after our long walk. Al-Mithaq noticed my expression and laughed.

  “Yes, it is one of the benefits of being in the carpet trade. I never sit or sleep on anything but the finest lamb’s wool.”

  The former postman was now in late middle age, broad of girth and with grey hairs twinkling in his black beard. His eyes, though, were still sharp, and he contemplated us thoughtfully as we sipped on sweet, ice-cold sherbet.

  “So, Ismail, where have you been? What brings you to my door?”

  I opened my mouth to answer but Abu Nuwas interrupted.

  “Al-Sifr is in Baghdad.”

  Yaqub al-Mithaq blanched for a moment, but scowled and looked away.

  “I was not speaking to you, Abu Ali al-Hakami. Besides, I have left all that behind. I am no longer a postman. Al-Sifr is nothing to me now. This —”

  He waved a hand at the workshop.

  “— this is my business now.”

  Abu Nuwas persisted.

  “Surely you cannot be satisfied with this? With weaving, and women, and sitting on soft carpets while your backside expands? A man like you, who has seen the wonders of the earth?”

  “Why not? I have had my fill of travel, and adventure. I am making good money. Tomorrow is Friday, and I have orders to complete before the end of the week. Why should I risk my life, to go chasing foreign spies?”

  “Because if al-Sifr is here, nobody is safe.”

  Abu Nuwas spat out the words with startling vehemence.

  “You have seen yourself what he is capable of. Your ease, your fortune, are only as secure as the society on which they rest. Al-Sifr has not come to the heart of Islam merely to kill me; he will be satisfied with nothing less than the complete destruction of our way of life. His plots, his conspiracies, are even now eating away at the foundations of everything you have built, like woodworm gnawing through the legs of this platform, unseen and unheard. By the time everything comes crashing down, it will be too late.”

  Al-Mithaq was silent now, chewing on stray hairs from his beard. Abu Nuwas sensed weakness, and closed in for the kill.

  “Anything you can tell us, Yaqub. You still know virtually everyone in the Barid — you must have heard something.”

  “Ibn Idris came to see me last night. You remember ibn Idris al-Sughdi?”

  Abu Nuwas nodded. Al-Mithaq was speaking quietly, with occasional nervous glances at the weavers, who toiled away obliviously below.

  “He was frightened. He is a hard man, ibn Idris, as you know, but I have never seen him so scared. He said he needed a place to stay for the night. I asked him why he did not go the Wazir’s palace, to the Barid quarters there, but he answered that it was not safe. There is a traitor in the Barmakid’s household, and nobody there is to be trusted.

  “I gave him the key to a storeroom I own nearby, which happened to be empty. But he never arrived there. Somewhere along the way, he disappeared.”

  Abu Nuwas leaned forward.

  “What else did he say to you? You must tell us everything you know.”

  Al-Mithaq’s eyes betrayed his reluctance, but the words came spilling from his mouth.

  “He had been in the west, in Egypt, in the town of Hulwan. An informant told him of a Roman agent living there, a dark-skinned man like a Hindi, plump and beardless. The next day, the informant was found dead. His intestines had been pulled from his still living body, and stuffed down his throat.

  “Ibn Idris traced the dark-skinned man, and followed him to a clandestine rendezvous. There, he heard the man addressed by a name that caused his hairs to stand erect in horror: al-Sifr.”

  A shriek from the women below caused me to jump, but they were only laughing at some piece of salacious gossip. Al-Mithaq continued.

  “The next day al-Sifr left town. Ibn Idris could not wait for instructions from the Wazir, but set off in pursuit. He tracked al-Sifr as he travelled east, each step taking them closer to the City of Peace. At Kufa he managed to send word to Ja’far, but instead of help, a killer came in the night, and ibn Idris barely escaped with his life. He realised that his message must have been intercepted, that there must be a traitor close to the Wazir. So when he arrived in Baghdad, he came to me. He put his trust in me, and I sent him into danger.”

  “What has happened to him? You must have some idea.”

  “My informants say that he has been taken by the fityan of Abu Dujana. That is all I can tell you.”

  Yaqub al-Mithaq stared out at his workshop, but he was not looking at the women, or the wool. He was gazing beyond, as if trying to see something in his past. Abu Nuwas stood up.

  “Thank you, my friend.”

  He held out a hand. Al-Mithaq considered it for a moment, then grasped it with his own.

  “Be careful, Abu Ali. Remember, al-Sifr strikes as swiftly as a snake. Crush his head, before he sinks his fangs. Do not stop to question or parley. And you, Ismail — do you have a weapon, lad? You should carry one. The city is a dangerous place at the best of times.”

  We left the workshop, and Abu Nuwas set off down the street with a determined gait. I scurried after him.

  “Where are we going? Do you know this Abu Dujana, whose fityan took your friend?”

  “I am oddly pleased to discover, Ismail, that your ignorance of the true faith has been little diminished by the years. Abu Dujana was a Companion of the Prophet, peace be upon him, and a ferocious warrior. When he tied a red band around his head, it meant he would fight until every last idolater was killed, or he himself was. At the battle of Uhud, the Prophet gave him his sword, favouring him over his son-in-law Ali, and Umar who was later Khalifah.

  “That Abu Dujana, however, died a martyr nearly two centuries ago, may God be pleased with him. This one, this man of the fityan, is new to me.

  “Captains of the fityan come and go; their business is fierce, and ruthless. They prefer to operate in secrecy. When their name starts to be bandied around by courtie
rs and storytellers it is usually a sign that they are losing their grip, and they rarely last long thereafter.”

  “So how are we going to find him, if you don’t know who he is, or where he lives?”

  “Simple. We’ll just sniff around Harbiya and look for trouble.”

  XIV

  Trouble, I reflected, was never hard for Abu Nuwas to find; and Harbiya was the right place to find it. We had not gone far before we encountered a pack of young men, swaggering in our direction. The young men’s gait was imperious, long limbs swinging, confident that other men would step out of their way. They exchanged insults as they walked, and laughed, but their laughter was hard and bared their teeth.

  Abu Nuwas pulled me to one side.

  “See — around their turbans. Each of them wears a red band. That marks their allegiance to the fityan of Abu Dujana, or I will eat my shoe.”

  “What are you going to —”

  “Peace, friends! I wish to talk with you.”

  He was already marching up to the young men and standing in their path. They gathered around him menacingly, but his fearlessness unsettled them.

  “Be careful, son of a dog. We are no friends of yours.”

  “Are you sure? If you got to know me better I think we could be very good friends indeed.”

  Abu Nuwas smiled a viper’s smile. One of the youths strutted up to him, and stared into the poet’s face, his own a mere hand’s breadth away.

  “Are you the one they call the Father of Locks?”

  He was young, not twenty years of age, and good looking, with curly hair and dark brown eyes. Abu Nuwas preened at the recognition.

  “Why, yes, I am.”

  “What do you want, Father of Locks?”

  “I would like to speak with Abu Dujana.”

  “Then you had better come with me.”

  The curly-haired youth set off down a side alley. Abu Nuwas started after him, and beckoned me to follow. I joined him reluctantly.

  “Are you sure this is a good idea?”

  “Don’t worry, I’m absolutely certain that —”

  As soon as we set foot in the alley, the youths fell upon us. Abu Nuwas was swift in his movements, and had his sword half out of his scabbard, before they overwhelmed him. They slammed me against the wall, a dagger at my throat.

  “Are we going to kill them, ibn Ghassan?”

  One of the younger thugs, his voice still breaking, addressed this question to the curly haired youth, and received a resonant slap in return.

  “Use my name in front of outsiders again, and I’ll kill you myself. No, this one is worth money. They say the Spider will pay gold for him, but we need to find out which part of him they require as proof, before we start cutting. As for this one, I don’t know what he is. You, Father of Locks, give me one reason why I should not kill you immediately.”

  “Because it would be a terrible loss to the world of poetry?”

  The curly haired youth, ibn Ghassan, snorted.

  “Not good enough. And you —”

  He turned to me, revealing a long, narrow blade in his right hand.

  “Who are you, I wonder? A servant, or a lover? Or —”

  A look passed over him like a cloud, a strange blend of fear and sadness. With a shaking hand he put the knife to my face.

  “I am going to ask you one question. Think well before you speak, because if you answer wrongly, you will be dead before the last word falls from your lips. Give the right answer, and I will let you both live.”

  I nodded carefully.

  “Then tell me this: what were the horse’s wings made of?”

  Finally I understood, and answered in a whisper.

  “The wings of the horse were of gold and silver.”

  Ibn Ghassan lowered the knife, then dropped it to the ground. He flung his arms round my neck, and wept on my shoulder. His cronies were puzzled, and the boy he had slapped reached a hand out to him, but ibn Ghassan pushed it away, and they stood around listening to his sobs in embarrassment. At last he stepped back, wiping tears from his face.

  “This man saved my life, when I was only a child. He is not to be harmed.”

  “Then what are we going to do with them?”

  Ibn Ghassan rubbed his chin.

  “We will take them to Abu Dujana. He will decide.”

  His companions prodded us through the alleys with a wary mix of belligerence and deference. Abu Nuwas was most put out that ibn Ghassan had not remembered him.

  “‘This man saved my life’ indeed! It was I who found him, and carried him out of that dark cellar, though I get no thanks for it. Son of Ghassan… I should have realised. How is your father, Ghassan the porter? Is this the life he dreamed of for you? I believe he hoped you would be Wazir one day.”

  “There are many routes up the mountain, Father of Locks. But we don’t all set out from the same place at its foot.”

  “And are you proud of what you have become, Ahmad ibn Ghassan? Was it for this that we saved your life?”

  Ibn Ghassan shrugged.

  “Since I am alive, and poor, I must live how I can. We are not so bad, in the fityan. We do not hurt anybody unless it is a business matter, and we only steal from those who can afford it. Would you condemn me, had I become a soldier, or a policeman?”

  “If you had joined the army, or the shurtah, you would not now be working for the enemies of Islam. Ahmad, you said that the Spider would pay gold for me. Who is the Spider? Tell me that, at least.”

  “You saved my life, for which I am grateful, and I in turn have spared yours. Do not ask me to speak words which will get us all killed.”

  He hustled us through high double doors, broad enough to admit a laden camel, into a large courtyard. The place looked like a merchant’s house, the kind of building that was as much workplace as domicile. Ibn Ghassan went inside, leaving us in the custody of his men, who shifted awkwardly as we waited.

  When ibn Ghassan reemerged, he was following another man. The newcomer was well dressed, in a long coat and jewelled turban, and just arriving at the prime of life. His face was disfigured by a birthmark across one cheek, and bore the lines of a life of struggle, but there was rigour in his bearing, and wisdom in his eyes. I walked over and kissed him on both cheeks.

  “Peace be upon you, Mishal ibn Yunus al-Rafiq.”

  “And upon you, Ismail al-Rawiya. But I am called Abu Dujana these days. Real names are dangerous. Names reveal kinship, and if an enemy knows your kin it only gives them more ways to hurt you. Where have you been these many years, since we last fought side by side?”

  “Oh, here and there. I see you have prospered in that time.”

  I indicated the fine clothes, but Abu Dujana shrugged.

  “Is it prosperity, when a moment’s carelessness could see it all snatched away from me? Do prosperous men sleep with one eye open, and a dagger in their hand? But this is no way to celebrate the reunion of old friends. Let us eat, and drink.”

  Servants came running with silver trays, bowls of fruit, milk puddings and saffron rice, and jars of ice-cold water. Without being asked Abu Dujana had wine brought for Abu Nuwas. I ate sparingly, wondering how Abu Nuwas was going to broach the subject of the kidnapped postman. It was Abu Dujana, though, who broke the silence.

  “I know what you have come for, but you cannot have it. If the Wazir’s man is your friend, then I am sorry; but some choices are not ours to make.”

  “What is he paying you? We will double it.”

  “What is who paying me, Father of Locks?”

  An uncomfortable silence ensued. Abu Dujana laughed.

  “You do not even know who your enemy is. From what I hear, Ja’far al-Barmaki tells you whom to fight, and you charge off obedient to his command.

  “In fact, I have lost a substantial sum betting that you would be dead before now. I even considered helping things along, but I was so confident that you would bring your demise on yourself, through drink, or disease, or a cuckold’s blad
e, or the executioner’s sword, that it did not seem worth the trouble. Besides, if a man cheats on a wager, it is no longer sport, but merely business.”

  Abu Nuwas clenched his fist.

  “Listen to me, Abu Dujana Mishal ibn Rafiq. This is no matter of petty thefts or feuds, but a great affair of state, compared to which the concerns of your fityan are like the games played by children. The man you have captured carries vital information about a dangerous foreign agent, a spy who threatens the security of the whole Land of Islam. It is your duty, to God and to his Khalifah, to hand him over to us.”

  Abu Dujana replied calmly.

  “That’s funny. The man who paid us to kidnap him said almost exactly the same thing. And you can take it from me, he is not somebody whom you cross, simply because you have had a better offer. No, there can be no bargaining, no negotiation. You may stay here as my honoured guests, or leave in peace, as you choose; but if you try to steal him from me, then you will know for sure who your enemy is; for it will be me.”

  Abu Nuwas smiled.

  “So, you will not give us your prisoner, nor will you sell him to us. Therefore, by the laws of the fityan, I challenge you to a wager.”

  A hint of amusement crept into Abu Dujana’s stern visage.

  “What do you know of the laws of the fityan, poet?”

  “No man of the fityan can refuse a wager, provided the challenger puts up a stake equal in value to the prize.”

  “I do not know which traitor has been blabbing our secrets, but your information is wrong in one vital respect: the law only applies to other members of the fityan. So unless you have taken the oath, I am under no obligation to accept your challenge.”

  Abu Nuwas smiled.

  “Then I must inform you that, as a young man in Basrah, I was inducted into the fityan of al-Ashar by Rafi ibn Rafi.”

  “Prove it.”

  Abu Nuwas took a step towards the gang leader. His bodyguards moved to block his way, but Abu Dujana ordered them back with a gesture. Abu Nuwas whispered in his ear, and Abu Dujana’s face darkened.