“What kind of gift is that, which might destroy its recipient? Would a loving parent give his child a scorpion for a pet?”
“We are not children. We must show ourselves capable of responsibility.”
“And let us consider these angels. If God is All-Knowing, why does he need two angels to follow everyone around, writing down their deeds in a book? Doesn’t he know what they’re going to do before they do it? In fact, the whole of human history was written at the beginning of time, if we are to believe the imams. So why does God require duplicate paperwork? Did he just have to find something for the angels to do, to keep them busy?
“Think about it, my friend. Does that sound to you like the way an all-powerful deity would organise things? Does it not sound more like a fairy story, to frighten children into behaving because there’s an angel watching them?”
“God does not need to explain Himself to the mighty Abu Nuwas. You should worry less about how He conducts His affairs, and more about how you conduct yours.”
“In fact, that whole business of Submission… I mean, let us accept that He exists, this Being of infinite power and knowledge, creator of the universe. Then what He decides to do, this omnipotent entity, is to fashion little figures out of mud, little dolls. He gives them the faculty of reason, of choice, then tells them that they must perform certain actions, make certain sounds, over and over again, otherwise they will be punished with infinite pain, infinitely prolonged. Can God find nothing better to do with His creation than make the little dolls sing and dance, and then hurt them beyond measure if they do not please Him?”
“You do not understand. Prayer, fasting, pilgrimage: these are merely the outward signs of devotion. It is the inward practice, the development of God-consciousness, that brings man into union with the boundless love of God.”
“Poor Father of Madness. All you ever wanted was to be loved.”
“And who loves you, Father of Locks? You surround yourself with sycophants and cronies, while you in turn toady to the rich and powerful. Do you imagine any of those people care for you? Does anybody love you, except your mother?”
Abu’l-Atahiyya stopped to draw in breath, as though he had shocked himself. He lowered his voice.
“I loved you once. I admired and adored you, and you did nothing but mock me, and abuse me, and lead me into evil and the peril of damnation. I have never known you to be on the side of righteousness before, Father of Locks; why should I help you now?”
There was genuine sadness in Abu Nuwas’ voice.
“You know, my friend, when you talk about the inward practice, you remind me of someone else; someone else who wore a woollen cloak, and sought the boundless love of God. But in other ways she was very different to you. She never talked about the afterlife; she always said that heaven and hell alike were distractions, that all that mattered was to love God now, in this very moment. She preached by her example, not by threatening damnation. She never passed judgement on anyone, although she was more virtuous than them all. And she would never have stood by and watched, while someone she cared about suffered.”
Abu’l-Atahiyya’s cheeks reddened, as if he had been slapped. He stared at the ground in silence for a while. Then he mumbled:
“There is an orchard on the north side of this square. The man you described arrived at its gate a few moments ago. He looked around as though concerned about being followed, then went in.”
Abu Nuwas seized Abu’l-Atahiyya’s hands and kissed them.
“May God bless you, for saving the life of an old friend.”
A strange look passed over Abu’l-Atahiyya’s face, a look of sadness and longing. Then he turned south and west, in the direction of Makkah, and prostrated himself in prayer.
The door to the orchard stood open, and we stepped cautiously through. The trees within, olive and pomegranate, were artfully arranged so that the orchard appeared like a dense wood, and the walls that contained it could not be seen. There was no sound but the insipid tinkle of the irrigation channels that ran between the trees.
Abu Nuwas gestured, and I followed him as he wound his way through the leaves and gloom. A voice ahead caused us to halt.
“Is that you? Show yourself, Spider!”
A solitary figure stood by a fig tree. His voice was high, with a foreign accent that gave it a mocking fall at the end of each phrase. In the uncertain light of dawn, and under the shadows of the branches, it was hard to make out his features. The fat little man who walked toward him, though, was unmistakable.
“Do not call me by that name. You should address me as Chamberlain.”
“Fadl ibn Rabi!”
The whisper from Abu Nuwas was unnecessary; I recognised the Chamberlain immediately. Even in our perilous situation, I could not resist a smile at the aptness of the nickname; I had been entangled in the sticky threads of ibn Rabi’s plotting before. The man with the high voice showed him little respect though.
“If you are a person of such importance, Chamberlain, why are we not meeting in comfort at your diwan?”
“The Barmakid has a spy in my household. If I so much as pass water, he knows about it before I have shaken off the drops.”
Cold laughter dripped from the branches.
“Your rival spies on you, and you on him. Do you ever wonder whether he might be no more than your reflection, staring back at you from a mirror?”
Ibn Rabi was unamused.
“It ill behoves an alley-creeper such as you to concern yourself with the affairs of your betters. Did you meet with the poet, as arranged?”
“I was unable to speak to him. The Father of Locks was there, and I had to flee. Could the postman ibn Idris have intercepted your message?”
“Impossible. I have arranged for someone to deal with ibn Idris.”
“How can you be sure that the deed has been done?”
A thin smile was audible in ibn Rabi’s voice.
“The man I hired is efficient, and fears me greatly. In any case, even if the silk had fallen into the postman’s hands, nobody could have interpreted the numerals. It is simple coincidence that the Father of Locks was there. He and Prince Ibrahim drink together often.”
“I wish I shared your confidence, Chamberlain. Should we change the plan?”
“No. There is no other way to reach the Khalifah. Even if you can get past his guards the swordbearer Masrur never leaves his side - what was that?”
Abu Nuwas had stepped forward involuntarily at the mention of the Khalifah, and startled a yellow bird, which fluttered toward the Chamberlain. The assassin whipped out a slender blade from a concealed scabbard, and ibn Rabi shouted out.
“Treachery! To me, men!”
There was a flurry of movement, the stamping of feet, the creak of leather and the jangle of steel. A dozen heavily armed men emerged from hiding. Yelling a curse, the assassin sprang for the wall and clambered over it.
Abu Nuwas had disappeared at the first sight of the soldiers, and I ran blindly away, dodging through the trees. The pendant Abbas had given me banged painfully against my chest, and I wrenched it off with one hand. I could hear noises all around me, scuffles and shouts, and ducked behind a bush to recover my bearings. Twenty paces away I could see the orchard gate. I took a moment to gather myself, then bolted toward it.
I had almost reached it when the Chamberlain’s man stepped into my path. Unable to stop myself I cannoned into the man’s chest. Arms seized my wrists, pinioning them from behind, and I was dragged out into the square, where Abu Nuwas already stood prisoner before a furious ibn Rabi.
“You! I should have doubled the reward for killing you. And the storyteller too. Al-Rawiya, I have warned you before that your inexplicable loyalty to that deviant scribbler would be your downfall. Bring them this way.”
The soldiers half-marched, half-carried us toward the gate of the Matbaq. The bystanders were obviously used to seeing prisoners taken into custody, and took little heed of our plight. I noticed Abu’l-Atahiyya
staring at us though, before the great gate of the prison slammed shut behind us.
We found ourselves in a small courtyard, surrounded by high walls. Sour-faced men in the blue robes of the city police stood around swinging their clubs. On ramparts above us I could see archers squinting down. The soldiers’ captain addressed ibn Rabi.
“Do you want us to kill them, my lord?”
He indicated a low dais nearby, on which there were posts with chains, the wood stained black with blood. Ibn Rabi examined us balefully.
“No. They may be able to tell us something useful. Search them.”
The soldiers ran expert hands over our clothes, taking the bottle of wine ibn Hayyan had given us and Abu Nuwas’ sword. Ibn Rabi eyed the bottle with suspicion.
“What is that?”
The captain pulled out the stopper and sniffed at the contents.
“It is only wine, my lord, and a good one, as far as I am any judge.”
Abu Nuwas was struggling in frustration.
“Chamberlain, this is madness! How can you betray your oaths —”
Ibn Rabi crooked a finger, and a soldier smashed his fist into the poet’s face.
“You should remain silent, Abu Ali al-Hakami, when you do not know what you are talking about. Otherwise you risk looking a fool. It is remarkable that you still have not learnt that, at your age.”
One of the soldiers held out a hand. Ibn Rabi took something from his palm, and unfolded it carefully. It was the piece of silk with the Hindi numerals on. Ibn Rabi’s face turned white.
“Lock them up. I will deal with them later, when all this is over; after the Friday Prayers.”
He stomped away. As the soldiers dragged us into the cold shadow of the Matbaq, I could hear Abu Nuwas sighing.
“Well, at least I was right about the message…”
XVII
We were bundled along corridors, then down a flight of stairs, our passage lit by the uncertain glare of torches. When Abu Nuwas hesitated at the top of a second stairway, they hit him in the back with a cudgel, causing him to tumble down the stone steps. At the bottom they hauled him back to his feet. Keys rattled in a lock, and I was shoved into a cell. I heard Abu Nuwas collapse beside me, then the door slammed, and all was still.
When Abu Nuwas finally spoke, his voice was low and quiet, unlike his usual confident drawl.
“I am sorry, my friend.”
“What for? I do not imagine that you planned we would end up here.”
“But if I had not come to find you…”
“If you had not, then Munkar and Nankir would have ripped my face off. My destiny was already tied to yours, many years ago; our fates inextricably entwined, by God, or by Ja’far al-Barmaki.”
“It is generous of you, not to blame me. And I find that, in my selfishness, I am glad it is you here with me, at the end.”
“Is this the end, then? It is not like you to despair. We have been in the darkness before, you and I, and we have found a way out.”
“Nobody has ever escaped from the Matbaq. This is no ordinary prison, for common thieves and criminals. This is where they hide away those who pose a threat to the House of Abbas, either through their heretical beliefs, their subversive plotting, or as a result of unfortunate accident of birth. The only way out is to be pardoned, and ibn Rabi is unlikely to show us mercy. It seems he is plotting with al-Sifr to assassinate the Khalifah; if we live to expose him, then not only he will pay the price, but his family too.
“I do not mourn for myself. As Abu Dujana said, I am lucky to have made it this far. But you are young, and have done nothing to deserve such misfortune.”
I reached for his hand, and held it tight.
“I may be young, Father of Locks, but I am not a child. I have seen enough to know that there is no justice on this earth, save that fitfully imposed by man. Children sicken and die, snatched from the world before they have a chance to choose between virtue and vice. The poor farmer toils all year, only to have his crop eaten by locusts; the virtuous wife is barren, while the whore throws her baby into the river. Everywhere the guilty prosper and the innocent suffer. To complain of unfairness is futile. We can only hope, and strive, and pray that God will sort it all out in the afterlife.”
Abu Nuwas snorted.
“God? Well, if He is truly all-powerful and beneficent, one can only wonder why he didn’t make a better job of His creation in the first place.”
He fell silent, and I felt sleep come upon me in the darkness. I knew I should stay awake, alert for the slightest hope of escape; but it had been a long, strange night, and oblivion was overwhelming.
I dreamed strange dreams, in the bowels of the Matbaq. I was lost in the Wazir’s palace, floating down endless passages, and I should not have been there, I knew I should not be there, and the Wazir would be very angry if he caught me, because it was Friday and I should have been on my way to prayers. I tried to get out of the palace, but every turn led me back to the same room, and my legs were sluggish, unresponsive. I would never get to the masjid on time.
Now Abu Nuwas tugged at my arm, and said come this way, this is the way to the masjid, but I was looking at a mirror. I was holding the mirror in my hands, prayers forgotten, and stared into the glittering glass, falling into my reflection. I shouted to Abu Nuwas, calling him to see, that it was not my face in the mirror, but that of al-Majousi, the little scholar from the House of Wisdom. Abu Nuwas, though, had disappeared. And then it was not al-Majousi’s face after all, but the Wazir’s, the long, handsome face of Ja’far al-Barmaki. Finally my sight cleared, and I could see at last, it was the face of Abu Nuwas that gazed back at me from the mirror, mouth open to speak. But no words came.
Then I was back in the dungeon, and a man was standing over me.
“Get up.”
For a moment I thought I had woken, and the guards had come for me, to take me to my execution. But the man was alone, and his voice was oddly familiar. I understood that I must still be dreaming, and slowly stood up.
“Who are you?”
“I am your Mu’aqqib, your guardian angel. Don’t speak a word, but come with me.”
Abu Nuwas was waiting by the door. I followed him out of the dungeon and into the corridor. A soldier stood on guard there, but stared straight ahead, apparently unaware of us.
The angel gestured for us to follow. In eerie silence we retraced our steps, up the stone stairs and along the passageways. Every door stood open, every guard unblinkingly oblivious to our presence. It was not until we had emerged into the daylight, and passed through the gates to stand beneath the fig tree, that I recognised our rescuer, and realised that I was awake after all. Abu Nuwas greeted the angel cheerily.
“Yaqub al-Mithaq! Don’t you have dye to weave, or wefts to warp, or something?”
“Abu Ali, I have known you for thirty years, and not for one second of that time have I found you remotely amusing.”
“What a shame. I find you hilarious.”
“Even so, I would not leave you to rot beneath the ground. I have lost one friend already today. That is enough.”
“You know about ibn Idris?”
Al-Mithaq blinked, then smiled.
“I still have contacts, who keep me abreast of what’s happening in the city. But it was your friend the Father of Madness who alerted me to your predicament. He saw them dragging you into the Matbaq, and wisely decided to come to me.”
“May God preserve the demented old bugger. But the guards — how did you do that? Were they drugged?”
“That was not necessary. I am known to be the Wazir’s man, and his name has not yet lost all its power. And military discipline is a wonderful thing. You can always rely on a troop of soldiers to swear blind they didn’t see something that happened right under their noses. Nobody likes to break rank, you see. I demanded they give back your belongings too.”
He produced the poet’s sword, and the bottle of Lebanese red, which I took and stuffed into my coat. Abu Nuwas
slid the sword into its scabbard.
“I am glad to see this again. It belonged to my father. But was there no scrap of silk, with ink markings on it?”
Al-Mithaq shrugged.
“That is all they gave me. Was it important?”
“Perhaps not. The Night and the Dawn have passed, for good or ill. Soon it will be time for Friday Prayers, the last of al-Sifr’s appointments. We know his instructions: The Palm Fibre, The High Place, The Private Apartments, The Evidence. And now we know his purpose here. I was vain enough to believe that he had come for me, but it seems I am only an obstacle on the path to his real goal: the assassination of Harun al-Rashid.”
Yaqub al-Mithaq’s eyes widened.
“The Khalifah? But how can he hope to reach him? The Righteous One is guarded day and night…”
“There is a traitor at court. The Chamberlain Fadl ibn Rabi is al-Sifr’s accomplice. We heard them plotting together earlier.”
“The Chamberlain? But that is inconceivable!”
Something stirred in my memory.
“Abbas warned me. He said that one who stands at the Khalifah’s side was chief among those who would do him harm. Wait for me a moment.”
I ran to the orchard. The gate was now locked, but I had no difficulty scaling the wall. It proved harder to locate the bush where I had concealed the necklace, but at last I spotted the brass elephant glinting among the leaves. I returned to find Abu Nuwas and al-Mithaq arguing over the meaning of the signs on the silk.
“I can see that it has guided you correctly so far, Abu Ali, but the message has not yet revealed all its secrets. What did Prince Ibrahim have to tell you about the City of Stone?”
“Well, he did seem rather baffled when I asked him —”
“And what does the rest of it mean? The Palm Fibre, The High Place and so on?”
Abu Nuwas shook his head impatiently.
“I don’t know, but if the Righteous One is in danger, we must attend upon him. Then we can be there when the assassin strikes.”
Al-Mithaq scratched his beard.
“The Khalifah has just returned from pilgrimage, and spent last night camped outside the city, on the Kufah road. If we hurry, we may be able to get there before he enters Baghdad.”
The Khalifah's Mirror Page 27