The Khalifah's Mirror

by Andrew Killeen

  “There are three of us. If we all charge at the same time, he can only kill one of us.”

  “There will be no more killing in the Commander of the Faithful’s private apartments.”

  Masrur the Swordbearer appeared in the room as silently as though he had been conjured there by a jinn, and deftly plucked the weapon from Ilig’s grasp. He looked around the room, at Citta, the red-faced astrologer, the sullen Khazar, and the corpse of Yaqub al-Mithaq. Abu Nuwas reached out an imploring hand.

  “Masrur! You must have heard him — the astrologer just confessed to treason —”

  “I heard nothing, Father of Locks, and what I see does not bode well for you. You have come armed and uninvited into the palace, and this man lies dead by your sword. But it is not for me to pass judgement in any case. You must stand before the Commander of the Faithful. He, and he alone, will determine your fate.”

  XVIII

  In the hall of the Gilded Gate, the storyteller fell silent. A hush hung like a held breath. At last, Harun al-Rashid frowned.

  “So, you are asking me to believe that your purpose was not to kill me, but to save me? That it was not you, but the Khazar who murdered the weaver? That my friend Ja’far and my astrologer were conspiring against me? That everything I believed to be true, is a lie? Where is this evidence, then, that might give substance to your improbable tales?”

  “I regret to say, Commander of the Faithful, that I last saw it in the hands of ibn Hayyan. No doubt he will have destroyed it by now.”

  “Then you seek to make a fool of me. Masrur, take these villains outside and do not stand in my presence again unless you are carrying their severed heads.”

  “Forgive me, master, but the storyteller is wrong. The object of which he spoke is in my possession. I saw the astrologer trying to conceal it in his sleeve, and thought it might be important. Here it is.”

  Masrur opened a huge hand, to reveal a clay cylinder, exactly as Ismail had described. Harun al-Rashid stared at it.

  “Well, what is it?”

  “If you will permit me, master…”

  Masrur snapped the clay with his fingers. Inside the cylinder was a small scroll of paper. The swordbearer knelt and presented it to al-Rashid, who unrolled it.

  “This is indeed a message from Ja’far ibn Yahya, to the astrologer ibn Hayyan…”

  He looked up, fury in his face.

  “There is no word of treason here! It is an innocent letter, containing nothing but greetings and gossip.”

  He flung his staff at them in annoyance.

  “Beheading is too good for these scoundrels, wasting my time with their nonsense. I want them chopped into a hundred pieces.”

  Ismail fell to his knees, and spoke urgently, blood trickling from the wound on his brow where the Khalifah’s staff had struck him.

  “Commander of the Faithful, your anger is just. I ask only that I might die obedient to your command. For was it not you yourself, my prince, who told me that the story remains unfinished until all questions have been answered? And I am sure that your shrewd mind has been puzzling over the significance of al-Hijr, the City of Stone.”

  Al-Rashid, who had completely forgotten about that part of the message, sat back in surprise. It would irk him for days if the storyteller died without explaining this mystery. He nodded irritably.

  “Oh, very well, you may speak, but make it quick. I grow hungry.”

  The storyteller drew a deep breath:

  “You talked of gossip, Commander of the Faithful, and in your words I found wisdom. At that moment I realised that we had misread the Hindi numerals.”

  “What are you babbling about?”

  “There were other dots on the silk, my prince. And I understand now that the symbol of nothing, al-Sifr, might as easily fall within a number as at its end. It was not the fourteenth sura, Ibrahim, to which the message referred, but the one hundred and fourth.”

  “The Gossip?”

  “Your knowledge of the holy book is impeccable, my prince. It was the poet Abbas, the Gossip, whom Citta was supposed to meet at the bath house, not your brother Prince Ibrahim. Our presence there scared her off, but by good fortune I had already spoken to Abbas and received from him the key to the mystery. Again, not al-Hijr, sura fifteen, but one hundred and five: The Elephant.”

  He took off the necklace Abbas had given him, and presented it to the Khalifah.

  “Remember the words of the poet: ‘The man who would learn the truth, studies only that which is revealed.’ If I may suggest, my prince, that you place this pendant over the letter, and read the words which are visible through the holes?”

  Al-Rashid put the scroll of paper on his lap, and positioned the brass elephant on top of it. His lips moved as he read. The silence that followed seemed eternal, but at last he looked up at Masrur, his face impassive.

  “Release these men, and the woman who was taken with them. Give them each a thousand dinars in gold coin. And summon Ja’far ibn Yahya. I would like to take him hunting.”

  ***

  The square before the Gilded Gate was dotted with knots and clumps of people still chatting after prayers, and nobody took notice of Ismail, Abu Nuwas and Citta as they stood blinking in the sunlight they had never thought to see again. Abu Nuwas gazed round at the bystanders.

  “Strange to think that their world has changed forever, and no one knows it yet. Whatever he may have done, I shall miss Ja’far al-Barmaki. Baghdad will be so much less interesting without him.”

  “Oh, al-Hasan. And to think I believed you incapable of love. You are intoxicated with it, besotted with loyalty to your master. Ja’far al-Barmaki was arrogant, manipulative and deceitful. He lied to you and used you, and would have had you killed in an instant had it suited his machinations. In the end, he broke his oath, betrayed his people and plotted to murder his best friend.”

  “But he did it with such style…”

  Citta sighed. Abu Nuwas turned to look at her, as though for the first time.

  “And you, Ummadha Citta — how did you come to be entangled in this business? Are you a postman?”

  “Not exactly. You will have heard it said that the Khalifah often knew the whereabouts of his enemies when his own intelligence service did not, and that he would tell the Barid where to look for them. Where did he get his information from?”

  “It was always said that he had a magic mirror. I assumed that to be a way of telling anyone who asked to mind their own business.”

  “And so it was, yet the truth lay within it, for those who understood. We call ourselves ‘al-Minzar’: the Mirror. Outsiders do not call us anything, for nobody knows of our existence, save the Khalifah himself, and the Chamberlain, who is our master. Our purpose is to watch the Barid, to monitor its activities and curb its excesses. We are the spies who spy on the spies.”

  Abu Nuwas glanced at Ismail.

  “ ‘Quis custodiet ipsos custodes…’ But why would you need to seek out danger? Did I not find you a good husband, to keep you and provide for you?”

  “Really, al-Hasan, did you expect me to spend my days sitting around and gossiping like a Baghdad washerwoman? I am a princess, descended from a lion. Ibn Rabi approached me first to find out what you and Ja’far had been up to. I had, by necessity, learned much about the art of subterfuge, during our escape from Serendib, and the Chamberlain recognised my talents. I have been his agent ever since.”

  Abu Nuwas shook his head wonderingly, then chuckled.

  “Well, Ismail, at least you have a new story to tell. Men will pay good coin to hear the truth behind the downfall of the Barmakids.”

  “That would not be wise, I think. Al-Rashid will not want the marketplace gossiping how close he came to being overthrown.”

  “But how then will he explain Ja’far’s arrest?”

  “He is the Commander of the Faithful, Successor to the Prophet of God. He doesn’t have to explain himself to anybody.”

  “Of course. How ironic that y
ou, having been present at such important events, will be unable to speak of them.”

  “Oh, I will tell the story, all right. Just not the real one. Listen to this…”

  ***

  Harun al-Rashid loved no man more deeply than his friend Ja’far, but perhaps even more deeply the Khalifah loved his favourite sister, Princess Abbasah, the most beautiful and cultured woman in the Land of Islam. He longed to pass his evenings with his sister and his friend together, but he could not allow any man to look on the princess who was not her husband or close relation, without forfeiting her honour. So he secretly arranged for them to marry; but only so that they could enjoy each others’ conversation unveiled and without awkwardness. He explicitly forbade the consummation of their union, lest their sons rival his own as heirs to the Khalifate.

  Unfortunately the Commander of the Faithful could not command the emotions of his sister. The princess fell in love with the handsome, witty Wazir. The longer Abbasah was obliged to sit in the presence of the man who was legally her husband, but with whom she was not permitted to be alone nor to touch, the more heatedly the blood thundered in her veins.

  At last she concocted a desperate plan. She knew the Wazir’s mother sent a virgin slave to her son for his pleasure every Thursday, and persuaded her to send Ja’far his wife in place of the concubine. Ja’far, having taken much wine, did not recognise the princess, and enjoyed her until dawn. When morning came, and the light fell upon her face, he recoiled in horror, crying out:

  ‘You have destroyed me, and destroyed yourself too.’

  After that night he avoided her company. In time, though, she grew great with child, and the baby could not be concealed. Al-Rashid was enraged, but Abbasah refused to name the father, even when threatened with torture. However her courage was in vain, for palace gossip soon revealed the truth. And that is why the Khalifah ordered the arrest of Ja’far al-Barmaki.

  ***

  Abu Nuwas nodded pensively.

  “It’s got everything, I suppose: sex, scandal, and secrets. They’ll love it in the suqs. Won’t the real Princess Abbasah have a few words to say about it, though?”

  “I doubt it. Apparently she really did give birth to a bastard, although the father was never named. The rumour is that she and the baby were buried alive, in a hastily dug pit in her favourite rose garden.”

  Citta shivered.

  “Poor girl. And poor, innocent child, that had no choice how it was born. But who is going to believe that Ja’far could have spent the night making love to her without once seeing her face? It’s not very plausible, is it?”

  Ismail shrugged.

  “People will believe my story because they want to. Do you think they will worry about little things like that? It doesn’t matter what really happened. Memory is an illusion, history a lie, truth is too unwieldy, too complex, misshapen and riddled with unanswered questions. It cannot live long, once exposed to human recollection; it desiccates and crumbles, like seaweed washed up onto rocks under the alien glare of the sun.

  “Story, on the other hand, flourishes in every soil, in awareness and ignorance, complexity and simplicity, ecstasy and adversity. It offers elegant, compelling explanations, which please the ear and satisfy the soul. It provides a connection between what we experience, what we already believe, and what we hope to be true.

  “Only God knows all and sees all. The rest of us have to snatch at what threads we can reach, and weave them into some sort of garment, to shelter us from the coldness, the emptiness, the fear.”

  Abu Nuwas was not listening, but instead stared away to the west, where the winter sun was sliding toward the horizon. Ismail nudged him.

  “Cheer up, Father of Locks. You are free, liberated from the Barmakid’s clutches. You are a postman no longer. Is that not what you always wanted?”

  “Yes, but freedom is a funny thing. Now that I have it, I don’t know what to do with it. I don’t suppose, princess, you have any vacancies in the Minzar? No, you are right, that is a terrible idea. Perhaps I should turn to religion. Abu’l-Atahiyya makes a very good living out of preaching poverty and chastity.”

  “If I might make a suggestion, Father of Locks? You are a talented, successful and wealthy poet. At least, you would be wealthy, if you stopped spending gold like Abu’l-Qasim in the old story. You have your health, your senses, your limbs, your looks and your freedom. Most people would be content with that, and much less than that.”

  “Yes, it should be enough, shouldn’t it? It really should be enough…”

  Epilogue

  From The History of the Prophets and the Kings, by Abu Ja’far Muhammad ibn Jarir al-Tabari.

  That Friday after prayers, al-Rashid went hunting. He took with him Ja’far ibn Yahya, having insisted that the Wazir accompany him. The Khalifah put his hand on Ja’far’s shoulder, and anointed him with precious oils by his own hand. He stayed with Ja’far all afternoon, never leaving his side, until the sunset call to prayer. Then the Khalifah embraced Ja’far, and said to him:

  “If I were not spending the evening with my women, I would not be parted from you. But you should go home, drink wine and listen to music, so that you too can have a pleasant evening.”

  Ja’far replied:

  “No, by God, there is no pleasure in drinking unless it is in your company.”

  Harun insisted though, and throughout the night he sent servants to Ja’far’s house with delicious morsels to accompany the wine, with fragrant incense and aromatic herbs. Then he sent Masrur the Swordbearer.

  ***

  This is the account of Masrur the eunuch:

  Al-Rashid ordered me to the house of Ja’far ibn Yahya al-Barmaki, whom he had decided to have killed. When I arrived at his house Ja’far was sitting in the garden with Abu Zakkar, the blind singer, who at that moment was singing the following verse:

  “Do not go far, for death is impending

  For every brave youth, this night or by morning…”

  I said to him:

  “O Ja’far, my message is the same as that of the poet. Death has come to you this night. You must answer to the Commander of the Faithful.”

  He fell on his knees and kissed my feet, begging me to let him go into the house and settle his affairs. I replied:

  “There’s no chance of you going into the house, but you may do what you need to here and now.”

  He summoned his servants, and there in the garden he dictated his will and freed his slaves. However, messengers came from my master to see why I was taking so long. So I dragged Ja’far from the house and brought him to the palace. Then I went to inform the Khalifah, who was in bed, that I had obeyed his orders. The Khalifah shouted:

  “Bring me his head!”

  I returned to Ja’far, and told him to prepare himself for death. He cried out:

  “Oh God, oh God… My friend, he would not give that command if he was sober! Leave it until the morning, or at least go and ask him if he is sure.”

  So I went back to al-Rashid, but when he heard my whispered plea, he burst out:

  “Sucker of your mother’s rod! Bring me the head of Ja’far al-Barmaki!”

  Again I approached Ja’far, and again he persuaded me to question my orders. This time al-Rashid hit me with a staff, and shouted:

  “By God, if you don’t come back with Ja’far’s head, then I will send someone else, who will bring me his head and yours too!”

  So I went, and struck off his head, and presented it to the Khalifah.

  ***

  Ja’far ibn Yahya al-Barmaki died on the night of the first day of Safar, in the one hundred and eighty seventh year of the Islamic age. When Yahya ibn Khalid was told that the Commander of the Faithful had killed his son, he replied:

  “His son will be killed in the same way.”

  The Commander of the Faithful ordered the body to be cut in half, and the head and two pieces of the body were gibbeted on the three main bridges of Baghdad. Later, they were taken down and burned.
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  The poet Abu Nuwas wrote the following lines concerning the death of Ja’far:

  We have reached our journey’s end, our horses rest,

  And the camel, and his driver, cease their sound.

  Tell the beasts, you need walk all night no longer

  And trudge the desert wastes the wide earth round.

  Tell Death, you have done your worst, in taking Ja’far,

  And never again will you take one so renowned.

  Tell generosity, your day is over,

  Despair, this is your time, you are unbound.

  The light of evil day cuts through the darkness

  as a sword cuts through to bone, and it has found

  The body of the greatest man among us

  hanging still and rotting above ground.

  The End

  Author’s Note

  Historical fiction is a strange chimera, neither wholly fictional nor reliably historic. The Khalifah’s Mirror is largely fantasy and speculation, but is set in a real place and time, features several real people, and takes its inspiration from real events.

  One of the oddest ideas in the book, the Khalifah’s magical mirror itself, is drawn directly from the historical record. The prologue and epilogue are adapted (with considerable licence) from al-Tabari’s History of the Prophets and the Kings, the principal source for the period, written some hundred years after the reign of Harun al-Rashid. I made much use of C.E. Bosworth’s translation, published by the SUNY Press. The suggestion that the Mirror might have been a secret counter-intelligence service is pure conjecture, but the Barid, the Khalifate’s postal service, really did double as a spying network. (Al-Tabari describes how one Alid rebel was assassinated by the Barid using poisoned toothpaste.)

  The capture and eventual fate of Amr ibn Shaddad, and the dismissal and death of the Wali of Basrah, can also be found in al-Tabari, though the Banu Jahm and the Banu Dahhak are invented. Invented too are most of the details about the culture and politics of the Khazars. The disputation itself is alluded to in ancient texts, but the truth of when, how, and at whose instigation it took place is lost in history. The rabbi’s speech given here is loosely based on the Kitab al-Khazari, itself a later re-imagining, written in the 12th century in Islamic Spain. The Christian and Muslim arguments are a ragbag of the criticisms and slanders that proponents of the two faiths have thrown at each other over the centuries.