He suddenly heard shouting coming from the street outside his home. The king often passed through there, causing a great nuisance to the residents. The street had become filthy, just like his chair and his home, and everything else around him.
The yelling was now louder. Street vendors outside his home were brawling.
Hormuz never had this many poor and homeless people and beggars before. It used to be a wealthy city, legendary for its affluence throughout the world. The street outside Attar’s home saw many executions of people he did not know – thieves, mutineers and merchants. Some were burned alive, some were killed by cannon, and others were killed in ways he did not want to remember. The crowds that witnessed those executions were also damaged psychologically. Anyone who saw the horrific deaths soon understood that the Portuguese did not know or understand justice, but were nothing more than sadistic killers who enjoyed torturing their victims. Many people, having witnessed those killings, returned home to pack their belongings and leave the island forever. A country where people were often detained without charge and killed without justification was no place to live.
Attar returned to his chair. What had happened to his city? The Portuguese had attacked and destroyed it, and then hijacked its trade. Corruption and bribery followed shortly thereafter.
This was new to the Hormuzis. Previously, the law exacted harsh punishment on the corrupt, but the venal Portuguese officers brought it with them. Now, everyone had to bribe everyone for the smallest matter, and bribery became the oil that made life possible in Hormuz. People sold their ships, their homes and their valuables to bribe an official here or an official there to be allowed to trade or even leave. Life in Hormuz had become hell, and even escape from it came with a price.
Was this really his Hormuz? Was this the city that was once the pearl of the world, where guests enjoyed everything without paying a dirham, because everyone was generously provided for?
Attar was agitated and could no longer remain seated. He rose and walked back to the balcony, looking for a breath of fresh air that the Portuguese had not yet managed to spoil. He could not bear it any more, and was now determined to do something, anything, to change this insufferable reality.
‘Where are you now, Halima? I miss you immensely. I hope that I won’t die without seeing you again. What could you be doing now, all alone in Hejaz?’ Attar muttered to himself.
Attar returned to his chair briefly, then stood up and went to a shelf where he kept a stack of papers and inkwells beside them. He pulled out a few papers and set out to write some letters, and did not finish until well into the night.
The letters were addressed to the rulers of Al-Ahsa, Khor Fakkan, Sohar, Kuryat and Muscat. Attar resolved to lead a rebellion against the Portuguese in the Gulf. He set a date for an uprising that would take place in many cities at the same time. Everyone had to take up arms on the fateful day and kill all the Portuguese on their lands. The occupiers, Attar reckoned, would not be able to deploy to all those spots at once, and their efforts would be scattered. The rebellion would also burn down their ships, trading posts and forts. If successful, the rebellion would restore things back to the way they were, but people had to sacrifice blood and treasure to regain their freedom, and purge the Portuguese flag from their shores and their holy sails from their seas.
Attar set a date for the rebellion. He asked all the participants to burn Portuguese ships, trading posts, forts, churches and anything and everything that the Portuguese had brought with them. The Portuguese had to return to where they had come from, or go to hell.
After he wrote the letters, he sealed them with his signet and sent them to the emirs and rulers of those parts.
Attar invited some of his trusted associates to his house and told them about the plan. Everyone agreed with the plot, but they protested because he had sent the letters to the rulers of the ports in the Gulf without first consulting them. Attar’s reply was that he wanted to present them with a fait accompli, because there was no backing down; they could either decide to live with dignity or die with dignity.
The men meeting at the vizier’s home devised a plan to take over Hormuz and agreed that Khawaja Attar should be the one to lead it.
The letters arrived with the rulers of the ports one by one, and they set out to make preparations for the rebellion. A new spirit of defiance spread among them after years of oppression and persecution, and people waited anxiously for the day set for the insurrection.
But when Attar’s letter reached the ruler of Muscat, he had a different reaction. He read it and reread it carefully. He then decided that an alliance with the Portuguese was better than participating in a rebellion with an uncertain outcome. The ruler of Muscat folded the letter and sent it to Albuquerque after adding a short briefing in the margins.
Albuquerque received the Omani ruler’s letter a few days before the rebellion was scheduled to begin. He had to act quickly to snuff out the rebellion.
Attar was arrested at his home and taken to a dungeon. Albuquerque proceeded to request reinforcements from the Portuguese garrisons and trading posts in India, and wherever Portuguese ships were located.
The conquistador ordered his soldiers to secure the entrances to the city and the port and tighten security around all important installations. At the designated hour, a large group of men armed with melee weapons came out chanting battle cries, but were met with a volley of bullets and cannonballs, destroying entire quarters near the epicentre of the rebellion. Albuquerque’s harsh, bloodstained message to all rebels was that he could destroy them and destroy their whole cities if he wished.
The other cities rose up as well. The rebels killed many Portuguese soldiers and sailors, but Portuguese reinforcements soon arrived and massacred all those who bore arms and their families. Many cities were razed and chaos spread.
The Portuguese ships anchored in the waters opposite these cities, terrorising the locals, and most rebellions died down in a matter of days. The ringleaders were executed in the most terrible ways. The Portuguese actions turned the survivors into walking dead men and women, fearful of deviating from total submission, and all thoughts of rising up against the occupiers were lost or abandoned.
Albuquerque decided to get rid of Attar once and for all. He finally realised there was no way to buy his loyalty or placate him. The Portuguese governor ordered his men to bring him the golden palm tree and then to drag Attar from his dungeon without removing his manacles.
Attar was shackled with a chain between his ankles and another between his wrists. He was bare headed, his long white hair hanging over his ears on both sides of his head. When they saw Attar dragged in this way, the Hormuzi guards, who had never seen him bare headed before, knew that the goal was to break him and humiliate him.
As Attar walked, his iron chains made a jarring clanking noise. Albuquerque ordered him to sit on a chair in front of him. The golden palm was placed between them.
‘Do you remember this palm, Vizier?’
Attar ignored the artefact. ‘Yes, I do, Governor. What of it?’
‘I just wanted to remind you of the palm that your daughter had made after Emir Nasser killed her husband. She used all her jewels to make it, correct?’
Attar did not respond. He realised where Albuquerque was going with this.
Albuquerque continued. ‘I think she put in it everything she owned, her entire fortune. Your daughter fell into poverty afterwards. She is now destitute and has nothing to her name.’
As the conquistador spoke, his reptilian eyes stared at Attar. ‘How can she survive in those strange lands where she knows no one?’ Albuquerque asked, trying to goad Attar.
The Portuguese was trying to torment him and manipulate his emotions, but Attar focused his mind on the ornamental palm tree, trying to imagine his daughter and ignore Albuquerque’s provocations.
After a few caustic remarks, Attar was no longer able to put up with Albuquerque’s taunts. He did not want him to enjoy torturing hi
m by mentioning the person closest to his heart. ‘What are you trying to get at, Governor?’
Albuquerque’s insidious smile grew wider. He knew he had succeeded in disquieting his victim. ‘All I’m saying is that a beautiful woman like your daughter will not run out of ways to eke out a living.’
Blood rushed to Attar’s angry face. But before he could say anything, Albuquerque quickly changed the subject. ‘Do you know why you’re here?’
Attar lifted his head in defiance. He peered out the window overlooking the port. This was the same place where he had met with Bin Rahhal, Halima and Salghur following the Jabrid intervention to restore the king to the throne. He breathed deeply, as though trying to catch his daughter’s scent in the room. ‘Since you came to our home, we have lived in perpetual misery. You have ruined our lives, destroyed our kingdoms and robbed us of our wealth. Hormuz is in ruins when it once was the centre of the world. You destroyed morality among people after you ruined their lives. You are monsters sent by the devil. We have seen the face of death in the sails that brought you to our shores!’
‘Do you mean the sails of the Holy Cross?’ retorted Albuquerque maliciously.
Attar was past his breaking point. His face swelled with an old wrath that had been buried for too long. ‘There is nothing holy about it! It carries death and destruction! You worship death and serve the devil, ignoring all of God’s commandments! You have brought us the Inquisition to peer into the hearts and minds of men, and torture them until they say what you want, before you kill them to satisfy your sick souls!’
Attar stopped and started breathing heavily. His health could no longer cope with this much rage. He started feeling numbness and sluggishness spreading to his limbs, almost paralysing him, and opted to remain silent.
Albuquerque realised that Attar was not going to live much longer, and resolved to bring about his death by humiliating him. He wanted him to die a slow, miserable and undignified death.
‘You have shown your true colours, Vizier Attar. You have a grudge against us and you want to see our downfall. That is why you sent your letters to our dominions in the Gulf urging them to rebel. You are behind all of it, the death of our soldiers and sailors, and the loss of our treasures!’
Albuquerque pointed at the golden palm, saying, ‘I intend to send this to the king of Portugal. You should rejoice because the jewels of your daughter and her husband will be in our king’s hands. What an honour that will be!’
Albuquerque paused then continued, ‘I will seize all that you own. You will have nothing left except the clothes on your back. You have become poor and penniless, Attar. All your possessions now belong to the king of Portugal, to compensate for some of the damage you have caused. If I could take your daughter too, I would make her a petty servant on one of my ships.’
A shiver went down Attar’s spine. He felt his limbs grow numb again and understood this was the end. The only thing that made him hopeful was the knowledge that his daughter had decided not to return to Hormuz, and that she was alive and free away from this monster.
‘Do as you please, Albuquerque. I don’t care any more. I will curse you until my last breath!’
‘This may well be the last thing you do while you’re still alive, Attar. But it doesn’t matter, I will enjoy tormenting you,’ Albuquerque retorted, laughing rowdily.
He suddenly fell silent, and his gaze was now irate. ‘I shall send you in shackles to Lisbon, where you will rot in a cold, damp cell. I will write to the king to show you hospitality in the Portuguese way. Now let me wish you a pleasant journey there.’
The world faded to black for Attar. He had wished to see his daughter for one last time before he was sent to the unknown. He did not expect to end up an impoverished, alienated prisoner exiled into a prison in Portugal.
‘May I have one final request, commander Albuquerque? Might there be in some part of your heart an iota of mercy?’ Attar asked. He then turned his eyes to the sky outside, as though pleading with heaven to have mercy and assist him in his request. ‘My daughter is in faraway lands and I know nothing about her. All I ask before you send me to Portugal is to let me write her a letter informing her of my fate!’
Albuquerque looked straight into Attar’s eyes and said in a tone meant to rip his heart from his chest, ‘No, you will send no such letter. No one will know anything about you. Your request is denied.’
He then signalled to the guards to take Attar away.
– 41 –
Istanbul, Turkey
Years Later
In front of an elegant home in an upscale neighbourhood of Istanbul stood a scruffy man in shabby clothes. His appearance contrasted starkly with the neatness and beauty of the street. Rows of pine and apple trees were planted on both sides of the road, and the air was redolent with the fragrance of roses and fruit trees that had bloomed after a long winter.
The grubby-looking man grabbed the poles of the outer fence and peeked through the gaps at the house’s tidy garden. He scanned the premises looking for something or someone. The miserly dervish* would not have drawn much attention, as he resembled many men who like him roamed the streets of Istanbul to solicit donations through Sufi dances and prayers. But what made this man stand apart from other dervishes was the size of his paunch, his noticeably slanted shoulder and the jolliness in his face.
A guard emerged from a booth attached to the garden, and shooed him unkindly. ‘Go away, dervish. Get out of here!’
The man let go of the fence cautiously, and then approached the guard, who now looked alert. ‘What do you want? I said get out of here, before I make you!’
The man’s features suggested he was kind and docile, especially when a hopeful smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. ‘Please, kind sir, forgive my intrusion. I am only a poor dervish who means no harm.’ When he felt the guard was reassured somehow by his demeanour, he asked, ‘Is this the home of Suleiman Pasha?’
‘Yes, it is. But you must go before he comes and punishes the both of us.’
The dervish ignored what the guard said and continued, ‘He knows me well. I’m an old friend of his. I fell into destitution, true, but I’m his friend nonetheless. I have not changed much since we went our separate ways, well, save for the grey hairs on my head, the wrinkles on my face and the bigger belly. But it’s still me, his old friend.’
The miser rubbed his face, his belly and his robes as if trying to ensure he had indeed not changed.
The guard was uninterested in the dervish’s tales and ordered him to leave again. ‘Come on, just go! You are starting to annoy me!’
The dervish was unfazed by the guard. ‘He knows me. I’m his old friend. Just tell him I’m here.’
The guard lost his temper and started threatening him. A woman emerged suddenly from between the newly trimmed trees, carrying a small flower plant. The trees had been concealing her as she planted flowers in the garden and the dervish had not seen her. She addressed the guard in a quiet voice. ‘What’s going on? Why all the shouting?’
The guard pointed at the potbellied men. ‘This dervish doesn’t want to leave, my lady. There are too many beggars in this neighbourhood. I know you have instructed me not to dismiss anyone but this man in particular was just too insolent!’
‘My lady, I am Jaafar from Egypt. I am a friend of Suleiman Pasha. He knows me, please tell him I’m here!’
Jaafar clutched the iron poles as though his life depended on it.
The woman looked at him with suspicion. How could the pasha know someone as miserable looking as this man? She said cautiously, ‘Fine. I will send you some food and money but you must go after that.’
Jaafar gripped the fence even tighter, fearing he would miss his chance. ‘My lady, I have come from distant lands in search of the pasha. Please don’t send me away. The pasha knows me well. I am Jaafar from Egypt. Please, just tell him that!’
The woman scrutinised the dervish’s features. She was saddened by his pathetic persistence and
the humiliation on his face. She ordered the guard to open the gate and let the man into the garden. She then ordered her servants to bring some food and money for him.
The servants laid out the food on the grass and urged the man to eat and then leave.
The man sobbed and did not eat. ‘Tell the pasha who I am, he knows me!’
The woman could not bear seeing the man cry. She took out some money and gave it to him. He took it reluctantly then he sobbed again, repeating his request to see the pasha.
The woman was perplexed. She sat near him and asked, ‘How do you know the pasha?’
The man wiped his tears with the edge of his filthy green turban and in a quavering voice replied, ‘I am Jaafar from Egypt. I used to be a soldier in the Mamluk army before I was injured in battle and discharged. I worked as a waiter at an inn on the coast of Alexandria. The pasha used to eat there with his friend Hussein al-Kurdi when they still lived in the city. After Suleiman left for Rhodes to fight off pirates, I did not hear anything about him.’
Jaafar looked at the food again but decided against eating. He continued, ‘After the Portuguese came to dominate the seas, trade in Alexandria ground to a halt and life there became miserable. There was no money or merchants or ships. Everything collapsed. The inn owner eventually had to close it down and sack everyone. I tried to find work, any work, and moved from city to city in Egypt to find my sustenance. At the same time, I was searching for Hussein, Suleiman’s friend, who had become a pasha. Then I learned he had been murdered in Jeddah and I despaired. All I could do was try to find Suleiman, my last remaining friend who could rescue me from misery and penury.’
Jaafar gave the woman a pathetic look to elicit her sympathy. ‘I came to Istanbul without a penny to my name! I worked as a porter in the markets. As I’ve got older, it has become difficult for me to continue this sort of work, so I decided to try to find the pasha at any cost!’
The Holy Sail Page 35