The Father of Locks

by Andrew Killeen

  Unlike the Prophet, his Successor was careful to nominate his own heir, before sickness and death put an end to his brief reign. Umar ibn al-Khattab’s ten years at the top were marked by relentless conquest, as the Land of Islam exploded across the world, swallowing the ancient nations of Egypt and Persia. The fiery old warrior lived simply, like a man of God, but was hated by many. In particular his discrimination in favour of Arabs aroused resentment in the increasingly complex empire. At the age of sixty he was stabbed to death by a Persian slave.

  Still Ali was ignored when it came to the succession. Uthman ibn Affan, the third Khalifah, was another of Abu Bakr’s cronies, and one of the first to swear allegiance to him at Saqifah. And still the Family of Islam grew. Over the twelve years of Uthman’s reign, the empire spread to the east and the north and to the west: into Ifriqiya and Andalus, Sistan and Tabaristan, Sindh and Khorasan. But Uthman had always been less of a presence than Umar or Abu Bakr, and did not have the iron in his soul needed to keep control of his vast dominions. He was finally murdered by rebels under the leadership of the son of Abu Bakr – who, in the strange way things turn out, was now an important figure in the Shi’at of Ali.

  Ali seemed to be the only one who could hold the Ummah together, and effectively became Khalifah simply by outliving all his rivals. However, he was nearing sixty himself, and had always been reluctant to see people die to advance his claim to power. By the time he ascended to the throne Islam was disintegrating into civil war. It was a period that became known as the Fitna, a subtle word that means both Secession and Persecution, Tribulation and Purification.

  Despite his qualms, Ali ibn Abi Talib had to go to war once more. His wife’s old rival Aisha had raised an army against him. Her pretext was that he had failed to punish the murderers of Uthman, but in reality she sought to put her favoured candidate on the throne. God had forbidden the Prophet’s widows from remarrying. Aisha had therefore formed an alliance with two of her brothers-in-law, but there was no doubt who was really in charge. Now in her forties, Aisha commanded her own troops from a litter on the back of a camel.

  The armies met near Basrah. Ali tried to negotiate a truce, but a dawn raid by Badawi lancers triggered a chaotic conflict. It was the first time Muslim had openly fought Muslim, tribes divided against their own. The Shi’at of Ali triumphed, at what became known as The Battle of the Camel. When Ali’s troops identified and hamstrung Aisha’s mount, the Mother of the Faithful tumbled from her litter and out of the struggle for power. Aisha spent the remainder of her life in pious retirement. She devoted herself to recounting tales of her life with the Prophet, and perhaps a quarter of all the Sharia derives from sayings dictated by Aisha bint Abi Bakr.

  Those who were opposed to Ali needed a new claimant on whom to fasten their ambitions. They settled on a relative of Uthman, a man called Mu’awiyah. The prospective Khalifah was an Umayyad, a member of an aristocratic family who were kin to the Prophet. However the Umayyads had fought fiercely against Islam before belatedly converting. The Fitna was now a civil war between the traditional ruling class of Arabia, and the surviving Companions, who claimed their status from their early conversion.

  The final clash of the First Fitna was the Battle of Siffin. There, amid scenes of escalating chaos, the two forces skirmished ineffectually, sat down at parley, and finally agreed to submit the matter to arbitration.

  This extraordinary outcome was Ali’s worst and greatest moment. The gentle Khalifah preferred to have wise men arguing over his right to power, rather than warriors fighting over it. In making this choice he had saved the lives of thousands but condemned himself to death. Many of his followers believed that Islam had lost its way, that wealth and conquest had distracted its leaders from the true faith. They had taken Ali’s side because they thought he would return Islam to its roots. His meek capitulation at Siffin disgusted them, and they marched off. They became known as the Kharijites, Those Who Walked Away.

  And it was a Kharijite assassin that finally ended the life of Ali ibn Abi Talib, three years later, striking him down with a poisoned sword during public prayers. You may believe the official story that it was a conspiracy aimed at simultaneously wiping out all potential leaders of Islam, and that only the attempt on Ali succeeded. You may believe, if you have been paying attention, that there were other parties which might have had an interest in the death of the Prophet’s cousin.

  Either way, the next Khalifah was Mu’awiyah of the Ummayyads. His family were accustomed to authority, and knew how to hang onto power. To give them their due, they also knew how to run an empire. The Land of Islam stabilised and grew fat, even as those first four Successors, Abu Bakr, Umar, Uthman and Ali, were remembered as al-Rashidun, the Righteous Ones. But the Alids, the descendants of Ali, live on, and as long as there is a wild-eyed fundamentalist, or a sharp-eyed politician, in the Holy Lands, the regime will always be at risk from the Shi’ites.

  ***

  “But Harun al-Rashid is of the family of the Abbasids, not the Ummayyads.”

  “Good lad. You have been paying attention after all. But that is a story for another day. You look exhausted. If you ask the household servants they will bring you food.”

  “Thank you. Might I know the name of the man who has shown me such kindness?”

  “My name is al-Mithaq. Yaqub al-Mithaq. I will see you here again. But in the meantime, take care around the Father of Locks.”

  Seven

  The Tale of the Visitors

  “I hope this lateness is not a habit with you. I have been waiting for almost an hour.”

  Rest had given Abu Nuwas back his brazen swagger. In fact I had seen him arrive only moments before I got to the Watch House, and immediately begin pacing up and down with exaggerated impatience. He was now more respectably dressed, wearing a green turban and a matching robe, although his black locks snaked intractably out from underneath his headdress.

  It was true that I was late. After talking to al-Mithaq, my head buzzed like a bee-hive with so many thoughts that I thought I would never sleep. However exhaustion must have taken its toll, because the next instant I was woken by the wailing of the call to prayer, from the minaret of the masjid that adjoined the palace. I found waiting for me a fresh set of clothes, plain and worn but clean and respectable, a bread roll and a cup of water.

  There was also a small brass key. It unlocked a door in the corner of the room, and a second door at the end of a long corridor which opened onto the street. Obviously this was to permit members of the Barid to come and go without the knowledge of the household servants; although I guessed that unseen eyes scrutinised everybody using the private entrance.

  Finding my way out of the Barmakid’s palace was the easy part. Disorientated by my nocturnal meanderings, I made the mistake of crossing the Tigris by the same bridge as the night before. This meant that I had to pass through Harbiya and walk three quarters of the way around the walls of the Round City before I arrived in Sharqiya, an impoverished neighbourhood east of Karkh.

  I decided not to argue with my new master, but instead led the way into the Watch House. This was little more than a single room providing shade from the heat of the sun, although at the rear was a row of doors leading, no doubt, to cells. At the centre of the room were three thickset men, squatting on their haunches. They wore identical blue robes, although their garments were grubby and moth-eaten. A heavy truncheon lay on the floor by each of them.

  “Good afternoon, gentlemen! Would you tell us where we might find your captain?”

  The men glanced up grudgingly, and one of them grunted:

  “Out.”

  His mate nudged him, and our informant turned his attention to the fistful of arrow shafts being waved at him. He selected one with the appearance of profound thought, examined it quickly and threw it to the ground cursing. The remaining arrows were proffered to the remaining policeman. He seemed much happier with his choice, yelling and scooping up a handful of copper coins from the floor.r />
  I looked at Abu Nuwas, who was smiling cruelly, turquoise eyes glittering. Unfortunately, even on our brief acquaintance I already knew him well enough to guess what this meant. I realised, to my horror, that he was about to say something provocative, perhaps involving the policemen tugging his shaft, and that violence would probably ensue. Now I understood what al-Mithaq had been trying to tell me, about how quickly the Father of Locks wore out his hobbles.

  Just as he opened his mouth to speak, we were interrupted by a bellow from the doorway.

  “What have I told you miserable scum about gambling on duty?”

  I was surprised to see that the booming voice came from a short figure in the doorway. Although stocky, the newcomer was no taller than me. He wore the same blue garments as the gamblers, but his were neater.

  He bustled into the room, kicking the behinds of the bigger men as they gathered up their truncheons and scurried out onto the street. Any one of them could have floored him, let alone three together, but they allowed him to scold them as if they were naughty schoolboys. When they had gone, he faced us, breathing heavily from his exertions.

  “You’re the men the Wazir has sent? You’re not what I was hoping for. Frankly, I’m rather disappointed.” The crazed look had left my master’s face, and he responded to this dispiriting assessment with a low bow.

  “I am Abu Nuwas of the Barid, and this is my servant Ismail al-Walid. Do I have the pleasure of addressing al-Takht, Captain of Police?”

  It seemed we did indeed have that pleasure. Al-Takht was curt in his speech, although his methodical approach suggested a well-organised mind. I formed the impression that nature had given him little patience with fools, while society had cruelly decreed that he spend a great deal of time in their company. Consequently he lived most of his life in a state of simmering annoyance.

  Our arrival did little to lighten his habitual distemper. The look of glum resignation on his face, as he contemplated the lisping fop and the scrawny white boy before him, was eloquent. More articulate than any scholar, it adduced our arrival as the final, conclusive evidence of his theory, that the universe had been constructed purely to vex him. He sighed.

  “Come on, I’ll take you there.”

  We could probably have found the street where the fire had raged, even without the Police Captain’s help. A sooty smog still hung gloomily over the place, and the stench of smoke was heavy in the air. The mud brick walls of the ruined houses remained standing, although they were scorched black and sodden from the water used to extinguish the blaze. Their roofs had collapsed, however, the timbers burned through, and the wooden doors and shutters had been incinerated. Through windows that gaped like the eyeholes of a skull, we could see that the houses were gutted to their bones.

  “The hooded man stood over there.”

  Al-Takht indicated a spot across the street.

  “When the old woman approached him, he hurled the firebolt – or whatever it was – at this building in the middle. The blaze soon spread to the neighbouring houses. Fortunately the building was empty, and nobody was hurt.”

  “Could it have been a flask of oil?”

  Al-Takht looked wearily at my master.

  “Have you never knocked over an oil lamp by accident? Or thrown one in anger? A small quantity of oil could not have caused this devastation. Besides, it would need to have been already lit. If the stranger had been carrying a burning lamp in daylight, somebody would surely have remarked on it.”

  Abu Nuwas nodded in acknowledgement.

  “Who lived in the house?”

  “A dyer and his family. Only been here a year – went back to their village last month, couldn’t get enough work in the city. House has been unoccupied since.”

  “So there would seem to be no purpose to the arson?”

  “Unless to cover the stranger’s escape. Or for sheer love of destruction.”

  We examined the damaged buildings. Usually fire needs to grow stealthily, before it dares to rage. Yet this conflagration had blossomed in an instant, watched by a street full of witnesses. Its ferocity must have been terrifying; no wonder the locals were willing to believe in a supernatural explanation.

  “Is the man deaded?”

  Our examination was interrupted by a small boy, four years old at most. His accent was coarse, but he stood fearlessly in front of us, eyes intense and bright, and repeated his question.

  “Is the man deaded?”

  Abu Nuwas seemed nonplussed by the child’s boldness.

  “What man?”

  “Is the man deaded?”

  The boy’s face had the earnest gravity of the very young. My master tried to assert his superiority.

  “Do you even know what that means, child?”

  “Yes I do. Deaded is when you go to sleep and you don’t wake up. Then everybody cries and washes you and puts you in a hole. My granny is deaded.”

  He finished proudly, as if inviting us to admire his granny’s achievement. Al-Takht was impassive, although I thought I detected a glint of amusement in his eye. Abu Nuwas tried to rid himself of his interrogator.

  “No, child, the man is not deaded – dead.”

  “Why?”

  Like a cunning general the boy had switched his line of attack, causing consternation in his foe.

  “Well … Because he wasn’t there.”

  “Why?”

  “Because he went away.”

  “Why?”

  “Because he couldn’t make enough money.”

  “Why?”

  “Because there are too many dyers in Baghdad – in the name of God the Infinitely Patient, I don’t know!”

  The bright eyes were implacable.

  “Why?”

  Abu Nuwas clearly had no experience of dealing with small children. Much as I was enjoying his discomfort, I decided to come to his rescue.

  “Because a magic horse with wings made of gold and silver flew down and carried him away, back to his family, so that he was safe from the fire.”

  The boy pondered this explanation for some time, before a solemn blink indicated that he deemed it satisfactory. He turned back to Abu Nuwas.

  “Is the lady deaded?”

  “Ahmad! Leave the gentlemen alone.”

  The man who bounded across to us was bow-legged and long-armed, and hairy as an ape. He swept up the child with a single huge hand. The boy Ahmad giggled, and although the man chided him his pride and love were evident. Al-Takht greeted the ape-man familiarly.

  “Peace, friend Ghassan. Your boy was just browbeating an agent of the Wazir.”

  Ghassan laughed.

  “An agent? Some day Ahmad will be Wazir himself. Don’t believe those old crows, like Umm Dabbah, who tell you the son of a Porter cannot rise to the top! Ahmad is cleverer and braver than all of their sons put together. You have heard of the Chamberlain, ibn Rabi, the most important man in Baghdad after the Wazir? His grandfather was a slave who tended a water-wheel.”

  Al-Takht had been smiling at the ape-man’s words, but now he grew serious again.

  “It is Umm Dabbah we need to see. Where might we find her?”

  Ghassan the Porter waved a hand northwards, and we took our leave. The Police Captain explained.

  “Umm Dabbah is the widow who spoke to the stranger. She lives alone – there was a son, but he went off to fight as a mercenary in al-Andalus, and never came home. She’s an evil-minded old busybody, but the women look up to her, because of her skill with cosmetics.

  “She is always spreading stories of one kind or another. If I had her account alone of the apparition, then I would never have troubled my masters. But several people saw the hooded man. And you have seen for yourselves the devastation he caused. Whatever he is, he is a threat to my city – to my neighbourhood – to my Sharqiya.”

  We heard Umm Dabbah before we saw her. She was sitting by a well holding forth to a group of women.

  “So they snatch children, and carry them off to their temple
. There they cut the poor little things’ throat. As the blood drips down they catch the precious drops in a bottle. Some of it they drink themselves, then they carve the Afrit’s name on a tablet. It’s the name that summons the Afrit, see, and the smell of children’s blood lures it into the bottle. Once it’s in the bottle, gorging itself on the blood, they put the stopper in. Then it can’t get out, see, and they make it obey their evil commands …”

  She trailed off as she saw us approach. She was a large woman, dominating the group as much by her bulk as with her strident voice.

  “Who does, Umm Dabbah? Who does these terrible things?”

  She peered at the policeman suspiciously. The eyes above her veil were tiny for her size.

  “You know, al-Takht. You and all the authorities, but you won’t admit it. You hide their crimes, and deny their guilt. But I know. I’ve worked at the palace, you know, and seen all kinds of things.”

  “Whose crimes, woman? I am friend to no criminal.”

  Despite being only a few feet apart, they were bellowing, as though they could convince each other by the loudness of their voice. The effect was rather exhausting.

  “You know who, al-Takht. Witches, that’s who.”

  Abu Nuwas gave an involuntary snort of derision. The woman turned on him.

  “And who are you, coming round here laughing at respectable women? You have the look of one of them. Is that how it is, al-Takht? Does a warlock have to follow you round, now, to make sure you keep their filthy secrets?”

  The Police Captain was bubbling like a vat of boiling oil, but managed to keep from exploding.

  “This man is the representative of the Wazir, minister of state to the Commander of the Faithful. And I have never turned my back on a crime, not for money, nor for religion, nor for politics; nor even for friendship. So if you would be so kind, Umm Dabbah, then the Khalifah Harun al-Rashid, in the person of his properly delegated agents, would like you to tell us about the man that you saw.”

  She gazed at him for a moment, and her veil moved as if she was chewing. Then: