“And what about the Devil?”
“The Devil will have to wait, since royalty has come calling. To be frank, I find Iblis considerably less frightening than Harun the Righteous. Now, we must try to prepare you for the feast.”
I had visions of being marinaded and roasted, but it transpired that I had only to be washed and dressed in more appropriate clothing, and we set out for a bath house in Rusafah. I was glad to have been invited to the feast. This was less because I was curious to meet the rulers of the civilised world, than because I was ravenously hungry.
After the Abbey of St Pachomius I was wary of visiting a bath house with the poet, but the hammam to which he led me was a respectable one, in a fashionable part of town. The water was hot, the steam dense, and it was pleasant to sweat and scrub the dust of the road from my body.
In the cool room we met again the poets Abbas and Abu’l-Atahiyya, also preparing for the feast. They sat amid a gang of aristocratic young men, who shouted abuse and scraps of verse at each other. I noticed that wine was being served, discreetly but illegally. There was also a boy of around my age, who simpered and giggled at all the men’s jokes. Abu Nuwas sat near him, throwing him glances and outrageous compliments, causing him to bat his eyelids shamelessly. I was nauseated and oddly a little jealous.
Everybody knew the Father of Locks, and everybody deferred to him. Even in the company of the other distinguished poets, he was the undisputed pack leader. It was not only his entourage who seemed to collude in his self-importance; the bath boys, waiters and scrubbers fawned on him, neglecting the princelings and plutocrats, and other patrons pointed and whispered when he passed.
I watched Abu Nuwas borrow money from one of the youths to pay for our bath, and wondered what had happened to the Wazir’s gift. My master, it appeared, was penniless again. How he had managed to blow the remainder of a thousand dinars in the few hours that we had been apart was mystifying. It was more money than Ghassan the Porter would see if he lived as long as Methuselah. I guessed the poet’s creditors were many, and swooped like magpies at the first flash of gold.
I sat quietly listening to the aristocrats trying to impress Abu Nuwas while we waited for clothes to be delivered. One young man, giddy with forbidden drink, called out a teasing couplet.
“The Father of Locks becomes truly perverse
First Christians, now white boys, his taste just gets worse.”
My master’s response was immediate.
“Don’t give Abu Ayyub more wine
He never knows when he’s crossed the line.
In his cups he’d swap his best racehorse
For that stinky old donkey of mine.”
In the laughter that followed I hardly heard what Abu’l-Atahiyya said, and it was only when all eyes turned to me that the full horror of his words sank in.
“Your gosling writes poetry, doesn’t he, Abu Ali? He must recite some for us.”
I looked pleadingly at Abu Nuwas, hoping he would spare me. Instead he smiled wickedly.
“Yes, Newborn, give us a few lines.”
Reluctant as I was to be at the centre of their circle, I reflected that if I wished to be considered a poet, I would have to expose my endeavours at some point. I took some deep breaths and decided that I might as well commit myself wholly. I launched into the prelude to a qasida, the most prestigious form in Arabic verse:
“Wait, friends, I know this place, I swear –
Stay your horses, let us tarry here.
This is where we camped, so long ago;
Now the dust of the desert has scoured it bare.
The firepits now stand cold and black,
In the place where I held my love so dear.
Just as our love now burns no more
And chills with every passing year …”
I trailed off. They were sitting in silence, some with open mouths. For a moment I feared that they were appalled by the drivel I was uttering. Then Abu’l-Atahiyya, the chubby Father of Madness, spoke.
“Well, technically it is impeccable. Is it truly your own, boy?”
A few heads nodded. I realised that their astonishment had nothing to do with the quality of my poetry. Seeing my white skin, they viewed me as some kind of dancing bear, and were amazed that I could achieve mere competence. Most, however, looked to Abu Nuwas, waiting for his verdict to guide their opinion. He stared upwards for a long time, as if he was finding his speeches written on the ceiling.
“Not bad at all. I suppose you have at least seen a campfire, not like our friend the Seller of Jugs.”
Abu’l-Atahiyya gave a sickly smile, but his face paled, and I understood that these jibes really hurt him. The Father of Locks pressed on, heedlessly.
“But you write what you think you should, not what you feel you must. Form should be the midwife to creation, not an infanticide strangling it at birth. What are the three movements of the qasida, Newborn?”
I answered with some defiance. This was schoolboy stuff.
“The nasib, the prelude, where the poet laments the loss of past love, usually symbolised by an abandoned encampment. The rahil, the theme, where the poet exults in the nomadic life, describing at length the admirable qualities of his mount, his horse or camel. The madih, the panegyric, where the poet praises his tribe or his patron.”
“And you know that, and I know that, and anybody whom it is worth your while addressing knows that. Leave it to be known, and it is one less thing you need to say. The qasida was developed by the Jahili, the Arabs of the desert in the days of ignorance, before the coming of the Prophet. It spoke of what was important to them. Now, its value lies in what is shared, and goes unspoken.
“Observe the metalworker who makes his model in soft wax, and builds his mould around it. When the mould is complete, the wax is burned away, and replaced by molten gold. So let the forms of the ancients be to you. When I told my old teacher Khalaf al-Amar that I wanted to write, he told me that I had to memorise one thousand poems of the Jahili first. Six months later I informed him that I had done it. ‘Very good,’ he said, ‘now forget them again.’ ”
“Then let us hear a qasida of yours, Father of Locks, so that we can learn how it should be done.”
There was a stunned hush at my impertinence. Abu Nuwas unleashed a piercing glare, although I sensed he was not displeased.
“Very well then, Teller of Tales. I shall give you a qasida of mine.”
When Abu Nuwas recited his own verse, I understood how skilfully Ibrahim al-Mosuli had used music to capture the cadences of his voice. I immediately recognised the sinuous melody of his lines, the teasing lilt. However the poet’s performance had a depth and complexity that the musician had missed. The words of his qasida echoed around the dripping stone of the cool room.
“Sit down in the dirt where the camp once lay
The traces now whispered away
Ill-fated stars turned the fire we shared
Into dust with which zephyrs play.
I have unclasped the necklace of lust –
Just one glass, warmed by morning sun’s ray –
Perfect pearls on a thread of fine words
The bubbles soar skyward. They
Are too delicate to be touched or felt
And like dust, they drift away.
The boy hid his charms beneath sacred robes
Like a bride on her wedding day
So sweetly he sings of the wine he brings
Shaitan must possess him, we say.
A saint, had there been one among us
Would for love have been tempted astray.”
Much as I wanted to dislike him, I had to admit it was dazzling. The shocking twists of phrase, both honouring and mocking the traditional form, said more in a few lines than other poems five times its length. I wondered whether I would have to admit defeat to him publicly. Then one of the aristocrats, mimicking the enraptured look on the poet’s face, let out a long, slow, noisy fart, and the tension collapsed into
laughter.
I was glad to slink back to the shadows, but Abu Nuwas leaned towards me.
“Still, boy, yours was good, of its kind.”
I nodded gravely, and accepted the compliment. After all, it had not escaped my attention that after hearing my verse, he had not called me Newborn, but addressed me by the name I had earned for myself, in my years of wandering: al-Rawiya, the Teller of Tales.
Nine
The Tale of the Khalifah’s Feast, which includes, The Tale of the Poet and the Three Boys, and, The Tale of the Horn of Hruodland
Al-Khuld, The Palace of Blissful Eternity, was Harun al-Rashid’s preferred residence in Baghdad. The Gilded Gate, built by his austere grandfather, had too much of duty and too little of pleasure in its design for any of al-Mansur’s successors. Blissful Eternity lounged along the riverbank, between the City of Peace and the Tigris, away from the stink and striving of the general populace. The river gate, leading to an enclosed private marina, allowed for graceful arrival; and, when the city became too much, for discreet escape.
While the noble guests drifted in by water, Abu Nuwas and I walked the short distance from the hammam. The expensive clothes he had ordered for me were uncomfortable, and I itched with embarrassment too. As we were leaving the baths a slave had brought a small basin of scented water. I was about to drink it, when Abu Nuwas intervened, showing me how to dab it on my skin. I could still hear the snickers of the young men.
I was therefore eager to distract the poet from my humiliation, but also genuinely troubled by something he had casually let slip.
“Master, you said one smart remark might cost your head. Are you really in danger tonight?”
“Do not underestimate the power of poetry, boy. Every line spoken or published is a political act. Words have the power to sway men’s hearts, and minds; to make their progenitors wealthy, or dead. And poetry is the memory of the Arabs. The common people cannot read or write, but they can remember rhyme and verse, and pass it on to others. The Umayyads were no more decadent that the current regime, but they fell because they neglected their reputation. If you learn nothing else from me, learn this: what is important is not what actually happened, only what people think they remember happening.
“Those rich men, who pay Abu’l-Atahiyya to write verses in their praise; you think they do so purely from vanity? They hope to influence how they are viewed, both at court and in the suqs. Perhaps most of all, they hope to be thought of as great men, even long after their deaths. It was the Khalifah al-Mansur who built Baghdad, and laid the foundations for the current peace. But it is Harun al-Rashid about whom all the poetry is written. Who do you think will be remembered, in a hundred years time, or a thousand?
“And just as poetry can redeem, so it can condemn. There are hacks who live by writing satires about important men; and then make those important men pay, to ensure the verses about their vices are never published.
“Only a few years ago the poet Bashshar was beaten to death by the Khalifah’s Guard, and his body thrown into the Tigris in a sack. Admittedly though that may not have been for anything he wrote. The horny old toad may have just fucked the wrong man’s wife or daughter. And I myself came close to execution once, thanks to an ill-judged jest.
“It was a few years ago, when I was new to the city. The Khalifah took it upon himself to visit me late at night. This was particularly inconvenient as I had picked up three charming, if somewhat rough, boys from the back alleys of Harbiya. We had just finished dining and were getting down to dessert, as it were – no, I must tell you the story properly.
The Tale of the Poet and the Three Boys
It is a sad thing, to dine alone. Sadder still, when the fare is as fine as that which lay before me on the evening in question. I had not been long in Baghdad, but earlier that day I had met the young Khalifah for the first time. Harun’s coronation feast was barely cold, and everyone was clamouring for an audience with him. However, Ja’far al-Barmaki got me my chance, in return for certain tasks which I had performed for him among the Badawi of the Empty Quarter.
The Khalifah was delighted by the freshness of my wit, and had rewarded me richly. I had been half starving since arriving in the city, and blew some of my new wealth on a fabulous meal, which I ordered cooked for me and brought to my apartment. Then I sat down, and looked at the meats and the breads and pies and the stews, and felt lonely.
I did not live in fashionable Zubaydiya, back then, but in a draughty hole in Harbiya. I wandered out onto the street, and I did not have to go far to receive offers of company, of many different kinds. As soon as I saw the three youths, though, I knew with whom I wanted to share my good fortune.
They were around your age, Newborn, and skulked sullenly by the bridge where the Sarat Canal cuts across Madinah Road. They did not speak to me, but looked at me with suspicion. When I offered them food and wine, though, their greedy eyes came to life.
They were mean spirited, and illiterate, and cared nothing for me, only for what I could give them. But also they were young, and lean, and hard, with clear skin and white teeth. I took them home with me.
It was a delightful repast. If they truly had not been with a man before, then they approached the novelty with considerable enthusiasm. I teased them with treats, demanding that clothes were shed and kisses given in exchange for each morsel. Eventually the food was forgotten, and we all four sprawled on a soft rug together.
The first was called Hakim, and he was the most eager of the boys. He could scarcely wait for me to undress him, and nipped at me hungrily. His zabb, when I freed it, was short and stubby, and burst out in joy as soon as I clasped it in my hand.
The second was Hakam. He did not push himself onto me, but turned away coyly. From behind I drew down his pants to reveal wide hips and plump white buttocks like twin moons. I reached round, to find his snake was small and shy. When I pierced his hole, however, I entered with ease, and the serpent awakened and stretched, expressing pleasure in our union.
Hamid was the third. He neither sought nor fled my attentions, but stared at me from dark eyes that spat anger. I bowed my head humbly before his power and beauty, laying a trail of kisses along the ridges of his chest and stomach, until I came to a tall, proud member, which I worshipped with my tongue and my heart.
While thus engaged I was surprised to discover that Hakam had wriggled under me and taken my own zabb into his mouth, heedless of its recent plunge into his cave. Hakim, not wanting to be left out, set about applying his best efforts to my backside. And that was how we were disposed, when God’s representative on earth walked in.
Harun had suffered one of his nocturnal glooms, and come in search of the droll poet who had given him such amusement earlier that day. My servant Iyas tried to turn him away, but who can deny the Khalifah? The Righteous One was not pleased by what he found.
“What is happening here?”
This was possibly the stupidest question I had ever heard.
“What is happening here, Commander of the Faithful, is beyond questions and beyond answers.”
Fortunately for me, Harun, who is nothing if not capricious, decided to make a joke of the situation.
“Father of Locks, I shall have to appoint you my Minister for Pimps and Whores.”
Unfortunately for me, I had drunk a great deal, and could not resist taking the joke too far.
“I gratefully accept the appointment, o Khalifah. In which capacity have you come to petition me? Are you pimp or whore?”
Harun’s face darkened, and he stormed out without a word. The youths grabbed their clothes and scattered as Masrur the Swordbearer loomed into view, accompanied by two Palace Guards. The Swordbearer is the Khalifah’s personal bodyguard, a giant black man who is rarely far from his master’s side.
I was dragged through the streets, naked as I was, towards the Gilded Gate. It was late, but there was no lack of spectators to jeer along the way. I had no idea what danger I was really in, but in fact the Khalifah
had ordered Masrur to chop my head off once we reached the palace. If I had known that, I might not have given such a cheery response to Salam the Speckled One when he saw my plight, and therefore might not have lived to tell this tale.
“In the name of God, Abu Ali, what have you done?”
“Nothing, Speckled One. I showed the Khalifah my finest lay, and in return he has gifted me his finest robe.”
As witticisms go, it was pretty weak, but it saved my life. Salam knew that I had worked for the Barid, and thought Ja’far might like to know I was in trouble. The Wazir hurried to the Khalifah to plead on my behalf. At first Harun was obdurate. It was only when Ja’far told him that I was still joking along the way to my execution, that he decided my value as entertainment was worth the occasional insolence. The reprieve came just as we arrived at the Gilded Gate.
I heard the messenger tell Masrur that the death sentence was repealed, and found myself shaking.
“Would you truly have killed me, Swordbearer, for a few ill-chosen words? I have done you no harm.”
Masrur shrugged.
“I carry the Khalifah’s sword as his right arm might do, and I obey him as the arm obeys the wishes of the heart. I bear you no ill will, poet, but does your hand argue with you when you use it to write your verses? No more would I question the orders of my master.”
***
By now we were arriving at al-Khuld. I had been impressed by the mansion of the Barmakids, but compared to Blissful Eternity it was a mere hut. In a city where few buildings had even a second storey, the Khalifah’s palace seemed to soar to neck-aching heights. Etiquette demanded that the Gilded Gate remain the tallest structure in the city, but the designer of al-Khuld had exaggerated its stature through cunning use of columns and terracing.
In some ways it resembled a fortress, its crenellated walls being studded with bastions and towers. However the structure was too delicate to withstand any assault. The stone and brick was carved to look as light as spun sugar, and painted in exuberant red and gold. The whole seemed both vast and ephemeral, like an illusory palace created by a Jinn in a story.
The Father of Locks Page 11