Abu’l Atahiyya, the Father of Madness was there, and of course Ja’far al-Barmaki, who is perhaps Harun’s favourite drinking companion. I was not unhappy to see the Wazir. His demands on my services are vexatious, but he is a good source of income, and he tempers the Khalifah’s more dangerous whims. The music was led by Ishaq al-Mosuli, son of Ibrahim – I think you heard him sing at the feast last night? He is a young man with a fine voice, and all the charm Ibrahim seems to be losing in his old age.
My little singing girl, Muti’a, was performing as well. I was glad to see she was not foolish enough to risk even a wink in front of her master, but even with modestly downturned eyes she somehow made harlot promises. Standing against a wall, leaning on his giant sword as he silently watched everybody, was Masrur, the bodyguard.
Harun leaned forward enthusiastically on seeing me, almost toppling over.
“Peace, Father of Locks! You are late. We must devise some appropriate punishment for you.”
Abu’l Atahiyya must have been the object of the Khalifah’s mockery before my arrival, because he seized eagerly on this theme.
“Yes, he must be strapped to an ass, and paraded around town. All the while being beaten with reeds. By dwarves.”
I gave him a hollow smile, promising myself I would make him suffer for this. If the suggestion had caught the Khalifah’s imagination he would have insisted on it being carried out without a second thought. And Masrur would have seen it done, regretfully but implacably obeying his master’s order. Fortunately at that moment the dancing girls entered, distracting us all.
They were a gift from Ja’far to his Khalifah. There were seven girls, each from a different nation: a plump Chinese maiden, a statuesque Slav, a long legged black woman from south of the Great Desert, a pretty Turkmen, a dark-eyed Greek, even a pale Goth from distant Andalus. My eye was particularly caught, however, by the Hindu. She had a slim, boyish figure, with small breasts. Her flat stomach was bare, between a short top and loose pants. She noticed my gaze, and dared a sidelong glance from lustful, half-closed eyes.
Each was dressed after the fashion of their country, but their costumes were artfully designed to tempt. The tribal garments were enhanced by slits and thin fabrics, which permitted tantalising glimpses of buttock and breast. They danced sinuously to a seductive tune, competing for the attention of the Khalifah. There were many worse fates than being a concubine in his huram. They would live and eat well, and even if they found his attentions repugnant, he had so many women that they would likely soon be forgotten in favour of new pleasures, and would be left in peace.
It was a stimulating sight, and even my jaded member stirred its head in interest. Harun was delighted, and when the music climaxed, to the accompaniment of much frenzied jiggling, he beckoned the Goth girl to come and sit by him. The disappointed rejects sat by the musicians. I noticed the Hindu talking to Muti’a, and the two of them scrutinising me when the Khalifah was not looking in their direction.
Harun was getting drunker, and wanted to be entertained.
“Poetry! I must have poetry from my brilliant friends. Enchant my ears with your magic charms.”
I reluctantly stirred myself, trying to dredge up some scrap of doggerel that might pass for spontaneous wit. I had wasted some of my finest pieces on the Khalifah when he was so inebriated that he would never remember them, and had every intention of using them again when the opportunity arose. However, Abu’l-Atahiyya beat me to the post, jumping in with a madih of his own. He was clearly still smarting from being placed by the door at the previous night’s feast. (Oh, you were next to him, weren’t you, Abbas? How gauche of me to dwell on it.)
I had no interest in listening to his effusions. We must all write praise of our patrons, but one can at least do it with taste and wit. Abu’l-Atahiyya simply piles up the praise like a farmer shovelling shit. Father of Madness, indeed! Do not mistake me, I value the friendship of the chubby old milksop. I have known him since the old days in Basrah. However, he needs to find some real courage, if he wants to be a real poet. I made the excuse of having to pass water, and wandered out into the cool garden.
It was true that there was pressure on my bladder, from the wine I had consumed. Unfortunately, when I exposed my zabb to the outside air, I found that the excitement generated by the dancing girls had not dissipated. If anything my tool hardened. Every time I thought the drawbridge was lowering, and my amber liquid might sally forth to dance with the leaves, the image of the Hindu girl’s hard belly tantalised me, and the treacherous serpent sprang back to life.
As I stood, pants round my ankles and waving my zabb at the unfortunate sandalwood, a sultry voice caressed my ears.
“Hey, beautiful man. Don’t waste that on a tree. Bring it over here – we need you to settle a bet.”
I looked back towards the pavilion, and saw that the Hindu had accompanied Muti’a into the garden. The two women stepped from the bush behind which they had been spying, and advanced on me.
Fifteen
Concluding the Tale of the Cock and his Hens, And, The Tale of the Shower of Petals
“Wait a minute, Abu Ali. Have you knocked us up and intruded on our night of passion just to brag of your sexual conquests? Is all this a dirty story so you could have a cup of wine?”
Abbas had voiced my own concern at the increasingly implausible turn of events. I noticed that his companion, on the other hand, seemed quite aroused by the tale; her eyes had widened above her veil, and her breathing deepened.
“I’ve never known you to object to a dirty story before, Abbas. But let me tell you what happened, then judge for yourself whether it was worth the disturbance.”
Abbas sat back, and my master went on with his tale.
***
I watched the girls slink across the garden towards me, and the naked desire in the Hindu’s dark eyes stiffened my zabb still more. Muti’a the singer spoke first.
“Oh Father of Locks, this is my friend Dhanya. I was telling her about the splendour of your sword, but she did not believe me. I said it was the size of a cucumber, she insisted that I must be thinking of a courgette. We came out in the hope of settling the argument. Well, little sister, do you concede that I was right?”
The hussy Dhanya came up and took my zabb in her hand, weighing it as if it were indeed a vegetable.
“Then you must have very small cucumbers in the Black Lands. In my home country of Rajputana, we grow cucumbers as big as my arm.”
Muti’a sauntered over and stroked my denigrated tool, as if to console it after Dhanya’s insults.
“But you must admit, little sister, that it is a strong, straight sword, which would penetrate deep into its victim.”
The Hindu ran her finger along its length as if testing a blade.
“No doubt it would prick soft Arab flesh, but it would shatter against the steel of Rajputana.”
She pressed it against her firm belly, and I shivered slightly. Muti’a pushed her away, and caressed my zabb possessively.
“At least you will allow it is a shapely instrument, that would play a fine tune.”
Dhanya put her lips to the tip of my zabb and blew gently, while pressing her fingers along its length as if it were a flute.
“It plays sweetly enough, but its tone is not as rich and deep as the instruments of Rajputana.”
They started giggling. I had had enough, and pulled away from them both.
“Whether it is flute or sword or vegetable, I do not recall taking it to market to be weighed and measured and manipulated! As for you, dancing girl, if the zabbs of Rajputana are so much better, I suggest you go avail yourself of them.”
I made to pull up my pants, but Dhanya stopped me. She pressed herself against me, twisting my locks around her fingers where they dangled from my turban.
“I am the property of Ja’far al-Barmaki, and most likely will never see Rajputana again. Now that the Khalifah has not chosen me, I do not know what my fate will be. Perhaps the Wazir
will keep me for himself, perhaps I will be sold to a rheumy old man with foul breath and stinking armpits. Whatever happens, this may well be the last time I ever make love to a beautiful man, with oiled hair and brilliant eyes, to whom I give myself freely and for my own pleasure.
“So fuck me, Father of Locks. Fuck me as if this was also your last chance for ecstasy.”
She stripped off her clothes and stood naked before me, scented and bejewelled as she had been prepared for the bed of the ruler of the world. Her breasts were small but rounded, tipped with hard pink nipples, and her mound had been shaved and powered. She lay upon the grass, and as I knelt beside her I noticed Masrur the Swordbearer watching us from by the pavilion. He shook his head in gentle reproach, and I knew that we were in no danger. One of his functions as bodyguard was to protect Harun from knowing or seeing what might cause him distress. I am sure it would distress him sorely to have to order my execution.
And so we discovered that the steel of Rajputana did, after all, yield to the sword of Arabia. The gates of the stronghold were opened, and admitted the conqueror, to great rejoicing. Muti’a watched our coupling with increasing excitement, contributing little kisses, nips and slaps whenever opportunity arose and to whichever body presented itself. And when the dancer was satisfied, she made way for the singer, and we discovered that there was, also, enough cucumber for two.
At last the three of us sat up and made ourselves decent, before returning, one by one, to the pavilion. I entered first, to see the Khalifah regarding me sternly. For a moment my blood turned to ice, and I feared that he knew of my dalliance in the garden.
“I had forgotten to punish you for your lateness, Father of Locks. I have decided that your sentence is to be a dozen lashes.”
What drunken whim was this? Twelve lashes was a terrifying penalty for tardiness. I started to stammer an apology, but Harun interrupted me.
“However, I shall be merciful and will pardon you; if, that is, you can do as we do now.”
I looked at the stony faces of Ja’far and Abu’l-Atahiyya in perplexity. Then Harun al-Rashid of the Abbasids puffed out his cheeks and began to cluck like a chicken. The Commander of the Faithful flapped arms bent like wings, squawked and pecked, before finally producing an egg from his backside.
It was the Khalifah’s idea of a joke, obviously cooked up during my absence. I almost wished he had just had me whipped. It would have been less painful.
Abu’l-Atahiyya went through the same performance, brandishing his egg with stifled sniggers which, unfortunately, I suspected to be genuine rather than sycophantic. Even the elegant Wazir played his part, disdainfully but dutifully. When three eggs had been held under my nose, Harun folded his arms and looked at me in expectation.
I had no idea whether he really would go through with the punishment, but Harun al-Rashid was a man who approached his humour with grim seriousness. I had to respond in the spirit of the original prank. However I had no egg which I could pretend to lay. Then inspiration struck. I stood up, threw my head back, and crowed like a cock.
There was a stunned silence, during which everyone looked to the Khalifah. I had just insinuated that the most powerful man in the world was my concubine. It was entirely possible that he would have me killed.
Fortunately, the true implications of my act must have passed him by, because he rolled around on his rug bellowing with laughter. As soon as everyone was sure it was safe, they all joined in too. I spotted Muti’a and Dahnya, who had sneaked in unnoticed, gazing at me with the intimacy of our shared secret.
More wine was sent for, and consumed. This caused the Khalifah to experience one of the swift reverses of mood to which he was prone. Now that the hilarity of his jape had faded, he was suddenly depressed. He began to gripe to Ja’far on one of his favourite subjects: the oppressiveness of Baghdad.
“Oh, my friend, the stench! The city is well provided with public hammams – why can the rabble not wash themselves? Then there is the stink of the tanneries and the dyers, the droppings of the horses and donkeys and camels, the fetid water of the canals … And the heat, the awful stagnant, relentless heat. Sometimes, my friend, I think this place will suffocate me.”
Harun had lain his head in Ja’far’s lap, and the Wazir stroked his face. Sometimes I wonder about those two; they seem a little too close. If the Khalifah drinks in private, what other sins might he commit behind closed doors? The caresses did not stop him whining, however.
“And yet it seems I cannot escape. When I set out to build a new palace, in the fresh air of the Meadow of the Castle, God struck me down with illness, and I had to be carried home on a litter. Under the constant demands of work, and the heavy responsibility of leading the one true faith, I feel the weight of my people pressing down upon me, crushing me.
“Only here, in my Pavilion of Air, can I expand my chest. Only here, with my best friend Ja’far by my side, can I breathe, and laugh. Yet even here, sometimes, the darkness comes upon me. I try to live rightly, to be a good Muslim and a good ruler. Why does God punish me so?”
The Commander of the Faithful began to cry, big, gulping, baby sobs of wine-sodden weeping. His Wazir tried to comfort and distract him, as if he were a small child.
“Khalifah, if there is anything you require, any delight of touch or taste, we can have brought to you food or wine or women –”
“I am gorged with such sensual pleasures! I seek the simple joys that are not denied to the meanest of my people.” The agonised expression on Ja’far’s face suggested he was having difficulty imagining what simple joys might look like.
“Sport, then! A horse race … archery … polo?”
Harun shook his head, which he had now buried in a satin pillow. I wondered how exactly he proposed to organise an archery contest between four inebriated men in the middle of the night, let alone a polo match. I supposed anything was possible when you were the master of the world. Ja’far made a supreme effort to imagine where poor people found solace.
“Perhaps, Khalifah, we should go up to the terrace and look out over the Tigris? We can contemplate the myriad stars in the firmament, watch the moon reflected in the water, and see the fishing boats bobbing like toys.”
The Commander of the Faithful howled in misery.
“Then, Khalifah, you must cut off the head of your servant Ja’far, for I cannot find any way to please you!”
I am sure that the Wazir was speaking rhetorically, and that he knew his master well enough to be certain he would not be taken at his word. In some ways it was satisfying to see that Harun al-Rashid, who ruled nations of millions and commanded armies of thousands, whose every need was met and whose every wish gratified, could still be so unhappy. However his bawling was becoming tedious, and I felt the need to intervene.
“Why don’t we venture out onto the streets of the city in disguise, and see how the common people live?”
Harun was sitting up. His face was still blotchy from tears, but his blubbering had ceased, and he was looking at me with shining eyes.
“Of course! In this way might the Khalifah lift his spirits, and also learn more about the people whom God has appointed him to lead. Thank you, my friend! You – bring gold for my friend Abu Ali. Five thousand – no, ten thousand dinars for my friend!”
Abu’l-Atahiyya was staring at me resentfully. I had doubtless earned ten times more for my offhand suggestion than he had been awarded for his carefully crafted panegyric. Masrur also looked none too pleased. It would be his responsibility to indulge this new caprice of his master’s while ensuring that the Khalifah came to no harm.
Harun’s depression had transformed to excitement about this new adventure. He had forgotten all about the odour of the working man, and was full of praise for their simple dignity, their honest toil, and other such atrocious nonsense. Now all was bustle and ado to prepare for our expedition. The dancing girls were chivvied away, with the exception of the Goth, who was led off to be prepared for the Khalifah’s bed, when
ever he decided he was ready for it. I bade a silent farewell to Muti’a and Dahnya, who had provided the only real fun of a rather strange evening, and arranged for my dinars to be delivered to my home. Even with the protection of the Swordbearer I did not fancy wandering the streets laden with gold.
Harun had sent for ordinary clothes, and somebody brought a pile of shabby, patched garments which would normally have been worn by household slaves. We were all obliged to find a set that fitted us. Ja’far looked as if he would have held his nose if he dared, but Abu’l-Atahiyya had decided that if the Khalifah was enthusiastic, then so would he be. He pranced around in his costume, aping the bow-legged walk of a porter. Masrur looked exactly the same as he usually did; if he were dressed as a dancing girl, you would still notice only his bulk and his enormous sword. As for me, I have had on occasion to don a disguise while working for the Barid, so I shed my finery with only mild regret.
However, this was not enough for the Successor to the Prophet. He ordered maids from the hurram to come with cosmetics, and we were all decorated with fake spots and wrinkles and scars. Abu’l-Atahiyya found a crutch from somewhere, and tied up his left leg under his coat as if he had lost it in battle. By the time we finally staggered out through a side gate, Buhlul the hunchback would have been embarrassed to be seen with us, we looked so ridiculous.
The expedition was a fiasco. Masrur subtly guided us to one of the more respectable hammams, where the Father of Madness shamefacedly had to reveal his hidden limb when we undressed, and our make-up dripped from our faces. A couple of scarred, angry veterans looked like they were about to take exception to our outlandish appearance, before the Swordbearer reared up behind us, causing them to think better of it.
The Father of Locks Page 19