The Father of Locks

by Andrew Killeen

  In the cool room Harun decided to engage one poor bastard in conversation. The Khalifah’s victim, a tailor from Basrah, obviously recognised his ruler, and was struck speechless in his confusion. Once again it was Masrur who saved the situation, engaging in a mime of extraordinary precision behind his master’s back, somehow conveying to the tailor what was required. The terrified man stammered a few sentences about how much better life was under the enlightened leadership of the Righteous One, and Harun was satisfied.

  Eventually the wine began to wear off, and the Khalifah tired of his adventure. We stumbled home, sobering up with unpleasant rapidity. When we arrived at al-Khuld I pretended to have a stone in my boot, and insisted the others go on ahead of me. In truth I was hoping to skulk off home and go to bed; I had had as much of the company of royalty as I could stomach.

  However, as I leaned against the wall, fiddling with my foot and waiting for them to disappear round the corner, I heard a noise behind me, as if a lizard were scuttling down the wall. Caution made me withdraw into the shadows. I saw a rope hanging from a window of the palace. Then, as I watched, a lean figure slid down the line. At the bottom, he paused to look around before sloping away into the night. In the moonlight I could see him clearly.

  You remember the beardless Frank, who you noticed was missing from the feast? It seems that he makes a habit of absenting himself without the knowledge of his hosts. I wondered what it was that drew him away from the comforts of al-Khuld. It had been a long evening, and I was tired, and worse, sober. However there was only one way to find out where he was going. I set off after him.

  I did not have to track him very far. He circled away from Blissful Eternity before heading down towards the river. Even at this time of night the riverside was busy. The Frank was wearing a hood for concealment. However his pale, beardless face still attracted stares and comments from the stevedores and fishermen.

  He walked down to the marshy beach, taking up a position below the Shammasiya bridge. I moved carefully round to the other side of the bridge, before ducking in between the moored boats that raised it above the water. I was able to crawl under the thick boards over which the traffic clatters, sloshing through the river water and squirming my way back to the side where the Frank was waiting. I was glad that I was wearing my commoner’s disguise, as it would have pained me to have ruined another set of robes amid the mud and mould under the pontoon, but at least I remained unobserved and had a clear view as he greeted the boat that drifted up to the shore.

  “Peace, friend.”

  The priest spoke in Greek. Fortunately I have picked up a little of the language on my travels, enough to follow the conversation. A harsh voice shouted back to him from the boat.

  “Show your face, barbarian.”

  The Frank threw back his hood, and I could clearly see his peculiar hair, shaven at the front and long at the back. The man on the boat was similarly disguised, but he did not reveal himself in turn. He called out to the Frank again.

  “Are you alone?”

  I almost glanced around, to reassure myself that we were right beside one of the busiest bridges in Baghdad, with boats loading and unloading all around us. However, I knew what he meant by alone. Wise citizens did not pay too much attention to the business of the night sailors. Most were innocent fishermen, but those who were not did not welcome curious bystanders.

  “I am alone, as agreed. Will you come ashore?”

  The hooded man on the boat made no move to disembark.

  “Have you brought the money?”

  The Frank shifted his weight from foot to foot as if irritated.

  “Have you brought the Brass Bottle?”

  “You will have the Bottle when I have the gold. More importantly, you will have the knowledge of its use. If you try to open it without the secret – if you seek to cheat me, and take it by force – the Fire will destroy you.”

  The Frank was now jigging from side to side as if he were a nervous dancer at a wedding.

  “I do not yet have the money. You should not have followed me, last time. You were seen.”

  The harsh voice drifted across the water.

  “I do not yet trust you, barbarian. I have been betrayed before, by those in whom I put my confidence. First, by my Master, who made me bow to my inferior. Then by the men who bore me away. I will not be betrayed again.”

  “Wait! What was that noise?”

  The noise was my stifled shout of shock as something – a rat, I hope – ran across my foot. I had been so caught up in the extraordinary conversation that I was unable to conceal my reaction. The surprise caused me to straighten up suddenly, bashing my head painfully against the bridge, then duck down again, clutching at my turban in agony. However this undignified spasm saved my life, as the timber above me exploded into splinters under the impact of a massive axe. I looked up, into the bloodshot eyes of Gorm, the red bearded Rus.

  He was close enough that I could have kissed him, although I would rather have kissed a bear, and would have had less chance of having my nose bitten off. He roared at me, and while he struggled to tug his axe out of the plank with one hand, he aimed the other at my face. For all his strength, however, he was slow. I ducked under his punch and rammed his midriff with my aching head.

  For an instant his stomach felt as solid as the timber, and I feared I had hurt myself more than I had hurt him. Then he exhaled in a long, slow moan, and staggered backwards. I dodged round him, cursing the lack of a sword.

  The Frank had vanished in the few seconds our battle had taken. However his accomplice could not escape so easily. He was frantically pushing his boat out of the muddy shoals with a wide oar. I splashed out into the shallows and grabbed the edge of his boat.

  Immediately my boots started to sink into the ooze. His response was to shove with even greater enthusiasm. As the boat slowly pulled away from the shore I clung on, but could not halt his retreat. Instead my feet were slowly pulled out of my boots, which had been irretrievably sucked into the riverbed.

  Before I knew what was happening I was being dragged along behind the accelerating vessel, bare feet trailing through the filthy Tigris water. Had the Rus been able to retrieve his axe from the bridge then those feet would shortly have been no longer my concern, as I am sure he would have severed them. However his weapon had lodged there, and he had abandoned his struggles to recover it. Instead he waded after me and grabbed hold of my ankles, trying to pull me off the boat.

  For a moment I was stretched as if on a rack. Then Gorm’s efforts began to hinder rather than help the boat’s escape. I hung grimly on, and slowly the Rus began to haul the vessel back toward the riverbank.

  I saw the hooded man on the boat raise his hand, as if to throw something. Some primal fear caused to me to release the rail despite myself. As I crashed down into the black water he brought his hand down, fingers splayed, and the river erupted into flame in front of me.

  The heat was immediately intense, singeing my dripping beard. When I plunged my head under the surface, I was then faced with the problem of being unable to breathe. Worse, I had very little choice as to which position I adopted, since Gorm still had hold of my ankles. Yet with my chest bursting and my vision blackening, I could still see before me the huge, bulging eyes, glittering in the blood-red light, that I glimpsed beneath the hood of the man on the boat.

  I managed to poke my mouth above the water and snatch a breath, but Gorm’s response was to release my ankles, stride forward and put one huge arm around my neck. With his improved grip, he tried to thrust my head into the fierce blaze that floated eerily on the river. However the sluggish current was carrying it away from us, so instead he shoved my head back under, and held me there.

  I writhed around underwater, clutching at the barbarian’s clothing. He was wearing a short tunic over long woollen trousers. In desperation I yanked down his pants, located one gruesomely red-haired testicle and squeezed as hard as I could. There was a brief race between my dwindling b
reath and his rapidly decreasing chances of fathering offspring, then he reached down with the arm that was not around my neck, trying to locate and remove my hand.

  He was now distracted and in an awkward pose, and I seized my opportunity. I pushed upwards, breaking his grip and driving my head against his chin. My soggy turban was not the hardest weapon, but the impact was sufficient to cause him to stagger backwards. With his pants round his knees and up to his waist in water it took him vital seconds to regain his balance.

  We faced each other across the wine-dark water, and I longed for my sword, or indeed any means of attacking him other than my aching head. I swung a couple of punches, but the giant Rus batted them aside like wasps and strode towards me. His intention seemed to be to seize me in a bear hug and crush me to death. I backed away but stepped into a hole in the river bed and fell. Once again I was floundering and gasping for air, and I could hear Gorm huffing with what I supposed must be laughter as he closed in for the kill.

  Then I felt hands on my shoulders, not pushing me under but dragging me out of the water. A spear thrust past me, halting the approach of the Rus. He tried to grab the shaft, but the wielder was too quick, jabbing at his face and causing him to retreat warily.

  I flopped onto the deck of the fishing boat as if I were part of the catch. Indeed, for all I knew I was about to be gutted and eaten. However, when I looked up into the friendly, ugly, cheerful, diseased faces of a couple of Baghdadi river fishermen, I knew I was safe. I vomited most of the Tigris onto the deck, and managed to splutter out a few words.

  “Follow that boat!”

  The fishermen looked bemusedly at each other.

  “What boat?”

  I hauled myself to my feet. The hooded man had vanished under cover of the blaze, which was now burning itself out. I could not even be sure whether he had gone upriver or down. I slumped back onto the deck.

  “I am very grateful to you for saving me. But why?”

  “Well, we don’t know who you are, but you look like a true believer. As for that – thing, that was attacking you – well, we weren’t even sure it was human.”

  My rescuer narrowed his eyes.

  “Anyway, I do know who you are. You’re the Father of Locks, aren’t you? ‘The wine was brought in by one with a cunt, who dressed like she had a cock’ – that was one of yours, wasn’t it?”

  He leaned towards me conspiratorially, breathing fish fumes all over me.

  “Gets me and the missus going, that one does. My mate Shu’ayb, he loves your stuff, he’s memorised three of your poems …”

  As my piscatorial admirer blathered on, I looked for the Rus. He must have beaten a hasty retreat when he realised he was outnumbered and out of his element. I persuaded my new friends to drop me back on shore, although they insisted I gave them a few lines before they would let me off the boat. Then I thought, I must share this new information with the Newborn. And even more importantly, I must have wine.

  ***

  As if to illustrate his words, Abu Nuwas took a long draught from his goblet. I realised we were alone. The mysterious lady had been aroused by my master’s tale of dalliance in the fragrant garden, and had dragged Abbas back to the rooftop at some earlier point in the story.

  “So what, boy, are we to make of all this?”

  “Besides the fact that you are irresistible to both sexes, and even the most impoverished labourer in the city recognises your face and can quote your poetry?”

  Abu Nuwas looked at me suspiciously.

  “You are becoming very impudent, Newborn. I hope you are not suggesting that I would embellish my account?”

  “I mean, o Father of Locks, that we can only approach the truth through the stories we tell to others, and to ourselves.”

  “A slippery response, suitable to a Newborn babe. I shall let it pass, for now. But what of the strange meeting by the bridge?”

  “Well, it seems that the Frankish spy must have been Thomas the Syrian’s secret visitor.”

  “Indeed. And at that time, he should not have been in Baghdad at all. Now he skulks around the streets at night, for clandestine assignations with – whom?”

  “According to Umm Dabbah, the hooded man claimed to be the Father of Bitterness. ‘Abu Murra has the Bottle …’ ”

  “He was betrayed by his Master, who made him bow to his inferior. That does sound like my friend Iblis. On the other hand, he is trying to sell his Bottle for gold. I have never heard it said that the Devil was short of cash.”

  “What does the Bottle contain, master?”

  “I don’t know, boy, but I have seen what it can do, and its power terrifies me. If primitive savages like the Franks get hold of it, then the peace of the whole world is threatened. A spirit of fire … a captive Jinn. Such things have not been seen above the surface of the earth for centuries.”

  I said nothing, but my face must have betrayed my scepticism.

  “Unless you have a better explanation, I suggest you keep an open mind. After all, you saw the merchant’s house. You said yourself that whoever took the child must have been able to fly …”

  Sixteen

  The Tale of the Boy in the River, including, The Tale of the Father of a Muslim

  Abu Nuwas finished the wine and we departed the house of Abbas. As we left I could hear moans and gasps coming from the rooftop, and my master shouted obscene encouragement to our host.

  At the river I refused an invitation to sleep at his house – offered more, I felt, in hope than in expectation – and crossed the Southern Bridge, heading back to the palace of the Barmakids. Already the Hall of the Barid felt more like home to me than anywhere since I left Tiaret. I was so relieved to turn the brass key in the small door that I impudently greeted the unseen observer who scrutinised me as I walked down the corridor.

  I slept soundly, and was pleased when I woke to see Yaqub al-Mithaq sitting cross-legged nearby, darning clothes.

  “Good morning, lad. I am glad to see you still alive and whole.”

  “It has been a near thing, at times.”

  I told him how I had nearly been sacrificed to the demon Mahakala, and of my other adventures since I had last seen him. At the end of my account he whistled.

  “So you have been three days in Baghdad, and have already met the Khalifah? I have served the Barid for thirty years, and have never so much as set foot in al-Khuld. God has chosen an interesting destiny for you, my boy.”

  I felt that al-Mithaq owed me a story in return, and took the opportunity to ask about something that had been intriguing me.

  “Ibn Bundar talked about a man called Abu Muslim. Who was he?”

  Al-Mithaq sat back.

  “Ah, now there is a question. I can tell you what he did, but I don’t believe anyone can tell you who he really was. However, I promised to explain how the Abbasids came to the throne, and without Abu Muslim that would not be a story at all. If you have a little time to spare, I would be happy to recount it to you now.”

  So he did.

  The Tale of the Father of a Muslim

  It began in a prison cell.

  The Agent was calm as he watched the door slam closed behind him, and heard the key turn in the lock. It was not the first time he had been arrested, and would doubtless not be the last. Already his masters would be agitating for his release; and they were important men, men of wealth and influence. Of course there was always a risk that the order for his execution would win the race against the order for his freedom. If so, he would die a martyr, working to save Islam from the decadent Umayyads who were perverting the true faith.

  A noise from a dark corner of the cell caught his attention. For the first time he noticed that there was another prisoner there, chained by his wrists to the wall. He was a powerfully built Persian of middle age, wearing only a loincloth. His face was harsh and forbidding.

  “Peace, my friend. Would you tell me your name?”

  The Persian only growled at this greeting. The Agent tried again.<
br />
  “We share a prison cell; perhaps we share the same enemies. At the very least we can pass the time together.”

  The chained man stared at the Agent as if looking into his soul. Finally he spoke.

  “They call me Abu Muslim.”

  The Agent contemplated his cellmate with renewed interest.

  “So you are the infamous Father of a Muslim, from Khorarasan? The most notorious revolutionary, heretic and highwayman in the Khalifate? Truly, I am privileged.”

  “I am not a highwayman. Did not the Prophet himself raid caravans to provide the Companions with food and supplies, in the early days in Madinah?”

  “Yet they are to try you as a highwayman, and if convicted, as seems certain, you face crucifixion.”

  Abu Muslim’s only response was to spit on the ground. The Agent was intrigued.

  “So are you a new Prophet, then? Are you the Mahdi, come to warn of the day of judgement? What justifies your criminal acts?”

  Abu Muslim stood erect in his chains.

  “I am a warrior, not a scholar. I cannot tell you how to save the world. But like any honest man, I can tell what is wrong, and fight against it.”

  “And what is wrong? What are you fighting against?”

  “Everything, my friend. Everything and everybody.”

  The Agent smiled.

  “Perhaps, Father of a Muslim, we can help each other after all …”

  The Agent was released the next morning. A few days after that, Abu Muslim was also freed, with no explanation and much to his surprise. Outside the prison the Agent was waiting for him, with two saddled horses.

  They rode to Makkah, where the Agent led Abu Muslim into a room lit by smoky lamps and ringed by men wearing black. Here, he explained why he had saved him from death on the cross.

  “The Umayyads are usurpers, and false Khalifahs. If you seek proof of this, you will see it all around you. They angered God by damaging the Ka’bah, the sacred shrine of the holy city. Since then, the Family of Islam has been sick at its heart. After years of victory, we have recently suffered defeats against the Christians, both the Romans and the Franks. Tax reforms have left the state bankrupt. The Arab tribes fight amongst themselves once more, as they did in the days of ignorance before the coming of the Prophet.