The Father of Locks

by Andrew Killeen

  “The only cure for this sickness is to cut the diseased organ from the body. The Khalifah must be overthrown.”

  “You are Shi’ites, then?”

  The Agent looked at the other men in the room before answering.

  “We are the Hashimiyah. We hold the secret of the true succession of the Khalifate. From Ali it passed to his son Muhammad, and thence to his grandson Abu Hashim. Abu Hashim died childless, but named as his heirs the family of Abbas, the Prophet’s uncle.

  “The current head of the Abbasids, Ibrahim al-Imam, lives quietly on his estate in Humeima, but across the whole of the land of Islam we are working to elevate him to the Khalifate. We have many allies. The arrogance of the Umayyads has made them widely hated, particularly by converts to Islam, who suffer from the laws which discriminate in favour of Arabs. Converts like you, Father of a Muslim, and the people of your country.

  “We want you to go back to Khorasan, Abu Muslim, to further our cause there. The risk is great, but the prize greater still. Will you join us?”

  After years of discontent and aimless criminality, Abu Muslim had found his vocation. The conspiracy was already established in Merv, but under his direction the network was revitalised. He trained soldiers and spies, leading raids on tax convoys and destabilising the authorities.

  He also spread propaganda, addressing secret meetings in crowded rooms, promising the coming of a new Khalifah, “from the Family of the Prophet.” This phrase had been carefully devised to appeal to Shi’ites, who imagined that the candidate would be an Alid from the bloodline of Muhammad. All the while Abu Muslim was protected from arrest by a people resentful of their Arab governor, and their decadent rulers in distant Dimashq.

  The decadent rulers themselves meanwhile were doing as much to undermine their regime as the conspirators were. The young Khalifah, al-Walid, was cruel and lecherous. After only one year of his reign he was deposed and murdered by his cousin Yazid, but he too died a mere six months later. Yazid had named his brother Ibrahim as heir, but the throne was seized by another cousin, Marwan ibn Muhammad. He was to be the last Umayyad Khalifah.

  Like an expert cook, Abu Muslim had brought his insurgency to the boil at the perfect moment. Khalifal troops were stoned and mocked on the streets of Merv, and the people talked openly of the coming of a new Commander of the Faithful, who would restore the integrity of Islam. When word came that Marwan was facing uprisings in Syria, the Khorasani made his move. Without waiting for orders from the Hashimiyah, he unfurled the Black Flag and called on the people to rise up. The revolution had begun.

  Abu Muslim proved to be as brilliant a general as he had been an agitator. His makeshift army quickly defeated the governor’s troops and captured his deputy. When the governor, who was eighty-five and had taken the job believing it would offer him a comfortable old age, got sick and died, nobody was sent from Dimashq to replace him.

  Khorasan had fallen, but even if Abu Muslim had wanted to stop there, the revolution had developed a momentum of its own. Gripped by messianic fervour, the Army of the Black Flag rolled westward like a horde of locusts, growing in numbers as it went, drawing support from Alids, Kharijites, converts and convicts; all the disaffected and dispossessed of the Umayyad era.

  Around the campfires at night the revolutionaries talked about the future. Many believed that the Day of Judgement was approaching, and that the “Khalifah from the Family of the Prophet” would be the Mahdi, the promised redeemer of Islam in the Last Days. Others argued they were fighting for paradise on Earth, where no men would be slaves and all possessions would be held in common. However every man agreed that nothing would be the same, once the Black Flag flew in the holy cities.

  The Abbasids themselves, at their base near the Sea of Salt, were far away from their enthusiastic supporters. When word came of the insurrection the family were at risk from agents of Marwan, and had to go into hiding. Ibrahim the Imam was caught and murdered. The new leader of the Hashimiyah movement was his brother al-Saffah, the Spiller of Blood.

  The beginning of the reign of al-Saffah, the first of the Abbasid Khalifahs, was not exactly auspicious. He was hiding in a cellar in Kufah at the time. The advance of the Army of the Black Flag was so rapid that he did not realise the city had been taken until eager revolutionaries found him and dragged him out. Eventually word reached Abu Muslim, who raced to the scene. Just as he had been the first to raise the Black Flag, he was the first to bend the knee and swear allegiance to the new Commander of the Faithful.

  The proclamation of al-Saffah as Khalifah came as something of a surprise to the Army, most of whom were not privy to the details of the Hashimiyah conspiracy. Many had been waiting for the glamorous freedom fighter Abu Muslim to declare himself the lost descendant of the Prophet. Having come so far and killed so many people, though, most found it easier to accept al-Saffah as the promised saviour of Islam, and press on until the hated Umayyads were deposed. Besides, they trusted their general.

  Marwan and his army, ragged and exhausted from putting down rebellions, turned to face this new challenge. The two forces met at the River Zab. The Umayyad’s army was vastly superior in numbers, armour and experience, but the revolutionaries had never lost a battle and were possessed by a terrifying sense of destiny. Marwan’s cavalry charged at the rabble, who formed a wall of spears. And the finest horsemen of Arabia died in their thousands, hurling themselves against the sharpened sticks of peasants.

  Marwan himself escaped, scrambling away from the carnage when his army broke and the raging easterners poured through. He fled south and west, eventually being caught and slaughtered in Egypt. The new Khalifah invited his rival’s surviving relatives to dinner, to a feast of reconciliation and peace. Before the first course was served his men rushed in with clubs and beat the Umayyads to death. The corpses were covered by a leather sheet as the remaining guests began to eat.

  The metamorphosis of the movement, from religious reformation to political coup, was now complete. After storming Dimashq, the Army of the Black Flag returned to Khorasan. Many of the revolutionaries went home, dazed and uncertain of what they had accomplished. However others remained in military service under the new governor, Abu Muslim. He ruled the province as his own personal domain, but was always careful to pay respect, and taxes, to the Khalifah.

  Al-Saffah warily tolerated this situation, but his suspicious brother al-Mansur constantly urged him to act. A popular, powerful demagogue, with a private army, posed a serious threat to the fledgling regime. From the moment the Spiller of Blood died of smallpox and al-Mansur succeeded him as Khalifah, Abu Muslim was doomed.

  However, he was to perform one last service. Al-Mansur’s uncle rebelled, claiming the throne for himself. In desperation the Khalifah turned to the governor of Khorasan, asking him to put down the rebellion. If Abu Muslim had truly sought power he could have stood to one side and allowed the Abbasids to fight among themselves, before making his move against the victor. Instead he tried to prove his loyalty by crushing the revolt and handing the uncle over to the Khalifah for execution.

  Abu Muslim waited for reward, or at least for thanks. Instead al-Mansur sent an agent to make sure he was not cheated of his share of the campaign loot. This insulting distrust might have been put down to the Khalifah’s stinginess, but the next letter from al-Mansur could only have been cunning provocation. It was a decree appointing Abu Muslim as Governor of Syria.

  Superficially, this was an accolade from a grateful ruler. In practice, it would isolate Abu Muslim from his army and his loyal followers back in Merv, and put him in Dimashq where al-Mansur could keep an eye on him. The Khorasani declined his Khalifah’s kind offer. After a correspondence during which the language of diplomacy became increasingly strained, al-Mansur summoned him to Iraq, where he planned to build his capital. They would discuss the matter face to face and settle their differences.

  Abu Muslim, remembering what had happened to the last enemies of the Abbasids who were invited to peace
talks, made his excuses. Then, unexpectedly, he changed his mind. In part this was because the Hashimiyah had given him meaning and purpose, and all the bloodshed and politics of the intervening years could never quite obliterate his faith in their cause. In part he was disturbed by a message in which al-Mansur swore to pursue him through fire and water if he disobeyed, and take revenge in person. Abu Muslim also took advice from his friends. What he did not know was that many of them were now in the pay of the Khalifah, and were sending him to his death.

  Al-Mansur, who had not been raised as royalty, remained a nomad at heart. Even when staying at his palace he would often set up his tent inside his bedroom. On the day Abu Muslim came to him, he was camping near Kufah, looking for a site for his new city.

  Al-Mansur’s Wazir had been trying to dissuade him from murder, fearing reprisals from the easterners. As the moment approached, and Abu Muslim rode out from Kufah, the Khalifah’s nerve failed. He greeted the general in his tent, but sent him away again.

  “Go and rest, my friend. Bathe, for travel is a dirty business. Come back tomorrow.”

  Abu Muslim returned to the city. Once he had gone, the Khalifah was overwhelmed with embarrassment at his cowardice, and took it out on his Wazir. The unfortunate man endured one of al-Mansur’s infamous rages, before being sent to summon the captain of the guard, wiping the spittle from his face as he went. Al-Mansur asked the captain what he thought about the situation with Abu Muslim.

  “I am a mere servant, my lord. If you commanded me to lean on my sword until the point comes out of my back, I would do so.”

  “Then will you kill Abu Muslim for me?”

  There was no response. The captain stared at the ground. The Wazir pretended an anger he did not feel.

  “Is something wrong, captain? Why do you not speak?”

  The captain raised his eyes as if lifting a heavy weight.

  “I will do as the Commander of the Faithful tells me to do.”

  The following night the governor of Khorasan came again to the tent of the Khalifah. This time there were no greetings. Al-Mansur stood up as he entered and immediately launched into a tirade, accusing him of treachery, trying to work himself up to give the order to the hidden guards. Abu Muslim could not understand the Abbasid’s change in mood.

  “Enough of your questioning. I have shown you nothing but loyalty, and I will answer before God.”

  Perversely, al-Mansur’s guilt at the injustice he was committing gave him the fury to see it through.

  “Still lying, you son of a whore? May God destroy me if I spare you now!”

  He clapped his hands. This was the signal for the black-clad guards to dash into the tent. The old general fought for his life, but he was unarmed and outnumbered. He howled like a wolf as the swords cut into him again and again, his blood erupting onto their uniforms. Finally he was still, his body unrecognisable, a gory mess on the ground.

  The soldiers were pale, shocked at what they had done. Al-Mansur ordered them to wrap the corpse in the ruined carpet on which it lay. They carried it from the tent and threw it into the river. There would be no grave to form the centre of the cult of Abu Muslim.

  Meanwhile the Khalifah sent word to Kufah that the governor would be staying with him. A second tent was erected next to his own. The pretence ensured that word of the murder trickled out slowly, dogged by confusion and contradictions. The grief and outrage of Khorasan never bubbled over into widespread rebellion.

  But to this day, when the radicals and heretics of the east seek popular support for the overthrow of the Abbasids, for the return of Islam to its original purity, for the equal sharing of wealth between all men, or for whatever other madness grips the mystics of those strange lands, they invoke one name, to give power to their cause: Abu Muslim al-Khorasani.

  ***

  “Still spinning yarns like an old woman, Yaqub?”

  “Ah, Father of Locks. I see your famous charm has not deserted you.”

  I was shocked to see Abu Nuwas in the Hall of the Barid. Of course, when I thought about it, he was a postman himself, albeit an irregular one. Nonetheless, I had considered the Hall my refuge, and was disappointed that he could let himself in. Al-Mithaq seemed to voice my thoughts.

  “We do not often see you here, Abu Nuwas.”

  “No, Yaqub al-Mithaq. That is because I have my own house in the city, where I live in comfort with slaves tending to my every need. However, I came to the palace to inform Ja’far of the conspiracies that prowl the city at night. Yes, he does not need to set you to spy on this naïve young man to find out what is going on. When Christian barbarians are sneaking around plotting with hooded men who possess magical fire, I can be trusted to report it.

  “(Why do you look so surprised, Newborn? Did you think it coincidence that he is always here when you are, quizzing you on your adventures and teaching you about politics? How touchingly innocent you are. He is both training you and watching over you. And over me, no doubt.)

  “Since I was here anyway when I heard the news, I came looking for the Newborn. We must go to the Royal Bridge, immediately. They have found the veteran’s grandson.”

  Abu Nuwas was in serious mood this morning, and strode so fast on his long legs that I had to scamper to keep up.

  “Is the boy dead, master?”

  “So I believe.”

  “Then why are we in such a hurry?”

  “Because, Newborn, a murdered body is like an open bottle of wine. Leave it too long before sampling it, and its subtleties are lost. Also, the Khalifah, who seems unable to live without my company at present, has invited me to go hunting with him this afternoon. You will come with me, if only to ensure that I have somebody to talk to who is not entirely insane.”

  “Will the Wazir expel the Franks, now that he knows how they have abused his hospitality?”

  I pretended to myself that I was asking this because of my concern for the safety of the Ummah, and not because of any interest I might have had in a certain yellow-headed lunatic. Abu Nuwas laughed coldly at my question.

  “Much as it may surprise you, the Barmakid did not outline his planned foreign policy to me. He thanked me for the information, gave me some gold, and sent me on my way.

  “However, I think we can make some reasonable assumptions about how Ja’far will respond. Firstly, he will not act rashly, out of anger. Politicians cannot afford emotions, and ambassadors are always engaged in spying, of one form or another. Our rulers tolerate a certain amount of clandestine activity, in return for the benefits that embassies bring. If they are clever rulers, they will make sure that the spies only learn what they want them to learn. And when you know that someone is spying on you, be it enemy or friend, it is better to let them continue than to cut off their sources and force them to send new spies, ones that you don’t know about.

  “Furthermore, you should not underestimate the significance of these Franks. They may be barely civilised, but their king is a distracting wasp, buzzing around two of our most dangerous foes: the Roman Empire, and the Umayyad Amir of Cordoba. Of course, if our interests ever cease to coincide, we will have to exterminate them, as you would a nest of wasps. For the time being, though, it benefits the Ummah if we work in harmony with them.

  “Last, and most importantly, there is the pride of Ja’far ibn Yahya al-Barmaki. He will view this intrigue as a challenge to his intellect, and seek a way to turn it to the advantage of the Khalifate. I have never known him to take the simple course when a more devious one was open to him. In any case, he has already deployed his own secret weapon.”

  “What is that, master?”

  “You and I, of course! Can you not hear that sound? It is the enemies of Islam, shaking in fear at our approach.”

  Abu Nuwas flashed me a wicked grin. I reflected that, if the hopes of the Ummah were dependent on a wine soaked deviant and a bewildered youth, it might be time to think about converting to Christianity.

  Our arrival at the river darkened my mood
. A crowd had gathered by the bridge. Policemen tried to disperse them with the implausible claim that there was nothing to see there, to which the natural response of the good citizens of Baghdad was, “What are you lot doing here then?” One blue-clad thug tried to block our way, but al-Takht spotted us and called us over.

  He was standing in the sludge on the north side of the bridge, talking to a tall, thin police captain. At their feet was a muddy mound, covered in a dark cloth. As we approached he silently pulled the cloth from the mound.

  At first, when I saw the bloated body beneath, I thought they had dredged up some undiscovered monster from the dark of the river bed. I had to stare at the misshapen flesh for some time before I could make out the young boy it had once been. His skin was puffed and bleached, and had been gnawed by fish or crabs, so that white bone was visible, and black holes gaped instead of eyes.

  Abu Nuwas bent over the corpse while al-Takht spoke.

  “Washed up against the pontoon sometime during the night. A washerwoman spotted him at dawn, and a couple of fishermen dragged him to the bank. Word spread fast, and every idler in Rusafa had come down here for a look before anyone thought to alert the police. If there was anything we could have learned from his position or clothing, it’s too late now.”

  “He has obviously been in the river a few days. His throat has been cut. The wound is too straight to have been caused by any animal. However it is also too ragged to have been made with a sharp blade.”

  Abu Nuwas looked up from his examination.

  “Are you certain this is the grandson of Abd al-Aziz?”

  Al-Takht nodded.

  “Too old to be the porter’s son. I summoned the veteran and his daughter at the same time that I sent for you. They identified him as their boy, as much by his clothing as by what is left of his face. The daughter struck me as a tough one, but she could have done with someone to look after her. The old man, though, he went charging off to haul ibn Bundar before the Qadi again, left her sobbing. I think some old woman took her away.”