It was not difficult to distract him from his wife, Rita, a dull cousin to whom he had been married for political reasons. However the real threat came from the endless stream of newcomers, attractive virgins from all across the empire who seemed to arrive almost every day to challenge my pre-eminence.
We lived for a while in Kufah, but did not stay there long. Al-Mahdi was being trained for succession to the Khalifate. As part of his education he was given dominion over the eastern lands of the empire, and sent to Rayy to administer his province. I was carrying my first child, but I was not prepared to be left behind and forgotten. I travelled with him, giving birth to my oldest son Musa along the road. It was a difficult labour, and Musa was born with a hare-lip, which disfigured his face for the rest of his life.
In Rayy we were cut off from many of our circle. We spent our days in the company of a man called Yahya al-Barmaki, whose father Khalid was governor of Tabaristan. His wife Zubayda was of an age with me, and when we fell pregnant at the same time, our friendship deepened. We both bore sons, and often exchanged babies while feeding. I suckled her little Fadl, and she put to her breast my son, who was named after the man who, in Holy Scripture, was brother and successor to Musa: Harun, later to become the Righteous One.
By the time we returned to court, al-Mansur had moved to his new city of Baghdad. To celebrate al-Mahdi’s return, his father built him a new palace on the east bank of the Tigris. Al-Mansur loved his son, but they often clashed. The old man had experienced poverty in his youth, and begrudged spending a single copper penny. My Mahdi grew up as a prince. He loved music, dancing and feasting, and would not deny himself any pleasure for the sake of mere money.
But what they argued about most often was me. I had remained al-Mahdi’s favourite over the years, and al-Mansur did not approve of a mere concubine being given preference over a legitimate wife of Abbasid blood. When Khalid al-Barmaki fell from favour, I raised money from my own purse to help pay his fine, and this interference also annoyed the Khalifah. Al-Mansur’s health was failing, and he was becoming increasingly irascible and unpredictable.
I was therefore terrified when the old man summoned me to speak to him alone. I entered his chamber demurely, eyes on the floor, and fell to my knees before him. He sat with his back to me for a long time before he spoke.
“Do you love my son?”
“Truly I do, Commander of the Faithful.”
He turned to me.
“We cannot make choices for our children. When I die, he plans to marry you. My son is no fool, but his heart is soft. As for you, having remained first in his esteem for so long, you must be neither foolish nor soft-hearted. And so I am going to give you this.”
He handed me a small iron key.
“Soon I will be going on a hajj, and I do not expect to return. I hope to die in the Holy City, if God spares me long enough. When you are certain that I am dead, open the door that is opened by this key, but do it alone. When you see what is within, you will know what to do.”
Later that month, al-Mansur and his household set off on their pilgrimage. I was left behind at the Gilded Gate. Sheer determination carried him as far as the sacred territory, and it was there that his soul finally departed his tortured body. Rabi ibn Yunus, father to our friend the Chamberlain, propped up his corpse behind a screen, and made all the courtiers swear allegiance to al-Mahdi as his successor, before revealing that al-Mansur was dead.
Word came in a matter of days by the Barid, but I waited until the reports were incontrovertible, before I took out the iron key. Al-Mansur had not told me which door it opened, so I had to search the Palace, trying it in different locks. At last I found a storeroom near the stable, which had a heavy door, but within it a lock small enough for the key to fit. I asked the servants, but they shrugged and said they had never seen anyone use the room. I dismissed them, and turned the key. The door swung open.
It was dark inside, and shockingly cold. I called for a lamp, then sent the servant away again. The room was larger than I had imagined. It seemed as if the Palace had been designed in such a way as to conceal the existence of this huge space.
Inside, the room looked like a warehouse, with shelves around the walls. Piled on the shelves were grain sacks. I wondered what manner of grain was so important to warrant all this secrecy. I might have believed that al-Mansur was playing a joke on me, if he had ever shown the slightest sign of having a sense of humour.
I went over and tugged at one of the sacks. It was empty, but draped over a shape below. I pulled the sack aside, to find the body of a child. So lifeless was the flesh that I thought for a moment it might be a statue, before I saw that it had been embalmed. She had been a girl, and from the marks around her mouth it looked as though she had been suffocated. (I know a little about suffocation; but that is a story for another time.)
Something protruded from her ear. I pulled out a tightly rolled strip of papyrus. On it was her name. She was called Mariyah. The rest of her name was there as well, a long one, detailing her parentage back five generations, but I did not take it in.
The next body was a man of middle years. His head was slightly separate from the rest of his body. His face was frozen into an expression of almost comically inadequate disappointment at his situation. I examined the head and found another label, again with a prestigious name.
And that was all that there was in the room: corpses. Old and young, male and female, each victim had been executed with neat precision and carefully tagged with their identity. I did not check them all – the grey faces became monotonous after a while – but I saw enough to notice that all the genealogies ended with the same names: ibn Ali ibn Taib.
The dead were not random victims. They were the bodies of Alids, descendants of Ali ibn Taib and Fatimah bint Muhammad, of the cousin and the daughter of the Prophet. That was all there was, apart from the roll of parchment nailed to the wall at the back of the room. On the parchment was a list of names, updated over time in different inks, but always in the careful hand of al-Mansur, detailing each new addition to the family. Those who had found their way to the room, or met their end elsewhere, were marked with a careful circle after their name.
And that was what lay behind the Door That Should Not Have Been Opened: the evidence of a decades-long, systematic attempt by the Commander of the Faithful to extinguish the bloodline of the Prophet Muhammad, peace be upon him. I burned the parchment immediately, putting it to the lamp again and again until there was nothing left, even though I badly blistered my fingers.
Al-Mansur had told me that I would know what to do, but I think he overestimated my judgement. However I did not weep, or scream. If the Shi’ites learned what was in the storeroom, no army on earth would stop them storming the Palace and ripping us apart. I composed myself, left the room, and locked the door. I told only one person, the serving woman who did my make-up. Her I sent to fetch Yahya al-Barmaki.
He arranged for a large hole to be dug in some land he owned just outside the Basrah Gate. Much of Baghdad was a building site at that time, and there was nothing unusual in their behaviour. However, he waited until the dead of night before getting his most loyal men to remove the bodies and bury them hurriedly. To deter anyone from disturbing the site, he then had a shop built on top of it.
When al-Mahdi returned to Baghdad, I intended to tell him. But he was full of his plans, to build mosques and right wrongs, and I could not destroy his happiness. At times I wondered whether God has cursed me, for my part in concealing the crime. First he took my little girl away from me, my only daughter, my pretty Banuqa. Then my husband died in a hunting accident. It even looked for a while as though ugly Musa might murder my darling Harun.
I freed the slave I sent to Yahya al-Barmaki. Perhaps I should have killed her instead.
Twenty Four
The Tale of the King and Queen of Darkness
“What will happen now, master?”
After her confession al-Khayzuran had risen abruptly an
d left the room. We sat in confusion for a moment, then a lackey appeared and escorted us, courteously but implacably, from the palace. I glanced around nervously as we went, fearing that she had decided to have us slain after all. However we reached the outside safely, and stood in the square as the first stirrings of the day’s traffic hustled around us.
“I do not know, Newborn. The Chamberlain knows about the Barmakids’ involvement with the Door That Should Not Have Been Opened. On the other hand, as soon as we tell Ja’far that Fadl has been dealing with foreign spies, they will both have a blade at each others’ throats. I imagine they will come to some arrangement. The Khalifah can be unpredictable, and may decide to have the lot of them beheaded if they trouble him with it.
“We must hurry therefore, and bring our news to the Wazir, before Fadl does anything rash.”
“But master, what about the children?”
Abu Nuwas gazed at me with profound sadness in his eyes.
“Ah yes, the children. I had hoped to spare you that, Newborn. I hoped that you would forget, or that Ja’far would assign you to new duties, or that you would go back to living with the dolphins or whatever it was you did before coming to Baghdad.
“However, you are right. Ja’far ibn Yahya al-Barmaki can look after himself for a few hours, and if we act now, we may be able to salvage something from this shambles. Very well then, let us see this business through to the end.”
He began walking briskly towards Sharqiya. I ran after him, although his words made me shiver as if a chill wind had caught me.
I asked no questions, having grown used to his irritating refusal to share his insights. On this occasion, however, he began to talk as we passed the walls of the Round City. .
“I am surprised you have not worked it out for yourself. I suppose it is understandable in the circumstances. Let us start with what should be clear by now. The abductions have nothing to do with the Brass Bottle or the Name. Umm Dabbah’s stories of children being sacrificed to summon demons or Afarit were no more than that: just stories.
“We must therefore look again at each of the disappearances, forgetting everything we imagined, and considering only what we know. First, ibn al-Malik, the veteran’s grandson. Had his murder happened at any other time, what would you think?
“He was a young boy involved in a dangerous world he did not fully understand. I am sure your friend Mishal did his best to protect him, but the boy could have met his end in many ways. Thomas may have learned of his true parentage, and had him killed so that he would not grow up to seek vengeance. He may have tried to pick the wrong pocket, and met with rough justice.
“Consider, though, the wound in his throat, too ragged to have been made by knife or sword. I suspect that he simply fell in the river and drowned. I believe the cut happened later, made by debris in the water, or the keel of a boat.”
“Then there is no connection between any of the children?”
Abu Nuwas stopped walking for a moment, staring at me in dismay.
“Really, boy, you can do better than that. I think we can discount the veteran’s grandson, but the other two are connected by the description of the mysterious stranger with black skin. We know that Umm Dabbah was describing Abu Murra, but changed his skin colour to hide her guilt. Who, then, was your friend Layla describing?”
I had thought we were on our way to the house of the porter, but we continued to follow the walls of the Round City. I struggled to see where Abu Nuwas was going with his thoughts too.
“Ibn Bundar! Is he responsible after all?”
His dismay seemed to change to sympathy.
“Oh dear, boy. Your refusal to see the truth speaks better of your affections than your intellect. There are two possible explanations. One is that Ibn Bundar, or some other blackskinned man, was responsible for the abductions, and just happened to look exactly like the man invented by Umm Dabbah. Or, the person who also claims to have seen him is lying. That person simply heard what the old gossip was saying, and gave us the same story …
“Peace be upon you, Layla bint al-Bazza.”
We had arrived at the Basrah Gate, where my master descended upon Layla’s shop like a falcon stooping. She seemed both pleased and uncertain at our arrival.
“And upon you also, agent of the Barid. Ismail, good to see you.”
I did not understand what he was saying.
“But master, why would Layla lie? She does not need to seek attention, like that old woman …”
“No, boy. I know the truth is blinding you, but turn your head and look at what is front of your face. Consider the smell in the porter’s house. Then remember that the porter’s boy was taken from the street. The merchant’s daughter, on the other hand, was taken from a private building. If there was no Jinn swooping from the sky to snatch her, then it can only have been somebody who had access to the house. Or who was already in there.”
As Layla listened her face was like butter melting down a stone, sinking and becoming greasier and slower. Abu Nuwas addressed her directly.
“Where are the children, Layla bint al-Bazza?”
I remembered soft whispers in a fragrant garden.
“We all have secrets, deep below the ground …”
I could not feel the words leaving my mouth.
“I know where they are, master.”
I began to ransack the shop, hurling bundles of cloth to one side. Abu Nuwas watched me intently, as I found the trapdoor for which I had been searching.
“Here.”
The trapdoor was heavy and bolted shut. We heaved it open, and immediately the stench assailed us. It was the stink of shit, and blood, and terror. We recoiled from the hole, but a whimper from below startled Abu Nuwas to action.
“A lamp, and flints. There, boy, in the corner. Bring light, quickly.”
I lit the lamp, and we peered into the hole. A ladder led down into the blackness. I climbed down first. Abu Nuwas pushed Layla after me, then descended himself.
We found ourselves in a small cellar. At one end lay a rug, stained and smeared with urine and faeces. Two children sat on the rug, a boy and a girl. The boy wore a circlet of corrugated golden cloth, cut into points at the top like the crowns of the Sassanid kings. A wooden sword lay by his side. The girl bore a simpler circlet, and lay with her head on his shoulder, wide eyes staring at us. Both were bound hand and foot.
When he saw us, the boy began to squirm in his fetters. His exertions dislodged the girl, who toppled over and lay on her back, eyes fixed on the ceiling. It was only then that I realised she was dead.
Abu Nuwas leapt forward to set the boy free. I gazed vacantly at the lifeless girl, rather than turn and look at Layla. Now she started to talk, her voice oddly dull in the underground room, yet pounding in my head as if she were not speaking out loud, but directly into my mind.
***
My father was a wealthy merchant of the city of Raqqa, who died before I was born. My mother, having been widowed young, remarried. Her new husband treated me with kindness and love, and I grew up calling him Baba, father.
I remember a happy childhood, roaming around the big house in which we lived. My mother was a sickly creature, often complaining of headaches. However, I was never short of somebody willing to play with me and indulge my childish imaginings. My stepfather was often away for long periods, but there was always my nurse, our cook, and the eunuch.
Then, one day, nurse took me to the river to play. While she was talking to her friend, I walked barefoot along the bank, watching the mud ooze between my toes. A shadow fell across my feet. I looked up, and was surprised to see Baba.
“Come with me. Do not make a sound. We must sneak away without nurse noticing. It is a game.”
He swept me up into his arms, and hurried back to the house. Here he opened the door to a room, which I had never entered before. He sat me on the floor.
“Now you must hide, so that neither your mother nor any of the servants can find you. You must not cry out
. Can I rely on you to be quiet?”
I nodded, although I was becoming frightened. He stared into my eyes, then said he could not trust me. He stuffed fabric into my mouth, and tied a cloth around it so I could not spit it out. Then he bound my hands and feet, and left me alone in the dark.
At first I kept quiet, thinking that if I was good, he would come back and release me. Then I tried to scream. But even I could tell that my muffled whines were futile.
From time to time he would visit me. When he first took the fabric from my mouth I howled like an animal. He slapped me around the head, and I fell silent. Then he kissed my hair and stroked my head, apologising for hurting me. He said that I could shout all I wanted, that nobody else was in the house.
During these visits Baba made clumsy efforts to clean up the mess that I had made of my clothes. He brought me water, but for food all he gave me was raw meat. I begged him for some bread or rice. In response he shoved the dripping flesh into my mouth.
“Eat, my child. Eat and learn.”
Eventually I gnawed at the meat in desperation, and he smiled and called me a good girl.
I have no idea how long this went on for. I took to beating my foot against the ground, in the hope that somebody might hear. Finally, the door burst open, and it was not Baba standing there, but my mother, and behind her, the eunuch.
My eyes filled with tears of frantic relief. Then I tried to shout a warning, as I saw Baba appear behind the eunuch. However my efforts were in vain. Baba cut the eunuch’s throat, and it was only then that my mother realised he was there.
He spoke to her, telling her that it was her fault, she had invited the Ghul into her house. I did not understand him, and nor did my mother. She simply stood there, her mouth open, staring at the eunuch’s blood as it trickled across the floor. Then he forced the knife into her belly, tugging it up, tearing her skin until the blade snagged against her breastbone.
When he went out again, I lay as still as I could. I could hear my mother struggling for life as she thrashed on the floor, but I listened in silence until her writhing had ceased. Later, Baba returned, and dragged the bodies away. I made no sound, no movement. I did not want to bring anybody else who loved me into the room to die.
The Father of Locks Page 30