“I’ve heard that.”
“Then I suppose you also know that many of the residents of that town have followed the lead of these influential clerics. And as if that weren’t enough, hundreds of followers of this troublemaker have converged on Chiriq, overwhelming the caravanserais. They are sleeping in the streets and in the shadow of the great mountain that guards the castle.”
Ali nods solemnly. All this is true.
Aqasi pauses and sighs for effect. He stoops to gaze into Ali’s eyes. Despite the political disaster that is unfolding, Aqasi has not had this much fun since Ali, with his more agile mind, had stealthily undermined his authority.
“As I recall,” Aqasi says at last, readying a dagger thrust of words, “you persuaded me to save the imposter’s life when I was prepared to kill him. Would you say now that this was bad advice?”
Ali hesitates. He knows that many men have been executed for smaller errors of judgment. He decides on a bold move.
“The advice was sound,” he says.
Aqasi stares at him, dismayed. “How is that possible?” he asks.
Ali stands, regaining the advantage of height. “First,” he says, “the populace of Khuy is of no consequence. They are fleas on the back of the nation and can be easily flicked off. And keep in mind that the majority of the residents are still against the Rasul. Second, the gathering of the Rasul’s lunatics is not a problem, but rather a convenience. They have now identified themselves and like dumb animals have herded into a pen that is easier for us to watch and control. Third, the prominent officials of which you speak are themselves in virtual exile by virtue of their location in the outlying village of Khuy. Not only are they no threat to us, but they too have betrayed their treason. They will be taken care of in short order.”
Aqasi squints, a tell-tale sign that he is feeling outmaneuvered again. “Are you saying that this was part of your plan?”
“I am not that smart,” Ali replies. “I am only saying that my advice has led to a precipitous moment. Many of the traitors and those who are susceptible to apostasy and treason have identified themselves. Now we can deal with them—and with the imposter. It is time.”
“For his execution? I recommended that long ago.”
“Not yet. It is time for a formal public trial. And then execution.”
“A trial!” Aqasi snorts again. “This clever fellow has turned other trials on their ear. It is too risky!”
“Please, hear me out. This trial will be held in Tabriz. I will personally stage it so that the imposter must either recant his claims or be found guilty—punishable by death.”
“It has not worked before, not with this lunatic.”
“I am not finished explaining my plan. Since the trial will be held in Tabriz, the president of the tribunal will be the governor of the province, the crown prince Nasir al-Din.”
This startles Aqasi who sees the crown prince as a threat to his own candidate for the throne. “Nasir al-Din, you say? And how will this serve our interests?”
“Surely you can see the two possible outcomes, both to our advantage. If the Rasul is found guilty, we are rid of the imposter forever. Any negative consequences will befall the crown prince. But if the Rasul once again makes a fool of the tribunal, the fault will lie with Nasir al-Din. Since most people in positions of power are threatened by the guile and audacity of this imposter—and his apparent plan to destroy the government and Islam—poor Nasir al-Din may then find it difficult to rally support for his claim to the throne.”
Aqasi stares at Ali. He likes the plan. Though he had anticipated great pleasure in punishing Ali, it can wait. “All right,” he says. “Move the prisoner to Tabriz.”
Chapter 13
According to Ali’s spies, who have been posing as Rasulis throughout Persia, many followers of the Rasul have begun to flow toward the village of Shah-Rud. Ali suspects that an urgent meeting has been called to plot the movement’s strategy. One of Ali’s spies, Karim—the man who had been booted out of the Shaykhi school by Kazim—had gladly agreed to spy on the Rasulis, hoping one day to reap his revenge upon Jalal, Kazim’s favorite.
Meeting with Ali in a steamy tea-house in Tehran, Karim explains, “The arrangements for those who were called to this meeting have been made by Mirza Ramin. Do you know this man?”
Ali nods, then frowns. This individual presents a dangerous dilemma. Ramin is the son of the late Mirza Firouz, one of the shah’s favorite courtiers, who had served as vizier of the mountainous province of Nur with such kindness and compassion that many of the inhabitants had practically worshipped the man despite his great wealth. The popular vizier is now dead, but since childhood his son, Ramin, has shown even greater compassion and generosity. Even as a young man, the residents of Nur had called Ramin the “Father of the Poor.” As he had grown up, he had given away vast sums to the less fortunate and had seen that they were fed and clothed, refusing the many political appointments that were his due.
Ali focuses his attention on preventing a Rasuli leader, Jalal, from attending the Rasuli conclave. Of all the Rasul’s disciples, he fears this “Jalal” the most. He is a man who ironically shares the same common name as Ali’s boyhood friend, a friend who never would not have been duped into abandoning Islam. He has heard many tales of the fanatic’s epic journeys, his conquest of Islam’s brightest minds, his charismatic leadership—and Ali is disgusted by it. Afraid and dismayed, both. The man sounds like a replica of the Rasul, but more dangerous, perhaps, because he is free to roam.
Ali looks up at Karim and says, “Do you know where Jalal is?”
The mention of Jalal’s name causes Karim, who had been comfortably reclining on one elbow, to suddenly sit up straight, spilling tea on the carpet. “Jalal, yes, I know where he is!” Karim replies. “In Mashhad. He has built a Rasuli teaching center there.”
“Good. I am guessing that you will not mind undertaking a mission to arrest and detain this troublemaker.”
“It would be my greatest pleasure,” Karim says. “Will he be tortured?”
“That will not be necessary. Just see to it that some trouble arises in Mashhad, and that Jalal is implicated.”
“What kind of trouble?”
Ali can see that Karim is no giant of creativity. “All right,” he says, “here is what you should do.”
Karim leans forward with intense concentration.
“Go immediately to Mashhad. Use the post horses to get you there quickly—I will give you a letter of authorization. In Mashhad, seek out the Rasulis. Begin insulting them one by one until someone retaliates. There is always someone who cannot control himself. You do not mind a few minor bruises?”
Karim grunts, indicating he doesn’t mind. After all, this is his opportunity for revenge.
“Then go to the mujtahid, Mirza Ahmad—I will alert him—and issue a complaint. The Rasuli who strikes you will be captured and severely punished, to the delight of the mullas. Afterward, see that the offender is taken back to Jalal, showing a connection between them. I will instruct the Prince Hamzih, who is camped with his army outside the city, to arrest Jalal on your notice. The prince will detain the man until after the Rasuli gathering. I cannot risk having all the Rasuli leaders in consultation at the same time.”
“But the prince is known to admire Jalal.”
“He can be as courteous a he wants, but I assure you, the prince will follow my orders.”
Karim joyfully departs, and Ali returns to a more secret mission, one that only he knows about: cataloging the countless hidden assets that Aqasi has acquired through years of corruption and deceit.
Ali is sure that this information will be valuable one day.
Chapter 14
Badasht is a tiny hamlet in which eighty-one Rasulis have congregated in three magnificent adjoining gardens rented by Mirza Ramin. One of the gardens he has set aside for Tara, the second for Danush, and the third for himself. There is no garden for Jalal; he has been detained indefinitely by Princ
e Hamzih.
This remote location has been chosen because of violent agitation in the surrounding province of Khurasan. The evangelism of Danush and Jalal has stirred many hearts in this region, and also much anger. Seeded by the malevolent deceit of Ali and his paid collaborators, and cultivated by a frightened and jealous clergy, the roots of avarice and deception have grown deep and wide.
The simple people of Khurasan repeatedly have been told outrageous lies about the Rasul and his followers. Some mullas preach that slaying one Rasuli will cancel all the killer’s sins. In many quarters it is forbidden for Muslims to talk to followers of the Rasul, since Rasulis have the power, it is said, to work dark magic on them.
A firestorm of frightening rumors circulates throughout the land: that Rasulis can mix something into tea that will cause insanity; that if children do not behave, the Rasulis will come and eat them; that Rasulis have tails and horns; that Rasulis had abolished all moral laws and marry their own sisters and daughters; that all Rasuli women are shared by all the men; that the Rasulis are plotting to overthrow the government; and, absurdly, that Rasulis had killed the Imam Husayn at Karbala centuries earlier. Such preposterous lies have found fertile ground among the many uneducated and superstitious inhabitants who still live in a magical world filled with demons, jinns, and evil eyes.
On the minds of Tara and the conclave’s host, Ramin, is one overriding objective. Both have concluded that the new revelation of the Rasul requires a complete break with Islam and the abolition of its laws; that this new dispensation has ushered in a new religion, not merely a new sect or reformation of Islam; and that the time has finally come for this momentous but perilous announcement. Both also know that many of the Rasuli leaders gathered in Badasht may not be prepared for such a bold stroke—in fact, some may intensely disagree—and so the first days of the conference are spent in study, prayer, and spiritual preparation.
On each day, the Rasulis witness the abolition of a long-established law or tradition, and the introduction of a new law with authority flowing from the Rasul’s teachings. Slowly, then, the foundations of Islamic ordinances are cast aside and Rasuli minds, still struggling with the pace of change, are allowed time to understand and accept the new precepts. Even so, many of the more conservative members of the conference vigorously oppose the radical step of separating themselves from their long-cherished Islamic faith.
Danush, who is closest to the Rasul, resists the radical decision to declare a truly independent faith. He slows down the proceedings, encourages dissenting voices, weighs in by favoring a slow, reasoned process, and in the process irritates the willful Tara, who lobbies intensely for an immediate and complete break with Islam and its countless obsolete conventions. Privately, Tara repudiates the authority of the younger disciple, telling a small circle of admirers, “I see him as a pupil whom the Rasul has sent me to edify and instruct. I regard him in no other light.” The denunciations of Danush are just as strong. “Tara is the author of heresy,” he confides to the more conservative faction. “Those who advocate her views are the victims of error.”
Near the end of the conclave, Ramin grows ill and is confined to his large tent. The sides are drawn up to let the gentle breezes through, and slowly the Rasulis begin drifting to his side. When most of them have assembled around their host, one of the Rasulis who had aligned himself with Tara arrives with a message for Danush. Tara, he explains, requests that Danush meet with her privately in Tara’s garden.
“I’ve severed myself completely from her,” Danush angrily replies. “Tell her I refuse.”
“She will insist,” the messenger explains.
Danush silently looks away. The muscles in his jaw quiver with tension.
Responding to this intractable attitude, the messenger unsheathes his sword and lays it at the feet of Danush. “I refuse to go without you. Either accompany me, or cut off my head with this sword.”
“As you wish!” Danush says, swiftly bending to pick up the sword.
The messenger eyes the blade and tauntingly stretches his neck. Danush glares at the man, nervously fingers the handle of the sword, moves the tip of it in a threatening circle near the man’s throat.
And then, like a sudden flash of sunlight in the midst of a storm, Tara enters the tent. She is adorned in flowing garments. And she is unveiled.
For a moment the Rasulis stare at her, and then they begin to shout and scream. In Islam, to behold the face of a woman is inconceivable! For many of them, even to gaze on Tara’s shadow is reprehensible, for they regard her as the incarnation of Fatimah, the daughter of the Prophet Muhammad, the noblest symbol of chastity.
Despite the cries and curses and madness engulfing the tent, Tara serenely seats herself to the right of Danush, a place of honor. The men gazing upon her beauty are seized with anger, fear, bewilderment, and guilt. An anguished Rasuli named ‘Abdu’l-Khaliq cuts his own throat and flees from the tent, soaked with his own blood. Many others are struck dumb. Danush, who has remained seated, clutches the messenger’s sword as if ready to strike a fatal blow to Tara. His face contorts with inexpressible rage.
Tara is unmoved by this intimidation. She remains seated, calmly surveying the uproar prompted by her unveiling. Slowly her face shows a glimmer of joy, then unadorned triumph. When she suddenly stands, the tumult ceases momentarily as the Rasulis anticipate another surprise.
Despite their intense agitation, no one wants to miss the next act of this unfolding drama.
To those who have remained, Tara quotes the Qu’ran: “Verily, amid the gardens and rivers shall the pious dwell in the seat of truth, in the presence of the King.” Danush and a few others notice that as she quotes this verse, she furtively glances at Ramin.
Then, with a face radiant with emancipation, she announces a clarion-call to a new order, saying: “I am the blast of the trumpet. I am the call of the bugle. Like Gabriel, I would awaken sleeping souls.”
Tara has served notice. The objective of this gathering has been achieved with a stunning spectacle by an impatient woman. Her proud uncovered face indelibly etches on the minds of every witness that a new religion, like Islam and Christianity before it, has emerged.
Chapter 15
Men of God are the same everywhere. mullas and priests drenched in selfish imaginings proudly parade in pomp and arrogance, murdering and torturing the disagreeable ones with knife-sharp edicts, and wresting power and wealth from the ignorant masses while a mute God blesses their corruption with His silence. Religion, Ali sees clearly, is God’s infernal side-show, a Surrey production with harlequins, man-monkeys, smoke-smudged apparitions, and dusty curtains cleverly concealing painted props wheeled out by drunken stagehands for the next dazzling fantasy. Religion is a shimmering entertainment, a raucous melodrama with suffering messiahs and smirking devils. It is a divinely staged sleight-of-hand diverting audience attention as pockets are picked and parents are plucked from their children and God-fearing wives with unborn children are merrily slaughtered for sport.
Ali knows that he cannot win his war against the Almighty. He knows that he is damned. But on his sure descent to hell he intends to inflict the utmost pain on God’s manifestation, and if that figure is the Rasul, then Ali will torture and humiliate this Emissary and His followers so that God will finally appreciate the depth of Ali’s rage and pain.
Sustaining such intense hatred is difficult. Ali fears that he will falter, and so he has adopted the proven rituals of religion to nurture his passion. Every evening he reads the scripture of his mother’s letters, the tender and troubled notes of Mary Rogers, and the endearing but deluded sermons so lovingly written out by his wife. The holy verses, whispering to him from the graves of these wronged ones, feed his passion. Every morning he gazes on his angels, who stare back at him from silvery metal plates and the bravado of a solitary book illustration. As long as these precious faces are rooted in his mind, the way that images of Christ on the cross are fixed in the consciousness of Christians, he
is sure that he will not forget the suffering of these beautiful wronged ones.
It is in prayer, however, that Ali finds the most exquisite whetstone for the blade of his rage. He prays not to God but to the spirits of Anisa and Mary and Alice, begging their forgiveness, invoking their assistance. As he prays, he feels their sweet breaths on his face and their gentle fingers stroking his cheeks. He speaks to them through stinging tears. In their pained silence he hears the faint sobbing of grief—is it his own? No, he is sure it is theirs—and he knows that their agony won’t stop until his vengeance is complete. He will sacrifice his soul for them. He must be relentless in his persecution.
The news that Ali has just received from Mazandaran is mixed, causing his gut to growl like a lion. As directed, his agents had stirred up fear and anger in the villages surrounding Badasht, and the less fearful and angry were paid to be more so. As the Rasulis had finally left their lengthy conference, many were attacked by villagers and were forced to scatter. Unfortunately, the wealthy and influential Mirza Ramin somehow had helped the other ringleaders escape. Tara and Danush had eluded the mobs, and as if this were not enough bad news, Jalal had been released by Prince Hamzih, who had become so enamored of his prisoner that he had refused to confine the man any longer.
Now Ali will have to order the arrest of Tara and Danush to prevent their malignancy from spreading. It would have been so much easier if they had been killed by the mobs as planned.
News among the scattered Rasulis flies on winged horses, and often the news is disheartening. Several weeks ago Jalal had learned that Danush had been captured and is now in the custody of the cruel mujtahid of Sari. And Tara, who had sought protection in a farmhouse on the outskirts of Vaz, has also been seized by government agents. But today a messenger brings sunshine, a package from the Rasul, who is incarcerated in the mountain fortress of Chiriq. Jalal wonders at the monumental effort of smuggling this package out of that remote castle.
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