The Lover

by Laury Silvers

  “God guide me to the truth,” he muttered under his breath, pushing the thought back.

  They’d need to get him out of here, have the ritual washing of the body this morning, and buried by this afternoon in this heat. No one was wasting ice holding a servant boy over another day. This needed to be sorted out quickly.

  He looked up. The two stories were not that far to fall. It was a blessing the boy died instead of being left with a broken leg that disabled him and turned him into a beggar or killed him later from rot.

  He didn’t wait for Imam Ibrahim’s permission to examine the body. He didn’t need it. He smelled the stench of the feces released after death.

  “Bismillah, in the name of God the Merciful, the Compassionate,” he said and crouched facing the boy’s upper body. Then he said quietly, directing himself to the boy’s soul, waiting within the boy’s body for burial to be released to the angel of death, “I am going to take a good look at you now. I need to see what’s happened to you. But I’ll be gentle. There is no need to be afraid. You’ll be in the arms of God before long. My sweet boy, say to yourself now, There is no god but God and Muhammad is his Messenger.” And he completed the shahada, as the Shia do, to himself, And Ali is his Guardian.

  Zayd’s head was turned to his left, his narrow face was slack, his eyes still open. No one had touched the body. Not even to shut his eyes. Good. His mouth drooped against the cool earth. His large nose was broken, hard enough of a hit that it had turned almost directly to the right of his face. He touched it gently. It felt firm. So that was an old break. He wondered who delivered that blow and when. Who refused to allow it to be set properly leaving this boy living with such an ugly face. It wasn’t the sort of thing that would make begging easy. The men and women who ran the beggar children went in for broken and amputated limbs. He lifted the boy’s small head and felt the looseness of his neck. It must have been broken by the fall. He looked at his face as best he could from that angle. There was a deep abrasion at the top left of his forehead, in his hairline, where his head had hit the ground, snapping his neck.

  His arms were splayed at odd angles. Ammar's heart held still, imagining the boy falling, like Qasim from his horse, and him, like Abbas, finding the boy-warrior trampled by the enemies’ horses, broken into pieces. He pulled himself back to a professional distance, saying to himself, The breaks are consistent with a fall forward off the roof. He tugged back the loose sleeves and examined his arms. There were no bruises on the boy’s arms from anyone who might have been grabbing at him or holding him firmly. But would a bruise form so quickly? Did bruises form after death? He’d have to follow up with a doctor at the hospital about that. He should know for the future. There were some yellowed bruises here and there, healing, but probably from his work around the house or roughhousing with other boys.

  His limbs weren’t stiff, but that didn’t mean anything in a child. In war, he’d dragged the bodies of his fellow soldiers off the battlefield where they’d died not too many hours earlier. He knew first-hand how bodies stiffened after a few hours, then loosened again. But he’d had to handle the bodies of children too, when they had been killed bringing water out to the soldiers on the field or when the Byzantines had beaten their troops back and moved in to slaughter the families of the soldiers in the forts and encampments. Those children’s bodies stayed soft. He observed that children’s bodies bruised like women, but they didn’t stiffen as the women’s did. So he couldn’t tell from the body when the boy might have died, but there was no reason to doubt the account given to the watchman just yet.

  Ammar turned and examined the rest of the boy’s body. His long qamis was a man’s, too large for him and hemmed up for his use; still, it would have hung low around his ankles without a waist sash. He didn’t have the sash on, but he wouldn’t have worn it to sleep. He could have easily tripped on the long end of the qamis and fallen. Would he have worn his qamis to sleep? More likely just his sirwal. Both were made of fine cloth, tightly woven and white once. They were clean but stained, mended here and there. The banded cuffs of his loose pants were dirtied and frayed from dragging on the ground. He could have tripped on those as well. They were likely the Imam’s old clothes. He lifted the qamis to look at his back. Nothing there, either. No sign of being roughly pushed; but again, could a bruise develop after death? He was angry with himself for not knowing. He pulled up the loose cuff of the boy’s sirwal, far too wide for his size, and saw that there was nothing there either.

  He moved into a position to turn the boy over, his limbs heavy with death but still light. He had to be about nine or ten years old but like many poor children, he was small from malnutrition. He could see some fat on the boy now, though. They took good care of him here. He thought of whoever was comforting Imam Ibrahim’s daughter and wondered if she was taking care of them all. He didn’t turn him all the way over. There was a damp patch underneath him where urine let go after he died and had soaked into the clay. He took a look at Zayd’s chest as best he could, then set him back down and lifted his legs, one at a time. Again, nothing that shouldn’t be there from the fall or the wide bruising he’d seen in all the dead bodies who’d lain in one place for a long time. If he were standing near enough to the edge, looking over, someone could have pushed him easily. Or he could have tripped over his long sirwal or qamis as he approached it. He looked up and saw that he’d landed right where he should if he’d been pushed or if he had slipped. He’d seen enough.

  Chapter Three

  Ammar heard a sound and turned away from the boy and saw Imam Ibrahim seating himself on one of the low couches set around the walls of the courtyard. He was waiting for Ammar to finish, but Ammar thought that he was also waiting for him to cross over in deference. Ammar saw that nothing to drink or eat had been set out, not even water. Even the poorest households put out a cup of water and whatever they had. He would take one date or a husk of barley bread served with vinegar and salt, eat it slowly, as propriety required, but as little as possible to not deprive the poor of what might very well have been their next meal. The Imam’s insult cut him, but he made note of the gesture. This scholar was ready for the palace politics that would come with moving up in his world.

  He reminded himself that he knew how to play these social games too. He was careful to correct his speech on this job, not betraying himself as having grown up poor, or as a Shia unless provoking a Sunni suspect or cultivating intimacy with a fellow Shia would be useful in getting what he needed. He’d learned the need for dissimulation quick enough after he’d run off to fight at the Frontier. A boy filled with piss and vinegar, always getting in trouble with the police, looking for a way out of poverty. He talked and prayed like whomever he ran into on the road to Tarsus. It made getting fed and finding a safe place to sleep along the road easier. It was different once he was on the field of battle. There’s no lying to a brother whose life depends on you and your life on him. There’s no trust in this world like it.

  He crossed to Imam Ibrahim, his booming voice carrying across the courtyard, “Assalamu alaykum. May God have mercy on your family during this difficult time and accept the soul of the boy with forgiveness. I am Ammar at-Tabbani, Investigator for Grave Crimes with the Baghdad Police.”

  Imam Ibrahim did not stand to meet him, but returned his greetings from the comfort of his couch, his voluminous robes pooling around him. “Wa alaykum assalam, I’m sorry you’ve had to come to our home under such circumstances. The poor boy. May God forgive him and have mercy on him. Please sit.”

  Ammar sat sideways, facing the Imam, so he would not have to remove his scabbard. He felt his sword curving beside his leg, the hilt ready for him. He hoped the Imam could feel its presence as well. No one could mistake it for ceremonial or mere uniform.

  Imam Ibrahim continued, “The housekeeper tells me the boy fell from the roof. They were sleeping up there to escape the heat. She said she heard a sound and woke up, saw him walk right off the edge of the roof, as if he were
awake. He must have been walking in his sleep.”

  Ammar said, “Did the boy sleepwalk often?”

  “How would I know? I do not keep an eye on the sleeping habits of my servants.”

  Ammar wished he could meet this one on the battlefield and see if he would treat him so dismissively then, but he kept his tone even, “Of course, Imam. Unfortunately, I am required to make an assessment of the situation and report back to the Chief of Police’s administrator in this Quarter, Ibn Marwan, to close the inquiry. This involves a few questions.”

  The Imam sighed in acquiescence.

  Ammar continued, “Would you tell me who lives and works here?”

  “My daughter and I, the housekeeper, and two boys, Zayd being one, to help her with the heavy work.”

  “Does the housekeeper watch over your daughter?”

  “Yes, but I cannot see how that matters here.”

  “Are there any other workers who come from outside, for deliveries, anything like that?”

  “Again, I would not know.”

  “And your students?”

  “They don’t live or work here.”

  “I’m sorry, I need to know about anyone who is a regular visitor to the household.”

  “I have three students I meet with here in the morning. You’ve met Adam ibn Hamid ibn al-Abbas, he is my best student. Masud Ibn Imran al-Samarqandi, exceptional. Yacoub Abu al-Hasan al-Darimi, also brilliant. I expect him to take on a teaching position under Abu Sulayman within Muhammad al-Khaqani’s household itself.”

  Ammar nodded. The way he said their names, it sounded like he should know them. He would have to ask if this case went any further. But one of them teaching in the household of the Banu Khaqan? He doubted it. Unless “in the household” meant Muhammad al-Khaqani’s cousin eight times removed. It didn’t matter even if it was true. All these associations he could grasp at within the caliphate meant nothing to the true scholars who held the hearts of the people. That had to be a sore spot for the Imam. He knew better than to say anything but the man had got his goat. He broached the sensitive matter with feigned innocence, “You don’t teach in the mosques?”

  “Of course I could have my place in the mosque if I liked, but I have no time given my work with the family of Abu Babak al-Daylami and my students here.”

  “You will have to forgive me, Imam. What is it that you do with your students here? Is it like teaching hadith at the mosque….?”

  “Ah, of course,” Imam Ibrahim cut him off, “You police, you’ve spent so much of your lives in filth and blood on the battlefields and now keep us safe from the filth of the streets of Baghdad. You can hardly be expected to know anything about the blessed study of the Prophet’s words and actions.”

  Ammar chose to restrain himself from reminding him that the Prophet, whose words and actions he devoted his life to collecting and studying, had had to spend much of his time in the “filth and blood” of the battlefields defending the Muslims against their enemies. Why bother bringing up the example of Muhammad’s cousin and son-in-law, the Lion, Ali, or the courage of his blessed grandson, Husayn? The Imam rarely thought of them, no doubt.

  He wondered how the Imam squared the luxuries of his finely embroidered robe and tooled leather slippers with reports that the Prophet and his family only wore rough fabrics and gave away the gifts of luxury sent to him by those seeking their favour. He laughed under his breath at the Imam. He’d heard that scholars transmitted forged hadith extolling the virtues of dressing beautifully to excuse their habits of wearing even silk, just like that student of Very High Station. They refused to transmit hadith naming Ali as Muhammad’s chosen successor, so lying about simple luxuries was certainly not above them. Not above this one, likely.

  “They are copying my collection of hadith. I have travelled the breadth of Empire to collect hadith with the fewest number of transmitters between the Prophet, God bless him, and me.”

  Imam Ibrahim continued in a tone used to make children feel stupid, but, Ammar noted, most often made children think the adult was the stupid one. He bowed his head slightly in Ammar’s direction, “You see, the fewer people in-between the blessed Prophet and myself, the more reliable the report will be about his words and actions. Further, my collection only holds hadith from transmitters of the highest character, those who have never been known to tell a lie. I have forty-three through the Golden Chain itself. And one hundred and forty-seven hadith that can be traced to Aisha, God bless her, the beloved of the Prophet and preserver of hadith, through transmitters of the highest reliability.”

  Ammar held himself back again at the mention of Aisha, she who had so obsessionally challenged Ali’s right to lead the Muslim community in favour of her own family members. He sucked at his teeth without thinking, a slight tsk escaping. If the Prophet’s daughter, Ali’s wife, and the mother of Hasan and Husayn, the blessed Fatima, had lived beyond her eighteen years, what would our hadith tradition look like then? There would be someone of perfected character to challenge Aisha’s version of things!

  He returned his attention to the Imam, who was saying, “There are no forgeries or unreliable transmissions among them. These young men are making verified copies of this exceptional collection so they may teach it to their own students someday. My reports are of such high quality, I am certain they will not only be valuable to support the faith of the average believer in understanding Muhammad’s example but also in establishing ritual and civil law for legal scholars and the courts. I have no doubt my collection, small as it is, will become as desirable as that of Bukhari and Muslim.”

  Ammar bit his tongue, keeping him from laughing at the man for such delusion, saying with perfectly feigned deference, “I am sure your collection is going to be a contribution to the religion, may God preserve it for future generations.”

  He paused and took a breath to maintain an even tone, “Imam, forgive me, I only have a few more questions. That night, did your housekeeper come and get you immediately or did she come down first to check on the child?”

  “Of course, she ran to the child first and saw he was dead. She was not in any hurry when she informed me of what had occurred.”

  “I would like to speak to her.”

  “I can’t see how that is necessary.”

  It was obviously necessary and he had the right to speak to whomever he pleased and look wherever he pleased, but Ammar did not disagree openly. Despite the possibility of having been pushed, he suspected the child had fallen in an accident. He could insist by administrative right. Or he could insist by simple fear. He wanted the man to taste fear.

  “I am sorry to ask, but I heard weeping. Was that your daughter? Would she have known the boy?” The question was as good as pulling his sword from its scabbard and holding it to the man’s neck.

  Imam Ibrahim’s face blanched at the suggestion. Ammar held back a smile.

  “Since my daughter’s mother died, she spends a great deal of time with the housekeeper,” the Imam spoke too much and too quickly in an effort to cover his fear. “Perhaps I should have brought in a woman dedicated to her care, but she was always close to the woman and I didn’t want to break her heart further. All to say, you understand, it is possible my daughter would have encountered him in the company of the housekeeper when the boy had some work to do. My daughter has only recently gone into seclusion. But I can assure you they did not know each other beyond what is typical of such interactions.

  “My daughter spends all her time studying hadith. She has great aptitude. Better than many male students, I should have named her after Aisha for her ability to memorize and cherish hadith. She is merely a sensitive girl. Waking up to a dead body of someone you’ve known, even slightly, in one’s own courtyard would be disturbing to anyone with a heart, would it not?”

  Ammar enjoyed the lengthy response meant to protect his daughter, and himself, from any suggestion of impropriety that could ruin them all. But it only made him wonder more about the girl and her relat
ionship to the boy. Surely these things happened, but the housekeeper would be well aware that it wasn’t simply a matter of a bad reputation for the girl. If someone accused them of having sex, they’d be subject to an investigation that might lead to flogging. There were commonly-used legal maneuvers around this sort of accusation. These cases rarely went forward, that is, unless they were handled by someone with a political or religious grudge. But the gossip alone would be the end of all of them. Not just the girl, but also Imam Ibrahim’s career and reputation, and the housekeeper would be on the street for letting it happen. No, Ammar decided, it wouldn’t have happened. The housekeeper would have been forced to get rid of the boy at the first suspicion.

  In any case, it was far more likely that one of his students would have his eye on the girl. If there were any romantic feelings in this house, it would be there. That’s exactly why he had a screened off area behind his desk; she studies with them, but out of sight behind it. If she were sitting in the same room as his male students during the lessons, even behind that screen, well, there was still much for these young men to imagine.

  Ammar’s sense was that the man didn’t know anything else. The man would consider it beneath him to pay attention to the habits of his servants. Imam Ibrahim’s concern was only for his family’s reputation.

  “You can see the importance, Imam, that I should clear the suspicion up quickly by simply confirming the matter with the housekeeper.”

  Imam Ibrahim stood and called for one of his students. It was the Mother’s Son. He came so quickly he must have been sitting just inside the archway listening. He looked angry. Ah, he thought, so here is the sweetheart. Lucky for you, boy, I’m not here to investigate the crushes of the Imam’s household.