The Lover

by Laury Silvers

  He pulled his staff around, pushing now against the soldiers who were only making things worse. He could see from here that people were being crushed, “Get back! Give them room to get out!”

  Tein moved again to direct more people out of the marketplace gate. There’d be havoc as they pushed through it in such numbers but there was no other way. Over and again, he drew groups from the mob out towards the market place and away from the soldiers. People started to make sense of the movement streaming through to the market and the huge knot of people began to loosen, moving in that direction.

  Ammar started to get control of the soldiers nearest to him, moving them to the side, creating a gap out of the square to the main road, and people began to stream past them, soldiers still swinging their staffs, while Ammar yelled at them, arms waving, “Stand down!”

  Slowly the square began to empty. Some of the soldiers walked behind the stragglers, taunting them with their staffs, hitting their ankles or pushing their backs to keep a move on. Others broke into small groups, talking frantically, while the injured lay where they had fallen. Ammar yelled commands at the guards to get back.

  One of them turned on him, “Who are you to tell us!”

  Ammar screamed, “Police!”

  The soldier moved up against Ammar, still hot from the fight, “What is the police to the Caliph’s guard? We outrank you, you cheap piece of scum!”

  Ammar looked at the man, aghast at his stupidity, unwilling to fight him, “Fine, then clean this up if you are in charge! I’m done!”

  The soldier, realizing what he’d got himself into out of the argument, started to object, but Ammar had already walked away.

  The crowd was gone but more than a dozen people lay in the square injured, but at least no one died. Ammar said out loud, “Thank you, God.”

  Ammar looked for Tein and saw him walking toward a man seated against the estate wall. Ammar left him to deal with that and entered the dim light and cool air of the covered market to survey the damage and find the inspector to see what could be done.

  Tein made his way to a man sitting against the estate wall holding his leg gingerly, pulling up one leg of his sirwal. His shin just above the ankle was swollen and discoloured but worse had an awkward bend to it. At least no bone had broken through. Tein could see the man was a blacksmith from his shoulder muscles rounding up to the base of his skull, his huge arms, and stained hands. He leaned over the man, saying, “You’ve broken your leg even though you can’t see it. Good thing it didn’t pierce the skin. The bonesetters can likely save your leg.”

  The man looked up at him. He was blanched from pain, shaking from cold despite the heat of the sun beating down on him, finally feeling the injury now that the panic had passed, but he managed with the last of his energy to sneer at Tein, “I can see that, you miserable dog, get out of my face!”

  The staff he had taken off of one of the soldiers was still in his hand. He handed it to him, saying, “Take this to help you get out of here, then. There’s a bonesetter not too far from here.”

  The man took the staff and started to pull himself up on it. Tein leaned over to help him. But he pulled back, falling back to the ground, screaming in pain, then, “Back off, crow!”

  Tein looked at the man and then inward at himself. He was exhausted. He turned and walked toward the entrance of the square. The tavern owner was putting the tables and stools back into order and pulling at the cloth awning that had been partially torn down. Tein looked at him, asking if business was open again. The man gestured for him to sit down. Tein sat on the stool and said, “nabidh.” The owner went inside and returned with a clay cup filled with drink and placed it before Tein.

  “Clay? No glass in this neighbourhood?”

  “No glass during a riot.”

  “The riot’s over.”

  “This is Baghdad, you don’t know that yet.”

  Tein laughed and lifted his cup toward the shopkeeper, “Well, how much do I owe you?”

  “You are police? Nothing.”

  Tein raised his eyebrows and took a copper fals out of his sleeve pocket and placed it in the hand of the shopkeeper, “I’m not police, then.”

  Tein leaned back against the wall watching Ammar talk to the soldiers in front of the mosque and drank his nabidh in three gulps and put the cup down. He could imagine what his uncles would say about all of this because it was what they had been telling him since he was a boy filled with fury at this world, “Wrestle your anger to the ground, Tein, pin it and do not let it up until it has submitted to you.” He told himself, It isn’t much of a trick to kill. The trick is letting go before you kill. And you did. He knew how narrowly he had avoided doing something that he couldn’t walk back from, but was unwilling in that moment to ask himself how he got there in the first place. Uncle Nuri would have walked him through it. But Uncle Nuri was not there. The shopkeeper came and took his cup and filled it again. Tein reached into his sleeve to pay and the shopkeeper said, “This one is on the house. Not because you are police, but because you paid even though you are police.”

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Ammar emerged from the market entrance, his hand shading his eyes as they adjusted to the bright sun on the square. Tein was sitting at one of the tables in the shade of what was left of the awning with a clay cup in his hand. Ammar thought it’d better not be wine. He needed Tein to get inside the mosque and speak to these Sufis. If they couldn’t get out through the Imam’s household door, they’d still be in there. He needs to talk to them. Get this al-Hallaj to stop. Tein seemed to know one of them, maybe he’d listen to him.

  He yelled across the square, “Tein!” But Tein didn’t respond. Tein sat, slumped back against the wall, legs out, looking at the sky. Ammar stalked across the square toward him, “Tein!” Still nothing. Ammar was nearly to him when he saw Imam Ibrahim’s student, Adam, red curls and all, leaning against a wall by the marketplace gate, watching the scene wrap up.

  Ammar changed the direction he was walking, moving towards the gate, but kept his eyes off the privileged little shit. He didn’t want to scare him and then have to chase him through the marketplace. Well, he didn’t want to scare him yet. He continued walking toward Adam, keeping him in his peripheral vision until he got close enough to him that he could jump forward and hold him there if he needed to. He got close enough and then looked at him directly, saying, “Adam, wasn’t it?”

  Adam jumped slightly and backed up against the wall, “Assalamu alaykum.”

  Ammar returned his greetings then said, “I was just on my way to the Imam’s house. The will of God has brought us together, no doubt. I was writing my report and had a few loose ends. It occurs to me you could answer these questions just as well as the Imam. You would be doing him a great service. No need to bother him, if so.”

  Ammar took another step closer to him, penning him in slightly. Adam looked stuck. He wanted to look to his side, to walk away, but couldn’t, “Of course, if I can.”

  “I have to ask, though, what are you doing here? I wouldn’t think a serious hadith scholar would be interested in wild talk and inciting crowds.”

  “I’d heard about him through my mother’s friends. He has many followers in court, you know.”

  “I know.”

  “Some hadith scholars, too.”

  Ammar looked at him, “Apparently. Who else?”

  Adam voice tightened, realizing what he’d said, “You’d have to ask for yourself. This is my first time hearing him speak. Not my style.”

  “You don’t look like you got hurt in the fight. Not a hair out of place.”

  Adam tucked back his head at the comment, not sure what he meant by it, saying, “I watched from inside the marketplace. I wasn’t anywhere near the fight. I ducked into a shop when things got heated. Not my style.”

  Ammar thought, No, not your style to be out among the men when things get tough, but held himself back from saying it.

  Ammar couldn’t look away from
him, he needed to keep him there but he also needed to get Tein to get to the mosque. He took Adam by the elbow, “Let’s walk over there and sit down,” indicating where Tein was sitting, his shoulders slumped now, legs pulled up. His gaze shifted to the ground. Ammar thought, looking at Tein, This better not be a problem.

  Adam saw the direction they were headed and pulled back, saying, “I can’t.”

  “You can’t talk? I thought you wanted to help the Imam?”

  “No, they sell nabidh and wine there, everyone knows it. I won’t sit in such a place.”

  “Appearances are everything. Well, let’s just walk by there so I can speak to my colleague who is sitting there and then we’ll find another place to talk.”

  Adam pulled at him slightly, becoming afraid.

  Ammar said, “Come along, nothing to worry about.”

  Adam let himself be led, but looked around him to see who was watching and wondering if he could break from Ammar and run.

  They reached Tein and he looked up, shaking his head as if waking himself out of something. Ammar said, “Adam, I would like to introduce you to my colleague, Tein ibn al-Ashiqa as-Sawda.”

  Adam’s eyes widened at the strangeness of the name, but he said, “Assalamu alaykum.”

  Ammar turned to Tein saying, “This is Adam.” Ammar looked at Adam realizing he didn’t remember his full name. He turned back to Tein, finishing the introduction, “One of Imam Ibrahim’s students.”

  Tein didn’t respond.

  Ammar pushed him, “Tein, if it would not be too much trouble, would you go into the mosque and see if they’re still there. I need you to talk to the one you know. Get that preacher to back down.”

  Tein stood up, the only acknowledgement that he had heard Ammar. Stepping forward, his sheer bulk pushed the two of them back and out of his way. Tein looked down at Adam. Adam began to shake and took three more awkward steps back. Ammar stepped back with him, putting his hand on Adam’s arm to make sure he didn’t run away.

  Tein pulled himself up from the shame he’d been sitting in, and observed the young man, Ammar’s despised elite boy. Red curls stuck out from underneath his yellow and white striped turban. This one wasn’t like Mustafa. This one didn’t pass the cloth under his chin, with a twist. He had just a tail down the back. Silk turban. Red and gold threads were woven through the stripes. White skin, blue eyes. No one spits at this boy despite that maybe he was a slave himself. Ammar did not say that he was a slave. His mother must be a Christian slave and he took after her. “Adam” fits that. She must have been bought by a very wealthy man, an important man, who fathered this boy. Now the boy, born into freedom and Islam, gets his name and carries his reputation. He probably thought the girl, Zaynab, belonged to him, that she was meant for him.

  Ammar watched Tein making a quick observation of the student and felt relief. He’s back. Maybe he can do this.

  Tein walked away and Adam relaxed slightly, not entirely, just enough to show he no longer thought he was in physical danger now that Tein had left. He looked at Ammar warily, wondering what was next, and wishing they could get as far away from the tavern as possible. They moved away from where Tein had been sitting and went through the marketplace arches where they could sit and talk undisturbed. He found a shop selling fruit juices, no hard cider, and sat him down at one of the stools.

  Ammar bent his head slightly toward Adam in conciliation, “Before I ask for your help, I want to apologize.”

  Adam tucked his head, not knowing how to react to this man, “Apologize?”

  “Yes, I’m afraid in my zealousness to deal with the situation at the Imam’s home, I intimated that Zaynab might have had an inappropriate relationship with the boy who had died. I saw how that upset you, and I wanted to say I was sorry.”

  Adam flushed, Ammar didn’t know if it was from anger, confusion, or embarrassment at having been caught out, but he answered well despite it, “On the contrary, I owe you an apology. You were simply doing your job. I understand you have to ask uncomfortable questions.”

  Ammar tried it from another angle, “I appreciate your understanding. I’m grateful you are willing to help now, I imagine the Imam relies on you quite a bit.”

  Adam replied, “I am only his humble student. I do whatever I can for him. It is only what is required of me given the gift of knowledge he shares with me.”

  Ammar nodded, thinking, he’s got the scholar-hypocrite patter down. He approached him through conceit, “I am curious what you thought of the boy, Zayd. I’m a bit surprised he was working in such a house. Everything I hear about him, well, he seems to have been a troublemaker. More suited to the canals than the home of an important man.”

  Adam tipped his head in agreement, “May God have mercy on his soul. While his death has been difficult for the household, it is all for the best. As God Most High said, You may hate a thing and it is good for you.”

  “You must have tried to do something about him. I cannot imagine you not upholding your responsibility to the Imam by ignoring the problem.”

  Adam shifted slightly. Ammar could see he wanted to say it, wanted someone to know that he had been right all along, “I spoke to the housekeeper about him, but she ignored me. It hadn’t gone far enough to warrant speaking to the Imam. I did not want to disturb him, not yet. And now I won’t have to. Alhamdulilah, God’s wisdom is beyond our ken.”

  “It? What hadn’t got far enough?”

  Adam realized then that he had gone too far and flushed again, “Trouble. Making trouble around the house…,” he stammered, “He was a thief.”

  Ammar saw his opening, “Ah, now you look like how you did that morning when I suggested that Zaynab and Zayd had known each other, well, in a way that they should not.”

  Adam’s back got up, “You put this young lady at risk with your accusations. Even the suggestion of such a thing, if it got out, could ruin her.”

  He was trying to hide it, but no doubt about it, Ammar saw there was some real fear there. He provoked him, “You don’t seem the type for chivalry.”

  Adam flushed, becoming angry, “Zaynab deserves nothing less!”

  “No doubt.” He laid it out for him, “Mind you, I wouldn’t think you capable of it, but would you kill the boy to protect her honour?”

  Adam’s face blanched, he moved back on his stool, “I, what?”

  “Would you kill to protect her honour?”

  Just as quickly as he had blanched, his colour returned to him. His back was up now realizing where this man was going with the questioning and seeing his only way out, “God protect me from evil things! There is no answering that! All along you’ve suggested I’m not man enough in your eyes and now you want me to admit I’ve killed someone to prove I am. Do you think I’m so slow as to see what you are up to? Worse for you, do you even know who my father is? Hamid ibn al-Abbas! He will be the next vizier to the Caliph! How dare you speak to me this way! I’ll have you removed from your post!”

  Ammar stopped short. His stomach sunk as he realized who Adam’s father was. He hadn’t put it together when Imam Ibrahim had told him before; it was a common enough name. But this father was no common man. Self-made and as rich as they come, spreading his money everywhere; known to be a buffoon, he was nevertheless working his way into influence in every level of court to make his way into the vizierate. He could not only lose his post by this man’s complaint, but also his head. He held himself to account, demanding inwardly, And so what! Lose your head, if that is what justice requires! His mind came round to the tragedy at Karbala. Will you be among those who hid in their houses in Kufa rather than stand by Husayn? His hand twitched. He wanted to grab this privileged, mother’s son by the throat and watch his curls shake and his turban fall from his head. It took everything he had to hold himself in place, then to steady himself, then to speak without showing his anger. Another voice within him spoke, reasoning, Would Ali or Husayn act without knowing what this boy has done? Has this boy done anything? Find o
ut first!

  He pulled himself back, imagining Ali the Lion on the battlefield, and his restraint from killing without just reason. Then Ammar imagined himself standing beside Ali. It brought him to his senses. He collected himself. He tried to say casually, as if he were surprised by Adam’s response, “I must apologize again. I never meant to imply anything of the sort. We’re a bit rough around the edges. I was a ghazi before joining the police, you see.”

  At the apology, Adam sucked in some air sharply as if to say, “Just so!” But at the mention of the word ghazi, Adam visibly corrected himself out of respect due the title given to the Frontier fighters, managing to say, even if a bit stiffly, “Your sacrifice for the Religion and the Caliphate is well-noted. May God reward you and your family in this world and the world to come.” He took another breath, allowing for Ammar’s concession but still afraid, hedging the situation, “I am sure what seems rough to us in the city was nothing other than nobility on the battlefield.”

  Ammar said, regaining his footing, “Thank you for your understanding. If you’ll forgive me for asking—I do need to ask—you seem disturbed for the reputation of a girl you should not even know. Not that it is not due her. It is just that she is in seclusion. You see my confusion.”

  Adam sat forward, insistent, “I don’t know how to make this more clear. I need to impress upon you the need to protect the girl’s reputation.”

  “But why?”

  He was forced to say it, “We are to be married.”

  Ammar forced a smile, “Congratulations, may you find every happiness.”

  Afraid again, he said, “I must appeal to you, appeal to the chivalry of your person as a ghazi…” then making himself say it, “Ghazi, Sir. She must be protected from any gossip, even amongst yourselves in the police. This line of questioning can go no further.”

  Ammar softly objected, “I would like to promise, but…”

  “Ghazi, Please understand. She is not my mother’s choice.”