Caliph al’Mutamid, by the will of Allah, Ruler of the Abbasids, Protector of the Faithful, was a round-shouldered fat man with a long, wispy grey beard and soulful dark eyes. He was arrayed like one of his fabled thousand peacocks, in lapis lazuli blue and emerald, with sparkling flashes of crimson. Each garment was interwoven with gold and silver threadwork, and a peacock plume surmounted his bulging satin turban of glistering grey. His wide belt was the same satiny stuff, and he wore a long, curved dagger with a golden, gem-studded handle protruding from the folds across his dome-shaped belly.
As the wazir had told us, the Great One sat under a large, full-leafed fig tree, propped up on damasc cushions, a small writing desk ready to hand should the awaited inspiration strike. Around him lay bowls of fruit and breads of various kinds—to help fortify him for his vigil, no doubt. Two braziers sent clouds of fragrant incense wafting on the soft breezes stirring beneath the leafy canopy of branches.
Had I been a poet in the khalifa’s place, I believe the garden itself would have supplied inspiration enough for many great works; it appeared the very semblance of what God must have had in mind when he created Eden. Neither leaf, nor bud, nor branch, nor blade of grass was misplaced; each plant and every tree was the paragon of its kind, residing in perfect harmony with every other plant and tree. But the caliph, far from basking in the serenity of his beautiful surroundings, appeared bored and unhappy; he sat slumped in his cushions as if he had been dropped there from a great height.
At our approach, al’Mutamid roused himself from his stupor and sat up, blinking his eyes. “Tabataba’i!” he cried. “There you are! How dare you keep me waiting like this!”
“Calm yourself, excellent one,” soothed the wazir with exaggerated patience. “Amir Sadiq has arrived. He wishes a word with your highness.” He bowed and gestured the amir forward. “I will leave you to discuss your affairs in private.”
“By all means, Tabataba’i, please stay,” suggested the amir quickly. “If the khalifa has no objection, I have none.”
“Let him stay,” muttered the caliph irritably. His head swivelled and he passed a critical eye over me. “Who is this man? What does he want?”
“May the peace of Allah be with you, Great Khalifa. With the khalifa’s kind permission, I present to your highness my advisor. His name is Aidan. He has recently joined my household.”
“He is not an Arab,” al’Mutamid pointed out.
“No, Majesty,” replied Sadiq smoothly, “he comes from Êrlandah—a sea island far to the west.”
“I have never heard of this place,” grumped the khalifa, then doubt clouded his face. “Have I, Tabataba’i? Have I ever heard of this place?”
“Assuredly not, Highness,” answered the wazir.
“Ah!” cried the khalifa triumphantly. “You see! You see!” He took up the corner of his robe and blew his nose. “The angels come here, you know.” He gestured vaguely to the garden. The khalifa’s hands were long and his fingers thin—a feature oddly out of place on a man so fat.
“Aidan has come here to help us in our relations with the emperor,” the amir continued. He seemed unconcerned by his superior’s shocking behaviour.
The khalifa’s head swivelled towards me again. “Has he indeed?” He looked at me through narrowed eyes. “The Emperor of the West is a Christian,” he informed me. “Are you a Christian also?”
I did not know what or whether to reply, but Sadiq indicated that I should answer. “Yes,” I replied. “That is, I was—but no longer.”
al’Mutamid nodded gravely. “They say the emperor is fond of horses.”
“I believe this is true,” I confirmed. “I have seen some of his horses.”
“How many?”
“Your majesty?”
“How many horses did you see?”
“Six, I believe.”
“Six!” roared al’Mutamid; his laughter shook the leaves on the nearby branches. “Six! Did you hear, Tabataba’i? The emperor has but six horses! I have six thousand!” Abruptly, the khalifa became suspicious. “Where did you learn to speak like this?”
“I was taught in Lord Sadiq’s house by an excellent teacher—a young man named Mahmoud.”
“He is not an Arab, either,” observed al’Mutamid wearily. He yawned, already losing interest in the proceedings.
“No, Highness,” agreed Sadiq, “Mahmoud is an Egyptian.”
“Ah,” nodded the khalifa sagely, “that explains much.” Rocking his body to one side, he delivered himself of a long, sonorous fart, and said, “What do you want, Sadiq? Why are you here?”
“We have come to beg a benevolence of you, Majesty,” he answered. “Aidan has friends who, through no fault of their own, have fallen into slavery. It is my belief that they should be freed at once and allowed to return to their lands in the west.”
“If we free all the slaves,” al’Mutamid remarked, holding up a long finger, “there would be no one to do the work. Who would do the work, Tabataba’i?”
The wazir stepped forward quickly. “I do not believe the amir is suggesting that you free all the slaves. Are you, Lord Sadiq?”
“By no means, wazir,” he said. “Only those known to Aidan.”
“Six!” cried al’Mutamid suddenly. “Let it be the same as the emperor’s horses!”
“Very well,” agreed the wazir quickly, “we shall release one slave for each of the emperor’s horses. I will write the decree shall I, majesty?” Without waiting for an answer, Tabataba’i stepped to the desk and knelt down. Taking up a square of parchment, he dipped the pen into a pot of ink and began to write.
But there were more than six survivors. Stepping forward, I made to object. “I beg your pardon—” I began, then halted as Sadiq warned me off with a quick motion of his hands. The khalifa’s eyes rolled towards me expectantly. “Forgive me,” I blustered, “I merely wished to acknowledge my gratitude for your estimable generosity. I am certain that those who are to be freed will be forever indebted to your majesty’s compassion,” I paused, “as for the rest—they will no doubt remain usefully, if less gratefully, employed.”
Sadiq frowned. Obviously, I had pressed the matter further than was becoming a man in my precarious position. What did I care for courtesy? I just hoped above all else that Wazir Tabataba’i had caught my insinuation. If he had, however, he gave no sign.
The khalifa sniffed ostentatiously. “I am writing a poem,” he informed us blithely. “It is about the duties of man before God.”
“How very worshipful, Highness,” said Sadiq. “No doubt, it will be most instructive. I look forward to its completion with keen anticipation.”
“Prayer is a duty,” the khalifa said, then paused. “I cannot think why.” His face wrinkled in sudden panic. “Why is this, Tabataba’i?”
“Prayer shows the devotion of the soul to its creator,” answered the wazir absently. His pen continued flowing across the parchment for a moment, then he stopped, inspected what he had written, puffed his cheeks and blew on it, then sat back. “A royal seal is required, Majesty. Would you like me to do it for you?”
The khalifa grimaced and flicked his hand impatiently in the wazir’s direction. Tabataba’i rose and withdrew, saying, “I will await you in the courtyard, Amir Sadiq. You will find me there when you have concluded your business.”
The wazir withdrew, leaving us to bid farewell to the khalifa. Lord Sadiq made several judicious observations of a general and pleasant nature, whereupon we prepared to make good our escape. Just as we were thanking the caliph for his charity, and bidding him farewell, the addle-pated fellow raised his hands and burst out chanting.
“Allah is the light of the heavens and earth!” cried the khalifa in a loud, cracking voice. “His light is as a pillar upon which stands a lamp in a glass, shining like starlight and glittering like a pearl, kindled from the blessed olive tree—neither of the east, nor of the west—whose fragrant oil gives light though fire touches it not. Light upon light! God guides to
his light whomsoever he pleases, and sets forth parables for the instruction of the people. Allah is wise in all things; his knowledge is infinite!”
So saying, the khalifa lowered his hands; he slumped back on his cushions once again and closed his eyes. Sadiq bowed low. “Thank you for reminding me, Majesty,” he said. “May God keep you well, khalifa.”
“Fruit,” the khalifa murmured sleepily. “We must be having some fruit. I see bowls of it here.”
With a glance to me, Sadiq led the way from the garden and back through the hall to the courtyard where our horses, having been watered during our audience, were now waiting. As soon as we were beyond the hearing of the khalifa, I spoke up. “There were more than six survivors,” I pointed out, and demanded: “What are we to do about the rest?”
“Be at peace,” answered Sadiq placidly. “Tabataba’i will have everything in order.”
“But he does not know,” I objected.
“The matter was well in hand,” Sadiq insisted. “You might have ruined everything with your clumsy meddling.” He relented then, and said, “You worry for nothing. Have faith, Aidan.”
Wazir Tabataba’i was waiting for us in the courtyard. The parchment was rolled in a bit of silk and tied with a length of the same material. He presented the roll to me, saying, “May Allah, Wise and Compassionate, speed your friends’ return to freedom. It is a very great gift you have been given this day.”
Not wishing to seem ungrateful, I nevertheless felt constrained to see for myself that all was in order. “Thank you, wazir,” I said, and proceeded to untie the parchment. Once unrolled, I held the square between my hands and examined the graceful script closely.
“That is the royal seal of al’Mutamid,” Tabataba’i said, pointing to the red embossed insignia. “Do you read Arabic?”
“Alas, no,” I conceded. Handing the scroll to him, I said, “Please?”
“Of course,” he smiled haughtily. “It says: ‘Be it here known that the Khalifa al’Mutamid, Defender of the Faithful, has decreed that the bearer of this communication shall obtain the immediate release of certain slaves who are known to him. Anyone making bold to hinder or interfere in the execution of this decree shall be committing treason, and shall thus earn the full measure of the khalifa’s wrath.’” He finished reading and looked up. “I trust this meets with your approval?”
“Indeed, it is all I could have asked. Again, I thank you, Wazir Tabataba’i.”
“Do not thank me,” the wazir said elaborately, handing me the scroll. “Thank al’Mutamid, and thank Allah the khalifa was in a reasonable mind today. It might easily have been otherwise.” He bowed, touching his forehead in a sign of respect to the amir, then turned and strode away.
“Wazir Tabataba’i serves the khalifate, not the khalifa,” Sadiq informed me when we were once again remounted and riding out through the palace gates. “No one knows better how to temper the royal rages.” A cloud seemed to pass over the amir’s face as he spoke, but I could not guess his feeling. “At all events, I knew the wazir would make the decree usefully ambiguous.”
“Once more, I find myself indebted to your prudence and acumen. I will repay you if I can.”
He shook his head. “There is no need. I only regret you had to see the khalifa in his infirmity, but there was no other way. Still, as the wazir has said, it was one of his better days. al’Mutamid has been known to disrobe before guests and defecate, or fly into an insatiable fury and demand all his servants be impaled on white-hot spikes.” Turning in the saddle, he said, “Do not for the briefest instant believe Abu Ahmad shares any of his brother’s attributes. Praise be to Allah! Abu’s mind is keen as the blade at his side; he is both philosopher and prince. Eighty thousand men serve under his command, and each with but a single thought: to die for the greater glory of God and Abu.”
“The people are fortunate that the khalifa has such a brother,” I remarked. The amir only nodded. He said nothing more until we were dismounting in the courtyard of his palace. “Tonight,” he declared, swinging down from the saddle in a single, fluid motion, “is the last night we will have in Ja’fariya. You will eat at my table. I will send Kazimain to bring you at the proper time.”
“As you will, Lord Sadiq,” I replied, trying to emulate his cat-like grace.
“Now, you must excuse me,” he said. “I have three wives, and owe particular obligations to each. We will be gone many days, so I must do what I can to discharge my marital duties—as is proper in the sight of Allah.”
“By all means,” I replied, “it would be a sin to leave undone that which, for duty’s sake, must be done.”
“Although you are not yet a married man, I knew you would understand.” I watched him walk away, much in envy of his sense of duty.
While the amir’s many servants laboured with preparations for our journey, I spent the remainder of the day thinking what I would tell Kazimain. Alas, when I heard the familiar sound of her footfall in the corridor beyond my room, I was no closer to knowing what I should say. Seeing her face—glowing with happiness as she swept into the room—only made the grim chore more difficult.
She crossed the room in two running steps and came into my arms in a rush, knocking me over onto the bed. She kissed me once, twice, three times—whereupon I lost count, drowning myself in her all-encircling embrace. When she paused to catch her breath, she held my face between her hands and looked at me, the light of her happiness a dazzling ray that lit the room even as it lit her eyes.
“I have been waiting for you all day!” she said, placing her chin against my chest and staring into my face. “The servants said you had gone to see the khalifa.”
“We did that,” I told her. “I went to obtain freedom for my friends.” How deep were her eyes, and how dark.
“Were you successful?” she asked.
“More successful than I could have hoped,” I replied, tracing the curve of her lips with a fingertip.
“Are you not pleased?”
“But I am,” I said, “very well pleased.”
“You do not seem pleased. You seem unhappy.” She kissed me again. “The banquet tonight will cheer you,” she said. “It is only the amir’s family, so we can sit together.”
“Kazimain…” I said, cupping a hand to her cheek. The words stuck in my throat.
Concern drew her brows together. “What is troubling you?”
“You will have seen the preparations—”
“Yes, the amir is going away again. They say he is going to Byzantium.”
“He is,” I told her, “and I am to go with him.”
The light went out of her eyes as if snuffed by a cold wind. Misery enveloped her like a robe. “Why must you go?”
“I am sorry, my love,” I said, reaching for her. She pulled away.
“Why?”
“It was the price for my friends’ freedom,” I said, adding, “and for my own.”
“And you agreed to this?”
“I would have agreed to anything. Yes, I told him I would go.”
“It was wrong of Lord Sadiq to treat you in such a callous manner.” She leapt up. “I will go to him at once and make him see that he cannot do this.”
“No, Kazimain,” I stood, and held out my hand to her. “No. It must be this way. The amir needs me with him in Byzantium, and the need is such that he would have taken me with him anyway. I made the best bargain I could.”
“It was wrong to make you choose!” she insisted.
“I have other reasons—” I confessed, “reasons of my own for going.”
“Reasons that do not include me,” she said accusingly.
“Yes,” I replied. “It is difficult, I know. But I am content.”
“Well, I am not!” she snapped. Her lower lip quivered, and unshed tears shimmered in her eyes.
I moved closer and put my arms around her; she nestled her head against my shoulder, and we stood for a long moment holding one another. “I am sorry, Kazimain,” I whispered,
stroking her long hair. “I wish it were otherwise.”
“If you are going, then I will go, too.” She warmed to the idea instantly. “I will go with you. We can be together and you can show me the city, and—”
“No, my love.” It hurt me to dash her quick-kindled hope. “It is too dangerous.”
“For me it is too dangerous, but not for you?”
“I would not go at all if need did not compel me,” I answered. “If I had my way I would stay here with you forever.”
She shrugged my hands from her shoulders and stepped away, looking at me sadly. When she spoke, her voice was soft almost to breaking. “If you go, I know I will never see you again.”
“I will come back,” I insisted, but the words lacked conviction against her sorrow. “I will.”
56
Dinner that night was meant to be a festive affair with singing, dancing, and music. Lord Sadiq reclined on cushions at the head of the long, low table with his wives, who fed him choice morsels from the various plates and platters and bowls which the kitchen servants conveyed to the banqueting room in an unfaltering stream.
I dined with Faysal and several of the amir’s closest friends; across from us sat the women, who, since it was a festive meal, were invited to eat at table with the men, instead of in the women’s apartments. The conversation was light and polite, with much laughter all around. Clearly, everyone was enjoying the farewell banquet. For me, however, the feast was more in the nature of an ordeal: sitting opposite Kazimain, knowing how unhappy she was, enduring her silent reproaches, and unable to cheer her or ease the burden of her sadness or even to explain myself.
The food was lavish and luxurious, and had been prepared in such a way as to delight all the senses; still, it might have been ashes in my mouth for all the joy it gave me. The music, playing soft and low through the meal, and becoming more lively once we had finished and lay back to watch the dancers, seemed interminable and grating.
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