Equal of the Sun (13 page)

Some of the men had found great fortune and been rewarded with land or governorships, but others had taken a fall. One man had been accused of being part of a blasphemous religious sect and executed. Another had fallen in love with a manservant that the Shah was quite fond of and so was killed. Still another had stolen money and had been sent away in disgrace. As I read through the story of the men’s afflictions, my heart began to bleed with sympathy. So many had gone the way of my father!

Eventually, I came upon the long list of accountants, scribes, and historians. My hands grew warm as I perused the list. I didn’t know if my father would merit an entry. Often, the historians ended their lists by writing, “None of the others are important enough to mention,” or words to that effect.

But then my heart seemed to stop in my chest:

Mohammad Amir Shirazi:
Born in Qazveen, he served the Shah for twenty years, becoming one of his chief accountants. Many colleagues praised the accuracy of his accounts and his swift dispatch of court business. He seemed destined to rise up through the ranks of the men of the pen, until one day he was accused of crimes against the Shah and executed. Later, doubts were raised about the truth of the accusations. In his world-illumining mercy, the Shah did not execute his accuser, but it is also possible that his decision was influenced by the fact that the man had powerful allies whom the Shah didn’t wish to offend. Only God knows all things with certainty.

Why, oh why, had the historian not mentioned the courtier’s name? What rank was he that the Shah hadn’t punished him?

I decided to take a risk and ask Abteen. After I beckoned to him, he approached with an exasperated sigh.

“See this entry?”

He peered at it and then looked up. I have never seen a man read so fast. “What about it?”

“What is the name of the courtier?”

“How should I know?”

“Aren’t you a historian, for God’s sake?”

“If it is not written down, it means we don’t know. Who has time to run around verifying details about minor officials? Nobody is going to give a damn about this Mohammad Amir in the future.”

I stood up abruptly, bumping into the table and upsetting the manuscript page, which floated to the floor.

“I give a damn!”

The historian stooped to pick up the page, then tripped on his
long robe as he stood up. “You have bent it, you donkey! I told you to be careful.”

“As careful as you are with your facts?”

He cursed me and I walked out, surprised to see that my fingers were lightly stained, as if I had dipped them in my father’s blood.

Isma‘il wrote to Pari that he had received her letter and would depart from Qahqaheh shortly to resume his rightful role in the capital. When he had first heard of his father’s and Haydar’s deaths, he had barred the gates to the prison, certain that it was a trick, and waited until a crowd of trusted noblemen had appeared outside the gates. After they had confirmed the news, he allowed them to be opened again. He wrote that he looked forward to seeing his sister after an absence of so many years, and he thanked Pari for her service on his behalf. He signed the letter, “your loving brother.”

Pari was elated by his kind salutation. “He sounds just like the lion-man I remember!” she said, her eyes moistening with relief.

But that was all we heard from Isma‘il for days, until Sultanam told us that he had decided to stay on at Qahqaheh to allow nobles to visit him. When still he failed to arrive, we discovered that he had voyaged to Ardabil, the home of his ancestors, to visit the shrine there, and lingered for longer than expected, sending no word as to when he would appear.

Pari had no choice but to take full charge of administering the palace. Because of her orders, the kitchens were reopened and the denizens of the palace filled their bellies gratefully. The hospital on the palace grounds resumed operation, the sick received consolation from men of religion, and the dead were properly buried. The Takkalu left town to visit Isma‘il, and the murders in the city ceased.

Even though the palace began to function again, we were not calm, because the palace was teeming with rumors. Haydar’s mother, Sultan-Zadeh, infuriated by the murder of her only child, had been making efforts through her allies to find a worthy opponent
to Isma‘il, if for no other reason than to thwart Sultanam’s ambitions. And a group of nobles was weighing the possibility of rallying behind Mustafa Mirza, the late shah’s fifth son, in a bid for the throne.

When I passed people in the gardens they averted their eyes, not knowing who would be their next master or whether any confidence would result in future betrayal. One morning, I surprised Anwar at the baths before it was light. He leapt out of the water, ebony knees bent and muscular arms raised to fend off an attack, and uttered a battle cry so fierce it curdled my blood. When he realized it was only me, he dropped back into the water, displacing a good deal of it.

“Only an idiot would sneak up on me like that,” he growled.

When I reported the rumors to Pari, her face darkened with distress. “Why doesn’t Isma‘il hurry! I have written to him again about the need to claim his place, yet still he gallivants around the country. What makes him so restive?”

“Lieutenant of my life, you must vanquish the rumors,” I said. “Once they gather, men will suspect that no one is in charge and throw their support behind another.”

Pari sighed. “It would be unthinkable to lose the throne now, just when it is within our grasp.”

“Then we must convince the nobles that they have no choice.”

At the next meeting, Pari swore to the men that her brother was on his way to Qazveen with an army of twenty thousand soldiers. “‘Sister of my heart,’” she read out loud from a letter we had composed together the day before, “‘I grant you my authority to govern as you see fit until I return to take the throne. Do not brook any opposition from those who would try to derail my ascension, which has been ordained by God.’”

She paused a moment for effect. “If you don’t wish to believe me, you can explain yourself to our new shah and see what he makes of your disobedience.”

Her voice vibrated with authority, just as a great orator’s stirs his listeners to accept the justice of his arguments. I could feel its power surge through my heart, making me eager to fight for whatever she demanded. And it was not just me. I heard Ibrahim Mirza say to
Mirza Shokhrollah in a low voice, “She has it—the royal
farr.
Do not cross her.”

Shamkhal and Majeed exchanged a glance of excitement and Majeed leapt up, his face glowing with triumph, to repeat what Ibrahim had said to another noble, and then he sped to the other side of the room to make sure the words traveled from man to man. I could not contain myself: I repeated Ibrahim’s words to the amirs nearest me. Their faces softened as they stared at the curtain and imagined the glory behind it.

“Mirza Shokhrollah, I need to hear from you.”

“It is understood,” Mirza Shokhrollah replied in a subdued tone.

“Good. I expect the full report on the treasury tomorrow even if it takes you all night to prepare it. As for the rest of you, soon you will see with your own eyes that Isma‘il’s candidacy is assured. So now I ask you, do you promise to make this country whole again by supporting Isma‘il? I want to hear an answer from every man.”

Isma‘il’s supporters responded right away: “Al-lah! Al-lah! Al-lah!” they chanted, sounding like loyal soldiers marching in step. Even the Ostajlu added their voices to our forceful affirmations.

By then, I had gone behind the curtain where Pari sat, and when she heard the men shout out, she jumped to her feet triumphantly as if she had just mobilized an army. Shamkhal arose and declared an end to the meeting. Mirza Salman and Majeed began conferring together, looking as surprised as if an untested polo player had scored a decisive goal. I, too, was awestruck: Pari had the royal farr, a radiance so irresistible that the men responded like sunflowers following the sun.

A few days later, Pari received a letter from Isma‘il giving her authority to govern the palace as she saw fit in his absence. He thanked her for her efforts and told her he could not wait to see her with his own eyes, “a woman of true Safavi blood, a sister-in-arms, and a fierce protector of our family and our crown.” A reward awaited her upon his return, which he was eager to bestow.

Pari read me the letter, her eyes bright with hope.

CHAPTER 3

MAN OF JUSTICE

After Zahhak became king, the devil installed himself as his cook and proceeded to teach him a taste for blood. On the first day he made roasted partridges, on the next lamb kabob, and on the third he stewed veal with wine. Zahhak was astonished and pleased, for man had never eaten meat before, and he plunged his tongue gladly into blood and bone. When Zahhak asked what he desired as a reward for his excellent cooking, the devil replied, “Just one favor, oh lord of the universe—I wish to kiss the royal shoulders.”

Zahhak thought it was a small boon, given all the devil had done. He offered his shoulders gladly and allowed the devil to plant his black lips on each one.

The next morning, Zahhak awoke to the sound of slithering near his head. He pulled the bedcover away from his body and gasped out loud at the sight of a serpent growing out of each shoulder. In horror, Zahhak grabbed a knife and slashed through one, then the other, but as soon as the decapitated snakes had wriggled in their death agony, new snakes grew out of his shoulders. They hissed and attacked each other in front of his face, sparring until he felt he might go mad.

When the devil sauntered in that afternoon, Zahhak begged for a cure. “My friend, the only way to get any peace,” the devil told him, “is to pacify them with food. The diet is simple: men’s brains.”

Zahhak ordered his nobles to deliver two young men the next morning. The men were murdered, their skulls cracked open, and their brains scooped out to feed the snakes. Then their mutilated bodies were returned to their families for burial. The next morning the same calamity occurred, and the next. Every day, the brightest and most promising young men were torn away from their families and sacrificed to the throne. Little by little, the best minds in the country were destroyed, and evil gave birth to more evil.

E
arly that summer, Isma‘il finally arrived on the outskirts of Qazveen. After setting up camp in fine embroidered tents softened with silk carpets, he and his men waited for his astrologers to inform him of the most auspicious moment to enter the capital. He had spent years studying astrology while in confinement and wouldn’t even leave his tent unless the readings were favorable. Pari was pleased that he showed such prudence, but secretly I hoped the stars would hurry.

By then, Pari had accomplished much. The killings had stopped in the city, and merchants reopened the bazaar. The palace had been repaired enough so that evidence of the invasion was faint. The noblemen were hard at work at their posts. Pari continued holding morning meetings with them, and now they submitted to her authority with no question. Mirza Shokhrollah had produced the treasury report and released the necessary funds so that business could proceed in earnest. Much remained to be done, but Pari had made sure that Isma‘il wouldn’t inherit chaos.