Equal of the Sun (35 page)

Several hours later I went to see Pari, who was wearing fine ivory cotton pajamas and a long yellow silk robe. She was sitting on a cushion, and Maryam was brushing out her long black hair, which reached her waist. Maryam must have recently applied henna to Pari’s hair, because it glistened in the lamplight like a black grape bursting with juice.

“I am very sorry to disturb you, esteemed princess,” I said, “but I have information for your ears only.”

Maryam didn’t pause her brushing. Pari said to her, “Soul of mine, you must leave for your own protection,” and only then did Maryam arise and quit the room, her face sour.

I imagined she would return to brush Pari’s long black hair, and then they would disrobe and hold each other in the dark. I tried to keep my mind away from the thought of the strong, wiry body of the one and the plump, peach-like curves of her fair-haired friend. I missed Khadijeh more and more. Aside from the pleasures of exploring her body, I yearned for the ordinary expressions of affection I used to enjoy, her back curved into my chest or mine against hers, the heat rising in the space between our bodies.

“What is it?” Pari asked impatiently.

“My nighttime vigil has taught me that the Shah leaves in disguise to pursue his pleasures in the bazaar,” I said. “Massoud Ali has discovered that he buys halva from the same sweets vendor every time he goes out.”

We discussed the merits of replacing the vendor with a man of our own, but decided it would provoke too much suspicion. Then we talked about the possibility of modifying the Shah’s opium before it was formed into balls. That, too, seemed fraught with peril.

“Have the Shah’s women been forthcoming about his other habits?” I asked.

“Not really. Mahasti talks about nothing but the baby in her belly. Koudenet is only fifteen, but she is not stupid. I whisper that I am trying to redeem myself in her husband’s eyes and insist that if she came to know me, she would agree my cause is just. She looks as if she wonders when I will strike with my snake’s venom.”

Maryam entered the room uninvited. “It is time for bed,” she announced. She flung back the velvet bedcover on the bedroll, revealing embroidered silk pillows, and stared at me.

“The princess is tired,” she said pointedly.

Pari leaned back into a cushion and closed her eyes. “Good night, Javaher. Tomorrow morning we will talk more.”

Maryam began brushing Pari’s hair with the ivory brush as if they were already alone. A small sigh of pleasure escaped the princess’s lips. I left them to one another and returned to my empty bed.

The goading look in Balamani’s eyes when I had mentioned my father made me wish to prove my skills by solving the puzzle of his death, despite what I had said. There was a gap in the information I had gleaned from Looloo, Balamani, and from Mirza Salman that bothered me. Why would the Shah choose to protect an accountant who had killed one of his men? I was haunted by the mystery and felt humbled that I, the vaunted information gatherer, could not get to the bottom of it.

I went to the office of the scribes and requested the
History of Tahmasb Shah’s Glorious Reign.
Abteen Agha, the sunken-chested eunuch, hadn’t looked impressed with the fine gift I brought on my last visit, so I had taken pains to inquire about his taste in sweets. This time I brought white nougat studded with pistachios from his favorite sweets vendor. He raised his eyebrows at me as he whisked away the gift. “More business for your princess?” he asked sarcastically as he delivered the documents. I ignored him.

I found the entry for Kamiyar Kofrani easily enough and read through it. He was born in Shiraz and had been an accountant until
he retired. He had married a woman who was unnamed and had four sons. Presumably two of them had died, since Balamani knew of only two living sons. He had assisted the late shah with some financial reforms that allowed the ledgers to be read and understood more easily, making it possible to uncover fraud. He had retired and died a few years later in Qazveen.

There was no mention of my father’s murder, which was odd, and no reason to think that high status or family connections had prevented the Shah from punishing him for it.

Something was bothering me, something just beyond my grasp. Mirza Salman and the histories averred that the killer was dead, but Looloo’s suggestion that he might be living had taken root in my thoughts. Unable to make sense of this contradiction, I returned to the entry about my father.

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.

I scrutinized the words, but the mosaic didn’t form a clear picture; a critical piece of tile was missing. I stared at the words again, which seemed to reveal and conceal the truth at the same time. It seemed to be right there—the pieces going in and out of focus, until suddenly, I shouted out loud.

Abteen Agha’s rounded shoulders spasmed, and he glared at me. “What is your problem? You could make a scribe ruin an entire page by hollering like that.”

“I—finally found the answer to a question.”

“Next time, keep the good news to yourself.”

I looked down and reread one fragment of a sentence:
the Shah did not execute his accuser
. . .

What if the paragraph referred to two different men? The murderer was Kamiyar Kofrani. The accuser was a man with powerful allies who was probably still alive. The way the paragraph had been written suggested that someone, perhaps a scribe in the accuser’s pay, had purposely obscured the truth. If so, I realized with growing excitement, I could pursue the man after all.

The next morning, I had just begun strategizing with Pari when we heard a series of long, anguished cries, followed by the sound of running. I jumped up and ran to the door, my hand on my dagger. Azar Khatoon came rushing in, out of breath.

“What is the trouble?”

“Sultanam. She is in a woeful state.”

“Show her in right away,” Pari said.

The moans became louder and Sultanam burst into the room, her leather slippers still on her feet. She stepped onto Pari’s best silk carpets as if she didn’t know they were there. Her kerchief had fallen off the crown of her head, and her white hair was a nest of snakes around her face. Her cheeks were streaked with tears, her mouth as wobbly as a suppurating wound.

“Eldest mother of the palace, what ails you?” Pari said, rising to her feet, as it was her duty to be solicitous. “How can I ease your suffering?”

“My heart has been torn out of my chest and eaten by a wolf,” cried Sultanam. “Help me! By God above, help me!”

She fell to the floor on all fours like an animal and beat her fists against the hard ground. The princess tried to coax Sultanam to a cushion, but she shook Pari’s hand off her arm as if the very touch burned her.

“Has someone hurt you, revered mother? Let me know who it is. I will render justice.”

“Yes, you must render justice!” Sultanam cried, raising herself to a seated position. “I am sick with grief. I have lost the light of my eyes!”

“Who has been harmed?”

“It is my grandson, Sultan Hassan Mirza. I wish I could have died in his place.”

My eyes met Pari’s in alarm. Sultan Hassan was the eldest child of Mohammad Khodabandeh by his first wife.

“What happened to him?”

Sultanam wailed so loudly I felt the sound of her grief in my teeth. “He has been strangled in Tehran by Isma‘il’s men!”

“What a calamity!” Pari said. “I thought Isma‘il had promised you that he would keep Mohammad Khodabandeh and all his children safe.”

Sultanam’s anguished wail made it clear that he had changed his mind. “Isma‘il heard that some of the qizilbash were planning to support Sultan Hassan Mirza in a bid for the throne,” she replied, “but I know that the boy had gone to Tehran simply because he wanted to request a better position at court. Now Isma‘il has put Mohammad Khodabandeh and all his other sons under house arrest in Shiraz and Herat. I am terrified he will kill them all.”

I tightened my hand on my dagger.

“May God keep them safe!” Pari replied. “Mother of so many Safavi generations, let me offer medicine to help relieve your pain.”

“I don’t want medicine,” Sultanam raged. “I want justice!” She threw her arms high in the air and let her hands fall from above and strike her head and chest, battering herself.

“What would you like me to do?”

Sultanam stared at Pari with red-rimmed eyes. “I am here to tell you, in no uncertain terms, that my son must be deposed for the good of the state.”

I could hardly believe my ears.

“Revered elder, are you certain? You said otherwise the last time I saw you.”

“That is because no mother can conceive of deposing her own son, until she discovers that her son is a monster. Pari, you must take charge.”

“How? The nobles won’t help.”

“Then you must find other means.”

“What has changed your mind so completely? Isma‘il has already killed far and wide!”

It was as if the princess were speaking the same thoughts that were forming in my mind.

“If Isma‘il kills Mohammad and all his children, the dynasty will be finished. I must relinquish him to safeguard the future of my country.”

Pari’s face shone with awe. “How brave you have become!”

Sultanam’s face looked like bread that has fallen flat. “This is also for myself. I do—not—wish to lose the rest of my family and be alone for the remainder of my days.”

“Of course not. God willing, you will live to see many more generations.”

I hoped Sultanam could help us catch our prey.

“Esteemed mother,” I said, “your son, the lord of the universe, is very well defended. Surely it is impossible to remove him!”

“You must try to extract information from someone who knows Hassan Beyg.”

“Such as who?” I asked.

“A prostitute named Shireen.”

“How do you know such a woman?” Pari asked.

“She came to see me a few months ago after she had begun serving members of the court. After unveiling herself, she showed me the black bruises under her eyes and the welts on her legs. ‘I pay my taxes like any honest prostitute,’ she told me, ‘and I beg you to protect me from customers who behave like madmen.’

“The culprit was the son of a khan. I directed my vizier to reprimand him, as well as to tell his father that his son would be beaten exactly as he had beaten her if it ever happened again. Shireen was so grateful for my protection that she has been feeding me information on her clients ever since. Hassan Beyg is one of them.”

I almost laughed out loud at the thought of the Shah’s favorite escaping into the arms of a prostitute.

“Can you get any information from Hassan for us?” Pari asked.

“No. Even the mother of a monster can do only so much. Go to Shireen and tell her I sent you.”

“Where does Shireen live?” I asked, my feet as impatient to march as a soldier’s.

“Near the Sa’eed water reservoir.”

“Where the rich merchants live?”

“Yes; she is very beautiful.”

The most beautiful prostitutes had to pay a higher tax than other women who sold themselves, but they also earned the most money.

Pari’s eyes filled with admiration. “Your courage is an example to all women. I will never forget your words today, yet I know your heart bursts with sorrow over your grandchild. May I visit later today and weep with you over your losses?”

Sultanam stood up tall and broad, consuming the space of two women.

“Don’t waste time grieving with me,” she replied. “Just do what I command before more of my kin are executed. Hurry!”

“Chashm, gorbon.”