Equal of the Sun (44 page)

My heart soared with hope.

“Indeed?” Pari said, sounding surprised. “When did he go to sleep?”

“A few hours before dawn. By midmorning, his retainers had gathered outside his rooms as usual to await his emergence, but there has been no sound. They don’t know what to do.”

“Has someone knocked at his door?”

“No. They have been fearful of disturbing him.”

“For God’s sake!” said Pari, her voice rising in what sounded like distress. “What if he has fallen ill? You must knock on his door immediately.”

“And if there is no answer?”

“Break it down, and tell him you did so at my command. Go now without delay, and take my vizier with you. He will report to me what has happened.”

“Chashm,” Mirza Salman replied, and said his farewells.

I followed Mirza Salman and his man out of Pari’s door. He hadn’t said where the Shah had gone to sleep, but he crossed the courtyard, marched toward Hassan’s house, and banged loudly at the wooden door. It was opened by the servant who usually attended to tradesmen. We passed into the courtyard, which I had observed so many times from Pari’s roof. The servant showed us deep into the
house’s andarooni, the most private quarters. The furnishings were opulent, but I could not focus on them.

When we arrived at the rooms that adjoined the bedroom, we greeted the Shah’s physician, Hakim Tabrizi, as well as two of the most esteemed qizilbash amirs, Isma‘il’s uncle Amir Khan Mowsellu and his new Ostajlu chief, Pir Mohammad Khan. The Shah’s bedroom lay behind a thick carved wooden door, which even the amirs did not dare approach.

After greeting the men, Mirza Salman said, “Has there been any sign?”

“No,” said Amir Khan.

“Is it possible the light of the universe has already departed through another door?”

“That is the only one,” replied Hakim Tabrizi.

“In that case, by order of the highest-ranking woman of Safavi blood, I am going to knock.”

The men’s eyes widened with awe; probably no one had ever dared to disturb Isma‘il Shah before. Mirza Salman strode to the door and rapped on it with two polite taps.

We waited a long time with no reply. He knocked on the door again, this time more firmly, and when all remained quiet, banged with his fist. I was filled with hope and fear.

“What now?” asked Amir Khan.

“Hush!” replied Mirza Salman. “Listen.”

A weak sound reminiscent of a sheep’s bleats emerged.

“Help!” I thought I heard. Was it the voice of the Shah?

“Hassan Beyg, is that you?” asked Mirza Salman.

“The d-d-door! H-h-help!”

Mirza Salman directed a “four-shouldered” soldier to take charge of the door, and he swung a metal mace at it until it groaned under his attack. The wood began to splinter and crack. When the door was finally breached, the soldier bent his arm inside and released the bolt. The broken door swung open, and Mirza Salman and Hakim Tabrizi rushed inside. Two forms were huddled under bedcovers.

“Light of the universe, can you hear me?” Hakim Tabrizi asked. When there was no reply, he pulled the covers gently away from the
Shah’s face. His eyes were closed, his mouth slightly open. The physician bent over him and placed his ear against his chest.

“His heartbeat is weak.”

My own heart sank in my chest like a boulder falling into a river. How could the poison not have worked?

Mirza Salman gingerly lifted all the bedcovers off Hassan’s side of the bed. He didn’t dare do the same for the Shah, who might not be in a proper state of dress. Hassan lay on his side, dressed in pale yellow pajamas.

“By God above, what happened?” Mirza Salman demanded of Hassan, who hadn’t moved.

“Can’t m-m-move . . . l-l-legs,” Hassan slurred. The skin over his sculpted cheekbones looked dull and slack.

It took a long time to get the story out of Hassan because he could barely talk. He related that he and the Shah had gone out the night before and had eaten several pills of opium, as well as a large meal and a few servings of halva. When they returned home, the Shah asked for his digestives. The box had been refilled, but it didn’t have Hassan’s seal. Hassan advised the Shah not to partake, but he was insistent, so Hassan ate one first to make certain that they were safe. When he experienced no ill effects, the Shah ate three of them, and they went to bed. Hassan didn’t wake up until he heard the pounding at the door.

“What a ridiculous story,” said Mirza Salman. “Who else but you could have poisoned him?”

“Why? I would f-f-fall from the firmament faster than a shooting star. Do with me as you like, but that is the t-t-truth.”

Mirza Salman crept around the bed to where Hassan couldn’t see him. He removed a small dagger from his sash and poked the tip of it into the back of Hassan’s thigh. Blood welled out and stained his pale yellow pajamas. Hassan did not move.

“He tells the truth,” the physician declared.

“What about the Shah?” asked Mirza Salman.

“All we can do is pray for his recovery,” the physician said.

Silently, I cursed the physician Halaki, who had promised to provide a perfect poison.

“Is he comfortable?” asked Mirza Salman.

“He feels nothing at the moment,” replied Hakim Tabrizi.

“Let’s check the digestives. Where are they?”

“C-c-cushions,” replied Hassan. Mirza Salman fetched the box and opened it.

“Four are missing, as you have said. Now I need an animal.”

A servant was dispatched to the street and returned quickly with a scrawny cat with yellowish eyes and long matted gray fur. It purred loudly as if hungry. By God above! If it ate one of the digestives it would surely die, and then they would know it was poisoned. I wiped my forehead as I watched, although the building was cold.

The men put the digestive on the ground and pushed the cat toward it. The animal sniffed it and walked away. Even when coaxed, the cat refused to eat it.

While the men were occupied with the cat, I kept my eyes on the Shah, hoping he wouldn’t open his eyes or speak. By God above! I felt as if my life hovered in balance with his.

Hakim Tabrizi still had his fingers on the Shah’s pulse, but after a few moments, he suddenly cried out. “May God be merciful. His pulse is fleeing!”

The Shah’s faint breathing sounded ragged, as if he were trying to grab air and failing. He began to make choking sounds that were horrible to hear.

The physician patted the Shah’s face, but there was no response. Amir Khan and Pir Mohammad rushed into the room to see him for themselves. I remained outside since I did not hold such high rank.

“Alas!” the physician cried suddenly. “I can no longer feel his breath!”

Mirza Salman bent over and put his ear against the Shah’s nose, then moved it to his lips and back again to try to detect breath.

“Woe to us, great woe!” he cried.

Amir Khan, who stood to lose a great deal because of his status as Isma‘il’s maternal uncle, bent over the Shah, then arose with a grim expression.

“By God above, his life has fled!”

Pir Mohammad began reciting lines from the Qur’an.

“Who is the culprit?” asked Amir Khan with a snarl. “I will kill him with my own hands.”

My knees grew tense underneath my robe.

“We must find him as soon as possible,” Pir Mohammad replied, but he didn’t sound equally upset. Some of the Ostajlu were still in prison, after all.

“Wait a minute. Hakim Tabrizi, what is the cause of death?” Mirza Salman asked.

The physician looked uncertain. “I will have to examine his body and issue a report.”

“Is it poison?”

“I don’t know yet.”

The physician and the qizilbash leaders stared at the Shah’s corpse and then at each other, not knowing what to do. Only Mirza Salman looked as crisp and efficient as ever.

“We must not let the news of the Shah’s death leak outside the palace,” he said. “Remember how the city sank into lawlessness when Tahmasb Shah died? I will ensure that the Ali Qapu gate is closed so that the news can’t penetrate into the Promenade of the Royal Stallions. Then we will convene the top-ranking amirs immediately and discuss how to guide the state through this crisis.”

“What about the killer?” asked Amir Khan Mowsellu.

“Is there one? Hakim Tabrizi, let us know if you find poison in the Shah’s body.”

“I will.”

The men left Hakim and Hassan in the room with the dead Shah. Hassan still had not budged. Pir Mohammad and Amir Khan departed to convey the news to the noblemen. When Mirza Salman came out of the Shah’s bedroom, I affected grief.

“What a world-changing calamity. May God show mercy on us all!”

“Insh’Allah,” he replied.

“I only wish I didn’t have to inform my lieutenant of this terrible news.”

Mirza Salman leaned close to me. “Surely there was no love between them!” he whispered.

I squelched my surprise at his provocative words. “Siblings may quarrel and still love each other,” I replied gravely. It would only harm us if he spread the rumor that Pari was her brother’s enemy.

“But not these two. In any case, please be sure to tell her I am at her service for anything she needs. She knows of my loyalty: I will not fail her even if people say the deed shows her hand.”

“I will let her know.”

As I rushed across the square to Pari’s house, my heart felt lighter than it had in more than a year. For the first time since Isma‘il had become shah, justice had finally been done at the palace.

When I arrived, I told her servants I had an urgent message. She was sitting on a cushion in her private rooms with Azar and Maryam, who was massaging her hand. A cast-aside letter suggested to me that her hand had cramped from all the writing she had done lately.

“My lieutenant, I regret that I come to you with a message of woe, one so grave I wish my tongue could turn to stone rather than utter it.”

“But speak you must.”

“The light of the universe didn’t emerge from his bedroom this morning. Suspecting illness or foul play, his noblemen broke down the door and discovered that he had breathed his last. One of his doctors believes he may have consumed too much opium.”

I thought I should launch a plausible rumor about Isma‘il’s death as soon as possible. I would urge Azar Khatoon to spread the rumor far and wide.

Pari let out a terrifying scream and collapsed forward, while her ladies bent forward to comfort her. In her scream I heard not woe but rather the ferocity of her relief, like my own. Her ladies began to keen with her. Now, I thought with satisfaction, everyone can scream with joy.

“The gates to the Promenade of the Royal Stallions are being closed while the nobles decide what to do,” I added.

“I understand. You may leave me to my sorrows.”

I went back to my quarters, lay on my bedroll, and closed my eyes. My body pulsed as if I had just left a victorious battlefield.
Whatever happened, even if my eyes should open to the sight of guards poised to kill me, everything would be different from now on. One disordered man would no longer terrorize us. We would no longer fear the cold blade of execution. Zahhak was dead.

At every moment, I expected the Shah’s guard would come for me and call me to account. Someone would betray me: Fareed would be unable to restrain himself from confessing, or the physician would rule that poisoned digestives had killed the Shah and tie them to me, or Pari would be questioned and tortured, since even the person I trusted most could be broken through her body. But what actually happened surprised me even more.

That afternoon, black cloths were draped from the windows and balconies of Hassan’s house. The Shah’s wives hosted a mourning ceremony, and from everywhere in the palace arose the sounds of lamentation. Sultanam’s sorrow was real; she had more of a right to it than anyone else. A few other people who truly loved the Shah or stood to benefit from association with him looked grief-stricken. All of us had donned black mourning robes and our faces were sober, yet there was an irrepressible feeling of relief in the air, like the one that precedes the first temperate day of spring after a cruel winter.

I caught a glimpse of Haydar’s mother, Sultan-Zadeh, whose green eyes looked as unclouded and as radiant as a summer sky, even as she pretended to wipe away tears. She had received her revenge at last on the man who had displaced her son. The Shah’s sisters, many of whom had lost their favorite brothers to his murderous hand, were at pains to suppress their feelings. They kept their eyes downcast, but the corners of their mouths lifted spontaneously with joy.

A woman with profound religious knowledge came to the grieving ceremony in the harem and spoke of the tremendous sadness of a man taken too soon. When a man was loved, such speeches would bring tears to the eyes of everyone in the room. This time, the official mourners howled frenetically as if to make up for the fact that the
relatives couldn’t summon much grief. Sultanam’s face was grave, but she was not weeping. Only Mahasti’s eyes were red with sorrow. As the mother of the Shah’s firstborn son, she would have enjoyed high position all her life had the Shah lived. Now her future was in doubt.

Afterward, I went to see Pari. She invited me into her most private room, the one with the mural of the unabashedly naked Shireen, and shut the door. I remained standing until, to my surprise, she gestured to the cushion to indicate that I should sit. I lowered myself onto the peach velvet pillow, feeling as if I were about to have tea with a friend.