A soldier on the street told me of a rumor that Isma‘il had arrived in the city with thousands of men. Haydar’s supporters had delayed storming the palace, fearing a massacre.
“But how could Isma‘il get here so fast?”
He shrugged and gestured toward Hossein Beyg, who was mounting his horse. “He has decided it is a lie.”
Hossein Beyg called for the Ostajlu to assemble, and they began marching toward the northern gate of the palace. Soldiers from other tribes streamed out from nearby houses until thousands claimed the street. They raised so much dust that people who had come out to look began clearing their throats and coughing. It was only a matter of time before fighting would begin between Haydar’s and Isma‘il’s supporters, and the thought of those tough qizilbash soldiers meeting in combat made my blood turn to vinegar.
I found Pari being comforted by Maryam. Her hair had been brushed until it shone straight and black under her white silk kerchief, and she had changed into a black silk mourning robe embroidered with gold squares that made her look long and tall. The turquoise and gold earrings shaped like half-moons that gleamed around her face had been a gift from her father. She had written a few letters since I had left, which were on a silver tray awaiting delivery to the courier. Her eyes looked even more troubled than when I had left.
“At last!” she said when I was shown in. “What is the news?”
“Princess,” I panted, “thousands of Haydar’s soldiers are marching to the palace under the leadership of Hossein Beyg.”
“May God protect us all!” said Maryam, looking frightened.
“Are there enough of them to overpower the Takkalu?” asked Pari.
“I think so.”
Pari jumped up. “I must tell my uncle to stop them.”
I wondered why she seemed so certain all of a sudden about what to do. “Princess, what has happened?”
“Not long before you arrived, my father’s chief chemist reported that the orpiment was strong enough to strip the hair off a hide. It may have been an accident. Still, how could I ever live under Haydar’s reign?”
“May God exact vengeance on evildoers!”
Pari handed me a cloth purse. “This is the key to the door from the Promenade of the Royal Stallions into the women’s quarters,” she said. “Tell my uncle that I grant him permission to enter and remove Haydar, so long as he is spared from harm. Return here as quickly as you can.”
I stared at the purse. “But men are never permitted to enter the women’s part of the palace,” I protested.
“I am authorizing it.”
Astonished, I put the bundle under my turban and took my leave. When I arrived at Shamkhal’s home, I told his servants I had an urgent message and was shown in right away.
Shamkhal opened the purse and peered at the key. His eyes began to glitter like those of a raven who has just found a bag of treasure.
“This is our best hope,” he said with glee.
“Pari wished me to tell you that Haydar should be delivered safe from harm. The esteemed princess asked for a token indicating your agreement.”
I wanted proof that I had delivered this most important part of the message. Shamkhal stood up.
“Tell her this:
The man we oppose will suffer a great fall,
Yet shall remain unscathed in the care of Shamkhal.
In exchange, I insist that my niece Pari
Remain distant from the soldiers and their fury.”
“Chashm,” I replied. As I took my leave, I heard Shamkhal shouting for his servants and directing them to go to the homes of his supporters to raise men for Isma‘il.
I started back toward the palace. Outside the Ali Qapu the Takkalu and their allies were still on guard, unopposed. I knew one of the captains, and when I told him I had been out on errands all day, I received permission to enter after being checked for weapons. When I finally arrived at Pari’s house, she was waiting for me.
“May you not be tired!” she said.
I wiped the sweat off my forearms.
“What did my uncle say?”
“He promised to do your bidding,” I said, reciting the lines of poetry he had improvised.
She smiled. “Good work.”
“Princess,” I said with agitation, “the soldiers have probably started fighting. Anything could happen.”
“Make haste. Go to the birooni and find out what you can.”
First, I decided to go to the harem kitchens because the cooks always knew the latest news. The large building, which usually bustled with ladies, maids, and slaves, was deserted. Flour and water had been mixed and left in large bowls. Mint had been washed but not hung to dry, and onions and garlic had been chopped and abandoned. Their sharpness stung my eyes.
I walked through the building, feeling something strange I could not name. As I passed an oven for bread, my tread made a deeper sound than elsewhere. I turned back and opened the oven. It was full of charcoal and ash, but in the far corner I spotted a patch of bright blue silk. I thought about the robes of everyone I knew until finally I remembered: It belonged to one of the Shah’s physicians, who must have been shown into the harem during the Shah’s final illness.
“Physician Amin Khan Halaki, your robe is showing!” I hissed. The cloth disappeared as quickly as a mouse pulls its tail into a hole.
“Who are you?”
“Javaher Agha, servant of Pari Khan Khanoom.”
“Can I leave?”
“Not if you wish to remain alive.”
“Then throw me some food, at least.”
Grabbing some cucumbers and grapes, I thrust them in the oven and wished him luck. I proceeded to the checkpoint to the birooni and saluted Zav Agha, whose brow looked permanently creased with worry.
“Is there any news?” I asked.
“Not yet-t-t,” he said, his few remaining teeth knocking together in fear. He opened the door and allowed me to pass through.
I walked swiftly to Forty Columns Hall and glanced around, but it was empty. I kept walking until I approached the northern wall of the palace, where I was alarmed by the sound of deep, dull thuds. I suspected that a group of soldiers had grabbed a cannon and were smashing it against the wooden gate, which groaned as if being tortured.
“Haydar Shah, open up and let us in!” a man yelled from outside. “We are your friends.”
Ignoring the usual palace decorum, I ran through the courtyard and all the checkpoints until I was back in the harem. Just as I reached a large plane tree, the ground trembled so sharply I suspected an earthquake, but then I realized it was the pounding of horse’s hooves. I halted abruptly, feeling like an ant caught between a man’s thumb and forefinger.
My heart beat faster as the tall wooden door that led from the harem to the Promenade of the Royal Stallions creaked open. Soldiers streamed into the gardens, brandishing their swords while shouting Isma‘il’s name and trampling the red rosebushes near the walkways. The unprecedented sight of men in the women’s space, which had never been violated by outsiders, shook me to my core.
Shamkhal rode toward me on a black Arabian steed and pulled on the reins.
“Where is Haydar?” he shouted.
“Probably in his mother’s quarters. It is the building with the two cypress trees in front.”
I pointed the way.
Shamkhal directed his men to ride toward the gate to the birooni and hold off Haydar’s supporters if they tried to enter the harem. Then he spurred his horse in the direction of Sultan-Zadeh’s home. One of his captains, Kholafa Rumlu, whose costly helmet inscribed with protective verses from the Qur’an gave away his high rank, spotted something in the distance and shouted, “Who are you?”
I caught a glimpse of three women in chadors, their faces hidden by
pichehs,
concealed among tall flowering bushes. The tallest among them was wearing pink silk shoes.
“Calm down; we’re just going to buy bread,” one of them called to him in a lilting voice. “The kitchens are empty, and our children have nothing to eat.”
“Shamkhal Cherkes, come back!” Kholafa yelled. Shamkhal turned his horse around and rode with Kholafa and a few soldiers toward the women. The women clung to one another, looking like frightened gazelles trapped by a circle of hunters.
“Remove your pichehs!” bellowed Shamkhal.
A woman wrapped in a black chador protected the others by spreading out her arms and corralling them behind her, causing the one in pink shoes to stumble.
“It is not your place to demand such a thing!” the woman in the black chador replied bravely.
“If you are innocent, you have nothing to fear,” replied Kholafa. He tore off the woman’s chador, picheh, and the kerchief covering her head, and she screamed as her long, dark hair cascaded over her shoulders and onto her breast. It was Awva, one of the ladies in charge of the kitchens. I gasped, horrified to witness such a transgression.
Another of the women came forward, volunteering herself, and the captain uncloaked her. She, too, cried out as the men stared at her naked face and unusual red hair, feasting on the spectacle of her. I didn’t recognize her.
“Who are you?” demanded Shamkhal.
“We serve the ladies of the royal court,” replied Awva haughtily, refusing to identify herself any further.
She and her friend crushed the third woman between them while
facing out toward the soldiers, locking their arms backward around each other’s midsections to protect her. I thought about standing up to defend her, but a suspicion had entered my mind, and I decided against taking action.
“You will throw dishonor on the Safavi house if you insist on revealing her,” cried Awva. “The penalty will be your lives!”
Kholafa waved his hand as if to give up. “Let them go,” he said scornfully. “They are only women.”
“Let her prove it then!” shouted Shamkhal, his eyes fiery.
“You have lost your senses. Do you want to get us killed?” Kholafa replied.
I heard clubs striking wood and realized that Haydar’s men were challenging the barricades and the guards at the checkpoint from the birooni. By God above! We could all be killed in a matter of minutes.
The women began trying to break their way out of the circle of horses by ducking in between the restive mounts. The men closed ranks to trap them, and then Shamkhal grabbed the woman’s chador and picheh and ripped them from her body.
“Spare me!” she screamed in a strangled voice. When Kholafa tore off the kerchief covering her short hair, my suspicions were confirmed: It was Haydar. He put his hands out to protect himself, and his left eye twitched as if he were in his death throes.
From behind the checkpoint, Haydar’s men shouted out a chorus of comfort. “Haydar, we’re here to protect you! Help is at hand!”
Haydar turned toward their voices and shouted out, “Hurry!” as he flung himself toward an opening in the circle of horses. Shamkhal and Kholafa jumped off their mounts, pushed away the ladies, and lunged for him. Haydar lost his footing and dropped to the ground with a loud thump. The pink shoes flew off his feet, and his legs sprawled as the men struggled to pin down his arms.
There was a roar in the distance as the first of Haydar’s supporters breached the gate into the harem. I recognized the soldier with the thick red scar. He uttered a battle cry so fierce it curdled my blood, and he thrust his sword at me as he thundered past. I avoided being skewered only by falling facedown in the dirt.
“We have no choice. Finish him!” I heard Shamkhal say. When I looked up, he had succeeded in pinning Haydar’s arms behind his back. Kholafa drew his sword and thrust it twice into Haydar’s abdomen. A wet red stain sprang to life on his gray robe. As it spread across his belly, Haydar grimaced and clutched his middle. His groans were thick with blood.
Awva and the other lady began screaming in horror, folding in half at the waist and hitting their knees and temples with their hands. Their cries were more awful than anything I had ever heard.
Shamkhal’s soldiers hoisted Haydar’s body onto their shoulders and began marching toward the checkpoint leading to the birooni. By then more of Haydar’s supporters had breached the harem, including Hossein Beyg Ostajlu. He stared at the broken body in the bloodied gray robe.
“Alas! Our shining hope has been cruelly destroyed! May you and your families be cursed until the end of their line!” he shouted, along with a string of profanities. He and his soldiers skirmished briefly with Shamkhal’s men, but what use is a group of supporters without their shah? Before long, the men behind Hossein Beyg spurred their horses toward the birooni, fearful of being killed. Hossein Beyg’s guard closed ranks around him, and he escaped in the confusion.
Shamkhal directed his men to leave the palace grounds through the door that led to the Promenade of the Royal Stallions and to take up guard outside the Ali Qapu. As they marched out, he tossed me the large metal key. I followed, slammed the heavy door behind them, and locked it securely.
The rosebushes nearby had been decapitated. A nightingale began to sing in one of the cedar trees, reminding me of a lament.
My red roses threw open their skirts for you, but now their petals darken the ground like tears of blood.
Dust coated my clothes, and my mouth tasted of bile.
I stumbled to Pari’s house and told her and Maryam what had happened. Their faces turned pale when I described Haydar’s death. “It is as if the dirt of my grave is covering my head!” the princess said. “Why didn’t my uncle do my bidding?”
“It was God’s will,” I replied, trying to offer comfort.
Her thin body seemed as fragile as a long-necked rose-water sprinkler made of glass. Although I would have liked to comfort her, I knew Maryam would soothe away her woes better than anyone else could.
I returned to the dormitory that housed the eunuchs who served the harem. Our building, which was notable only for its modesty, now struck me as a sanctuary. Collapsing onto a wool cushion in the guest room, I shed my soiled outer robe and told a servant to bring me tea with plenty of dates. My hand seemed palsied as I lifted the vessel to my mouth.