The Khalifah's Mirror Read online

  Original Fiction in Paperback

  THE KHALIFAH’S MIRROR

  Andrew Killeen was born and lives in Birmingham. He studied English at Corpus Christi College, Cambridge and has spent most of his career working with homeless and disadvantaged children.

  In his spare time he makes music, and can occasionally be found performing as a singer, musician and DJ. He supports Birmingham City FC, as karmic punishment for sins in a past life.

  Dedalus published his first novel The Father of Locks to critical acclaim in 2009. The Khalifah’s Mirror continues the story.

  Andrew Killeen gratefully acknowledges the support of Arts Council England in the writing of this book.

  Prologue

  From The History of the Prophets and the Kings, by Abu Ja’far Muhammad ibn Jarir al-Tabari:

  When God cast Adam down from the Garden, He set him on the summit of the mountain called Abu Qubays, and laid out before him the whole world, saying,

  “All this is yours.”

  But Adam asked,

  “How, oh Lord, am I to know what is in it?”

  So God made for him the stars, and told him,

  “When you see this star, it means this, and when you see that star, it means that.”

  In this way Adam came to know the world through the stars. Then he lost that knowledge, so instead God sent from heaven a mirror in which Adam could see everything on earth.

  On Adam’s death, at the age of nine hundred and thirty years, a devil called Faqtas stole the magic mirror. He shattered it, and on top of the pieces he built the city of the east called Jabirat. When Sulayman ibn Dawud, King of the Jews, inquired about Adam’s mirror, he was told of the devil’s theft, and summoned Faqtas before him.

  “Where is Adam’s mirror?” he asked.

  Faqtas the devil said,

  “It is buried under the foundations of Jabirat.”

  “Bring it to me,” Sulayman commanded.

  “Who will tear down the city?” asked the devil.

  “You will,” answered the King.

  So the devil destroyed the city, and retrieved the mirror, which he brought back to Sulayman. The King put the pieces back together and bound it round the edge with a strap. He looked into it every day until the day he died.

  Once again the devils pounced on the mirror and carried it off, but they left a shard behind. The Children of Isra’il passed the shard down from generation to generation, century after century, until the Age of Islam, when it came into the possession of the Resh Galuta, their leader in exile. The Resh Galuta wished to gain the favour of the Khalifah Marwan ibn Muhammad, the Commander of the Faithful, so he gave him as a gift the shard from Adam’s magic mirror. The Khalifah polished it vigorously and set it within another mirror. What he saw therein, though, so horrified him that he hurled it to the ground and had the Resh Galuta beheaded.

  A slave girl was ordered to clear up the shattered mirror, but she took the magical shard of glass, and wrapped it in cotton, concealing it under a stone. When al-Mansur the Victorious became Khalifah, he asked what had happened to it, and was told that a woman had it. He ordered a search of the palace, and the shard was found.

  Al-Mansur, too, polished it and set it in an ordinary mirror. And when he looked into it, he could see the man he had been searching for… It is said that the mirror showed him who was his friend, and who was his enemy.

  Contents

  Title

  Original Fiction in Paperback

  Prologue

  Chapter I

  The Tale of the Wali’s Gold

  Chapter II

  Chapter III

  The Education of a Postman

  Chapter IV

  Chapter V

  The Tale of the Disputation of the Khazars

  Chapter VI

  Chapter VII

  Chapter VIII

  The Tale of the Palace in the Sky

  Chapter IX

  Chapter X

  The Tale of the Elephant and the Dragon

  Chapter XI

  Chapter XII

  Chapter XIII

  The Tale of The Tenth Element

  Chapter XIV

  Chapter XV

  Chapter XVI

  Chapter XVII

  Chapter XVIII

  Epilogue

  Author’s Note

  Copyright

  I

  The Khalifah Harun al-Rashid, the Righteous One, Commander of the Faithful, Successor to the Prophet of God, settled himself delicately on his cushion, and winced. It seemed that no amount of gold could purchase relief, that no down was sufficiently soft, no silk so smooth, as to save him from discomfort. If God had chosen al-Rashid to lead His people, to shoulder the onerous burden of governing the Land of Islam, that He might at least have spared His servant the pain and ignominy of piles.

  The arrival in the audience hall of two guards, dragging a prisoner between them, stirred al-Rashid to further irritation. Today was such a vexing day. His arse was throbbing, a peach he had eaten for breakfast had a worm in it, and now he was going to have to order the execution of one of his best friends.

  “Ah, Father of Locks. I am very disappointed in you.”

  He studied the man who knelt before him, robes spattered with blood, a secretive smile on his face despite his predicament. Abu Ali al-Hasan ibn Hani al-Hakami, known as Abu Nuwas, the Father of Locks, was still a handsome man, although he must be nearing fifty years of age. The belly that protruded above his belt was at odds with his rangy frame, but suggested years of good living rather than sloth or ill-health. His eyes were sapphire blue, though tinged with redness around their edges. The long hair that spilled from his turban was combed into tresses, like snakes curling over his shoulders. Al-Rashid shook his head in sadness.

  “I am, as you know, a great admirer of your poetry, and take much pleasure in your company. I am most put out that I must have you killed.”

  “I share your chagrin, my prince.”

  Al-Rashid knew he should be angered by the poet’s impertinence, but instead could not resist a smirk at the man’s insouciance in the face of death. A twinge from his royal backside restored the Khalifah’s sense of indignation.

  “I cannot grant you your life, you must understand that. Your transgression is unforgivable. However, in recognition of our friendship, I will grant you one final boon. What do you wish for, Father of Locks? A jar of wine, perhaps, to ease the pain of your passing? A last meal? A virgin, or —”

  The Khalifah’s face expressed his distaste.

  “— I suppose you would prefer a boy, for a final fleeting moment of ecstasy?”

  Abu Nuwas bowed low.

  “Your generosity surpasses measure to the very end, Commander of the Faithful. My request is a simple one. I would like someone to speak on my behalf.”

  Al-Rashid groaned. Now he would have to spend the rest of the afternoon listening to tedious legal arguments, instead of going hunting as he had planned. Really, he was a martyr to his own magnanimity.

  “I warn you, Abu Ali, you must not hope for mercy. This will not be like the stories, where the ruler is moved by the condemned man’s tale, and in the end pardons him, and rewards him with gold. You will die this day, I swear it on the life of my son.”

  “I would not dare dream of mercy, my prince; I know I cannot expect it, even from one as beneficent as Harun the Righteous. I wish only to give an account of myself, so that you might understand how your loyal servant came to be here, cast down before you, convicted of treason and murder.”

  “Oh, very well. I suppose you will want al-Shafi’i to plead your case? I believe he studied the Shariah under you. Or al-Waqidi?”

  “As in all matters, my prince, your sugg
estions are impeccable. However, it is not the services of a jurist which I require. I ask instead for a storyteller. A man called Ismail al-Rawiya.”

  Despite himself, al-Rashid was intrigued.

  “Masrur, do you know where to find this al-Rawiya?”

  Masrur the Swordbearer, the Khalifah’s bodyguard and executioner, stood at his master’s side, as he always did. Al-Rashid was reassured by the giant eunuch’s presence, the soft rumble of his voice and the sharpness of his blade.

  “Yes, Commander of the Faithful. He was apprehended in the palace earlier today, and is in custody below.”

  “Then have him brought here. But I warn you, Father of Locks, if he is your accomplice in treachery, then you will both regret your choice.”

  Masrur signalled to a guard, who left the hall, returning moments later with a young man in tattered clothing. Short and slender, the youth’s dark eyes stood in stark contrast to his pale skin.

  “Are you the storyteller Ismail al-Rawiya?”

  The young man bowed.

  “That is indeed your servant’s name, Commander of the Faithful.”

  “This man is sentenced to death, and wishes you to speak in his defence. Are you willing to stand with him?”

  Al-Rashid saw the poet and the storyteller exchange a glance.

  “If the Khalifah asks, I can do no other than obey.”

  “Good. Then speak, and quickly. What do you have to say on his behalf?”

  “My prince, I have a story to tell you.”

  “A story?”

  Al-Rashid’s tone was testy, but secretly he was pleased. He liked stories much better than lawyers’ speeches.

  “Indeed, my prince, a story. It is a tale of adventure, of love, and deception, of destiny, daring, and death. It is a tale of kings, and warriors, and of beautiful princesses; but also of poets, pirates, and priests. It is a story to entertain and instruct, to stir the blood, to inflame the senses, to dizzy the mind and rouse the soul. It is one tale but also many, a tale of past, present and perhaps future too. It —”

  “Yes, yes, very good. Get on with it then.”

  “My prince, I present, for your delight and edification…”

  The Tale of the Wali’s Gold

  They came in the hour before dawn.

  From the black silence of the desert night they came, in the breathless hour when even scorpions and vipers are still; when the darkness is so deep that beyond the firelight the world might have ended, and a man alone in the desert be the last man on earth, but not yet know it; in the hour when Azrail, the Angel of Death, loves to visit the sick and the old, and carry away their souls to judgement; that was when the Banu Jahm struck.

  They were only a hundred paces from the caravan when the alarm was raised. The guard was a heavy man, and the suck and rattle of his breath as he leaned on his spear might have drowned out their approach, even if he had not been dozing, dreaming of houri lips where he stood. Nobody else was awake: the captain and the merchant, the camel-drivers and the boy all lay in the tent, stirring in shallow sleep. No moon illumined the camp, only a single torch shoved in the ground. Its feeble light wavered and was haunted by shadows.

  The Banu Jahm had come this far by stealth, their camels’ hooves shuffling across the sand. Now they charged, shattering the silence with terrible screams and yells. The guard jerked awake, his member still hard despite the terror, and saw only distorted shapes emerging from the gloom. Although his sticky eyes were open, he could not quite escape his dream, and thought a horde of ghuls came howling at him.

  Now, to his horror, one of the shapes peeled away from the pack and headed directly towards him. The guard’s spear wavered in his shaking hands. By the time he could make out that the shadow approaching him was not a monster, but a handsome youth riding a camel, the point of a lance was already at his throat.

  “Put that down, friend. Is this really how you want to die?”

  The guard slowly crouched down, and laid his spear on the sand. Sa’id ibn Bishr al-Jahm jumped down from his camel, and clapped him on the shoulder.

  “Sensible fellow. No need for anyone to get hurt, eh?”

  Sai’id’s tribesmen were appearing all around him now, dragging the captives from their tent. He felt pride at the sight. They were skilled, his cousins, each knowing their place, carrying out their tasks in silence, no need for talk. This would be a good raid, a clean raid, with no blood spilt and no repercussions. A cracked voice interrupted his thoughts.

  “Eh, Sa’id! Have you overwhelmed the guards single-handed? What courage! I must write some verses in celebration.”

  Abu Bishr, Sa’id’s grandfather, walked towards them leading his camel. Sa’id glanced down at the big man grovelling on the ground.

  “A warrior can only fight the enemy in front of him. It is no slur on his honour if the enemy is a coward, or a fool. Who taught me that, grandfather? I cannot recall.”

  Abu Bishr cackled.

  “I do not know, but he must be very wise, and no doubt brave and virile too.”

  The guard flinched as the old man poked at him with a sword, tarnished from years in the harsh desert. Sa’id doubted the blade was sharp enough to cut the man’s flesh, or that his grandfather had the strength to do it if he meant to. The Shaikh had told Abu Bishr that he need not join the raid, that there would be no dishonour in a man of his age staying behind, but Abu Bishr had scoffed at the idea.

  “What, cower in the tent like the women and children? No, nephew, when I am too old to mount a camel and hold a sword, you may leave me out in the desert to die.”

  The dim scene flickered, then sharpened as the Banu Jahm lit torches. Sa’id looked around.

  “Then it is true, that this fat clod is their only guard?”

  Abu Bishr spat contemptuously.

  “It is an insult to the Banu Jahm! They cross our territory, without paying for our protection. Then they do not even trouble to hire any decent blades. Just this… toad with a stick. They might as well have pissed in our well as they passed.”

  Sa’id smiled, but his eyes expressed uncertainty. He pulled the guard to his feet, and hauled him over to where the men of the caravan knelt, ringed by warriors of the Banu Jahm. As he did so, he noticed a lanky figure seated in the dirt, watching the raid with cool interest. Sa’id walked over cautiously. In the shifting glow of the torches he could make out a softly bearded face, the face of one a few years his junior, little more than a boy. The boy’s eyes flamed, and for a moment Sa’id thought they were lit from within, not merely reflecting the fire.

  “Am I yours, then?”

  The boy got up as he spoke, and it seemed to Sa’id that he uncurled, rising from the ground like a cobra. At full height he stood a head taller than Sa’id, even though he swayed slightly. His features were sharp and angular as a gemstone, and the fierce eyes fixed on his captor. Sa’id shuddered, although he was not sure why. Reluctant to touch the boy, he prodded him with his spear, goading him toward the other captives.

  “Wait there. My uncle the Shaikh is coming.”

  Abu Wahb al-Zubayr ibn Tahir al-Jahm, Shaikh of the Banu Jahm, was a big man. Over four cubits in height, and broad as a mountain bear, he looked ungainly atop his camel as he trotted around his prisoners. His beard was bushy, and his eyes were bright. Generous to his guests, ruthless to his foes, protective of his family, devoted to his camels, he was a true Badawi: quick to draw his sword at an insult, slow to forget a debt of honour, easily moved to tears by a sentimental song. And when his booming laugh burst out in the night, startling the owls, his kin knew that all was well at the camp.

  To Sa’id, his uncle was a great man; the most important in the world. He knew, of course, that they owed allegiance to the Commander of the Faithful, al-Mansur the Victorious. But the Khalifah was far away in Baghdad. Here, in the Empty Quarter, Abu Wahb bent his knee to no one. When he spoke, his voice compelled the attention of both friend and enemy.

  “Who is leading this misguided adve
nture?

  The captives looked at the ground or at each other. Most of them were local camel drivers, well known to the Banu Jahm. A rotund man with bushy eyebrows hissed at the long-nosed man next to him.

  “You said there would be no trouble!”

  The long-nosed man slowly got to his feet.

  “I am captain of this caravan, which is under the protection of the Banu Dahhak. You will regret this discourtesy.”

  Sa’id shifted uneasily, and squinted at his uncle. He noticed other heads turn sharply. Nothing had been said before the raid about the Banu Dahhak. Abu Wahb, however, was defiant.

  “The Banu Jahm are a free people of the desert. If you would pass through our lands then you must seek our protection, not that of the Banu Dahhak.”

  The rotund man scrambled to his feet, bursting with indignation.

  “But you pay brotherhood tribute to Abu Musa al-Dahhak!”

  It was not clear whether his annoyance was directed at his captors, or the captain who had led him into the ambush. Either way, he was silenced by a swordpoint at his breast. The Shaikh addressed him in a low voice.

  “And who are you, that is so knowledgeable in the affairs of the Badawi?”

  Sa’id wanted to give the man a warning, tell him that when his uncle spoke in this tone it was usually a precursor to violence. But it was not his place to speak. Besides, the man’s belligerence had been punctured by the mere sight of a blade, and he dropped his head.

  “I am a merchant of Najran — nobody of consequence. I meant no disrespect. This man assured me —”

  Abu Bishr stepped forward, and with his rusty sword carefully pushed the Shaikh’s blade away from the merchant.

  “If they have the protection of the Banu Dahhak, we should let them go on their way.”

  Abu Wahb bristled.

  “And bring shame on our clan? We would be mocked throughout the Empty Quarter — the Banu Jahm, who captured a caravan, then let it go out of fear! Why should we fear the Banu Dahhak?”

  “Why? Because they outnumber us fourfold, that is why. If it came to war they would exterminate us.”