The Khalifah's Mirror Page 5

  “I don’t believe in God.”

  The old woman laughed, but not unkindly.

  “Well, now, I knew you were vain, and reckless, and muddled, but I’d got the idea you weren’t stupid. Not believe in God? You might as well say you don’t believe in air, or water, or love. Whatever it is you think you don’t believe in, it’s certainly not God.”

  “I’m not sure I believe in love either.”

  Rabi’a tutted as she poured more of the liquid into his mouth.

  “Nonsense, child. I’ve never seen anybody so thirsty for love. You don’t believe in yourself, that’s the problem.”

  “Myself? Now that’s the only thing I do believe in.”

  “Oh, no, you don’t. You believe in Abu Ali al-Hasan ibn Hani al-Hakami, poet and libertine. You don’t even know where to start looking for yourself. Do you have the courage to relinquish your pride, your desires, to let go of everything that is Abu Ali al-Hasan ibn al-Hakami, and plummet into the unknown, trusting that God will catch you?”

  The poet unexpectedly found that he was afraid.

  “I have studied the Holy Quran, and the Hadith, and have never encountered these ideas. Is this heresy, or apostasy?”

  “It is neither, my child. This is the secret knowledge of the Pure Ones, passed down from teacher to pupil since the time of the Prophet, peace and blessings be upon him. You will not find it in any book; and I fear that it may be an understanding you are too clever to acquire.”

  “And if you are so good, and this is the true way to God, why do you keep it secret?”

  Rabi’a laughed.

  “God protect you, child, it’s not me who makes it a secret. The truth is in plain sight, but shines too bright for you to look at. Still, you are well enough for theological debate, and that’s an improvement, isn’t it?”

  Abu Ali noticed that he was indeed feeling better, although the numbness of his skin suggested to him that the damage was masked rather than healed. He sat up laboriously, and it was only when he was upright that he saw that Rabi’a had gone. There was no time to ponder the means of her exit before a door swung open, and the guards entered the room.

  They frogmarched him from the room, but with less violence than they had used in arresting him. Shuffling down long corridors Abu Ali was reminded of the house of Ja’far al-Barmaki, but instead of the Persian boy he was escorted into the presence of a fat Arab in costly robes, who sat in state at the end of a hall. Henchmen and petitioners stood around, in roughly equal numbers. The Arab ignored the poet as he was hurled to the ground in front of him. Only after draining a silver goblet did he turn his head, and address him in rolling tones.

  “Do you know who I am?”

  Servility did not come easily to Abu Ali, but he understood the gravity of his situation. He pressed his forehead to the ground, and did not raise it when he replied.

  “Of course, my lord. You are al-Haytham ibn Mu’awiyah, Wali of Basrah.”

  The Wali looked away again, as though that were the end of the matter. After a while the silence became unbearable, and Abu Ali dared to speak again.

  “Might I ask how I have displeased you, my lord?”

  “I know who you are, Abu Ali ibn Hani al-Hakami.”

  “I am flattered to be worthy of your notice, my lord.”

  “It is not your verse, al-Hakami, that has brought you to my notice. It is your egregious flouting of every law God gave us through his Prophet, peace be upon him. It is your disorderliness, your profanity, your depravity that has drawn you to my attention.”

  At this Abu Ali really did feel flattered, but decided it would be imprudent to say so. It was true that most of his activities were technically illegal, one way or another. Crimes with no victims were rarely prosecuted, however, unless for reasons of piety or politics; and ibn Mu’awiyah was not reputed to be a pious man. The poet wondered on whose foot he had inadvertently trodden.

  “If I have transgressed, my lord, I hope you will guide me to the path of repentance.”

  “It is important for a man to know those around him. He should know who are his allies and who are his enemies, who is the predator, who is the prey.”

  Abu Ali hesitated. He could not tell where the Wali was leading him, and the uncertainty bred fear.

  “Your wisdom is justly celebrated, ibn Mu’awiyah.”

  “For example, do you know who it was that you violated last night? Do you know the name of the naïve young man, who came in search of learning and found only lechery?”

  The words fell like a sword on Abu Ali’s choking throat. He found that he was indeed struggling to bring to mind the boy’s name.

  “Hisham… he was called Hisham…”

  “His name is Hisham ibn Walid ibn Mu’awiyah. He is my nephew.”

  Abu Ali closed his eyes, and wondered how close he was to death. After a while he guessed that he was expected to respond.

  “What is the price?”

  The whispered question hung in the air. When the Wali spoke, the bombast had vanished from his voice, which now sounded small in the great hall.

  “I don’t know… yet. Take him away.”

  As the guards led him out of the hall, Abu Ali noticed a stocky young man leaning against the wall. The man was smiling, though whether through sympathy or malice the poet could not tell. He was busy trying to place the man’s face, sensing a slim hope. Only when halfway out the door did Abu Ali remember.

  “Yaqub! Tell the Barmakid I beg to serve him!”

  At the last moment he had recalled seeing the man Yaqub at the bath house, in the company of Ja’far al-Barmaki. Whether his shout was even heard, though, he could not tell.

  IV

  Back in his cell Abu Ali wondered whether he was going to die, or whether he would find himself wishing he had. He pondered, also, what he should do were these the final moments of his life. He had considered this question before, but only in the abstract, and in his imagination his choices had not been so severely restricted.

  For some reason he felt that he should pray. Rationally, though, he knew that an All-Knowing God, if such a being existed, was unlikely to be fooled by a late, desperate fit of devotion. He made an idle attempt at pleasuring himself with his hand, but found that he was not in the mood. Instead, he found himself recalling happy days from his childhood, his mother carrying a tray of drinks into a sunlit garden where singing girls giggled and gibed.

  So it was that when the guards came for him once more Abu Ali was lying on the stone slab, eyes closed, beaming beatifically. He thought they might kill him quickly, before he had time to panic, become difficult. He had heard that was how it was done, unless there was to be an audience. The guards, however, were armed only with truncheons, and jerked him to his feet.

  I will not vex you with the poet’s speculations on that walk, for you will know already that it was not a man with a sharp blade that awaited him behind the final door, but rather the startling brightness of an afternoon street. And on that street stood a stocky, smiling man with his arms folded.

  “Come with me.”

  Abu Ali did not argue, but followed Yaqub meekly to the palace of Ja’far al-Barmaki. He expected the Persian to mock and gloat, but instead he was met with courtesy. There was no need for Ja’far to assert his authority; it was unquestioned.

  “You will go to the desert. There is a man I want you to find. His name is Amr ibn Shaddad.”

  He paused as if expecting a reaction, then saw the blank face of the poet. Ja’far frowned.

  “You remember, I suppose, the rebellion of Muhammad of the Pure Soul?”

  Once again Abu Ali thought back to his childhood. He remembered excited talk, a thrill of fear, and a harsh winter when he was not permitted to leave the house, his mother sending out slaves for provisions.

  “I was only seven years old…”

  Ja’far impaled him with a cold stare, then sighed.

  “I suppose, too, your life, and your family, were not in danger, as mine
were. Muhammad of the Pure Soul was the great-great-great-grandson of his namesake the Prophet, may peace be upon him. Sadly, he was seduced by evil men into rebelling against the Khalifah. His uprising nearly succeeded, too. The rebels seized control of the holy cities of Makkah and Madinah, as well as here in Basrah, before they were finally subdued.”

  “Everybody wore white…”

  “Yes, I am sure they did. White is the colour of Muhammad’s family, the Alids. Supporters of the Abbasids, the family of the Khalifah al-Mansur, wear black. By donning white clothing, the good citizens of Basrah were showing their loyalty to the rebel cause.

  “These rebels, these Shi’ites, are the greatest threat of our time, a cabal of radicals and heretics more dangerous to the Land of Islam than the Romans or the Chinese. To combat their secret treachery, we need a secret army, warriors of the shadows. That is why it will be one of the primary duties of my agents, my Barid, to uncover and confound Shi’ite conspiracies wherever they take root.

  “Amr ibn Shaddad was one of the leaders of this uprising, one of the men who corrupted the Pure Soul to treason and rebellion. When Muhammad was defeated and killed, ibn Shaddad managed to escape. Now the Khalifah has learned that he is hiding in the Empty Quarter, protected by a tribe of the Badawi called the Banu Dahhak. You are to infiltrate them, and apprehend or kill the traitor.”

  Abu Ali considered the pretty youth in front of him, no older than himself, who was calmly issuing orders for a man’s death. He found his thoughts frightening, and decided instead to address the practicalities.

  “Why does the Khalifah not simply send his troops to seize ibn Shaddad?”

  Ja’far was unimpressed.

  “How many men do you think it would take to defeat a Badawi clan on their own territory? The devils of the desert attack swiftly, and disappear again before they can be overwhelmed. They know the tracks, the tricks, the quicksands and wells. Any force short of a regiment would be cut to slivers.

  “Then, have you considered the cost of equipping such an expedition? Camels, baggage, water, weapons: our Khalifah, in his wisdom, is careful with his money. And even if their approach did not alert the traitor, causing him to seek a new hiding place, there are the political risks of openly attacking the Badawi tribes. They are loyal, in their way, but wild and unpredictable, and addicted to revenge.

  “No, we will take him by stealth, by subterfuge. It will be discreet, and quiet, and cheap. And when we present the rebel’s head to al-Mansur, he will be grateful to us, and understand the true value of his Barid, his postmen.”

  Abu Ali doubted his name would ever be mentioned when the rewards were being handed out, but he knew he had no choice. Whether Ja’far had set him up, or simply taken advantage of the inevitable consequences of his reckless promiscuity, was unimportant. He was the Barmakid’s plaything now. One last question came to his lips.

  “How does the Khalifah know where ibn Shaddad is hiding?”

  Ja’far al-Barmaki looked at the poet in surprise.

  “He has a magic mirror that shows him his enemy. Didn’t you know? Now get ready. We are going to Baghdad.”

  ***

  As a Basrah boy, Abu Ali assumed without question that he lived in the cultural capital of the world. Madinah had its scholars of religion, Dimashq its historians, but poets, philosophers, magicians and musicians were all drawn to the lively, cosmopolitan port. Baghdad, by comparison, was seen as a callow newcomer, brash and unsophisticated. He imagined it full of ambitious politicians, and fat old warriors bragging of their victories.

  The city to which Ja’far al-Barmaki brought him, however, was a far more seductive place. It was true that there was no shortage of ambitious politicians and fat old warriors, but they had money to spend, and needed tradesmen, whores and artists on whom to spend it. The people who poured into the city to serve them came from all over the Land of Islam, and from beyond. And in the bubbling fusion of ideas, beliefs and languages that took place on the rapidly developing streets, a new alloy was forming, hard and bright.

  The heart of the metropolis was the City of Peace, an exclusive district of mansions and palaces, bounded by concentric circular walls two miles round. The City of Peace had been the creation of the Khalifah al-Mansur, a new capital for a new dynasty. At its centre he built his palace, known as the Gilded Gate, with a vast green dome that loomed over the streets.

  However, a foreign ambassador had pointed out how easily an assassin could slip in among the market traders, and al-Mansur had ordered the suqs moved outside the circular walls. Since then, the city had burst from its confinement, and in the decade since its founding had sprawled outward, ramshackle suburbs springing up around a tangle of canals and alleys. This wider conurbation was known by the old Persian name for the place: Baghdad.

  Abu Ali tried to maintain a supercilious sneer, but it was hard not to be swept away by Baghdad’s energy and optimism, so invigorating after the stuffy cliques of Basrah. He was kept too busy, though, to spend much time exploring the new city. His apprenticeship as a postman had begun.

  He spent some weeks with Yaqub, who was known as al-Mithaq. From him Abu Ali learned about weapons, and how to kill without them. Then he was introduced to the Khalifah’s astrologer, ibn Hayyan. In seeking the lost lore of the stars, Ibn Hayyan had delved deep into occult texts of the ancients, and he knew more than any man alive about the means by which information could be transmitted covertly. He taught Abu Ali how to conceal his messages, either by hiding them, so that enemies could not see them, or by masking them, so that his foes would not know what they were looking at.

  Ibn Hayyan also revealed to him the secret principle that underlay astrology: “As above, so below.” Each star and planet had a corresponding earthly substance, and these too had their uses. He showed Abu Ali wonders such as water that could eat metal, and an ink that could be read in the dark. He explained to him the applications of pastes and potions and poisons, the substances that madden, stupefy, sicken and slay.

  For his final lessons, Abu Ali returned to Basrah, and to a former tutor. Khalaf al-Amar had once schooled him in poetry, and now undertook to coach him in the lore of the desert. Abu Ali was surprised at first to find Khalaf in the pay of Ja’far, but the shifty old fraud had always had an eye to any chance of gold. Their lessons consisted mostly of wandering around the fringes of the wastelands west of Basrah, never straying too far from civilisation, but going deep enough for Khalaf to offer baffling, unreliable advice.

  “When the hawk is high, a north wind is nigh! Under stones at dawn, a dew will form! Always shake your shoes out first!”

  Abu Ali prayed that he would never depend on Khalaf’s lessons for his survival. However, he did at least learn how to saddle, ride and care for a camel. He did not see Ja’far al-Barmaki again before his departure; it was Yaqub al-Mithaq who came to inspect his progress, and gruffly proclaimed him ready.

  In the small town of Jubail, Khalaf introduced his protege to a man of the Banu Dahhak, who agreed to take him to his tribe. It was not unusual for young poets to travel and study with the Badawi. For all that the city dwellers sneered at the nomads’ backward ways, they also prized the archaic and arcane vocabulary which the Badawi preserved, and would sift their conversation for new words as if panning mud for gold.

  Abu Ali was greeted by the Banu Dahhak with the traditional hospitality of the desert, but there was also wariness in their welcome. His attention was soon drawn to a certain Uncle Anas, who avoided his gaze and his company. Uncle Anas stopped joining his clan for meals, but whenever Abu Ali tried to get closer to him, he was detained by a smiling but persistent Dahhaki, who was very keen to show him the spoor of a fox, or some other such item of interest. As the days wore on, the smiles wore thin, and so did his welcome.

  When a camel-train captain arrived at the camp, seeking the tribe’s protection for his caravan, Abu Ali had already resolved to depart with it, when one of the drivers pressed a small scroll into his hand. The scroll,
when he had deciphered its hidden message, bore instructions from Ja’far. There was a new plan.

  The caravan was a decoy, poorly guarded and with a worthless cargo. Ja’far intended it to be captured by a local clan who had fallen on hard times, and would be desperate for a chance to restore their fortunes. Once among them, Abu Ali was to provoke them to war, by any means necessary; the only way to crack open a Badawi tribe, Ja’far reasoned, was by using another tribe. Abu Ali looked at the final words of the unsigned note.

  “Seduce them. Poison them. Mock their manhood. Whatever it takes to get to the traitor.”

  I will not trouble to retell what has been so eloquently told already. However, I promised the end as well as the beginning, so I must relate what took place after, as the Banu Jahm and the Banu Dahhak tore each other to pieces in dim light, and the boy Abu Ali al-Hasan ibn Hani al-Hakami fled through the desert with his prisoner.

  He rode his camel hard, heading north and east, racing to reach civilisation before their provisions ran out. Had the Badawi come to understand how they had been fooled, and pursued them, he would undoubtedly have been caught and killed. His luck held, though, and a sandstorm behind them erased their tracks.

  For the first few days ibn Shaddad spoke not a word. Abu Ali kept him bound and hooded most of the time, in case he attempted to escape. One night, however, as they sat to eat, the boy noticed his prisoner gazing at him.

  “What are you staring at, traitor?”

  “I am wondering how you came to choose the Abbasid faction.”

  “Choose? There is no choice. I serve the Commander of the Faithful, the Khalifah al-Mansur.”

  “There are those who believe that he is a false Khalifah, a usurper. They would claim that only a blood descendant of the Prophet, an Alid, can be the Prophet’s Successor.”

  “I have heard about these Shi’ites. They are heretics and seditionists.”

  “They would say that it is you who are a heretic. There are two sides to every coin. Black or white, Abbasid or Alid, Sunna or Shi’a; how do you choose your friends, and your enemies? Is it an exercise of judgement, or an accident of birth? Do you steer your own course, or simply run before the prevailing winds? Is it money that sways your judgement, or fear, or lust to be close to power? Does it matter to you who might be the true heir to the Apostle of God?”