The Khalifah's Mirror Page 6

  Abu Ali scowled. It was true that such questions were of little interest to him.

  “The Khalifate is not tied to a bloodline. We are not like the barbarians of the west, where the eldest son inherits power, irrespective of whether he is an infant, an incompetent or an idiot. It is the way of the Arabs for the senior men of the clan to gather and choose a leader from among their number. That is how it was on the death of the Prophet, peace be upon him, and that is how it should be in the Ummah, the Family of Islam.

  “The Abbasid family are the descendants of the Prophet’s uncle, Abbas ibn Abd al-Muttalib. They are of the Qurayshi tribe, and of the Banu Hashim. They are elders of the Ummah. And al-Mansur is a strong and diligent leader, who has restored peace and prosperity to Islam.”

  Ibn Shaddad leaned towards him.

  “You have learned your lessons well. Are those truly your words, boy, or loaned to you by another? That is all I am asking you. Have you chosen which side you are on? Or has your destiny chosen you?”

  Abu Ali stared at him disdainfully.

  “Whatever side I am on, traitor, you can be certain that it is not yours.”

  After that night ibn Shaddad fell silent once more, and remained so for the remainder of their trek back to Basrah.

  They were gritty and sore by the time they rode up to the city walls, and were relieved to see civilisation. Abu Ali was dreaming of the soft red wine and plump white buttocks which awaited him within, and was irritated when they were made to wait at the gates. Ibn Shaddad raised his head and looked around, clearly hoping for a belated rescue. At last the guard returned, gesturing for them to dismount from their camels.

  “You are to come with me.”

  Abu Ali told himself they were being taken to Ja’far al-Barmaki to receive their reward, but fear was bristling the back of his neck. As they trudged behind the guard, the slow, grim recognition dawned that they were approaching the Wali’s palace. In a matter of minutes he found himself once more in the great hall, prostrating himself in front of the glowering al-Haytham ibn Mu’awiyah, and awaiting the Wali’s judgment.

  “So, al-Hakami, you have earned your pardon.”

  Abu Ali was so surprised that he took the risk of looking up.

  “I am glad of it, my lord.”

  Ibn Mu’awiyah smiled, a grin as mirthful as a skull’s.

  “I had thought you disrespectful, recalcitrant. However I discover that you are, after all, tractable. You have faithfully obeyed my directions, carried out my plan. And as a result, the traitor Amr ibn Shaddad is mine to present to the Khalifah.”

  “But —”

  The Wali’s eyes narrowed in warning, and Abu Ali stopped himself. Whatever power Ja’far al-Barmaki had exerted to free him before, there was no certainty that he would use it again. For all the poet knew, this was indeed the price of his pardon.

  “Your foresight and perspicacity was my guide through all dangers, my lord.”

  Ibn Mu’awiyah nodded.

  “I am pleased to hear it.”

  He rose from his mat.

  “And as for you, traitor, your death is imminent; only the manner of it is of your choosing.”

  Abu Ali heard a muttering beside him, and realised the old man was praying. The spark of hope ignited at the gate had been quickly extinguished.

  “You will be beaten until you disclose the whereabouts of every Shi’ite who fought alongside you, or until you die from the blows. Is there anything you wish to say?”

  “There is no god but God. Muhammad is the Prophet of God. There is no god but God. Muhammad is the Prophet of God…”

  Ibn Shaddad’s muttered prayers grew louder as the guards surrounded him, carrying wooden staves the thickness of their wrists. When the Wali’s hand dropped, so did the staves. The prayers were punctuated by grunts and gasps, and the watching petitioners flinched and gagged at the flying gobs of blood.

  Abu Ali, meanwhile, backed slowly away, sickened by the brutality and heedless of whether he had been dismissed. When he was sure that nobody was trying to stop him, he turned and fled the palace.

  Abu Ali al-Hasan ibn Hani al-Hakami, poet and postman, did not report to Ja’far straight away. First of all he returned to his mother’s home. Pushing aside her questions and embraces he slept, until trying to sleep was more exhausting than waking. Then he put on once more the sand-battered garb he had worn in the Empty Quarter, only changing his heavy Badawi headdress for a turban, and set out onto the streets of Basrah. He could, of course, have bathed and been given fresh clothes before he left the house. However, the opportunity to make a striking entrance was too good to waste.

  “Abu Ali! By God the Protector! You are back!”

  If he staggered slightly as he entered the hammam, then let us say that it was from emotion at seeing his friends once more, and not in any pretence of thirst or starvation. He did not have to explain his lengthy absence. Word of his appearance before the Wali had spread through the city, and was quickly transmitted to those who had not heard it.

  “So you were working for ibn Mu’awiyah all along? You sly fox, Abu Ali. Tell us all about it.”

  Abu Ali decided it would be wiser not to make any mention of Ja’far al-Barmaki, nor, for that matter, of Abu Wahb or the Banu Jahm. Instead he concocted a tale of solitary courage, in which he ventured alone into the Empty Quarter and snatched the traitor away by stealth. His friends listened, wondered and mocked, perhaps doubting his veracity, but nonetheless enjoying his performance. Among them was Abu’l-Ishaq, and the poet was amused to discover that his offhand comment had stuck fast; the erstwhile Jug Seller was now universally known as Abu’l-Atahiyya.

  The Father of Madness was watching Abu Ali speak with a mixture of jealousy and pride, desperately trying to make his own mark on the moment. At last he saw his opportunity.

  “I like your hair, Abu Ali. Is that the new style?”

  In the harsh air of the desert Abu Ali’s hair had clumped and matted into long tendrils, which now escaped from his hastily tied turban and sprawled around his shoulders. He smiled and stroked a tress.

  “How good of you to notice, my friend. It took simply hours to get it looking this way. I do believe everybody will be wearing it like this by autumn.”

  Abu’l-Atahiyya was bouncing with excitement that the younger man had played along with his joke.

  “Then, instead of Abu Ali, we should call you Abu Nuwas: the Father of Locks.”

  Abu Ali winced slightly. It was, he thought, a dull monicker compared to the one he had coined, lacking the subtle edge of irony. However, it was already being passed around the room, repeated amid laughter and raillery. In an instant it had become part of the legend, a secret sign of admission to a circle which would widen out from that bath house on that evening, eventually becoming so broad that his real friends would tire of it, and revert to calling him Abu Ali.

  He fell back into his old life easily, with only a tinge of apprehension at the prospect of a call from Ja’far al-Barmaki. However the days went by and the summons did not come. What came instead was news that ibn Shaddad was to be crucified in the suq.

  Abu Ali could not understand why the Wali had not handed his prisoner over to the Khalifah, for the reward and the kudos that capturing a wanted man would bring. Out of curiosity he went to see the execution, and then he understood. Ibn Shaddad was too broken to be of any use, his mouth shattered, his bloodied eyes expressing no awareness of his passing. It was said that he had named no names, given no information, and the Wali had been unable to restrain his men so that the traitor could be saved for the subtler questioning of the Khalifah’s guard.

  Still no message came from the Barmakid, and the reality of the strange events blurred for Abu Ali, who told his improved version so often that he began to believe it himself. He decided that if he was going to be the Father of Locks, he needed to find a better way of styling his hair. Eventually he settled on a combination of oil and vigorous combing which produced a pleasingly serpent
ine effect.

  He found, too, that his new identity infused his poetry. Now that he had spent time in the desert, and experienced the Badawi lifestyle, he had no desire to churn out the traditional platitudes about camels and abandoned campsites. He dashed off a parody mocking the conventions of the form:

  “The loser stops at the deserted camp, weeps for those

  who have fled;

  I do the same at the drinking den, when my friends have

  gone on ahead.

  May God never soothe those who cry over rocks,

  Nor console those by tent pegs besotted.

  You sing of the lands the Asad tribe once wandered —

  Well, who the hell, anyway, are the Asad,

  And the Qays, and the Tamim, that you drone on about?

  These Arabs are nothing, in the eyes of God!

  Forget all that crap, drink some wine instead

  A golden body with a sparkling head

  Poured by the hand of a slender beauty

  Who flirts like a willow the wind has molested…”

  He had intended it as a joke, but the poem caught on, and was quoted, circulated and imitated all around the city of Basrah. Emboldened, Abu Ali began to write in his own voice, the mocking, provocative tone he used with his friends, rather than trying to sound like a Badawi from the time before the Prophet. He chose subjects that reflected his own experience: wine, friendship, sex, the preoccupations of a sophisticated city dweller, not those of a desert nomad.

  In the end the summons from Ja’far never came. Instead it was Abu Ali who sought out the Barmakid, banging at the door of his palace late one evening. Ilig the Khazar admitted him silently, and led him to the map room, where the Persian boy was waiting.

  “Peace be upon you, Abu Ali. Or should I call you Abu Nuwas? Your poetry is much improved, since you returned from the desert.”

  “I thank you, ibn Yahya. But I did not come here for praise.”

  “Indeed. Then may I ask what you have come here for?”

  “To ask whether you have need of my services, and lay them at your disposal.”

  Ja’far raised his eyebrows.

  “I see. And what has brought on this effusion of servility?”

  “I hear that al-Haytham ibn Mu’awiyah has been dismissed as Wali of Basrah.”

  “And now that you recognise I did not exaggerate my influence, you view me with a new respect?”

  “Now, my lord, I understand that the vengeance of Ja’far ibn Yahya al-Barmaki is a thing to be feared.”

  “Oh, that was not my vengeance. That was the decision of our wise Khalifah. Properly handled, ibn Shaddad could have identified other Shi’ite subversives. Due to ibn Mu’awiyah’s clumsy brutality, that chance was squandered. It was foolish, and Al-Mansur has no patience with fools. No, my vengeance is being enacted this very night.”

  At that moment the door opened, and a woman entered. Ja’far greeted her solemnly.

  “Is it done?”

  The woman bowed her head once in confirmation. Ja’far turned to Abu Ali.

  “We have you to thank for the means of my revenge. I was as intrigued as I was impressed by the rapidity and totality of your dominion over Abu Wahb. Clearly there was something at work beside your undoubted charm, and the hashish paste ibn Hayyan taught you to use.

  “It took lengthy inquiries among the less savoury fringes of your acquaintance, but at last your secret was revealed. There is an insect that lives on the northern shores of the White Middle Sea, a small green beetle, undistinguished in appearance. When crushed and applied to the human skin, it raises blisters; and when consumed, it causes erections which last for hours, although they are as painful as they are pleasurable.

  “This is the notorious cantharis, the aphrodisiac which the Roman Empress Livia, wife of Augustus, used to provoke sexual indiscretions in her rivals and enemies. Having found a supply, your friends have been taking it to enhance and extend their perverted copulations. You, however, displaying the ruthless opportunism which wholly justifies my decision to employ you as an agent, realised its potential as a weapon. And now that I control the supply, I have taken your excellent idea to its conclusion.

  “I gave our friend the Wali a gift, as a token of my respect: a singing girl, as artful as she is beautiful. Using cantharis, she took him to heights of ecstasy which none of his wives or concubines could achieve. But cantharis is a poison as well as an aphrodisiac. It was only necessary to increase the dose very slightly, to make it fatal.”

  The woman stared down at the map as Ja’far went on.

  “Tonight, ibn Mu’awiyah began to experience discomfort during their coupling. First he felt a burning sensation in his gorge. He tried to speak, but the girl pushed him down, signalling silence. She straddled him as his spasms intensified. His mouth began to froth, his cries turning to terror, his guts bubbling and dissolving. Still she pinned him down, riding him, this time, to a different kind of climax. Her tears fell on his face, moistening his dry lips, although she had nothing but hatred for him. And at last al-Haytham ibn Mu’awiyah groaned and lay still.

  “And that, my friend, was the vengeance of Ja’far ibn Yahya al-Barmaki.”

  V

  “Master, I beg your forgiveness for interrupting, but the Wazir and the Chamberlain are both at the door, insisting that they must be admitted.”

  Harun al-Rashid groaned in frustration, and rapped Masrur on the head with his staff. It was, he was uncomfortably aware, as effective as beating an elephant with a fly swatter.

  “In the name of God the Gentle, is it not enough that I have led the prayers today, and endured the stench of the common people? Am I to be permitted no respite from the burdens of duty?”

  The Swordbearer knelt submissively, and said nothing. Al-Rashid sighed.

  “Oh, very well. Let them be admitted.”

  He watched the two men approach. It was almost comic to see them, the tall Persian and the short, fat Arab, walking as fast as dignity would allow, jostling each other slightly. The long legs of Ja’far al-Barmaki gave him a slight lead by the time they reached the Khalifah.

  “My prince, I must speak to you on a matter of the greatest urgency —”

  “Commander of the Faithful, I beg you, dismiss these men and let me talk to you in private —”

  Al-Rashid waved them to silence and they subsided before him. In his heart he much preferred the Wazir, who was witty and elegant, where the Chamberlain was fussy and prosaic. However their rivalry maintained a balance of power at court, and the Khalifah enjoyed seeing them compete for his favour.

  “Peace be upon you, my two wisest counsellors. Ja’far, this rascally rake has been claiming that he is an agent of yours, a member of your Barid. Can such a thing possibly be true?”

  “He has been of service to me, and to the Land of Islam, on occasion, in certain delicate matters. It is for that reason that I hastened here, when I heard about his offences. Commander of the Faithful, I implore you, let me relieve you from this dreary business. I will take the poet into my custody, and ensure that he is dealt with appropriately. Your sons are waiting to take you hunting —”

  Ibn Rabi the Chamberlain could not contain himself.

  “My prince, do not listen to him. The execution should not be delayed a moment longer, and then I must speak to you alone —”

  “Enough! By God, Chamberlain, do you dare to tell me what must and must not be? And you, Ja’far- are you suggesting that I am fit only for frivolity, that I do not have the patience to hear, or the wisdom to judge?”

  As a rule Harun al-Rashid did not see why, having appointed ministers, he should do their jobs for them, any more than he would wash his own clothes or groom his own horses. He generally left them to get on with things, preferring to spend his time hunting and drinking. At times, though, and without warning, he would demand detailed reports, insist on making important decisions, and stubbornly refuse to follow their advice on any issue. This approach, he considered, kep
t them on their toes, reminded them who was really in charge. He surveyed the chastened officials with satisfaction.

  “Get out of my sight, both of you. I intend to deal with this matter myself. If I have need of your advice, I shall summon you.”

  For a moment he thought ibn Rabi was going to argue, and felt a glimmer of curiosity as to what might incite the sycophantic Chamberlain to risk his neck with such uncharacteristic presumption. However, the ministers reluctantly withdrew, and al-Rashid turned back to Abu Nuwas.

  “My Wazir suggests that you have carried out other such tasks for him. I suppose you intend next to recount for me one of these exploits?”

  The Khalifah was pleased with himself for this deduction, which he considered rather clever. Abu Nuwas bowed.

  “If it is your will, my prince. The tale which I must tell is not one which gives me pleasure, but sometimes we must walk a painful path before we arrive at the truth. With your permission, Commander of the Faithful, I shall relate for you…”

  The Tale of the Disputation of the Khazars

  It was a filthy morning, when I first met Yitzhak ha-Sangari. Irascible grey clouds spat slugs of rain, as they had done all month, turning the roads into quagmires. I trudged up to the synagogue with my calves coated in muck, as if I wore stockings made of slime and horseshit, but that was the look that season, in Atil-Khazaran; everybody was wearing it. So pervasive was the dirt, that even the Muslims of the city gave up washing, only cleansing themselves ritually before prayer.

  In fact it was a filthy year, the year that the Khalifah al-Mahdi passed away, and his son Musa al-Hadi succeeded to the throne. Many of the warriors came back from the summer raids without hands or feet, their extremities not lopped off in battle, but gnawed off by the cold. Ja’far al-Barmaki found himself out of favour with the new regime, his political ambitions stifled. I have always believed it was malice that caused him to send me north, malice and boredom, as a man kicks his slave when his patron has scolded him.