Equal of the Sun A Novel

CHAPTER 3



MAN OF JUSTICE





After Zahhak became king, the devil installed himself as his cook and proceeded to teach him a taste for blood. On the first day he made roasted partridges, on the next lamb kabob, and on the third he stewed veal with wine. Zahhak was astonished and pleased, for man had never eaten meat before, and he plunged his tongue gladly into blood and bone. When Zahhak asked what he desired as a reward for his excellent cooking, the devil replied, “Just one favor, oh lord of the universe—I wish to kiss the royal shoulders.”

Zahhak thought it was a small boon, given all the devil had done. He offered his shoulders gladly and allowed the devil to plant his black lips on each one.

The next morning, Zahhak awoke to the sound of slithering near his head. He pulled the bedcover away from his body and gasped out loud at the sight of a serpent growing out of each shoulder. In horror, Zahhak grabbed a knife and slashed through one, then the other, but as soon as the decapitated snakes had wriggled in their death agony, new snakes grew out of his shoulders. They hissed and attacked each other in front of his face, sparring until he felt he might go mad.

When the devil sauntered in that afternoon, Zahhak begged for a cure. “My friend, the only way to get any peace,” the devil told him, “is to pacify them with food. The diet is simple: men’s brains.”

Zahhak ordered his nobles to deliver two young men the next morning. The men were murdered, their skulls cracked open, and their brains scooped out to feed the snakes. Then their mutilated bodies were returned to their families for burial. The next morning the same calamity occurred, and the next. Every day, the brightest and most promising young men were torn away from their families and sacrificed to the throne. Little by little, the best minds in the country were destroyed, and evil gave birth to more evil.





Early that summer, Isma‘il finally arrived on the outskirts of Qazveen. After setting up camp in fine embroidered tents softened with silk carpets, he and his men waited for his astrologers to inform him of the most auspicious moment to enter the capital. He had spent years studying astrology while in confinement and wouldn’t even leave his tent unless the readings were favorable. Pari was pleased that he showed such prudence, but secretly I hoped the stars would hurry.

By then, Pari had accomplished much. The killings had stopped in the city, and merchants reopened the bazaar. The palace had been repaired enough so that evidence of the invasion was faint. The noblemen were hard at work at their posts. Pari continued holding morning meetings with them, and now they submitted to her authority with no question. Mirza Shokhrollah had produced the treasury report and released the necessary funds so that business could proceed in earnest. Much remained to be done, but Pari had made sure that Isma‘il wouldn’t inherit chaos.

The princess sent me to her brother’s camp with a letter of welcome and the gift of a fine astrolabe engraved with silver. I rode to the camp on one of the royal horses on a hot morning, hoping for a glimpse of the shah-to-be so that I could report on how he looked and perhaps take a kind word back to Pari. The camp was huge, and there were so many men delivering gifts that it was late by the time the astrolabe was recorded, and I had to ride back empty-handed.

Fifteen days later, the astrologers finally determined that the stars were auspicious and Isma‘il set his arrival into Qazveen for the following morning. We had a lot to do. I reported to Pari’s house after the midday meal to help plan for his arrival and was surprised to be escorted to one of the private rooms near her bedchamber.

I expected something resembling Pari’s austere public meeting chambers, but this one had peach-colored carpets, thick velvet cushions, and an entire wall painted with a mural of the legendary Shireen bathing in a river, her high breasts like pomegranates. Shireen lounged in the water so voluptuously that I felt as if she were offering her white-skinned thighs to me, and I turned away in confusion.

I heard Pari’s loud, frank laughter, a sound so rare that it seemed unfamiliar. She cried out, “Come in, Javaher! I need your help on a vital matter of statecraft.”

She and Maryam sat together on one cushion, while Pari’s industrious lady, Azar Khatoon, was rummaging in a trunk.

Azar drew a bright red robe out of the trunk and held it up for us to see, her pretty face transfixed by pleasure.

“That is one of my favorites,” Pari said, taking the thick silk into her hands.

Woven into the fabric was a portrait of a young nobleman in a blossoming garden, a falcon perched on his fist. The feathers in the falcon’s wing mimicked the folds in the young man’s turban, conveying the profound oneness of the man and bird. Any human would be lucky to be loved as much.

“It is fit for a shah!” Maryam said.

“Yes, but too bright for the first meeting with my brother,” Pari replied. “I am still in mourning.”

Azar pulled out another garment, this one with a repeated pattern of bright orange poppies and a delicate young doe. Gold-wrapped thread made the garment glow as if infused with sunlight.

“Bah, bah, that one is lovely,” Maryam said, her honey-colored eyes sparkling. Maryam was one of dozens of pretty village girls who had been brought to court to serve Tahmasb Shah, but who ended up becoming companions to the royal women if he showed no interest in bedding them. Her family had probably gotten a little money or a goat in exchange.

Pari took the robe from Azar and laid it against Maryam’s body, spreading out the wide sleeves so that they covered her arms. Her golden hair flowed over the robe as if there were no separation between the two.

“The little doe with the pretty face reminds me of you,” Pari said teasingly. “You may take that one.”

Maryam’s eyes widened with disbelief. Her everyday attire was lovely, but nothing could match the fineness of the robes made for the princess. She wrapped her arms protectively around the robe and stroked one of its sleeves with the tip of her fingers. “It is softer than skin!” she said, and Pari smiled.

“I need a robe in a much darker color,” Pari told Azar, who plunged her hands obediently into the trunk, though her mouth looked bitter. After some time, she pulled out a brown silk taffeta robe, whose surface seemed to shimmer. Pari caressed the robe with satisfaction.

“Touch this one,” she said to Maryam, who leaned forward to feel it.

“Who wove it?” she asked.

“The head of the taffeta weavers’ guild, the master Borzoo.”

Even the Venetians declared his silks to be finer than any produced in their own city. I held the robe gently. It was light enough to fold up into a package the size of my hands, yet as sumptuous to behold as velvet. A delicate pattern of gold brocade peonies seemed to tremble on its surface as if in a light breeze. White roses paraded on its pale orange borders, which were edged with stripes of brown, orange, and blue.

Maryam urged her to try it on, and Azar slipped the robe over Pari’s outstretched arms. It fit tightly at her bodice and tapered to meet her narrow waist, then flared out pleasingly over her legs. The delicate brown made her black hair look darker than usual, while her cheeks blazed with color.

“You are magisterial,” said Maryam.

I stared at Pari and had the strange feeling that I was looking at the late Shah. “You are the very image of your father,” I blurted out. To some women, that would not have been a compliment, but Pari’s smile was immediate.

“Now I need help choosing the garments to go with it. Maryam, you have the best eye for this.”

Maryam bent over another trunk and assembled a pale blue tunic, beige trousers with bands of flowered embroidery at the ankles, a silk sash with bands of orange, beige, and gold, and a chain of dark rubies and pearls for Pari to wear on her forehead. Meanwhile, Pari directed Azar to put away the other garments, which she folded and stored away as tenderly as if they were precious gems. Then Pari called for tea and sweetmeats and for her box of earrings. Massoud Ali brought in a brass platter with small chickpea cookies shaped like clovers and round walnut cookies that made me think longingly of Khadijeh.

Maryam spooned a surprising amount of sugar into her tea. Only a member of the court could be profligate with something so costly.

“Your brother will be pleased to see you in such finery,” she said.

“I hope he will recognize me. I was a child of eight when he was sent away.”

Pari watched Maryam peruse her earrings, her eyes lighting with pleasure when she came upon an especially beautiful pair. Maryam looked up to find us staring at her, and a smile played at her lips.

“What do you remember of him?”

The princess put down her steaming glass of tea. “He was always in good spirits, his big laugh booming from one end of the courtyard to the other. My heart would leap at the thought of seeing him.”

“How often did he visit?”

“Often,” said Pari, her voice soft. “He gave me my first lessons in archery. He would even stand behind me and help me draw the bow. He could have allowed the archery masters to teach me, but he knew I adored him. After he left on campaign, I practiced every day. I liked to imagine myself riding on a horse beside him, shooting arrows and striking targets.”

She looked thoughtful for a moment. “I wanted to be just like him.”

“Why was he sent away?” Maryam asked. She bit into a thick date and took a sip of her tea.

Pari called a eunuch to carry away the trunks of clothing and told Azar to follow him. Only when they were gone did she begin to speak. With troubled eyes, she explained that she had been too young to understand what had happened. Although everyone agreed Isma‘il had bravely beat back the Ottomans in the north, accounts differed as to why he raised his own army without his father’s permission. Some contended the purpose was to try to vanquish the Ottomans forever; others accused him of intending to overthrow their father. Before then, Tahmasb Shah had barely been able to squelch coups organized by his mother and by his brother Alqas, and dissent had become intolerable to him.

“Yet it is also possible that my father was envious. It wouldn’t be the first time a man has wished to shine as brightly as his warrior son.”

“What a tragedy to think of a family separated for so long,” said Maryam.

“It was a dagger through our hearts.”

Maryam took her hand. “When Isma‘il sees you in that gazelle-colored robe, he will be pleased by the way you reflect the beauty of your family.”

Pari’s eyes brightened. “People always told us we looked more alike than any of my father’s children.”

“I trust he will welcome your good counsel,” said Maryam.

“It will be difficult for him if he doesn’t. My father’s courtiers have alliances and arguments that span generations. All Isma‘il knew before his imprisonment was how to command Turkic warriors, not how to manage Tajik administrators, Jewish tradesmen, Armenian exporters, Zoroastrian priests, Arab mullahs, diplomats from the Christian lands, emissaries from the Ottoman and the Indian courts, and all the other supplicants we see on a daily basis. He needs me.”

“Isma‘il will be lucky to have such a powerful ally,” Maryam said.

“Not just an ally.”

Maryam looked at her, puzzled. “What more could you be?”

Pari made as if pulling back the string of a bow; then she released her hand as if shooting the arrow.

“I want to be his closest counselor, just as my aunt was for my father.”

“Has he agreed to this?”

Pari looked away. “Why wouldn’t he? The same royal blood runs through our veins.”

“Esteemed princess,” I said, “I think we should plan what you will say to the new shah to obtain his favor.”

“Obtain his favor? I am the reason he will be crowned!”

“True, but I don’t think we can be too careful.”

“There is no doubt he will shower her with love,” interjected Maryam, her warm eyes beaming so much admiration at Pari that I was discomfited to witness it.

Maryam turned back to her task of perusing Pari’s jewelry. After a moment, she said, “I think I have found just the right pair. Try these.”

She showed Pari a pair of gold earrings shaped like moons with dangling pearls and rubies.

“Come here and put them on me.”

Maryam leaned over Pari and gently inserted the end of each earring into her pierced ears.

“Bah, bah! How lovely you look.”

Pari looked up into her eyes, which were only a handsbreadth away, and Maryam’s cheeks bloomed like a pink rose. Then Pari reached for her chin and held it, her eyes filling with an animal gleam. Maryam’s lips parted. The moment lengthened until I became uncomfortable and pretended to a fit of coughing. Finally, Pari turned around and dismissed me.

“Tell my servants not to disturb us,” she said as I left, her eyes fixed on Maryam’s.

No wonder she cared so little about marriage! Why would she wish to ally herself to a man who could take away all her pleasures? The hunger I had witnessed in Pari’s eyes reminded me unnervingly of myself before I had been cut. With Fereshteh, I had been like a lion sinking its teeth into the flank of an onager, my appetite ferocious. How different I was now.

I felt glad Pari had found someone to love, and even gladder that she trusted me enough to show how she felt. The women of the court who didn’t marry, either by chance or by choice, must either find love quietly among themselves or remain loveless and thwarted forever. When Maryam brushed Pari’s hair or drew a line of kohl on her eyes, the affection that poured through her fingers was as visible as sparks. The palace women scrubbed each other’s backs, drew henna designs on each other’s bodies, helped each other through the screaming pain of birth, washed each other’s dead, and held each other’s hands in moments of joy and grief. I envied them sometimes. They lived in such a deep state of feeling for each other, whether love or hate, that it surrounded them like the weather.

As I left Pari’s rooms, my eyes rested on Shireen’s painted thighs and I thought with a pang about Khadijeh. She had ripened to bursting. She was likely to marry one day, as I could not offer her the things an uncut man could provide. But that did not mean I had been able to prevent myself from loving her.



The next morning, Isma‘il rode into Qazveen on a fine Arabian mare whose saddle and bridle were studded with jewels, followed by a large retinue on foot, including soldiers in battle armor and dozens of young men dressed in velvet bearing hawks on their fists. The streets of the city were lined with citizens who had come out to witness his arrival. They had decorated every corner of the city with flowers and laid out an avenue of brightly colored carpets to welcome him. Citizens dressed in their best robes stood on the carpets and chanted blessings as he passed, and musicians placed at every corner of the city filled the air with sweet sounds to honor his arrival.

Isma‘il’s men left him at the home of Kholafa Rumlu. Kholafa would expect significant rewards for assisting in the killing of Haydar, no doubt. The first one was that Isma‘il would honor him by staying at his house. Isma‘il would remain there until his astrologers decided the right moment had arrived for his entry into the palace itself, at which point more auguries would be taken and the coronation would be scheduled.

As soon as he had settled into Kholafa’s house, Isma‘il started receiving visitors. One of the first to be called was a small group of royal women including the princess. She asked me to accompany her, and when I arrived early in the morning to take her to Kholafa’s home, I drew in a breath at the sight of her in the rich brown robe, the ruby jewelry gleaming on her forehead. Maryam, who was an expert in the seven types of makeup that made a woman’s wardrobe complete, had scrubbed her skin until it shone, painted artful lines of black kohl on her eyelids, reddened her lips and cheekbones with madder, and anointed her with a perfumed oil that smelled like myrrh and lilacs.

“You are even more beautiful than a princess painted by the master Behzad!”

“Thank you,” Pari said. “At last I will meet my dear brother again, and rediscover one of the loves of my youth! I thought this day might never come.” Her eyes sparkled with joy.

Pari covered herself in her chador and entered a domed palanquin draped with orange velvet. Her lower-ranking eunuchs bore her through the gate to Kholafa’s house at the northern end of the city, while I walked alongside them. It was a hot day, but our walk was canopied by the leaves of the large walnut trees that had been planted in abundance in this part of the city. Was there ever a better tree? The stately, gnarled trunks exploded into generous fields of green above us.

As we passed the large gated homes along the street, citizens made way, stopping to stare at Pari’s retinue.

“What rich velvet!” sighed a woman wrapped in a tattered robe.

I too felt envious of Pari, but for a different reason. How my heart would be pounding with excitement if I were about to meet my own sibling, Jalileh, after an absence of so many years. Would she look like my mother? Like me? Would she be understanding when I revealed I had become a eunuch? I had not told my mother before she died, nor had I wished to convey the news to Jalileh by letter. Would her eyes grow tender when I told her the truth, or—

I tripped on a stone, and the captain behind me barked that I had better pay my respects to royalty by paying closer attention to the road.

When we arrived at Kholafa’s house, we used the knocker for women, a large brass circle, and were greeted first by his wife, who led us to a room in the andarooni—the area restricted to ladies and intimates of the family. It had finely knotted blue wool and silk carpets on the floors, embroidered cushions, large silver vases full of fresh flowers, trays heaped with grapes, peaches, pistachios, and sweetmeats, and fruit sharbats in large flagons.

Pari greeted the women who were already present, the late Shah’s four wives Sultanam and Sultan-Zadeh, Pari’s mother, Daka Cherkes, and Zahra Baji, along with their ladies and attendants. Sultanam’s eyes and wrinkled cheeks glowed with motherly pride. Khadijeh sat near her to attend to her, her eyebrows as lush as brown velvet. I thought about the donbalan—sheep’s balls—I had eaten the day before and felt the heat rise at my groin. Despite the sobriety of the occasion, I imagined what we would do together the next time I saw her.

Everyone looked her best in her mourning clothes except for Sultan-Zadeh, whose poorly tied headscarf and red eyes testified to her grief over the death of her son. She kept her head bent as if trying to be invisible.

Before long, Isma‘il entered the room accompanied by a small retinue of fierce-looking eunuchs. The ladies rose and began ululating and shouting out praises to God. Isma‘il stood there in a gray silk robe and accepted the tribute, and when he seated himself on a handsome embroidered pillow that had been placed for him on the best carpet in the room, the ladies sat down again on their cushions. Along with other servants, I stood at attention at the back of the room.

He was a medium-sized man with small eyes and a thin beard threaded with gray. He appeared confident and regal, quite unlike the boy Haydar posturing in front of the elders with his sword. Isma‘il claimed the best seat in the room like a man who believed he was finally getting what he deserved.

But he hadn’t aged well. He appeared to be a man in his fifties rather than thirty-eight. The bones in his body seemed too fluid, as if held in a sack of animal gelatin rather than muscle. Looking closely at his face, I detected an unhealthy sallowness as if he were rotting from within. No one would ever mistake this slack-bodied man for the fierce warrior he had once been.

“Welcome, womenfolk,” he began. “This morning, I had a private audience with my mother to express my gratitude to her. All the years I was away, she never relinquished hope that I would return. She is the shepherd of my conduct—of my life as a man, of my wives-to-be, and of my future. Mother, all praise is yours for my life and for the crown that I will soon wear upon my head!”

I couldn’t help but think that the praise for the crown should be Pari’s, but perhaps he was simply being exuberant.

Sultanam could not contain herself. “Insh’Allah! My thanks go to God for watching over my son. To show my deepest gratitude for your safe return, I hereby pledge to build a mosque and a seminary in Qazveen.”

There was a low gasp, for we all knew the costs of hiring architects, engineers, and tile makers, and the labor of a building crew for several years. But all the late Shah’s wives and children had recently been informed by the treasury of the fortunes they had inherited after his death, which for the most favored, like Pari, included the revenue from entire towns.

“Your piety is an example to all women,” he replied.

Isma‘il greeted his father’s wives, each in order of seniority, including Sultan-Zadeh, until finally his attention came to Pari.

“Sister of mine, the last time I saw you, you were a little girl,” he said. “How things have changed. Throughout my journey, I have been flooded with reports of your doings at the palace. Your reputation is larger than you could ever guess.”

Pari bent her head to accept his tribute. I waited expectantly for him to shower her with words of praise, as he had his mother.

“Tell me—do you find me much altered?”

Pari lifted her head in surprise. She didn’t seem to know what to say.

“I wish to know the truth.”

A mist veiled her eyes for a moment.

“I see before me the brother who was kind enough to teach me when I was just a child, though he was already a great warrior,” she said gently.

“Teach you what?”

“The art of the bow.”

“And just look at me now!” he said with a ghastly laugh. Judging from his thin arms, he didn’t have enough strength to pull back a bowstring.

“It would be my fondest wish for us to shoot together again soon,” said Pari softly. “I am at your service.”

“And I suppose you will teach me this time,” he replied. Although his tone was playful, the skin on my neck tightened.

“I shall forever be your pupil,” she replied. “I will never forget how you trained me to hold my bow and showed me to keep the target foremost in my mind. Find its soft fleshy weakness, you said, and strike where you cannot fail. I took those lessons to heart. After you left I practiced often, and when you didn’t return, I asked for you. One of our father’s generals took pity on me and told me your locations while you were on campaign. I requested a map of the region, which was drawn for me by a royal cartographer, and marked your progress on it with bits of turquoise.”

She stopped there, no doubt wishing to avoid reminding him of his humiliating incarceration.

“And then what happened?”

“One day the map disappeared, and so did your name,” she replied. “I am very grateful God has sent you back to us again.”

“It must be like seeing a man from the dead,” he said. His yellow countenance made it difficult to disagree.

“I see a noble shah with cheeks as red as pomegranates,” Pari protested.

He waved his hand to forestall any more talk he could not believe. “Speaking of which, I visited our father’s grave early this morning.”

Pari tensed. Her father was still buried in a temporary grave at a nearby shrine, pending Isma‘il’s decision about where to inter him permanently. The other ladies began wailing, as they must do when the late Shah’s name was raised. Tears sprang to Pari’s eyes, while Isma‘il’s remained dry.

The moment was so awkward that I was glad I could justify loosening the silk handkerchief that I carried at my waist for Pari and offering it to her. She wiped her eyes and said, “Now we shall weep together, brother of mine.”

He laughed again, a ghoulish sound. “My tears are all dry,” he said.

His manners were very poor.

“Your suffering has been great. My biggest wish is to devote myself to you, dear brother,” Pari said quickly, to change the subject. “I promise to be useful.”

“Yes, I imagine you will, having spent so many years basking in the light of our father. What a waste!”

Pari drew back on her cushion. “I am very grateful to have benefited from his wisdom.”

“Oh, dear sister, don’t take offense. I only mean that his knowledge could have been put to better use by a child who could be shah.”

Pari looked bewildered.

“No matter,” he said. “That hasn’t been my fate, yet look what grand surprises God has brought me. I have selected a caravanserai in Ardabil as a gift to express my thanks for your service.”

“Thank you for your generosity,” said Pari.

It was a rich gift, since its rents would be a regular source of income, yet I was certain she would rather have had a humbler one given with true gratitude.

“You are welcome.”

“Brother of mine,” said Pari, “perhaps you will wish to hear about palace business. There are pressing matters to discuss.”

“All in good time.” He shifted on his cushion. “There is only one thing I want to know right now. How did the nobles behave?”

“With confusion.”

“Did they treat our family with respect?”

“Yes, for the most part.”

“Who didn’t?”

“I should hate to identify anyone. The situation baffled them.”

“But I insist on knowing.”

“Perhaps you have already heard that a few nobles refused to heed me. When I read to them from your letter, however, they fell into line.”

“Who? You must not hold anything back from me.”

“Well, it was mainly Mirza Shokhrollah, the chief of the treasury, and his supporters.”

“I see. I will take that into account.”

“Thank you.”

“Brother, may I tell you now about court business?” Pari was overeager, but it was impossible to know how soon he would allow her to see him again. Isma‘il’s eyes scanned the area around him as if he needed something.

“What is it, my son?” asked Sultanam.

“Nothing,” he replied. “I must go.”

He arose abruptly, signaling that the meeting was over. All the ladies stood up, surprised.

“I thank you all for your attendance. Now I leave you to feast, while I attend to a matter of some urgency.”

He hadn’t even graced the women with his presence during a meal. They looked at each other, perplexed, except for Sultan-Zadeh, who seemed relieved. Pari’s mother and Zahra Baji filled the awkward silence by offering their congratulations to Sultanam.

I took the damp handkerchief from Pari.

“What is wrong with him?” she asked in a low tone.

“I fear he has forgotten himself,” I whispered. “He wouldn’t be in power if it weren’t for you.”

“Yes, whether he admits it or not.”

“Perhaps he requires time to settle in. It must be difficult to be a prisoner one day and a shah the next.”

“It was like speaking with a hermit who has forsaken proper manners,” she said, her face drained of color.

Servants entered with tablecloths and the beginnings of a feast of roasted meats and stews, but Pari told me she had no appetite and didn’t wish to stay. As she said her farewells, pleading a womanly ache, Khadijeh smoothed both ends of the kerchief that covered her hair and caught my eye. I adjusted my sash, our signal that I would visit her later in the evening, and she looked over her right shoulder to give her assent.



When it was so late that the moon had risen and all that could be heard was the howling of jackals, I arose from my bed to go see Khadijeh. The moon was obscured by a cloud, and I had to count the steps to where the path branched to the one I followed to her quarters. When I arrived, the eunuch on duty was asleep on the ground, his head against the door, his jaw open, his weapon slack in his hand. All the better for my purposes, since it saved me a coin. I stepped over him into the building and walked down the corridor softly until I came to Khadijeh’s door, which I pushed open. Despite the late hour, she was dressed and seated in a dark corner of the room. I sat beside her and took her small brown hand in my own.

“How I needed to see you!” she said. “Was it easy to get past the guard?”

“He is as fast asleep as if he were dead.”

Khadijeh smiled. “I put a sleeping potion in a jug of wine and offered it to him,” she admitted.

“Why?”

“Because he must not know you are here. No one must know,” she added vehemently, and then flung her arms around me and buried her head in my neck. I felt a tear on her cheek.

“Khadijeh—soul of mine—what ails you?” I asked, perplexed.

Her body trembled against mine. “I am to belong to another.”

My throat closed for a moment. I held her tightly and stroked her hair, inhaling the rose oil she used on her temples.

“Alas! I hoped it wouldn’t be so soon.”

She pressed herself against me, and I felt the roundness of her breast and thought about how she would soon be pressing against someone else.

“Ah, my beloved. How I will miss you!”

“And I you,” she said, tears springing to her cheeks.

“Who is your intended—a warrior from the provinces?”

“Better than that.”

“A nobleman here at court?”

“Wrong again.”

“What could be better than that?

“You won’t believe it. It is the new shah himself.”

“Deh!” I stared at her in surprise.

“It is the truth.”

“How wondrous is your fate. When you were ill on the slavers’ boat, when you and your brother were burned raw by the sun and scorned by men, you probably never imagined yourself as a queen!”

“Never,” she said, “except in my dreams. It is, of course, a temporary marriage.”

The Shah would save his four permanent marriages for women of good families with whom he wished to make alliances.

“No matter! One day you will be a royal mother, with your own quarters and your own servants. If you have a son who lives and prospers, you could become as powerful as Sultanam.”

I was babbling to avoid facing the terrible truth: that the one sweetness I had in the world was about to be taken away and given to a man who had done nothing to earn it.

“I would be grateful to have my own household rather than serving at the whim of others.”

“How did this come to pass?”

“Ever since Isma‘il was released from prison, Sultanam has been talking about finding him a wife. In his letters, he has fretted that he has only been able to sire one daughter. Sultanam thinks someone has laid the evil eye upon him, and she is determined to remove the curse. He will marry a few noblewomen to cement his political alliances, but I am the first woman he will take into his bed. Sultanam has consulted auguries and believes I will bear him sons. She has ordered me to wear charms and report on our activities—busybody that she is!”

“She won’t have such influence over the noblewomen he marries, who will have their own mothers to advise them,” I said. “And she will be happy to give you to her son, because she knows firsthand the loveliness of your character.”

“I have done my best, even when I didn’t wish to be a servant.”

“This is your just reward.” I felt my throat tighten again with sorrow.

“Insh’Allah. Javaher, you are kind. You always have been.”

“My beloved, your absence will leave a hole in my heart. I—”

My voice stopped dead in my throat, my grief so consuming that I could not continue. Khadijeh pressed her face against mine, and the tear that slid down her cheek coursed over my own. We clung to one another as if it were possible to remain joined forever.

Khadijeh reached for my sash and pulled it open. The sheep’s balls I had eaten seemed to stir in my blood, and I put my hands on her collarbones and lifted the clothes off her body. I removed my robe, tunic, trousers, and turban, and pushed her gently back into the cushions. I started with small bites on her buttocks, teasing the soft, generous flesh. I traveled to her ears and plundered them with kisses, then teased her lips with my tongue. I skipped, for the moment, the parts of her that were crying out for me, and visited the soles of her feet. I sucked and nibbled, and I began to hear Khadijeh’s breath rise until it sounded almost as if she might lose herself right then. I journeyed back across her calves and thighs to return to her breasts, so round and firm, and kissed the rubies that surmounted them. She rolled gently from side to side, thrusting first one breast at me, then the other.

When I was sated, I traveled farther down, kneeled in front of her, lifted her legs onto my shoulders, and began drinking at her trough. I started with teasing, flicking movements, and then as she became crazed, I became very slow, licking her with my full flat tongue, pressing my nose into her stream-filled cave, and finally, when her eyes looked as glassy as if she had consumed a strong cup of bang, I reached out to her nipples and stroked them with great gentleness. She became as wet and fertile as an oasis, and I felt as if I were drinking the milk and honey of paradise. Then I let my tongue become fleet, surprising her, and before long, Khadijeh’s legs began trembling and jerking so hard, I was almost thrown. Her eyes rolled back in her head, and her hands clutched at the cushions. I held her gently until she was through.

She remained motionless for a while, and all I could hear was her soft breathing. Then she rolled her body against mine and held me.

“Your place will be empty,” she said.

A profound sadness washed over me as I imagined how many women I would meet, only to have to say goodbye to them when they found someone to marry. Most women crave children, and that was the one thing I could not provide. Yet I was still a man, wasn’t I?

When she had rested, Khadijeh attended to me. In her embrace, caught up by the scent of frankincense in her hair and the things her mouth could do, I was able to forget for a moment what I was about to lose.

It was close to dawn—far too close—when we were finally done. I rushed to put on my trousers as well as the rest of my clothes. Then I arose and said my tender goodbyes, touching her hyacinth curls as I took my leave.

“When will you return?” she asked.

“Never.”

“Never?” Her eyes looked hurt. Being promised to the shah had not stopped Khadijeh from risking everything to see me. I was grateful that she still cared.

“It is too dangerous, especially for you. We can’t risk any suspicion now that you have been claimed.”

I leaned over her and laid my palms tenderly against the sides of her neck, feeling her heart’s pulse in my fingers.

“I will always think of you,” I said, “and will hope for your happiness.”

“And I yours!” she replied, but I caught a trace of pity in her tone.

The eunuch on duty was still asleep, even though the birds had already started singing. When I was a good distance away and concealed by trees, I threw a handful of stones in his direction to wake him up. He would be punished if discovered snoring when he was supposed to be protecting the ladies—including the slave soon to be favored by the shah. But I had thrown the stones much harder than I intended, and they struck his calf and foot. He uttered a loud curse and leapt up to regain his post. I sped away. A sharp gust of wind rushed through the gardens, concealing the sound of my steps and moaning as it stripped the trees of their leaves.

Back in my room, I fell asleep for another hour. I dreamed that my penis was so erect that it hurt like a wound. All I wanted was to plunge myself into a woman to relieve the ache. Dark-eyed Fereshteh appeared like a savior in my dreams, seeking out my penis with her soft hands, making it even larger and more racked by pain. Tormented, I crawled on top of her and slid in. Just at the moment when I was about to find release, Fereshteh’s eyes filled with disappointment.

“What are you?” she asked accusingly. My penis shrank.

I woke up, sweating all over. Seeking out my parts with my hands, I encountered a sickening void and wrapped my arms around my chest to keep from groaning out loud.



The next day was Friday. Pari sent Massoud Ali to me with a message that I was at leisure until the following morning, when she planned to hold the usual daily meeting with the nobles. Thus liberated for the first time in weeks, I went to the Friday mosque outside the palace to say my prayers. The mosque was located at the end of the Promenade of the Royal Stallions and had been founded during the reign of Harun al-Rashid. Its turquoise dome was lightened by white swirls of tile that made it look as if it were whirling into the heavens.

Later that day, I took Massoud Ali to town with Balamani and a few of the other eunuchs, and we bought fresh skewers of lamb kabob in the bazaar. We walked to a stream not far from the palace and cooked the lamb over a hot fire, and then we ate the charred meat with bread and drank tea with dates.

As the stars began to come out, all of us took turns telling stories, and Massoud Ali asked if he could tell one to me.

“My youthful Ferdowsi, please go ahead!”

Massoud Ali tucked a curl into his turban, which he had just learned to wrap correctly, and whispered a story in my ear until his eyes grew heavy and he wished to be cuddled as if he were a small child. I took him back to the palace so he could get a good night’s sleep, while the rest of the eunuchs went to a tavern, where they could eat opium until they felt completely at home with themselves.

By the time I rejoined them, the tavern was full of men talking and laughing. Balamani had stretched out on a cushion and was sharing a jug of spirits with Mateen Agha, another eunuch.

“Did you tuck him in?” Balamani asked.

“First I had to wipe away his tears.”

He sat up abruptly. “What is the matter?”

“He told me a long story about a boy enslaved by a jinni. The jinni kills his father, marries off his mother, and makes the boy do his dirty work.”

Balamani looked puzzled.

“Massoud Ali’s mother remarried when he was six and abandoned him at court. The jinni is the only way he can explain it.”

“Poor creature! What kind of mother would do that?”

Balamani passed the jug of spirits to Mateen, who refilled both of their cups.

“As soon as I retire,” Balamani added, “I am going to marry a widow with a couple of boys just like Massoud Ali. Praise be to God, I will have a family of my own.”

“Get out of here, papa!” scoffed Mateen. “What is going to stop your widow from craving a tent pole?”

Balamani laughed uncomfortably; he had never experienced sexual desire. “I suppose Javaher can tell me how to . . .”

His words trailed off abruptly when he looked at me. I drank some bang, and then I drank a lot more. There came a happy moment when it didn’t matter so much that Khadijeh was no longer mine, and the other eunuchs began to rib me for singing alone and in such a broken voice.



Pari continued holding her daily meetings with the nobles, but some of the regulars began to drop away. Shamkhal sent us a message that he was too ill to attend meetings. Shokhrollah’s absence was unexplained until Mirza Salman brought us the surprising news that he had been appointed grand vizier. Pari and I were shocked that her brother had chosen him even though she had reported on his poor conduct.

At about the same time, Pari received a letter from Rudabeh, the woman who had come to her for help in reclaiming her home. Rudabeh had returned to Khui and was waiting for the local Council of Justice to revisit her case. She wrote that there was talk of rebellion in her province of Azerbaijan in favor of the Ottomans and that attempts were being made to recruit citizens to join the effort. “I pray every day for our safety—but please send help!” she wrote in handwriting that looked shaky with fear.

Pari sent Majeed to the new grand vizier to ask for funds to put down the rebellion in Azerbaijan. When he was unable to get an answer, despite repeated efforts, Pari decided to visit Isma‘il herself and bring the problem to his attention. Tahmasb Shah’s peace treaty with the Ottomans had endured for more than twenty years, and Pari was fearful that the treaty might collapse.

I advised her to bring her brother an offering, since he hadn’t shown her favor on our first visit.

“An offering? So many gifts are pouring into the royal treasury that the official record keepers can’t even keep up with them in their ledgers.”

“I know,” I said. “Instead of a gift, why not write your brother a poem celebrating his great deeds as a warrior? That way, you will soften his heart and make him receptive to your demands.”

Pari thought for a moment and then said, “You are right. I need a better weapon than reason.”

She called for pen, ink, and a writing table, sat down on a cushion, and began composing in Farsi. From time to time she lifted her head and asked me to fetch her books, such as court histories that recounted the details of the battles in which Isma‘il took part. Once she had her theme, I helped her develop resonant rhymes.

In half a day, Pari was able to write a long poem that celebrated Isma‘il’s prowess as a young warrior and anticipated the brightness of his reign. When she had finished composing, she called for paper made of linen and hemp. It was so fine that I was moved to give silent thanks to the Chinese eunuch Cai Lun, the first man to make real paper.

I read Pari’s poem out loud to her, while she wrote the words slowly in her most elegant handwriting. The next day, I accompanied her to Kholafa’s house. She was greeted by his wife, shown with respect into the andarooni, and offered many refreshments, but we waited a long time before being granted a visit. An awkward silence settled on the room, during which Pari flicked at the fringes on her sash. It was a humiliating experience for a princess who only months before had been able to command the Shah’s attention whenever she asked for it.

Finally, Isma‘il deigned to see his sister. He still looked sallow, as he had the first time. He and his mother sat so closely together it was as if they were reconnected by an umbilical cord.

“Brother of mine, thank you for agreeing to see me,” Pari began. “I have come to offer you a small gift, although I fear it is unworthy.”

Pari proffered the poem, which was encased in a strong leather binding to keep it flat. Isma‘il beckoned to indicate that he would receive it, and one of his servants came forward with a silver tray and brought the poem to him. He opened the binding and began reading, and I waited breathlessly until a few moments later, when a smile broke over his face.

“Here, Mother,” he said. “I beg you to read this aloud, so that you can enjoy it, too.”

Sultanam began reading, and Isma‘il leaned back to enjoy Pari’s fluid lines. In them he emerged as a young warrior astride a horse, filled with loyalty to his country, drawing his bowstring and striking his target with ease. His mother’s voice increased its excitement as the poem leapt forward, and I, too, felt as if I could see him on the battlefield, his sword flashing in the sun, his future as bright as his heart.

“Bah, bah, it is beautiful!” he exclaimed when she was done. “Who wrote it? I should like to meet the man and reward him.”

“I did,” replied Pari in a modest tone.

“Indeed? Then you are very talented. Did you know that I, too, compose poetry?”

“I hadn’t heard.”

“As I suspected, there is much you don’t know about me. I write under the pen name Adeli.”

The name he had chosen meant “man of justice.”

“Justice will indeed be yours,” Pari replied.

“I should like to hear your other poems.”

“Thank you. Perhaps you would also like to hear some of the poetry I commissioned about our father.”

“Yes, we must plan an evening together very soon. We can recite to each other.”

“I would be honored,” Pari said.

Isma‘il called for more refreshments, during which time I suggested to Pari in a low voice that we should go. But she pressed ahead, even before the sharbat arrived.

“Brother of mine, may I tell you about a matter of state?”

His eyes became suddenly wary, his tone cold. “What is it?”

She changed course and said, “I only meant . . . I wondered if I could assist you with the governorships that need filling. I could suggest some good men.”

“Everyone wants to suggest his own men,” he replied. “The problem is, whom can I trust?”

“I can advise you,” Pari said confidently.

“There are vipers everywhere,” he replied, his eyes darkening. “Again and again I have escaped their venom through the grace of God.”

The princess looked puzzled.

“Do you know why it took me so long to come to Qazveen? I foiled several assassination plots by changing my plans on a moment’s notice. It is a wonder I arrived safely.”

“Thanks be to God for His beneficent protection,” Sultanam said, her protective gaze on her son.

“And now that I am here, I see that the palace is divided into those who supported me and those who didn’t. I haven’t stayed alive for twenty years in confinement only to be assassinated upon my return by traitors!”

“Of course not. May God keep you safe,” Pari replied.

“Yet my enemies are everywhere,” he continued. “I won’t feel secure until my coronation, when every man and woman makes a vow before God to obey me and is reminded that the punishment for disobedience is death.”

“Your heart will be much easier,” said his mother.

The astrologers had recently determined that all the stars were aligned perfectly, and the coronation had been scheduled for the following week.

“But even then I will have to be vigilant, because men’s hearts are blacker than dirt. My greatest wish would be to have the contents of every man’s mind revealed to me like the pages of a book so that no thought of treachery could ever escape my eye. Then, and only then, would I feel safe.”

The princess and I exchanged a troubled look.

“It will be some time before I know who has my interests foremost in mind,” he added, his eyes resting on his mother.

“Brother of mine, I offer my services whenever you need them. As you know, the nobles have been meeting with me every morning so that the business of the palace can proceed.”

I was glad Pari had mentioned the meetings. Now Isma‘il couldn’t claim that she was doing something behind his back, and could tell her what he thought about her actions. I awaited his answer anxiously.

“Yes, I know about the nobles who come to you,” he replied. “Time will show me who is loyal.”

It was an odd answer, neither positive nor negative, and I wondered if he included his sister in his concerns about loyalty.

“I wouldn’t recommend a man to you if I was uncertain about him,” Pari said. “There is one man whom I question, however: Mirza Shokhrollah.”

“I remember your concerns,” replied Isma‘il, “but his confusion over whether he should serve a woman was understandable.”

“I am royalty,” said Pari. “There is no confusion there.”

“True. Still, I need men like Mirza Shokhrollah. He understands court finances better than almost anyone.”

Pari was unable to prevent a frown from flitting across her face.

“My son,” interjected Sultanam, “it is time for your afternoon rest. Little by little, you must regain your strength.”

“Just one moment—my business is vital,” Pari replied.

“Yes, Mother,” said Isma‘il, ignoring the princess. “How grateful I am to have someone who looks after my well-being. I will go now and have my nap.”

Sleep, when there was so much to do?

“Thank you for the poem. We will speak again soon.” He arose and took his leave, his mother following closely behind.

As we walked back to the palace, Pari’s eyes seemed to be looking inward. When I asked her if I could do anything for her, she replied sadly, “All the time I imagined my brother coming home, I never suspected it would feel like I was talking with a stranger. I only hope that time will turn him back into a brother.”

“Esteemed princess, I think he is afraid of you. He is all dark instinct and confusion, while you are like the sun of reason.”

“And that means I shall have to prove to him day by day that my intentions are loyal.”

“That is wise.”

We strategized about the best ways for her to show her loyalty, but before we could implement any of our ideas, Isma‘il announced that he would not see anyone but his closest advisors until after the coronation. When Pari received the news, the hurt in her eyes was deep. How could Isma‘il cut off his own sister, the person who had done so much to bring him to the throne? Was someone close to him sullying her name?



Early the next morning, I went to Shamkhal’s house with a small bag of silver in my hand. When a servant opened the door, I asked to see one of his eunuchs, whom I knew from when he had served at the palace as a messenger boy. As I kissed him on both cheeks, I slipped the bag of silver into his sleeve and asked him whether his master had been ill. He said he hadn’t. When I pressed him for details, he whispered that Shamkhal had been invited to keep company with Isma‘il every day.

I returned to Pari’s and told her I had something to reveal to her, but that the very thought made me choke. Fortunately, she did not require the lengthy protestations of regret that were usually necessary in such a circumstance.

“Out with it.”

“Is it possible your uncle has found favor with Isma‘il?”

“Of course not. He would have told me.”

I assumed a concerned look, as if worried about his health. “But we haven’t seen him for days. Do you think he is still ill?”

“He must be.”

“Perhaps, then, he would welcome a visit from you.”

Pari’s eyes sought mine. “What exactly do you know? Speak!”

“Isma‘il has invited him to make daily visits.”

“Him, not me? How have you learned this?”

“I paid someone to find out.”

“With whose money?”

“My own.”

“When did I grant you permission to do that?”

“You didn’t.”

Her brows knitted together, and I feared a storm. “Are you implying that my uncle is betraying me?”

“Surely not, esteemed princess. I simply thought you would wish to know his movements.”

I had to be diplomatic.

“How dare you? If my uncle finds out you were spying on him, you will be pounded into pudding.”

“My duty is to protect you, no matter what.”

“That is what all servants say to earn their keep,” Pari scoffed.

It wasn’t uncommon for palace servants to put themselves at risk to earn their master’s trust, but my own reasons went deeper. Lately I had begun to develop tender feelings for Pari. Her vulnerability brought out all my protective urges, almost as if she were the sister I had never been able to watch grow up. Seeing her struggle with what fate had allotted her made me think about Jalileh and how much I wished I had been able to soften the blows she had endured. Something in my face must have spoken out loud, because the storms on Pari’s forehead cleared.

“I won’t judge your actions until I investigate this matter further. You prove your loyalty to me every day.”

I let out my breath. I hoped she would begin to think about how she could appear to serve Isma‘il rather than demanding things from him.

“Esteemed princess, the nightingale finds it easy to be loyal to a rose,” I said. “Your task is much thornier than mine.”