Equal of the Sun A Novel

CHAPTER 9



BREAD AND SALT





Fereydoon trussed Zahhak, threw him onto a donkey, and rode with him to the foothills of Mount Damavand. He intended to kill him there, but an angel instructed him to stay his hand. Instead, Fereydoon climbed the mountain until he came upon a cave populated by boulders. Slinging Zahhak over his back, he scaled the tallest boulder, threw Zahhak onto the rock, and pounded nails into his arms and legs until he dangled over the middle of the cave.

I suspect that Zahhak did not die. He and his snakes are eternally suspended, awaiting the moment when the forces of evil unleash their powers again.





After Massoud Ali fell asleep, I bathed at the hammam, dressed in a black tunic and trousers, black robe, and black and brown sash, and walked to Pari’s house near the Ali Qapu. My head was pounding from my excesses of the night before, and the wound near my temple had swollen. Azar Khatoon opened the door clad in a dark mourning robe, her eyes red from weeping.

“I take refuge in almighty God,” she said, her voice trembling. A tear slid down her cheek and coursed over her beauty mark.

“Alas!” I said, stepping inside. “What can be said?”

We went into Pari’s birooni, which was large and empty. A hard white light poured through the windows, making me wince. Some of Pari’s ladies wandered in and out of her rooms like ghosts who could find no rest.

“How can they expect women to serve such a brutal court?” Azar asked, looking as vulnerable as if she had been struck. Her face crumpled, and she reached for me and cried into my robe.

Hearing steps behind us, we turned and saw Maryam, whose body sagged within her clothes. Her tangled blond hair hung limply near her face, and she had wept so much that the lower half of one eye looked full of blood.

“My poor, dear lady!”

“Was there a braver woman? A fiercer flower?” Maryam asked. Angry tears fell onto her cheeks.

“The loveliest roses are always plucked first,” said Azar.

The three of us were quiet for a moment, paralyzed by woe. Then Maryam’s lips split into a ghastly laugh. “Anwar told us earlier today that the shah-to-be has prohibited a ceremony for Pari. Neither will there be an official burial. We will never know where her body lies.”

She put her fists to her cheeks, and tears flowed over them. “I won’t ever be able to visit her grave, sweep off the dirt, and adorn it with flowers and my tears. It will be as if she had never existed.”

“By the skull of the Shah!” I swore angrily. “Before they erase the woman we loved, let’s collect her letters, her poems, and her papers, and try to save them so that others may know her as we did.”

“What about her heirs?” asked Azar.

I thought for a moment. “Since she has no children, the law stipulates that her possessions must be divided among her brothers and sisters,” I said, realizing all of a sudden that Mohammad Khodabandeh would be included. “What a grotesque violation of propriety that the man who ordered her murder will inherit her property.”

I shouldn’t have spoken so forthrightly about the new shah, but in my grief, I didn’t care.

“Her poems will be valuable to those who loved her. Let’s work quickly,” I added.

The three of us occupied her writing room and began looking through her papers. We left untouched the copies of her official correspondence—the letters she had written to the wives of other rulers, receipts she had received or given, deeds of ownership. When we found a scrap of anything personal, such as a poem or a personal letter, we hid it in between the pages of a Shahnameh. But we had barely begun when we heard a ferocious banging on the knocker for women, which felt like nails being driven into my pounding head. Maryam started and grabbed Azar Khatoon’s hand, and the two women looked at each other in alarm.

I went forth and faced a group of eunuchs bearing shields and swords.

“Who are you?” I growled.

“We come from Khalil Khan,” said their leader. “Pari’s things now belong to him, so get out, and make sure the women leave with you before we invite the soldiers in.”

I tried to slam the door in his face, but he and his eunuchs pushed their way into the house. Their eyes came alive with greed when they saw the fine carpets, silver samovar, and antique lusterware there. I rushed to tell Azar, Maryam, and the other women, who looked terrified at the thought of Khalil Khan and his soldiers. They covered themselves quickly and followed me out, and I accompanied them back to safe quarters within the harem, leaving the soldiers to plunder.

I was deeply aggrieved that I had not even been able to save Pari’s personal papers. Almost nothing would be left, not only to those who had loved her, but to history.



I went to Balamani in search of consolation and told him everything that had happened, including what I had learned about Mirza Salman’s betrayal. I was the only person at the palace who knew about it, other than the new Shah and his wife, and I wanted Balamani’s advice on how to discredit Mirza Salman.

“But first I would like to slash his neck like a chicken’s.”

Balamani eyed me as if I were a deranged dog. “Has someone smacked you in the head? He is the second most powerful man in the realm. You had better look to your own neck instead.”

“Am I in danger?”

“I don’t know. God be praised, as a clever vizier you are worth your weight in turquoise. Now our job is to convince those around Mohammad Khodabandeh that you are loyal. I will speak with Anwar. You need to do your part by singing the praises of the new Shah.”

It was exactly the type of thing I had advised Pari to do, and it filled me with dread.

“Don’t let your feelings for the princess impede what you must do,” Balamani chided. “What is wrong with you? Why is your heart so bruised?”

“It is a matter of justice,” I said angrily. “It riles me to see men winning high position because they’re bullies and blackguards, while they send Pari to an early grave.”

“She played a man’s game and fell with honor. Your only mistake was that you loved her.”

“A man has to love someone.”

“Perhaps you are no longer suited to palace life.”

“What else is there for me? I have no male family and no other employ.”

“I know.”

“I miss her. I keep thinking I hear her voice.”

“Are you forgetting your place? Your job is to serve the shah, no matter who it is.”

“Balamani, please stop. You sound like a sycophantic slave.” I turned away in disgust.

Balamani grabbed my sash, bringing me to a halt.

“I intend to say whatever is required to save you,” he said, and in his eyes I saw the goodwill of a longtime friend.



Because there was to be no public mourning ceremony, there was no place to grieve. Nor could I speak about Pari except in whispers because it was dangerous to show such partisanship for an executed princess. My grief felt as explosive as gunpowder packed in a cannon. Now I was mourning two treasures, Khadijeh and Pari, and thoughts of one would lead me to thoughts of the other until my heart felt pounded blue.

The palace women asked me repeatedly to describe what had happened to Pari. I told the story without sparing the details so that everyone would know how the princess had been butchered.

The younger women were frightened by the story. “That is what happens when you act like a man,” Koudenet said, a shiver running through her. “She should have married and contented herself with raising a family.”

Sultanam, who had come from Qom for her son’s coronation, was more thoughtful: “If she hadn’t been so powerful, they would have sent her into exile. She terrified them.”

To compound my grief, the loss of Pari’s patronage meant that my plans for bringing Jalileh to court had turned to dust. I suspected that if I wrote my cousin the truth—that my patron had died—she would give up hope and sacrifice Jalileh. Instead I gathered all the money I had and sent it as a gift, describing it as a foretaste of the reward I would provide when I was able to bring my sister to Qazveen. I wrote to Jalileh separately, hinted at my difficulties, and urged her to resist their marriage plans.

This fresh defeat upset me deeply. If Jalileh were to suffer more bad luck, there would be no reason for me to awaken in this world. But I had no idea what I could do to save her.



The day we went to Forty Columns Hall to witness Mohammad Khodabandeh taking the crown, I felt nothing but cynicism. A slightly different group of mullahs and nobles than the last time approached the throne in order of highest rank and kissed the feet of the man who would henceforth be known as Mohammad Shah. When Mirza Salman strutted self-importantly to the throne in his dandified clothes, a burst of loathing seized me like the trembling that comes from the plague. As I swore loyalty to the Shah with the others, I dared to glance into Mohammad Shah’s dark eyes. They looked vacant and empty of feeling.

In the days after the coronation, the few remaining princes, the nobles, and the highest-ranking palace employees began to be summoned one by one to see the Shah and given their posts and promotions. Anwar instructed me to report to him until it was my turn, which was likely to take weeks. He told me that my interim assignment would be to read the princess’s mail, which was still arriving at the palace in great quantities, and to inform him of any important news. For the sake of courtesy, I was also to write to correspondents of significant rank and announce her death; otherwise, they would be insulted that their letters had gone unanswered. “She was unparalleled,” Anwar whispered to me sympathetically, “and all of us who served her know the truth, even if it must die with us.” He told me to work in the company of the palace scribes, where I would find abundant supplies of paper, ink, and reed pens, and would be spared the grief of working in the princess’s old quarters in the palace, which in any case were about to be occupied by members of Khayr al-Nisa’s family.

I arrived at my posting the next day shortly after the morning prayer. Once I had conveyed my orders from Anwar, I was welcomed into the large, light-filled office by Rasheed Khan, the chief of the scribes. He gave me a wooden lap desk and showed me how to request supplies. I thought I saw sympathy in his weary, red-rimmed eyes.

Massoud Ali fetched and delivered all the letters that had come for Pari after her death, which had been held by the chief palace courier. Although it had been only a few weeks since her murder, it took Massoud Ali several trips to bring them in. He still looked wan with grief.

“Want to play backgammon later, my little radish?”

“All right,” he said in a dull voice, and I knew he was just trying to please me. How it pained me to see him suffer! I swore to myself that I would try to get him assigned to me permanently at my new posting so that I could watch over him every day.

I stared at the pile of letters. The dry white paper made me think of Pari’s bones whitening somewhere under the earth. I could hardly bear to touch the pulverized linen and hemp, but as I was now under the scrutiny of Rasheed Khan and his staff, I assumed a workmanlike demeanor and began my task.

The first letter I opened was from a prostitute Pari had met once when she had gone to the shrine of Fatemeh Massoumeh in Qum to honor that holy sister of the Imam Reza. The letter, which had been written by a scribe that the prostitute had hired, reminded Pari where they had met and that the princess had given her money to start a new life. The prostitute had spent the money on felt and tools and had started a business making felt blankets for horses. After two years of hard work, she had developed a small stream of income that allowed her to quit her old profession. She thanked Pari for her belief in her goodness, and promised to say prayers for her every week at the shrine.

Yes, I thought, that was the princess I knew. Not the scheming Pari that tongues wagged about in the palace, but the Pari who would never let a request from a poor woman go unanswered, no matter how shameful her profession.

I began composing the response to the prostitute in my mind. “Dear Friend of the Court, I am very sorry to have to convey to you the earth-destroying news that the princess Pari Khan Khanoom, the most celebrated and revered flower of the Safavi women, has . . .”

I dropped the letter, my hands shaking.

“What is the matter?” asked Rasheed Khan, who happened to be passing by my station. “You don’t look well.”

“It is nothing,” I said. “I need some tea and sugar.”

“Ask the tea boys; you can’t drink anything in here.”

I went into the next room, away from all that precious paper, and a boy served me a glass of tea with a date before I had even asked for it.

My new job was ghastly. To have to convey Pari’s death in formal courtly language made me feel as if I were reliving her murder. I imagined her bruised neck, gaping eyes, and bared teeth, and wished that Khalil Khan’s maid had spared me.

When I returned to my task in the main writing room, I noticed a letter with a swooping, intricate royal seal indicating its provenance from the Ottoman court. I opened it carefully, certain that it must bear news of political import. Murad III’s wife Safiyeh wrote that she was eager to ensure that the long-running peace treaty between the two countries be maintained, but had been discouraged by friction between Safavi and Ottoman troops near Van. Were the reports true? She begged for a reply before the soldiers escalated the fighting. The tone of her letter was polite but not warm, which alarmed me since she and Pari had enjoyed friendly relations in the past. I put the letter aside to show to Anwar; it would require an immediate reply by the scribe in charge of political missives.

I read a few more letters until I came upon one from Rudabeh, Pari’s correspondent from Khui. Rudabeh also wrote of skirmishes on the border between Safavi and Ottoman troops, but added that she had heard that Khosro Pasha, the governor of Van, had decided to teach Iran a lesson by organizing a fighting force of Ottomans and Kurds against the Safavis. She knew this because one of her family members had been solicited to be one of the soldiers. She thought the princess would want to know.

I set the letter on the desk, alarmed. Pari had been right; the peace between the Safavis and the Ottomans had been based entirely on strength. The minute we looked weak, the countries on our borders became predators.

I sought out Balamani immediately and gave him the letters, which he promised to bring to the attention of Anwar, who had Mohammad Shah’s ear.

“But don’t expect much,” said Balamani. “The Shah is too busy emptying out the royal treasury.”

“What?”

“He has been heaping bags of gold and silver, as well as silk robes of honor, upon his new appointees. He is trying to buy loyalty.”

“So he is desperate?”

“His lavishness reveals how weak he is.”

“Just like Haydar. What a pity.”

It seemed to me then that the royal court would never reward honesty. It would breed sycophants eager for treasure; it would require capitulation. No truthful word would be spoken to the royals in power. Those who succeeded would slither like snakes to earn their rewards; those who protested would be struck down.

“That is the least of it,” Balamani continued. “The Ostajlu and Takkalu are at each other’s throats again along with their allies, which makes me fear another civil war. Disgruntled citizens in the north and south are organizing revolts. The Ottomans and Uzbeks are threatening invasions on our western and eastern flanks. No corner of the country is safe.”

Panah bar Khoda! Were we to live under the rule of yet another incompetent? Working for such an inept court was not just maddening—it was perilous.

That night, I had a dream I will never forget. It was as if the Shahnameh had come to life and swept me into its stories. The blacksmith Kaveh appeared at my door and asked me to join him on a mission. His face was ruddy from the forge, his forearms as strong as steel. Together we stormed Zahhak’s palace, and Kaveh shredded his lying proclamation before his eyes. At the city square, Kaveh lifted his leather apron on the point of a spear and rallied the people against the evil leader. I marched with him, my heart bursting with pride.

“Long live Kaveh!” I chanted. “Death to the tyrant!”

The crowd swelled and yelled, their cheers like thunder. Surely our liberation was at hand! But when the cheers were at their loudest, Kaveh turned toward me.

“I am born in every generation,” he whispered. “I protest and die, but still the tyrants prevail.”

His black hair was flecked with gray, his leathery face creased with worry. I could not believe that he looked so despondent, and I was stricken with dread.

“How much longer must we endure injustice?” I asked.

But even Kaveh had no answer.



Defying Balamani’s advice, I went to see Mirza Salman on the pretext that I needed to tell him what I had learned from Pari’s correspondence. He kept me waiting until I was the last person who wished to see him, and then he couldn’t put me off anymore. He was dressed in yet another magnificent robe, this one made of rose silk with paisley patterns, with a matching turban and sash. The opulence of his garments disgusted me.

“I am sorry to hear the news about your lieutenant,” he said as he motioned from his cushion for his scribes to leave us. “Please accept my condolences.”

I couldn’t conceal my outrage, despite all my years of training to be the perfect servant. “Condolences? From you?”

“Of course. What a tragedy, a princess in her prime.”

I laughed with such scorn that he put his hand on the dagger in his sash.

“Leave it be. I have no fear of your blade.”

“Did the blow you took addle your brains? What is the matter with you?”

“With me? You are the one who spun tales to entrap the princess.”

His face went white for a moment; I could see his mind buzzing over all the possible ways that I might have found him out. “Spun tales? I don’t know what you are talking about.”

“How good you are at saving yourself—as good as a flea who jumps to dry land from a capsized boat.”

“You are a fantasist. I didn’t give the order for her execution.”

“But no doubt your propaganda made it seem like a good idea.”

“I have never said anything different from what everyone else said about her thirst for power.”

“You encouraged her to try to become the Shah’s chief advisor, remember? You arranged it with the nobles yourself.”

“That was before I talked to his wife. She is just as fierce as Pari was, but has the advantage of being her husband’s main confidante. How could Pari fight that?”

“She would have been a better ruler.”

“Not as far as the Shah is concerned.”

“He will be sorry one day.”

“You fool! How dare you speak out against your new leader? You could get pitched out of court and thrown into the river.”

“Through one of your campaigns of sabotage?”

“You are one to talk. After all, you helped plan a murder.”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

He laughed. “I wouldn’t be surprised if the new Shah decided to get rid of you.”

“A talented eunuch like myself shines brighter than gold. Remember, I am the crazy fool who cut himself to join the court.”

“I doubt the new Shah cares much about what you did to your cock.”

His language infuriated me. “I may not have a cock, but at least I am not a prick like you.”

“Get out before I inflict a mortal wound on the parts of you that are still intact.”

I laughed at him. “From what I have heard, you wouldn’t have the balls to do much.”

He leapt off his cushion, his dagger drawn. To show him how concerned I was, I turned my back on him and strolled out of the room. As I expected, he didn’t follow.

Shortly thereafter, Mirza Salman began a campaign of sabotaging my name. It started with small comments made in passing about my loyalty, which Anwar heard and mentioned to Balamani. Then it escalated to open accusations that I couldn’t be trusted. Mirza Salman even spread a rumor suggesting I had been affiliated with a physician who was suspected of poisoning Tahmasb Shah’s orpiment.

I was in grave danger.

Balamani’s creased forehead told me that he wished my situation at court were resolved, but neither of us could do anything to speed along my new posting. Nor could I leave palace service of my own accord: No servant was permitted to depart, even for a vacation, without permission. In any case, I didn’t have funds to support myself on the outside.

Worse yet, my attempts to placate my mother’s cousin were not successful. I received a letter from her demanding a firm departure date for Jalileh and money for the caravan. If they did not see an end to my excuses soon, they would permit the old man to marry Jalileh. I was plunged into despair as dark and deep as the bottom of a well. Although now I had the means to bring my sister to Qazveen, I had no place to house her and no way to keep her. By God above, what was I to do?



While I waited to be summoned to see the Shah, I continued my job of reading and responding to the princess’s letters. Because all the correspondents wrote to Pari as if she were still alive, I began to feel as if I could see her pearly forehead, smell her piney perfume, and feel her arm guiding mine as I selected letters and wrote my responses.

I had been focusing my attention on the letters sent on the best paper with the most exalted seals, knowing that the writers would be demanding. One morning, however, a letter written on simple paper fell away from the rest of the stack. I picked it up and opened it. It was from one of Pari’s vakils, a landowner in Qazveen. He wrote as follows:

Esteemed princess, I received the letter you sent from the Shah’s encampment and wish to inform you that I have fulfilled your request and have transferred the deed of the mill near the Tehran Gate into the name of your servant Payam Javaher Shirazi. It is now legally his property. I will keep the deed until he comes to claim it and will hold the revenues from the mill for him until then. Please let me know if I may be of service in any other way.

I dropped the letter in surprise and then snatched it up again before anyone else could see it. Balamani had been right: Pari had wished to take care of me! She must have written the letter on the very morning of her death.

I hid the letter in my robe when no one was looking. As soon as I could get away, I went to see the mill, which was located in a residential neighborhood in sight of the Tehran Gate. Donkeys walked in a circle around the mill to turn its heavy stone wheel, crushing sheaves of wheat into grain. Each person who used the mill paid a fee for this service. After watching for more than an hour, I determined that the mill was in such constant use that it would provide a steady stream of income. May God be praised! Sometimes fortune rains down from the sky.

“Who owns this mill?” I asked the man in charge of the donkeys, who was skinny and wiry. I was eager to hear my own name. With what pleasure I would introduce myself as the new owner and claim all that was my due.

“A generous patron. During the last holiday, poor people lined up here to receive free grain. May the gates of paradise open wide for him when the time comes!”

I was puzzled. “What is his name?”

“Khalil Khan.”

The man halted his donkeys abruptly and rushed to my side. “Agha? Are you all right?”



I hurried back to the palace to tell Balamani the news. He was leaning against cushions in the guest room in our quarters reviewing some documents for Anwar about the new Shah’s plans for religious endowments.

“Balamani, you were right about the princess,” I said. “She did not forget me. She has left me the mill near the Tehran Gate.”

He dropped the documents onto the wooden desk on his lap. “May God be praised! How much money does it bring in?”

“I don’t know yet.”

The relief in his eyes made me realize how worried he had been about me. “Now you can take good care of your sister, and maybe even of yourself.”

“Perhaps,” I said, but my voice sounded gloomy.

“Javaher, what is the matter? This should be one of the most joyful days of your life. You have been favored beyond imagining, even though your patron is dead.”

“I know. My heart is full of gratitude toward her. How kind she was to remember me! Little did she know what problems would ensue. Khalil Khan has claimed the mill. How can I wrest it away from him?”

Balamani looked puzzled. “You know how. Go to the grand vizier, show him the proof, and ask for his help in transferring the property into your name.”

“Mirza Salman won’t help me.”

“Why not?”

“He despises me.”

Balamani scrutinized me closely for a moment. “What have you done?”

“I had an altercation with him.”

“About what?”

“About a few things that were bothering me.”

“For example?” His brow furrowed, making him look like an avenging angel in his pale blue robe.

“I lost my temper. I couldn’t help it.” Embarrassment crept through me; it was the last thing an experienced courtier was supposed to do.

“What did you say?”

I looked away. “I accused him of instigating Pari’s murder.”

Balamani was stunned into a long silence. He stared at me, the skin between his eyes knitting into such fierce lines of concern that I felt as if I had disappointed my own mother.

“And that is not all—I smashed Khalil Khan’s nose. It points to the left now.”

He snorted. “It is a wonder you are still breathing. You are going to need the help of a power greater than any here on earth.”

I did not reply.

“Javaher, you have been a fool,” he added, his voice rising. “How do you think you are going to get the mill now that the grand vizier—who has the last word on all property documents—is set against you?”

“I don’t know. All I can tell you is that I felt like the reed that has been torn from its bed. How can I play a sweet tune when all that pours from my heart is sorrow and loss?”

“You know the rules at court. Why have you sabotaged all my hard work in your favor? What good do you do Pari if you destroy yourself? What a donkey you are!”

I felt the blood rush to my forehead, and my hands balled into fists at my sides. “By God above, I couldn’t bear it anymore! Are we not men? Do we not have tongues? Have they been so severed by the tyrants who rule us that we have lost our ability to speak?”

Balamani tried to interrupt, but I continued.

“For the first time in my life, I stood up like a man. I may pay the price of my life for my words, but at least I said them. I don’t care that I made an enemy. I don’t care that I may lose my posting. For once, I did not feel as if what was true in my heart was as different from what was on my lips as day to night. I became like hot white light, pure and clean. I felt as if my testicles had grown to the size of mountains and I had earned the right to shout out, ‘I am a complete man!’”

Balamani’s eyes softened, and he looked older and sadder than I had ever seen.

“I have never dared to do what you describe, my friend. I still think you are a fool”—he opened his palms to the heavens in wonder—“but I am proud of you.”

A mist clouded my vision. I shook it away angrily and gratefully.

“Balamani, what can I do now?”

The skepticism in his eyes indicated that he didn’t think I had much of a chance. “What are your desires?”

I thought for a moment. “I want the mill so I can leave court with an income, and then I want to learn what it means to be my own master.”

“And how do you expect to achieve all that?”

“I will go to Mirza Salman and ask for the mill because it is my right.”

Balamani’s laugh was long and sad. With regret, I remembered all the time he had spent drilling me so that I would never slip at court.

“Your behavior has been so provocative that he will refuse to help. At least accept one morsel of advice.”

“Of course.”

“Apologize. Explain that grief unhinged you. Swear to be an ally. That is the way of a smart courtier, and you have been one of the best.”

I grew hot with anger. “So I am to return to subterfuge, is that it?” I barked.

“Calm down,” Balamani ordered. “How badly do you wish to win?”



Mirza Salman wouldn’t even allow me to be shown in to see him, although I waited all day. When I rushed past his servants into his rooms, insisting that I had urgent business, his face puffed out with rage. I was hardly able to get the request for the mill out of my mouth before he called me an illiterate fool and had me thrown out.

I decided right then to visit Fereshteh with the excuse of wanting to exchange information with her about the court’s new personalities and plans. I needed her advice. Even more than that, I longed to see her and unburden my heart.

When I arrived at her house, I was told Fereshteh was occupied and would admit me when she could. I drank some tea, ate some small cucumbers, and admired a new painting on her walls of a noblewoman serving wine to a smitten courtier. The day dragged on, and I realized that Fereshteh was probably servicing a client. What if it was Mirza Salman? I was filled with loathing at the thought.

When I was finally shown in to see her, she didn’t rise to greet me. Her large eyes looked weary, her robe creased and tired.

“What is the matter?”

“My daughter has been vomiting,” she said. “I gave her some medicine and now she is finally sleeping.”

“I hope she gets better soon.”

“Thank you.”

“I have come to thank you. You have helped me with many things.”

“I only wish my intelligence on Mirza Salman had arrived soon enough to save your commander.”

“I wish the same,” I replied. “It is strange, but I believe Pari knew in her heart that she was going to her grave.”

“Why?”

“She spoke to me about death and judgment even before she knew about her uncle’s murder.”

“Alas! What a tragedy. Was she as fierce as they say?”

I thought back to Pari’s meeting with Mohammad and Khayr al-Nisa Beygom. “She was so bright that her light could burn. She was one of those people who neither compromise nor hold their tongue. She made people angry enough to want to destroy her.”

“Because she was too outspoken?”

“And because she had too many allies. Now that Mohammad Shah and his wife have also executed her mother and her uncle, they have uprooted Circassian power at court and made room for their own supporters. To me, though, it is as if they hacked a limb off their own tree.”

My cheeks felt wet all of a sudden, and I wiped them with the cloth that I still kept tucked inside my sash. It was Pari’s silk handkerchief, and the sight of it only made me feel worse.

Fereshteh’s eyes searched my face. “Did you love her?”

“Yes,” I said, “in the way that a soldier loves a good commander or a nobleman loves a just shah.”

“I understand. May this be your final sorrow!”

“Thank you.”

“It is a terrible loss. What will you do now?”

“I don’t know. I must wait to see what plans they have for me at the palace. Balamani said he would try to help me.”

“I hope you receive favor. In the meantime, I have heard some useful news,” Fereshteh continued. “Mirza Salman has just gotten married.”

“Oh?” I said.

“His wife’s name is Nasreen Khatoon.”

I snorted with disgust. “She spied on me and accused me of wrongdoing, which could have gotten me killed. Have she and Mirza Salman been working together all this time?”

“I presume so.”

“They deserve each other.”

“Mirza Salman doesn’t expect to be faithful to her, of course.”

Everyone knew that a nobleman could have several wives and keep as many other women as he could afford. Why had Fereshteh bothered to mention that?

“Come now: What are you saying?”

She was watching me very closely. “He has made me an offer.”

“Of marriage?”

“Of upkeep. He has promised to pay all my expenses if I serve him alone—in which case I could see you no more.”

I felt a violent surge of anger in my chest. “Does fate strew the man’s path with nothing but roses? A high posting, the removal of Pari, a well-placed wife, and now all your beauty? Good God! Why doesn’t he offer to marry you?”

“You know very well that noblemen don’t marry prostitutes.”

“He is a princess-killer, and he has tried to thwart me at every turn. How could you even consider him?”

“What other options do I have?”

“You said you wished to retire.”

“This is the only form of retirement I have ever been offered.”

I couldn’t stand hearing about him anymore. I leapt up, strode to the door, and thrust my feet into my shoes, hard with anger.

“How is his offer different from prostitution?”

“How is any marriage different?”

“That is ridiculous.”

I stopped in my tracks and turned to look at her, a cruel comment on my lips. She raised her hands as if in protection. The warning look in her large eyes stopped my tongue.

“Javaher, I must think about what is best for my daughter. More than anything, I wish to relinquish my profession.”

I paused. “What would you do if you had some money?”

“I would set about making myself respectable by learning a craft so that I could earn money another way. When my daughter is grown, I wish her to marry a kind man from a good family. There is no chance of that unless I can show the world a new face.”

She looked sad, and I thought about how no one had been able to save either one of us from our fate. What if, through the blessings of good fortune, we were able to save those who came after us? Only then would it seem as if our lives had been redeemed. What happiness we would feel if we could shelter our young ones from the lives we had endured!

I kicked off my shoes and sat down again, sighing.

“Fereshteh, I apologize for my outburst. Perhaps there is a way we can help each other. Pari left me a mill, but Mirza Salman won’t allow me to claim it. I need something damning about him in order to force his hand. If I can get ownership of it, I promise I will help you. The mill does well, and people always need its services. Its income would help you get started in a new life. I would like to be able to thank you for all your help, and I know that Pari would wish to do the same.”

Her whole face brightened with hope. “How grateful I would feel to be in charge of my own person! I would never have to touch one of those things again.”

I couldn’t help a wry smile.

“Why don’t you ask the Shah for help with the mill when you are called in about your new posting?”

“Mohammad Shah gave Khalil Khan all of Pari’s money as a reward for her murder. I doubt he would feel compelled to fulfill any of her last wishes.”

Fereshteh thought for a long time. I watched her face and was surprised to see what looked like strong emotions playing over it, but I couldn’t read them.

“I know of one person who might have the information you seek.”

“Who is it?”

“I can’t tell you,” she said.

“If we are to be partners in this, I need to know who it is.”

“Never mind. Leave this to me.”



About a week later, Fereshteh sent a messenger to me requesting that I visit her immediately. On the pretext that I had an urgent errand to fulfill in the bazaar, I asked Rasheed Khan for leave in the middle of the day. He let me go, although I could see in his eyes that it was because he desired to help me, not because he believed me. Abteen Agha snorted at my back as I left.

When I was shown into Fereshteh’s private guest room, she was completely veiled; I couldn’t even see her face because she had covered it with a white silk picheh.

“You may leave us,” she told her maid, who shut the door as quietly as if it were a shadow.

“Fereshteh, is it you?” I said lightly. “I have never seen you so covered.”

She did not reply. A chill froze my heart as she slowly removed the picheh from her face. Her right eyelid was the color of a rotten pomegranate, and the area underneath it was yellow and black. Her bottom lip was swollen to twice its normal size and cleft by a dark scab. Her eyes glistened with what could only be tears.

“By God above!” I roared. “Who did this to you? I will kill him.”

Her hands were shaking, I suspect, from the pain. “Remember how I met Sultanam the first time?”

I thought for a moment before recalling that a client had beaten her so badly that she had gone to the royal mother and demanded her help.

“You went back to that terrible man?”

“Yes.”

Slowly she removed her outer robe, revealing that one of her pale arms and the top of her breasts were covered with eggplant-colored blotches.

“Fereshteh, who would do such an ugly thing? Tell me and I will petition to have the monster punished.”

She shuddered as one of her long sleeves grazed a tender part of her forearm.

“I feel much better today than I did a few days ago. The pain has hardly been the worst of it. It was what he insisted on doing while having sex. I will omit the ugly details. I have paid very dearly for the information you wanted.”

The pit of my stomach filled with bile. “I would never have asked you to sacrifice your person, not even to save my own life.”

“I know,” she said. “That is why I didn’t tell you my plans. I decided that a week of pain would be worth the chance to win my freedom. Perhaps I have.”

A smile of triumph illuminated her face and made her look almost beautiful again despite her ghastly injuries.

“Fereshteh! I would rather have sacrificed myself for you instead.”

“Never mind that now. Here is what I have learned,” she said excitedly. “When Mirza Salman was wooing Mohammad Shah and his wife, he was also working on a plot to elevate their eldest son, Hamza Mirza, to the throne instead. In short, he was betraying them.”

I was seized with hope. “Is there proof that would allow me to get Mirza Salman dismissed?”

“No one will come forth and admit it. The best thing you can do to get the mill is tell Mirza Salman you have proof without telling him from whom. I know enough details about the plot that he will realize your source is impeccable.”

“How do you know it is impeccable?”

“The nobleman I saw was in on the plot with him. He is angry at Mirza Salman because he relinquished the plan to elevate Hamza Mirza when the Shah and his wife offered to keep him as grand vizier. I shall not reveal the nobleman’s name for fear that he would kill me if it came out.”

A shiver of fear went through her. She shook it away and began narrating the details of the plan, which I committed to memory. When the pain became too great for her to bear, she ate a few poppy seeds to relax and rubbed some liniment onto her poor bruised body.

“Thank you, Fereshteh. Your sacrifice has been far greater than any I deserved. I will do everything in my power to live up to what I promised.”

“A silken cord has bound us since we were little more than children,” she said gently.

I gestured toward a glass vase shaped like a tear-catcher that adorned one of her shelves. “I don’t want you to collect any more tears for me, though.”

She smiled. “So you know the story about the origin of the tear-catcher?”

“No.”

“Once there was a shah who was jealous of his queen and uncertain of her love. One morning he went off on a hunt and told his men to report to the queen that he had been torn apart by wild animals. The queen was sick with grief. She ordered her artisans to design a glass tear-catcher in which to collect all her tears. A few days later, the Shah’s spies reported that her room was filled with dozens of glass tear-catchers in shades of blue and violet, which glowed with her sorrow. Chagrined by the grief he had caused her, the Shah returned and promised to trust her and love her until the end of their days.”

I paused. “I wish that every terrible story had such a happy ending.”

“So do I.”



When I returned to the palace, I sent Mirza Salman a message saying that I had urgent information that could threaten the very foundations of the court, thereby obligating him to see me. He had just claimed one of the best offices near Forty Columns Hall, one with high ceilings and windows made of rare multicolored glass. I sat in his waiting room filled with deadly calm, thinking how pleased Balamani would be to know how resolute I felt.

When I was finally shown in, Mirza Salman frowned. I noticed that he had purchased a fancy silk carpet, which felt as soft as a baby’s skin, and he had positioned himself at the long end of it so that visitors would have to admire it while talking to him.

I didn’t waste time on pleasantries. “I have heard you have been speaking out against me.”

“So? I say what I think.”

“So do I. I am here because I need that mill—the one that Khalil Khan claimed as his reward for murdering Pari.”

Mirza Salman shuddered as if I had mentioned something indelicate. “Khalil Khan is one of the richest men in the country now. Why should I challenge him for your sake?”

“Because the mill belongs to me.”

He guffawed. “Can’t you think of a better reason?”

“Do you really want to make an enemy of me?”

“I am the grand vizier, remember? It is not even worth my time to smash your balls.”

I did not raise an eyebrow. “You have to help me,” I demanded. “It is the law.”

“I don’t have to do anything.”

I gestured to his eunuchs, who looked ready to grab me and throw me out of the room. “I have something to tell you that you will prefer to keep private.”

He sent them to the corners of the room so that they could not hear, but kept his hand on his dagger.

“I know about your plot to bring Hamza Mirza to the throne,” I said quietly. “Don’t you think that news might upset the Shah?”

Mirza Salman’s chin snapped into the air and his back stiffened as if he were riding a horse. “Nonsense.”

“Your plan was to bribe the Ostajlu guard inside the palace at the same time that you sent an army of supporters to guard all of its entrances, having learned from the mistakes that Haydar made. Once you had the palace secured, you were going to declare Hamza Mirza the new shah, with yourself as grand vizier.”

I began describing the minutiae of the plan, watching his face change from assured to ashen, until finally I had convinced him that I knew everything.

“Enough! I am not to blame, but you are a good enough storyteller to make it sound like a competent rumor. So you want the mill? Very well, then. I will see that you get it, but only under one condition: You must leave the court.”

It was exactly what I hoped he would say, but I pretended to equivocate. “You want me to relinquish my post at the palace? Why should I?”

“That is the deal. Otherwise you can fend for yourself.”

I pretended to look as if I felt cornered. “This is my home. Where else is a eunuch supposed to go?”

“Out of my sight.”

“I intend to stay.”

“Then I won’t help you.”

“Very well, then,” I said angrily. “When shall I expect to receive my orders to depart?”

“Right away.” He dismissed me with a flick of his wrist, and as I reached the door, he hissed, “You are very lucky.” His gaze was as chilling as the highest peaks of Mount Damavand.

“It is not luck.”



A few days later, Mirza Salman contacted Pari’s vakil and asked to see her letter about the mill. When it arrived, he had an expert at court verify her handwriting and declared the letter sound. I didn’t know what form of persuasion he used to wrest the mill away from Khalil Khan, but I suspected he was compelled to demand it as a personal favor. It didn’t take long before Mirza Salman sent a messenger to me with the deed. Once I had it in hand, I immediately sent a message to Fereshteh telling her of our success.

Kind lady, know that the tears shed by your loving eyes

Have transformed into oceans that rival the skies.

Because of your sacrifices and your pain

Those oceans rematerialized as sweet summer rain.

That rain fell upon my desert of woe

Your waterfall of kindness made things grow.

Allow me to thank you for the gift of your tears

With a shower of good news: Our liberation nears!

That afternoon, Balamani informed me that Mohammad Shah had commanded me to present myself before him the next day. I was surprised, having thought Mirza Salman would arrange my dismissal and save the Shah the trouble of seeing me. Now I would have to prepare for any eventuality. Would the Shah chastise me for being Pari’s servant? Worse yet, would he accuse me of disloyalty or of murder? I hastily penned a letter to Pari’s vakil instructing him that my sister, Jalileh, was to inherit the mill in the event of my death. Then I gave a copy of the letter to Balamani for safekeeping. After reading it, he tucked it into his robe.

“May God protect you from harm,” he said, and insisted on spending every moment of that evening in my company, as if afraid it would be my last.

The morning of my meeting, I dressed in the dark blue head-to-toe that Pari had given me, hoping that some of her royal farr would protect me, and into my sash I tucked one of her handkerchiefs embroidered with the lady reading her book. Mohammad Shah was too blind to be able to see my attire, of course, but I imagined it would impress his wife. I arrived and waited in the guest room where I had gone with Pari so many times to petition Isma‘il. Nothing had changed; the paintings and furniture were the same, only the occupants were new.

When I was shown in, I was surprised to see no sign of Mohammad Shah. Khayr al-Nisa Beygom sat on a gold-embroidered cushion, where the Shah would normally sit, and was surrounded by her ladies and her eunuchs. She was wearing such a bright red robe that it made her skin look as white as a ghost’s; her lips were red like a gash.

Now that she was queen, I greeted her as Mahd-e-Olya, the Cradle of the Greats, which was fitting since she had given birth to four royal sons.

“Thank you for the opportunity to bask in the royal radiance,” I continued in Farsi, her native language, knowing my fluency would please her.

“You are welcome,” she said regally. “It is time for me to decide what to do with you. Before I do, tell me why you are so valuable to the court.”

I realized right away that she was making good on her promise to take control. The word around the palace was that her husband was shah in name only.

“I can write a letter in three languages, procure sensitive information, and give sound advice on strategy. No wall stops me.”

“I have heard much about your talents. The only question is where you should serve.”

I was taken aback. I had expected her to question me and get rid of me.

“Thank you. I thought you should know that Mirza Salman advised me that leaving palace service would be for the best,” I said euphemistically. “He said he would speak with you about it.”

“He did, but my decision is the only one that matters.” She stared at me as if waiting to be challenged.

“My eyes are yours to be stepped on.”

“Good. Let us return to the problem of where you should serve.”

Sensing a trap, I struggled to get what I wanted. “Kind lady, I apologize for burdening you with my problems. A grave concern demands my presence away from court, if you are kind enough to grant it.”

“What problem?”

“It is my sister, Jalileh. The family members who have been caring for her are old and ailing,” I improvised quickly. “I fear for her honor.”

“Does she have any talents?”

“She reads well and writes an excellent hand.”

“In that case, there is no problem,” said Mahd-e-Olya. “Bring her here, and we will find a position for her in the harem.”

I stared at her: Now she wanted my sister, too? Such an invitation was a sign of great privilege.

“Is there a special service you wish me to perform?”

“Yes. After we hired Looloo, he told me the details of your astrological chart, which surprised me so much I asked him to calculate it again. Your chart still says you will help usher in the greatest Safavi leader ever. How can I allow you to leave?”

I forced my face into submission.

“Obviously, that leader wasn’t Isma‘il,” added Mahd-e-Olya. “It would be foolish to release you when that leader might be right at hand.”

I had the distinct impression that she meant herself, which filled me with scorn.

“I was honored to assist the esteemed princess, Pari Khan Khanoom,” I said, hoping lavish praise of her would disqualify me. “She was a great thinker, poet, statesman, and flower of her age, perhaps of all time! She was unequaled.”

“It is fitting that you admire the royal woman you served. Now, as to your employment: The court scribes can always use a master of languages such as you.”

“The scribes?” I replied, the contempt in my voice obvious. It was like telling Kholafa he should be in charge of the royal zoo. Worst of all, I would not be free.

Mahd-e-Olya did not flinch. “It should be an easy job for you. You deserve an excellent reward after your tribulations with Pari.”

“It was an honor to serve her,” I insisted.

“I appreciate your loyalty. I am very pleased to give you another opportunity to show your worth.”

“What a great gift,” I replied, the words sticking in my mouth.

She looked toward the door as if she were about to tell her servants that our meeting was finished. I was stuck like a donkey in mud.

“There is just one thing. Is there a possibility I might live outside the palace, if it turned out to be best for my sister?”

“No. When has an actively serving eunuch ever been allowed to live outside the palace? Your lack of other ties is what makes you and your brethren so valuable to the court.”

I grasped at the last request I could muster. It was code for “I beg you to release me,” and it was almost never refused of good servants.

“Cradle of the Greats, I swore that I would make a pilgrimage to Mecca if your husband was crowned shah. I would feel like a bad Muslim if I didn’t fulfill my vow. Would you give me leave to go?”

The voyage could buy me a year or two.

“My husband and I are deeply honored when our servants make promises to God on our behalf. But now is not the time.”

I was stunned by her refusal; in my experience, it was unprecedented. But I refused to give up. “In that case, may I petition you again in the future about my sworn oath to make the pilgrimage, so that I don’t disappoint God?”

“Of course. At this court, know that your good service will always be rewarded. God willing, one day you will get your wish.”

I left the meeting so angry that my body gave off waves of heat. No matter how much I longed for my liberty, it seemed my fate was to remain a prisoner of the court, and I felt caged and thwarted by the desires of others.



The one bright spot in my life was that I immediately began receiving money from the mill, including the earnings I was owed since Pari’s death. As soon as I had the money, I went to see Fereshteh and told her I would give her a regular allowance for her living expenses for as long as money was forthcoming. The joy in her eyes was beyond describing. She promised she would learn a craft, and then she immediately visited the shrine of a saint, repented her past, and swore to reform. Her servants were instructed to tell her clients that she had pledged herself to a new life. One of them, a comptroller at the palace, complained about the loss of tax revenue she provided to the treasury. Mirza Salman, rather than promising to marry her like an honest man, told her he would find a woman who would be more grateful.

I wrote to my mother’s cousin that my sister had been ordered by the new queen to come to court, unmarried, in order to wait on the royal women, and I sent the necessary fare and a large reward for their services. As long as they had not already married Jalileh to the old man, I knew that they would never dare disobey such a command. I waited anxiously for their reply.

If my sister served the royal ladies well, she would learn how to be a lady herself and would earn the opportunity to make a good marriage. The money from the mill would accumulate until it became a generous dowry for her. Slowly, I hoped, we would form a new bond, and when many years had passed, we would be able to forget all the long years during which we hardly knew each other.

While I waited, Balamani’s official day of retirement arrived. We spent his last evening with a group of eunuchs at a picnic by the river. Together we ate lamb kabob and bread made in an oven dug deep into the earth. As the moon rose, we drank strong spirits made of raisins. My heart was very full because of what I was losing. Balamani had been everything to me: mentor, friend, and family. I recited a poem to him from the Shahnameh about a kind shah in order to reflect on Balamani’s generosity through all the years. When the men yelled “Bah! Bah!” I launched into some verses I had composed myself:

“Many is the heartfelt poem written

For mother, father, daughter or son.

Those whose family includes such treasures,

Have been graced with a lifetime of pleasures.

But other gifts can be just as dear

Like the friendship between you and Javaher

Sometimes bonds that go beyond blood ties

Become as precious as the light of our eyes.

Tell me: ‘What is the source of your love?

Is it learned, or is it a gift from above?’

No angel was ever more kind or true

No comrade more beloved than you.”

Balamani paused for a moment before answering, looking as if he was lost in thought. Then his warm old eyes sought out mine, and I felt as if he was speaking to me alone.

“Remember I told you about Vijayan, the boy on the boat that brought me here long ago? One day, when the sailors were fighting a storm and most of the other boys were recovering from their operation, Vijayan offered me a stolen fruit. For the first time, I tasted a mango’s sweet flesh. How delicious our secret was! Nothing was sweeter, though, than finding a friend when I was broken and alone. Because of Vijayan, I learned to outlive my sorrows.”

Tears prickled my eyes. Now I must devote my life to helping those who needed me as much as I had needed Balamani. How joyful it had been to discover that money could save Fereshteh—and, I hoped, my sister—from entanglements they loathed. With Anwar’s help, I had also just managed to get Massoud Ali assigned to me at the office of the scribes.



The day after Balamani left for Hindustan, I took up my new duties with the scribes. The work was boring and beneath my abilities. Abteen Agha, the assistant to the chief, made sure to give me the pettiest jobs available, such as writing letters to provincial scribes about the latest methods for registering contributions to the royal treasury. I was able to pen the official edicts in an hour or two of the day, and the rest of the time I chafed at my new, unsatisfying role. It would have been more rewarding to be in charge of the royal zoo, where at least I could have run free with the animals.

I was overqualified for my new job, and they all knew it. I had the brains and, dare I say, the balls to be one of the best political players at court. But I had been emasculated in every way, as had most of the men around me. They served at the pleasure of the rulers, and if the rulers chose to be murderers and liars, or lazy, drugged, or insanely pious, courtiers must make themselves fit their demands the way a cobbler fashions leather around a man’s malodorous foot, praising him all the while. Yet at least now I was safe, and I consoled myself that there was a certain relief in being ignored. The old Sufi proverb came to mind: When you are in a cage, fly anyway.

Because it was the start of a new reign, the office of the scribes was very busy. Mohammad Shah’s wishes must be conveyed, monitored, and fulfilled, mostly through letters and other paperwork. In addition, his court historians were engaged in documenting the beginning of his rule, while others were being selected to write Isma‘il Shah’s short history. I decided to take the opportunity to correct the record about the tangled relationship between my father, Kamiyar Kofrani, and Isma‘il. I told Rasheed Khan what I had discovered, and after checking the story, he ordered that the relevant pages be rewritten. At least I could do that much for my father.

At this time, the office of the scribes began receiving written reports about various pretenders in different parts of the country who claimed to be Isma‘il and who said he had never died. These fake Isma‘ils invented stories about how they had been deposed and deserved to be reinstated, and they began gathering disaffected people around them. One of the most powerful among them, I learned, was recruiting rebels among the Lur people in the southwest of the country, where Khalil Khan was governor. Accordingly, Khalil Khan was ordered back to the area to put the rebels down. I caught wind of this from someone whom I had paid very well to spy on him, and I immediately dispatched a loyal messenger to the Lur leaders informing them of the day that Khalil Khan departed from Qazveen and the number of soldiers and weapons he had with him. After that, I waited for news, knowing that if by some chance my plans were to be discovered, I would be accused of treason and executed. But it wasn’t long before the court learned that Khalil Khan and his men had been ambushed by the Lur leaders and that he had been killed when an arrow pierced his heart. It seemed fitting, since he had certainly punctured mine.

Mirza Salman would be much trickier prey. I resolved to watch him and bide my time. As Balamani had advised, I would pretend to be a loyal servant in every possible manner. As the years went by, Mirza Salman would lower his guard, and then I would strike hard and deep. He would never even see the blow.

In the meantime, I paid attention to the scribes’ gossip with the goal of learning everything I could about Mohammad Shah and his wife. It wasn’t long before the men began talking about how much the qizilbash disliked Mahd-e-Olya. She had a firm hand, like Pari, and wouldn’t allow them to do whatever they wanted. They had bargained on being able to manipulate her weak husband, but instead they had to submit to the demands of a powerful wife. Once again, the threat of civil war began to blow through the palace like a bad smell.

Since Mahd-e-Olya seemed to have a very good opinion of herself, I thought I could convince her that she was indeed the chosen leader of the Safavis, so she would think my destiny was fulfilled and would be willing to release me. Or perhaps a leader would emerge whom I wished to serve, and hope would sing in my heart again. I knew I would have to be patient.



After several weeks, I was overjoyed to receive a letter by express courier that Jalileh’s caravan had departed and would be expected in about ten days. I visited the guards at the Tehran Gate, through which she would enter the city, and told them I would pay well in the weeks following for news of any caravan from the southern coast.

At the scribes’ office, I had lately been assigned to write admonitory letters to provincial governors who had failed to pay enough taxes to the treasury. I enjoyed writing such letters; they were one of the few assignments that allowed me to vent my aggression. I found myself achieving new levels of rhetorical effect, sprinkling the letters with metaphors and with exhortations from the Qur’an to make my point.

One day, when I was finishing the last of this batch of letters, Massoud Ali came looking for me, his dark eyes shining, his turban as neatly wrapped as I had ever seen it.

“A caravan has just arrived from the south!” he said. “The travelers have been taken to Caravanserai Kamal.”

I put aside my pen and ink. On my way out, I tripped on the lap desk of a scribe who was laboring over a hard-earned page, sending the desk onto a nearby cushion. Massoud Ali stared at me, his round eyes wide. The scribe sputtered, “What is the rush? Has your mother come back from the grave?”

“In a manner of speaking,” I replied.

Outside, the day was sunny, the sky like a turquoise bowl. I hurried down the Promenade of the Royal Stallions toward the Friday mosque. The white swirls on the dome seemed to spin, as if it might lift off to partner with the swirls of cloud. I felt my heart surge at the sight. At long last, my sister might be here! Would she have a face like the moon? How would I even recognize her?

As I passed the mosque and walked toward Caravanserai Kamal, I came upon the entrance to the cemetery where our father was buried. Someday, when Jalileh was established, I would bring her to see our father’s grave. We would sprinkle it with rose water together, and we would pray in the spiritual presence of our father, hoping he could see and hear us from the place where all souls await the Day of Judgment. Although Jalileh probably didn’t even remember him, I hoped she would be eager to come. I wanted to tell her the story of our father’s bravery and of the politics that cost him his life. I would make her understand that he had risked everything because he believed in the possibility of a perfect world. How satisfied I would feel when I told her that his soul had been avenged! Of course, I would not relate my part in it, to avoid putting her at risk.

In the distance, I saw the narrow wooden gate that marked the entrance to the caravanserai, which had high walls so that travelers would feel embraced and safe at night. As I approached, a hot breeze surged off the street and lifted my robe all of a sudden, making me aware of the place where my parts used to swing. They had been gone now for almost half my life. I thought wryly of the nickname mothers used for their baby boys: “Ah, my little penis of gold!”

How horrified my mother would have been to learn of my fate. Would Jalileh understand why I had acted as I had? As soon as she saw me enter the harem, she would know I had been unmanned. Would she love me anyway? Or would she merely pretend to care for me because she needed me so badly? Would our reunion be filled with disappointment, like Pari’s with Isma‘il? My stomach dropped away.

Inside the caravanserai, the large open courtyard pulsed with activity. Men unloaded their animals, women helped their toddlers descend from camels, and older children fetched water for younger ones. As the loads were removed, the animals were led away and fed, while the caravanserai’s owner accompanied his guests to their rooms, followed by a porter who offered his strong back. I searched the crowd for a face that was like my mother’s, scrutinizing each person one by one as the crowd diminished.

Too dark, that one. Hair too curly. Face too round. Too old. Wearing a Christian cross. That one lacked an arm, poor thing. The crowd began to thin even further as the travelers were shown to their rooms. Had Jalileh joined a different caravan? I went in search of the caravan’s leader, an older fellow with a long drooping mustache.

All of a sudden I heard my name in a voice that sounded ragged with relief. “Payam! Payam!” I turned around to find her, but before I could identify her, I felt two thin arms around me and a head buried in my bicep. Was it her? How had she recognized me? Her body was trembling as she murmured a prayer of thanksgiving. My heart quickened and I could not see anything for a moment, just the top of her faded blue headscarf and the wisps of black hair escaping the fabric at her temples. The noon call to prayer came from a nearby mosque, and as its sweetness filled the air, she continued reciting her thanks.

Finally, the young woman drew away from me and lifted her face. I took a step back in surprise. How strange was my first glimpse of her! It was like seeing myself reflected in a mirror, except that she was a girl half my age. She had my mother’s rich, honey-colored eyes, fringed with dark black lashes and eyebrows, and from what I could see of it, my father’s looping black hair. She was small like my mother, yet the energy in her tiny frame seemed uncontainable, like a hummingbird’s. Was she pretty? All I know is that I was irresistibly drawn to her.

“Sister of mine, may God be thanked!” I began, my voice tangled with emotion.

An old woman whose eyes were buried in wise wrinkles had been observing us all this time. “Happiest of families, how long has it been?”

I looked up. “Twelve years!”

“Voy, she was just a baby. How did you recognize her?”

“I recognized him,” said Jalileh proudly.

“It is no surprise. You are like velvet cut from the same bolt,” the old woman observed.

“In that case, I am glad my brother is comely,” Jalileh replied in a teasing voice, “by the blessings of God!”

I laughed out loud at her boldness, then exhaled with relief at it. Though Jalileh wore a faded cotton robe and tunic, with not a single ornament in her ears or around her neck, and though she had not felt a parent’s love since she was seven, it seemed that her spirit had not been ground into powder.

I gave Jalileh’s few belongings to the porter and sent him off to the palace. Then we said goodbye to the old woman and the caravan leader and walked outside the caravanserai together, side by side for the first time. Her gait was rapid, her eyes alive with interest, but they stayed on my face rather than being distracted by the city’s sparkling domes.

“Where to begin?” I wondered aloud. “Our cousin didn’t—”

“Our mother wanted—” Jalileh said at the same time. We stared at each other, feeling the weight of all the missing years.

“Labu! Hot labu!” a vendor called out, and my stomach came alive with hunger as the syrupy scent of beets filled the air. But then I remembered how my sister had hated beets as a child. I looked at her, wondering. There was so much I didn’t know.

“I love beets,” she replied to my unasked question. “And I am hungry!”

I laughed and paid for two beets. The vendor served them to us steaming hot in ceramic holders, smiling for no particular reason at both of us. We blew on them and feasted in the middle of the street. Jalileh’s lips and fingers grew purple as she ate. She giggled and wiped her mouth.

After we finished, we cleaned ourselves, and then there was another awkward silence. What could we say to each other after so long? Jalileh’s eyes were red, and I realized that she needed to rest.

“Come,” I said. “Let me take you to the palace so that you can see where you will be living.”

“I am to live in a palace?” She could not hide the excitement in her voice.

“Yes, you are. And soon you will wear a fine robe and ornaments in your hair, I promise you.”

“But where will you live?”

“Nearby,” I said. “I will tell you everything once you are settled. Right now, I want to show you something.”

We walked together in the direction of the Tehran Gate until we reached the mill. A group of women were waiting in line to have their grain crushed, while others were purchasing the flour sold there. We stood and watched the donkeys turn the wheel that moved the huge stone, which rolled over the wheat and crushed it into flour. Jalileh was transfixed.

“At home, I had to do that by hand,” she observed. I took one of her hands and brushed my fingers across her rough and chapped palm. She had never written anything about work to me; she had never complained.

Jalileh removed her hand from mine, pressing her small lips together in chagrin. “If we buy flour, I could make you some bread,” she offered, her voice very small. “I learned all our mother’s recipes from her cousin.”

Suddenly, it was as if I were back in my family home again watching my mother pull her sesame-sprinkled bread out of the oven, her eyes glowing with pride, while Jalileh and I gathered around to admire the crisp, corrugated loaf and to rip off pieces of it while it was still hot. No baker’s bread had been as good. My nostrils flooded with the scent, and my tongue ached with longing for it.

“Jalileh, this mill belongs to us. Someday I will tell you the whole story, but for now you can think of it as a legacy, in a roundabout way, from our father.”

As I said this, I realized how true it was. If our father had not been killed, I would never have served Pari, and if I hadn’t served her, I would never have received the mill.

“I am glad it is ours,” she replied. “Is that why you were able to bring me to Qazveen?”

“It is part of the reason,” I said. “Before you were invited to the palace, it was helpful to know that I had a means of supporting you.”

Her eyes looked pained, and I wished I hadn’t put it that way. She had probably been told all her life what a burden she was.

“I am grateful for all you have done,” she said. “But is there nothing I can do for you? Nothing at all?”

A tear of pride welled up in one of her eyes, which she brushed away almost angrily. I saw the loneliness of an orphan there, and her uncrushable spirit, too. I realized what I needed to do.

“Manager!” I called out. He came forward to greet me, wished blessings upon me and my family, and reported that the mill had been doing even more business than usual.

“That is good news,” I replied. “Even better news is that my sister is now living in Qazveen. Please fetch a bag of your best flour for her.”

Jalileh’s smile beamed as bright as the moon on a dark night. Quietly we walked back to the palace, the bag of flour between us.



The day after delivering Jalileh into the care of one of the ladies at the entrance to the harem, I sought her out in her new quarters. She had been assigned a modest room shared with five other young women-in-training in a large dormitory, and when I appeared early that morning, she looked perplexed at the sight of me within the harem grounds. I invited her for a walk in the gardens. Outside, when she asked what I was doing in the harem, I took a breath and blurted out that I had become a eunuch in order to clear our family name. Her eyes flicked to the middle of my robe, then away. For a moment, she looked as if she could not grab her next breath. She asked to sit down. I led her to a bench in one of the outdoor pavilions and we sat on it side by side, staring at the blooming peach trees. When Jalileh finally looked at me again, I expected to see horror in her eyes. Instead she slipped to the ground, wrapped her arms around my ankles, and laid her cheek on top of my feet.

“What you have paid in flesh, I will pay in devotion. I swear it!”

I tried to help her up, but she refused to budge. As her warm tears slid over the tops of my feet, it was as if the deepest rips in my heart were being mended with her tenderness. I lifted her to her feet and embraced her, and the tears in her eyes were matched by those in my own.

Every day from then on, I visited Jalileh to check on her progress. On Mahd-e-Olya’s orders, she began a rigorous program of apprenticeship to learn how to serve the ladies. Her days began early with lessons on how to greet women of different ranks and in the daily and seasonal rhythms of the palace. I was gratified when the ladies commended her on her handwriting, her quickness, her desire to please, and her ability to face difficult situations with good cheer.

On our occasional days of leisure, Jalileh made me bread in one of the smaller kitchens in the harem; we ate it together with sheep’s cheese and walnuts, just as we used to do when we were children. It was as if I had never eaten bread before, so great was my satisfaction in sitting beside her and tasting with pride what she had baked. Little by little, we told each other the story of our lives, and with every story a new understanding grew between us. Until we began sharing our histories, I had not realized how utterly alone I had felt.

Others could argue with a sibling or an uncle and still have more blood relatives to turn to; they could engage in petty fights and avoid speaking for years, relishing their anger while still being embraced by other family members. But Jalileh and I had no one else, and that knowledge made us treasure each other like priceless pearls plucked from the stormy depths of the Persian Gulf.



While Jalileh labored to master palace protocol, my work continued at the scribes’ office in a routine fashion until one morning, I overheard a court historian explaining to his young assistant how they would undertake the work of writing the history of Isma‘il Shah’s short reign. He told the assistant to deputize a few men to collect details from his closest advisors about his efforts to deal with national and international problems, as well as to interview other nobles about his patronage of mosques and of the arts. The assistant would organize the material and provide it to his master, who would write the official history.

Once those details had been settled, the assistant lowered his voice.

“What are you going to write about that sister of his?” he asked the historian in a near whisper.

“You mean the one who poisoned him?” the graybeard replied.

“I thought he was poisoned by the qizilbash.” The young man had an offensively bright red mouth and tongue.

“Who knows? The harem is a mystery. There is no way to be certain about what goes on in there.”

“Of course there is,” I said so loudly that the men looked up from their pages. “Why don’t you ask the eunuchs who work there every day?”

“Why bother? The women hardly do anything at all,” said the young man.

I stood up. “Are you a fool? Pari Khan Khanoom did more in a day than you do in a year. Compared to her, you are like an old mule.”

The graybeard looked at me as if I were mad. “Calm down!” he said. “We are only going to write a few pages about her anyway.”

“Then you will be missing one of the most arresting stories of our age.”

“You think that way because you served her,” said the young man dismissively.

Memories of Pari appeared so suddenly that they seemed more real than the men in front of me: her challenges on the first day I had met her, the gleam in her eyes as she dropped the peacock bowl, the ringing sound of her voice when she declaimed the poem that silenced Mirza Shokhrollah, the fearless way she had begged Isma‘il for clemency for the condemned, the strength of her hands against my back pushing me out of the palanquin. I missed her with all my heart. Her great flaws—obstinacy, arrogance, and fervor—had also been her strengths. Why didn’t the historians care enough to find out?

“Illiterate!” I said to the young man. “Don’t you imagine you have a duty to the truth?”

He shrugged. Rasheed Khan motioned the young scribe to the other side of the room and told him to get on with his work. From there the scribe glared at me but kept quiet. I realized that not only would the court historians fail to write enough about Pari, but they would not bring her story to life. How could they? They had never breached the royal harem. The women’s daily affairs, political efforts, passions, eccentricities, and quarrels would rarely be charted, and if they were, they would be misinterpreted and misunderstood. Worse yet, Mohammad Shah’s court would no doubt portray the princess as a monster to justify her murder.

Then and there I decided I must write Pari’s life story, under cover of responding to court letters. Not only would I tell the truth of events, but I would beat away misconceptions and help her live for all time. That was the least that she was owed.

As the only chronicler who served her closely enough to breathe in her perfume, I knew better than anyone that the princess was not a flawless gem. I never wished to pretend otherwise, in the way that our historians often try to justify the irregular behaviors of our shahs. I knew only too well about Pari’s arrogance, her refusal to compromise, and her temper, but I also understood that her magisterial nature stemmed from the fact that she was more learned and better trained in statecraft than most men. She was right to wish to rule; only the greed and fear of others prevented her from achieving the greatness she deserved.

I began work on my prologue that very afternoon, after most of the scribes had gone home for their afternoon tea. When it became too dark to see, I concealed my pages carefully in a dusty corner of the library. I realized that I had finally begun fulfilling the fate predicted by my astrological chart. My presence at court was ordained so that I could tell the true story of Pari Khan Khanoom, the lieutenant of my life, the khan of angels, the equal of the sun.





AUTHOR’S NOTE


Pari Khan Khanoom lived from 1548 to 1578. Several contemporary court historians suspected her of poisoning her half brother, Isma‘il Shah, although other theories proposed that he overdosed on drugs or was poisoned by a group of nobles who were disaffected with his rule. A few months after he died, Pari was assassinated by order of her half brother Mohammad Shah and his wife, Mahd-e-Olya.

After Pari’s death, Mahd-e-Olya was the de facto ruler of Iran for about a year and a half, until the qizilbash nobles tired of her command and assassinated her. The grand vizier Mirza Salman, ever adept at judging shifts in the wind, changed allegiance just before the nobles decided to remove her. A few years later, he was assassinated in his turn by the qizilbash, who resented his power. Strife raged for years to come as tribal groups struggled to dominate one another.

During Pari’s short life, one of the most powerful empires on earth was that of the Ottomans. Under Suleyman the Magnificent, the Ottomans had conquered territory all the way west to Hungary and had fought frequent battles with Iran and other neighbors on their eastern borders. In 1555, Pari’s father, Tahmasb Shah, brokered the Peace of Amasya, a treaty in which the two powers divided up disputed territories and the Ottomans recognized Safavi Iran for the first time. My novel posits that Pari would have worked tirelessly to maintain this treaty, although I found no specific evidence for this in the sources I used. Not long after Pari’s death, the Ottomans invaded Iran and hostilities resumed again, with devastating consequences including loss of Iranian territory.

The Safavi dynasty ruled from 1501–1722. The founder of the dynasty, Isma‘il I, declared Shi’a Islam the official religion of Iran, with the result that Iran is now the largest Shi’a country in the world. Despite much political turmoil, the Safavi dynasty was stable and wealthy enough, particularly during its first half, to fund the creation of many of the masterpieces of Iranian architecture, weaving, painting, pottery, and other crafts. Among these is an illustrated Shahnameh commissioned by Tahmasb Shah that is regarded as one of the finest examples of bookmaking in the world. Tahmasb gave the book to the Ottoman Empire in 1567, along with other rich gifts loaded on the backs of dozens of camels, an inestimable loss to future generations of Iranians.

After years of internal and external power struggles following Tahmasb’s death, an able ruler finally took charge of Iran. The greatest leader of the Safavis would turn out to be Abbas—the second son of Mohammad Shah and his wife, Mahd-e-Olya—who was crowned in a palace coup in 1587 at the age of sixteen and ruled for more than forty years. Shah Abbas finally quashed the fractious qizilbash by uprooting old power structures and elevating new groups, especially converted Georgians, Circassians, and Armenians, who owed their loyalty only to him. Perhaps his greatest legacy, however, is the city of Isfahan, which he declared his capital in 1598 and refashioned with the help of master architects, engineers, calligraphers, and tile makers. The central square that dominates the town and the bridges that traverse its river are among the true crown jewels of his rule.

The key members of the royal family mentioned in this book were real people. On occasion I made up first names for women whose names were never recorded. The servants of the palace harem, including Javaher, Khadijeh, Balamani, and Maryam, are invented characters.