Equal of the Sun A Novel

CHAPTER 2



AN ANIMAL MOOD





Jamsheed’s delusions opened the gates to greed, disorder, and despair throughout the land, even in places where chaos had never existed before.

In a tiny corner of his kingdom, there lived a ruler named Mirdas who was so pious that he arose every day to pray in his garden before it was light. He was the lord of thousands of sheep and goats, and he shared their milk, cheese, and meat so that no man in his kingdom ever went hungry. His one weakness was that he was too indulgent with his only son, Zahhak. One day, Zahhak was approached by the devil, who expressed surprise at how patiently he waited for his father’s throne. Since his succession was ordained, surely there could be no harm in hastening it. Why should an old man be in charge rather than someone as vigorous and fresh as he?

That night, the devil dug a deep hole on the path that Mirdas took every morning to the fire temple where he said his prayers, and covered it with leaves and branches. The next morning, when Mirdas walked forth into his garden, he fell into the hole and his spine snapped. The poor man howled and groaned, but none heard him, and finally, in great agony, he expired. So justice was supplanted by injustice, and a cycle of terror began.





Massoud Ali and I left the walled quarters of the women, which lay deep inside the palace, through a thick wooden door embedded with metal in the middle of a tall wall. We saluted Zav Agha, the old eunuch on duty at the checkpoint leading to the birooni—the outside.

“Not long until retirement?” I asked.

“Only a few months, God willing, if I survive this latest upheaval!”

He and Balamani often talked about the fierce ocean and the fresh fish of their childhood on the Malabar coast of Hindustan, before they had been cut and sold as slaves. Now, as free men, they longed to return there.

Massoud Ali and I wound our way through twisting corridors studded with armed guards until we reached the large courtyard near the Ali Qapu gate. We traversed the courtyard, passing through a second gated and guarded checkpoint that led to the treasury, library, hospital, pharmacy, and morgue. Massoud Ali’s forehead was so pinched that I wanted to cheer him. I asked him if there were any games he liked to play with the other errand boys, but he shrugged. He was thin and small, and I surmised that even younger boys would be able to pummel him.

“How about backgammon?”

“I don’t know how.”

“I will teach you. It is the game of shrewd statesmen.”

His smile flashed so briefly it was as if he hadn’t learned how to use it yet.

Shortly after the intersection of the two main avenues that crossed the palace grounds, we arrived at Forty Columns Hall, the palace’s most important meeting place. It was one of my favorite buildings because its large entrance portal was left open during the warmer months to a view of the fruit orchards and flower gardens. A court poet had once written more than a hundred lines about the exquisiteness of the melons grown on the palace grounds, and with good reason.

Inside the hall, its high ceiling was arched, sectioned, and painted in pale shades of orange, turquoise, and green, overlaid with a pattern of gold flowers much like the design on a fine silk robe. Thick carpets and plush cushions covered the floors.

Massoud Ali stood against the back wall with the other errand boys; I sat beside Balamani among the palace eunuchs. Balamani and I frowned at each other; we hadn’t learned anything new. Today the normally sober hall was alive with speculation about who would be the next shah. Members of the Ostajlu and Mowsellu tribes sat nearest to the platform where the late shah used to emerge and speak; this was their privilege as men of the sword who had helped the Safavi dynasty to the throne. Several Georgian and Circassian leaders who had married into the royal family claimed seats of honor, too. These groups had begun to vie for power against the more established tribes and against the most powerful men of the pen, who were in charge of keeping accounts and writing royal letters, orders, and histories. My father had been one such man, and for a moment I imagined the two of us sitting together near the top of the room, dressed in dark silk robes in honor of the Shah’s passing.

Saleem Khan, the master of palace protocol, entered the room. He possessed a voice that could tame an army of men. When he called, “Come to order!” the nobles fell silent. The chief mullah of Qazveen, whose black turban and robes were a sobering sight, walked slowly to the front of the hall and said a prayer for the dead. Every head in the room was bowed, as if weighed down by the uncertainty of the future.

After the prayer, Saleem Khan announced that a member of the Safavi dynasty wished to address us. The brown velvet curtain at the back of the platform stirred, and Haydar Mirza stepped out and stood in the Shah’s place. He was a slight young man with a nervous left eye that sometimes blinked too much. His fitted dark gray robe made him look even smaller than usual.

“Greetings to all the valued retainers of the Safavi court,” he began in a nasal voice that was too quiet to be heard well. “I give my thanks to you for attending upon us on this terrible day. Together we mourn the passing of my father, the fulcrum of the universe, even as we must turn our attention to what lies ahead. I call on you, great ones, to help me fulfill my father’s wishes for the future.”

Not even the fringes on the nobles’ sashes stirred as they waited to hear what he had in mind, but Haydar faltered.

“I request your indulgence for a moment,” he finally said before disappearing behind the curtain. We heard the high-pitched murmuring of a woman.

“That sounds like his mother,” I whispered to Balamani.

“If he can’t get through a meeting without her help, how does he expect to rule?” Balamani growled. Speculation filled the room until Saleem Khan’s voice boomed like a cannon, and the room quieted again.

Haydar emerged from the curtain too quickly, stumbling as if he had been pushed out. In his fist was the great golden sword of the Safavi dynasty, a beautifully crafted weapon encrusted with emeralds and rubies. The matching belt at his waist emanated rays of light when he moved.

“I hereby declare myself your new shah and demand your loyalty unto death!” Haydar shouted. “Those who serve me will be well rewarded; those who oppose me will pay the consequences.” He tried to thrust the sword high into the air, but the weapon was too heavy and his arm faltered midway.

The room exploded. Men leapt to their feet—some cried out in surprise, others shouted their support.

“Squelch your chatter!” commanded Saleem Khan, and gradually, the men settled down.

Haydar’s uncle on his mother’s side, Khakaberi Khan, asked to be recognized and stood up to help his nephew. “By what authority do you make this claim?”

Haydar handed the sword to Saleem Khan. From deep in his robe, he produced a rolled document and held it high for all to see.

“By my father’s will,” he said.

There was a low, powerful roar of disbelief.

Haydar unrolled the document and read it aloud. It named him as the only lawful successor to Tahmasb Shah and urged the courtiers to show loyalty to him as his father’s choice.

“I know the Shah’s writing better than my own,” challenged Mirza Shokhrollah, the treasury chief, whose long gray beard wagged when he spoke. “Let me see that document.”

“Here it is,” replied Haydar, waving the paper but refusing to relinquish it, so Shokhrollah had to approach the platform. After a few moments, he said in a surprised tone, “I would swear the writing was the Shah’s.”

Pari’s uncle, Shamkhal Cherkes, arose to have his say. “Everyone knows there is a lady in the royal palace whose handwriting resembles his,” he said, his index finger pointing heavenward for emphasis. “How can we be certain that this isn’t her handiwork?”

“Whether you doubt the writing or not, everyone knows my father’s seal,” Haydar said, pointing to the will. “Surely you don’t deny that this is it?”

“Any seal can be copied,” Shamkhal replied.

“This one is authentic, I swear,” said Haydar.

“In that case, let the Shah’s seal be brought forth for comparison,” insisted Shamkhal.

On occasion I had seen the Shah use the seal on his most important correspondence; he had worn it on a chain around his neck. Mirza Salman Jaberi, the head of the royal guilds, including the seal makers, was deputized by the treasury chief to visit the death room and make an impression of the Shah’s seal on a blank page.

Meanwhile, Saleem Khan announced that refreshments would be served. An army of servants rushed in with trays of hot cardamom tea, while others carried plates of nuts, dates, and sweetmeats. In the midst of the distraction, Sultanam’s chief eunuch, a broad-shouldered man with a thick neck, slipped out of the hall.

“What do you think?” I asked Balamani.

“I think Haydar is lying. If the Shah wanted him as heir, why didn’t he announce his choice before he died?”

“But that would have put Haydar at risk of assassination.”

Balamani snorted. “And he isn’t at risk now? He is like a lamb waiting to be skinned!”

While we were drinking our tea, Mirza Salman rushed back into the room with the seal soft on a fresh sheet of paper. He presented the paper to Saleem Khan, who unrolled it.

“I believe it is one and the same as the seal on the will,” he announced, and passed it around the room for all the men to see.

As the nobles were peering at the seal, Sultanam’s eunuch returned to the hall, panting lightly, and whispered some information into the ear of her brother, Amir Khan Mowsellu. His eyes widened, and before the eunuch had finished, he arose to speak.

“One of the exalted mothers of the palace visited the Shah early this morning after his death,” he announced. “As she was wailing over his body, she chanced to feel the seal at his throat and was surprised to feel the residue of soft wax in it. This suggests that the seal had been used recently, or possibly removed and returned.”

The room erupted into shouts once again. Saleem Khan demanded quiet and ordered that the guards of the Shah’s body be summoned. The first guard, who was almost as wide as he was tall, swore that the seal had not been removed during the night, and so did the others. But everyone knew that the guards could have been bribed, and the heat in the room began to intensify when there was no definitive answer about the validity of the will.

As squabbling broke out, Balamani looked on with disgust. “This is just what I feared. Each group lobbies for the man who will benefit his own people, not the man who will make the best shah.”

“And who would that be?”

“The great vizier Nizam al-Mulk wrote that after death, all rulers will be led before God with their hands tied. Only those who were just will be unshackled and delivered to heaven. The rest will be pitched straight into hell, their hands lashed eternally.”

“How fitting!”

I thought Mahmood would be a far better ruler than Haydar, although he was still too inexperienced to govern on his own. But I kept my opinions to myself; as Pari’s servant I must support her choice.

It took some time before Saleem was able to restore order by yelling in a voice so fierce it must have been heard outside the palace’s thick walls. He glared at the courtiers who would not be still, his face red with exertion and annoyance.

After everyone was quiet, Haydar spoke again. “I promise you all that my rule will shine with fairness to every tribe and to every man,” he proclaimed.

As evidence, he called on his servants to assist him, and they wheeled in carts filled with treasures. He reached into a cart and began passing out gifts. Amir Khan Mowsellu received a solid silver samovar, so finely engraved it was impossible to imagine using it for something as ordinary as tea. Mirza Salman took possession of two large blue and white porcelain vases from China. Other members of the court received silk robes of honor, so valuable they would be worn only on the most formal of occasions. Gifts piled up beside each nobleman until the room resembled a bazaar.

“He is robbing the treasury before it is his!” Shamkhal Cherkes charged in a loud whisper.

But as the gifts were distributed, the mood in the room softened while each nobleman contemplated his good fortune.

“Good courtiers, I ask you again: May I have your support?” Haydar sounded more confident than before.

How dismaying that even rich men can be swayed by trinkets!

“You have mine,” said Hossein Beyg, the leader of the Ostajlu. He was joined by a chorus of voices, although most of the men did not identify themselves. Everyone knew the risks of supporting the wrong side.

A messenger entered the room and spoke in secret to Saleem, who interrupted the proceedings to make an announcement: “My good men, because of the events of this day, I have been informed by the chief of the royal bodyguard that the guards stationed outside the palace gates have refused to disperse until the succession has been resolved. No one will be permitted to enter or to exit the grounds.”

Haydar stepped back onto the platform and glanced around him like an onager facing a circle of hunters. His left eye began blinking so uncontrollably I had to look away. After listening to more high-pitched murmuring, he demanded, “Open the gates!”

“I don’t have the authority to tell the military men what to do,” Saleem replied. “It is the privilege of the Shah.”

He looked surprised by the words that had just issued from his mouth. Hadn’t Haydar declared himself our leader?

Balamani leaned close. “It is Thursday, which means it is the Takkalu tribe’s turn to guard the Ali Qapu gate. Is Haydar’s head stuffed with rice instead of brains?”

The Takkalu had had a rivalry with the Ostajlu for decades.

Haydar looked pained and said quietly, “I am the rightful shah, and in this time of darkness, I call on God’s protection as his shadow on earth. This meeting is dismissed.”

He stepped off the platform and left the room, escorted by guards and eunuchs. Saleem Khan called an end to the assembly, and then the nobles began clustering together to rally for or against Haydar’s candidacy.

“Do you think he can succeed?” I whispered to Balamani.

He opened his palms and shrugged. “Whatever happens, they might as well lay out the skewers!” he said, looking at the angry noblemen who surrounded us. “Some of these men will choose the wrong candidate and get turned into kabob.”

I grimaced at his awful prediction. Our eyes met, then flicked away. Neither of us had seen such peril in all our years of service.



I rushed back to Pari’s quarters, eager to discover whether she would support Haydar’s bold move. Pari entered some time later, her cheeks as flushed as a dancer after a performance, her black hair poking out of her kerchief at odd angles.

“What happened?”

“Haydar and his mother summoned me and demanded my support. When I demurred, Haydar threatened to imprison me. I bent low, kissed his feet, and pretended to recognize him as the rightful shah. Only then did he let me go.”

Her eyes widened and she took a deep breath, as if she had just understood the extent of the peril she had escaped.

“Lord of orders, who will receive your support?”

“I don’t know yet.”

I paused to strategize. “If Haydar has many armed followers outside the palace, he may prevail.”

“Go to town and bring me news.”

“How will I get out with all the palace gates blocked by the Takkalu?”

“Majeed will give the head guards some money. They know I am not Haydar’s ally.”

I exited through one of the palace’s side gates—the guard waved me through—and walked toward the main bazaar. On such a warm, sunny day, mothers should have been bargaining for goods and children chirping with pleasure about being outside. But the streets were deserted. When I arrived at the main entrance of the bazaar, its huge wooden doors were bolted shut. By God above! Never in my lifetime had the bazaar been closed on a Thursday.

I rushed to an old, abandoned minaret and climbed its slippery stairs. From the opening once used for the call to prayer, the whole city glittered in the sunlight, its mud brick homes interspersed with mosques, bazaars, and parks. The walled palace grounds dominated the city, resembling a huge garden carpet divided into orchards whose trees and flowers competed for beauty. The northern palace gate was heavily guarded. My eye was drawn to the Ali Qapu’s yellow and white tiled walls at the southern entrance, where hundreds of Takkalu soldiers of the royal bodyguard, along with their allies, stood in formation, their swords, daggers, and bows and arrows at the ready.

Where were Haydar’s supporters? Why had they not come out for their new shah? I went to the home of his uncle, Khakaberi Khan, but saw no activity there, then knocked on the doors of a few other supporters to no avail until I arrived at the home of Hossein Beyg Ostajlu. A large group of men armed with swords and bows were assembling in his courtyard. I saluted a fellow with a scar across his cheek that flamed red, matching the thick red baton held erect in his turban that proclaimed him as a qizilbash loyal to the Safavis.

“What is the delay?”

He scowled. “Who are you?”

“I serve in the harem.”

“Half-man!”

He adjusted his parts to reassure himself that they were still there. Grabbing his sword, he rejoined his fellow soldiers as if I might contaminate him with my condition. I would have liked to see him facing a castrator’s long, sharp knife; then we would know who was more brave.

A soldier on the street told me of a rumor that Isma‘il had arrived in the city with thousands of men. Haydar’s supporters had delayed storming the palace, fearing a massacre.

“But how could Isma‘il get here so fast?”

He shrugged and gestured toward Hossein Beyg, who was mounting his horse. “He has decided it is a lie.”

Hossein Beyg called for the Ostajlu to assemble, and they began marching toward the northern gate of the palace. Soldiers from other tribes streamed out from nearby houses until thousands claimed the street. They raised so much dust that people who had come out to look began clearing their throats and coughing. It was only a matter of time before fighting would begin between Haydar’s and Isma‘il’s supporters, and the thought of those tough qizilbash soldiers meeting in combat made my blood turn to vinegar.

I found Pari being comforted by Maryam. Her hair had been brushed until it shone straight and black under her white silk kerchief, and she had changed into a black silk mourning robe embroidered with gold squares that made her look long and tall. The turquoise and gold earrings shaped like half-moons that gleamed around her face had been a gift from her father. She had written a few letters since I had left, which were on a silver tray awaiting delivery to the courier. Her eyes looked even more troubled than when I had left.

“At last!” she said when I was shown in. “What is the news?”

“Princess,” I panted, “thousands of Haydar’s soldiers are marching to the palace under the leadership of Hossein Beyg.”

“May God protect us all!” said Maryam, looking frightened.

“Are there enough of them to overpower the Takkalu?” asked Pari.

“I think so.”

Pari jumped up. “I must tell my uncle to stop them.”

I wondered why she seemed so certain all of a sudden about what to do. “Princess, what has happened?”

“Not long before you arrived, my father’s chief chemist reported that the orpiment was strong enough to strip the hair off a hide. It may have been an accident. Still, how could I ever live under Haydar’s reign?”

“May God exact vengeance on evildoers!”

Pari handed me a cloth purse. “This is the key to the door from the Promenade of the Royal Stallions into the women’s quarters,” she said. “Tell my uncle that I grant him permission to enter and remove Haydar, so long as he is spared from harm. Return here as quickly as you can.”

I stared at the purse. “But men are never permitted to enter the women’s part of the palace,” I protested.

“I am authorizing it.”

Astonished, I put the bundle under my turban and took my leave. When I arrived at Shamkhal’s home, I told his servants I had an urgent message and was shown in right away.

Shamkhal opened the purse and peered at the key. His eyes began to glitter like those of a raven who has just found a bag of treasure.

“This is our best hope,” he said with glee.

“Pari wished me to tell you that Haydar should be delivered safe from harm. The esteemed princess asked for a token indicating your agreement.”

I wanted proof that I had delivered this most important part of the message. Shamkhal stood up.

“Tell her this:

The man we oppose will suffer a great fall,

Yet shall remain unscathed in the care of Shamkhal.

In exchange, I insist that my niece Pari

Remain distant from the soldiers and their fury.”

“Chashm,” I replied. As I took my leave, I heard Shamkhal shouting for his servants and directing them to go to the homes of his supporters to raise men for Isma‘il.

I started back toward the palace. Outside the Ali Qapu the Takkalu and their allies were still on guard, unopposed. I knew one of the captains, and when I told him I had been out on errands all day, I received permission to enter after being checked for weapons. When I finally arrived at Pari’s house, she was waiting for me.

“May you not be tired!” she said.

I wiped the sweat off my forearms.

“What did my uncle say?”

“He promised to do your bidding,” I said, reciting the lines of poetry he had improvised.

She smiled. “Good work.”

“Princess,” I said with agitation, “the soldiers have probably started fighting. Anything could happen.”

“Make haste. Go to the birooni and find out what you can.”

First, I decided to go to the harem kitchens because the cooks always knew the latest news. The large building, which usually bustled with ladies, maids, and slaves, was deserted. Flour and water had been mixed and left in large bowls. Mint had been washed but not hung to dry, and onions and garlic had been chopped and abandoned. Their sharpness stung my eyes.

I walked through the building, feeling something strange I could not name. As I passed an oven for bread, my tread made a deeper sound than elsewhere. I turned back and opened the oven. It was full of charcoal and ash, but in the far corner I spotted a patch of bright blue silk. I thought about the robes of everyone I knew until finally I remembered: It belonged to one of the Shah’s physicians, who must have been shown into the harem during the Shah’s final illness.

“Physician Amin Khan Halaki, your robe is showing!” I hissed. The cloth disappeared as quickly as a mouse pulls its tail into a hole.

“Who are you?”

“Javaher Agha, servant of Pari Khan Khanoom.”

“Can I leave?”

“Not if you wish to remain alive.”

“Then throw me some food, at least.”

Grabbing some cucumbers and grapes, I thrust them in the oven and wished him luck. I proceeded to the checkpoint to the birooni and saluted Zav Agha, whose brow looked permanently creased with worry.

“Is there any news?” I asked.

“Not yet-t-t,” he said, his few remaining teeth knocking together in fear. He opened the door and allowed me to pass through.

I walked swiftly to Forty Columns Hall and glanced around, but it was empty. I kept walking until I approached the northern wall of the palace, where I was alarmed by the sound of deep, dull thuds. I suspected that a group of soldiers had grabbed a cannon and were smashing it against the wooden gate, which groaned as if being tortured.

“Haydar Shah, open up and let us in!” a man yelled from outside. “We are your friends.”

Ignoring the usual palace decorum, I ran through the courtyard and all the checkpoints until I was back in the harem. Just as I reached a large plane tree, the ground trembled so sharply I suspected an earthquake, but then I realized it was the pounding of horse’s hooves. I halted abruptly, feeling like an ant caught between a man’s thumb and forefinger.

My heart beat faster as the tall wooden door that led from the harem to the Promenade of the Royal Stallions creaked open. Soldiers streamed into the gardens, brandishing their swords while shouting Isma‘il’s name and trampling the red rosebushes near the walkways. The unprecedented sight of men in the women’s space, which had never been violated by outsiders, shook me to my core.

Shamkhal rode toward me on a black Arabian steed and pulled on the reins.

“Where is Haydar?” he shouted.

“Probably in his mother’s quarters. It is the building with the two cypress trees in front.”

I pointed the way.

Shamkhal directed his men to ride toward the gate to the birooni and hold off Haydar’s supporters if they tried to enter the harem. Then he spurred his horse in the direction of Sultan-Zadeh’s home. One of his captains, Kholafa Rumlu, whose costly helmet inscribed with protective verses from the Qur’an gave away his high rank, spotted something in the distance and shouted, “Who are you?”

I caught a glimpse of three women in chadors, their faces hidden by pichehs, concealed among tall flowering bushes. The tallest among them was wearing pink silk shoes.

“Calm down; we’re just going to buy bread,” one of them called to him in a lilting voice. “The kitchens are empty, and our children have nothing to eat.”

“Shamkhal Cherkes, come back!” Kholafa yelled. Shamkhal turned his horse around and rode with Kholafa and a few soldiers toward the women. The women clung to one another, looking like frightened gazelles trapped by a circle of hunters.

“Remove your pichehs!” bellowed Shamkhal.

A woman wrapped in a black chador protected the others by spreading out her arms and corralling them behind her, causing the one in pink shoes to stumble.

“It is not your place to demand such a thing!” the woman in the black chador replied bravely.

“If you are innocent, you have nothing to fear,” replied Kholafa. He tore off the woman’s chador, picheh, and the kerchief covering her head, and she screamed as her long, dark hair cascaded over her shoulders and onto her breast. It was Awva, one of the ladies in charge of the kitchens. I gasped, horrified to witness such a transgression.

Another of the women came forward, volunteering herself, and the captain uncloaked her. She, too, cried out as the men stared at her naked face and unusual red hair, feasting on the spectacle of her. I didn’t recognize her.

“Who are you?” demanded Shamkhal.

“We serve the ladies of the royal court,” replied Awva haughtily, refusing to identify herself any further.

She and her friend crushed the third woman between them while facing out toward the soldiers, locking their arms backward around each other’s midsections to protect her. I thought about standing up to defend her, but a suspicion had entered my mind, and I decided against taking action.

“You will throw dishonor on the Safavi house if you insist on revealing her,” cried Awva. “The penalty will be your lives!”

Kholafa waved his hand as if to give up. “Let them go,” he said scornfully. “They are only women.”

“Let her prove it then!” shouted Shamkhal, his eyes fiery.

“You have lost your senses. Do you want to get us killed?” Kholafa replied.

I heard clubs striking wood and realized that Haydar’s men were challenging the barricades and the guards at the checkpoint from the birooni. By God above! We could all be killed in a matter of minutes.

The women began trying to break their way out of the circle of horses by ducking in between the restive mounts. The men closed ranks to trap them, and then Shamkhal grabbed the woman’s chador and picheh and ripped them from her body.

“Spare me!” she screamed in a strangled voice. When Kholafa tore off the kerchief covering her short hair, my suspicions were confirmed: It was Haydar. He put his hands out to protect himself, and his left eye twitched as if he were in his death throes.

From behind the checkpoint, Haydar’s men shouted out a chorus of comfort. “Haydar, we’re here to protect you! Help is at hand!”

Haydar turned toward their voices and shouted out, “Hurry!” as he flung himself toward an opening in the circle of horses. Shamkhal and Kholafa jumped off their mounts, pushed away the ladies, and lunged for him. Haydar lost his footing and dropped to the ground with a loud thump. The pink shoes flew off his feet, and his legs sprawled as the men struggled to pin down his arms.

There was a roar in the distance as the first of Haydar’s supporters breached the gate into the harem. I recognized the soldier with the thick red scar. He uttered a battle cry so fierce it curdled my blood, and he thrust his sword at me as he thundered past. I avoided being skewered only by falling facedown in the dirt.

“We have no choice. Finish him!” I heard Shamkhal say. When I looked up, he had succeeded in pinning Haydar’s arms behind his back. Kholafa drew his sword and thrust it twice into Haydar’s abdomen. A wet red stain sprang to life on his gray robe. As it spread across his belly, Haydar grimaced and clutched his middle. His groans were thick with blood.

Awva and the other lady began screaming in horror, folding in half at the waist and hitting their knees and temples with their hands. Their cries were more awful than anything I had ever heard.

Shamkhal’s soldiers hoisted Haydar’s body onto their shoulders and began marching toward the checkpoint leading to the birooni. By then more of Haydar’s supporters had breached the harem, including Hossein Beyg Ostajlu. He stared at the broken body in the bloodied gray robe.

“Alas! Our shining hope has been cruelly destroyed! May you and your families be cursed until the end of their line!” he shouted, along with a string of profanities. He and his soldiers skirmished briefly with Shamkhal’s men, but what use is a group of supporters without their shah? Before long, the men behind Hossein Beyg spurred their horses toward the birooni, fearful of being killed. Hossein Beyg’s guard closed ranks around him, and he escaped in the confusion.

Shamkhal directed his men to leave the palace grounds through the door that led to the Promenade of the Royal Stallions and to take up guard outside the Ali Qapu. As they marched out, he tossed me the large metal key. I followed, slammed the heavy door behind them, and locked it securely.

The rosebushes nearby had been decapitated. A nightingale began to sing in one of the cedar trees, reminding me of a lament. My red roses threw open their skirts for you, but now their petals darken the ground like tears of blood. Dust coated my clothes, and my mouth tasted of bile.

I stumbled to Pari’s house and told her and Maryam what had happened. Their faces turned pale when I described Haydar’s death. “It is as if the dirt of my grave is covering my head!” the princess said. “Why didn’t my uncle do my bidding?”

“It was God’s will,” I replied, trying to offer comfort.

Her thin body seemed as fragile as a long-necked rose-water sprinkler made of glass. Although I would have liked to comfort her, I knew Maryam would soothe away her woes better than anyone else could.

I returned to the dormitory that housed the eunuchs who served the harem. Our building, which was notable only for its modesty, now struck me as a sanctuary. Collapsing onto a wool cushion in the guest room, I shed my soiled outer robe and told a servant to bring me tea with plenty of dates. My hand seemed palsied as I lifted the vessel to my mouth.

Before long, Balamani joined me. His eyes were pink, the lids puffy.

“Do you mourn for Haydar Mirza?” I asked.

His eyes grew large with astonishment. “What do you mean?”

I couldn’t help myself: I felt a surge of satisfaction that I knew the world-changing news before he did.



That evening, I was weary and in need of comfort. Some men would have turned to opium or bang, a vision-inducing drink made with hemp, but I didn’t think either would help. I placated my stomach with bread, cheese, and fresh herbs, then went to my room and listened to Balamani’s sonorous snores. Lying on my bedroll, I watched the events of the day repeat themselves before my eyes, the red stain on Haydar’s gray robe growing in my vision until it filled the blackness of my room like a suppurating wound. When the moon appeared in a window in the roof, spots of blood blemished its smooth white surface. The spots grew until the moon became a bright red disk bleeding its course across the sky, and I awoke with tense limbs and ragged breath. I could not stay still. I arose, dressed, and walked on a path fringed by plane trees until I reached the entrance to the long, low building that housed Sultanam’s ladies. I whispered to the eunuch on duty that I had an urgent message for Khadijeh, placing a coin in his hand as I spoke.

Khadijeh was alone, having sent her bedmate elsewhere. Her eyes were bright in the moonlight, and the ends of her long, curly hair looked tipped in silver.

“I couldn’t sleep,” she whispered. “I keep thinking about what happened today.”

“That is why I came.”

“Did you see it?”

“Everything,” I replied, unable to keep the horror out of my voice. Men had been executed while I had served at court, but never with so little civility.

“You are shivering!” Khadijeh pulled back the wool blanket. “Come get warm.”

I removed my turban and outer robe, and slid in beside her with the rest of my clothing on. She laid the front of her body against my back and wrapped her arms around me. I felt the roundness of her breasts through her cotton nightclothes, and my skin warmed as if I were in front of a blazing fire.

“Aw khesh!” I said gratefully, absorbing her heat. “You warm me outside and in.”

In response, she kissed my neck. Her lips smelled of roses. How shocked the late Shah would have been to learn that one of his ladies held a eunuch in her arms!

“Where were you today?” I asked.

“Hiding with Sultanam, in case Haydar’s men took over the palace,” she said, her body stiffening.

“I am glad you are safe.”

Her dark eyes were serious. “Tell me what you saw.”

“Are you sure? I don’t want to frighten you.”

“You can’t,” Khadijeh replied sharply. “I stopped being afraid the day the slavers threw my mother’s corpse over the side of the boat.”

Khadijeh had been so transformed by her days at court it was easy to imagine she had come from a noble family. In fact, she and her younger brother had been captured from the east coast of Africa as children and bought by an agent of the Safavis. As a young girl, Khadijeh had already been a beauty, with skin the rich color of copper, and blue-black hair so curly it reminded me of hyacinth flowers. At first she had been apprenticed to the mistress in charge of tea, learning how to blend teas so that they were fragrant and to brew them for deepest flavor. Then she had asked to be transferred to the head of cuisine, with whom she had served an apprenticeship of eight years. An ordinary walnut cookie with cinnamon, cumin, and a dash of something odd but savory that she would not reveal—fennel? fenugreek?—fired my mouth with surprise every time I tasted it. Once Khadijeh mixed some fierce pepper into a bowl of saffron pudding—she had a mischievous side—and giggled at the shock on my face when I tasted the first bite. I devoured the whole bowl, my tongue burning with gratitude.

Both Khadijeh and her brother, Mohsen, had fared very well. Sultanam had taken notice of Khadijeh’s cooking and had welcomed her into her service, and Mohsen had become one of the royal groomsmen.

I covered her hands with mine and told her what I had seen, sparing her the worst details.

“Why did Pari take such a big risk? If Haydar had won the day, she and her uncle would no longer draw breath.”

I felt a surge of pride. “She was very brave.”

“Remember, you could have been killed, too.” Her eyes looked moist in the moonlight.

“It was a gamble,” I admitted, “but Pari has changed the course of history. There will be no Haydar Shah.”

She snorted. “Pari is like a wild horse. You had better make sure she doesn’t buck you off into the jaws of a lion.”

I laughed off her comment, roared like a lion, and pulled her closer. She shushed me but failed to repress a giggle. No one paid much attention to how the ladies amused themselves in the harem, since no one except the shah could take a woman’s virginity or impregnate her. But Khadijeh and I were safe only as long as our alliance remained secret.

“What is going to happen now?”

“Isma‘il will be summoned and crowned.”

“How soon will he arrive?”

“No one knows.”

She sighed. “All the sweet certainty we once had has vanished.”

“Has it?” I teased. I tugged gently at the corner of her mouth with my teeth, feeling her lips bloom, soften, and part to allow my tongue in. My skin stirred as if all my pores were on alert, and I shrugged off my robe, then hers.

Let it never be said that eunuchs have no feelings of desire! Because I had been cut late, I retained more feelings for women than eunuchs who had lost their parts as children. To be sure, it is not the same as when I was uncut, because it is not dictated by the mercurial rise and fall of an unpredictable instrument. Instead it is a feeling of exquisite attentiveness unclouded by personal urgency. I search for Khadijeh’s most sensitive parts, putting angles and corners to use that no man would think of employing, from elbows to toes. I squeeze my nose into dark, steamy places where she would never have expected such a visit. I nibble and slurp and suck. If a part of Khadijeh is in need of touch—the skin over her collarbones, or the bottoms of her feet—I find it, the way a master caresses the sensitive strings of a tar to engender the sweetest sounds. The one part I do not touch is Khadijeh’s virginity, but there is no need for a man of skill to do that.

That night, I played Khadijeh with all the fingers of my hands. Holding her from behind, I roamed all over her body with my lips and breath, from sunny desert to wet oasis. I watched her cheeks bloom and heard her breaths come faster and faster until she could not control herself. For my labors, I was rewarded with small animal grunts, high-pitched groans, and then finally, wild, uncontrollable cries as her limbs stiffened and jerked in all five directions.

After she had rested, she lifted her body on top of mine, and I felt her delicate ribs against my chest. Her skin glowed dark and rich, like tamarind in the moonlight. The earthy scent at her breasts was of ambergris, making me feel as inflamed as a tomcat stalking its mate. I put my hands at her waist, traveling to the parts that flared into globes, both high above and down below. She toyed with my lips, the gateway to paradise. Her tongue traveled down my neck and stopped where she pleased, flicking lightly, teasingly. Putting my hand to the back of her head, I bid her drink more fully, but she pinned my wrist to the floor: She would proceed at her own pace. Her tongue entered my ear, left its moistness, continued its journey. She traveled down to the flat place between my legs with her tongue and delicately teased the exposed edges of my tube. By God above! No uncut man can imagine what it feels like to have an internal organ stroked, to be caressed in a place never intended to see light. No such man will ever know the sensitivity of those tissues or how fiercely mine responded to her lips, like the leaves of a plant unfurling in response to heat. She lingered there until I came alive, but she would not stay. Her breath came to my lips again and she made her visit to each place that cried out for her. Yet now I could not stand her teasing. I rolled on top of her and opened my legs over her lips, astride her. Her tongue flicked out like an animal’s. She held on to the backs of my thighs while I twisted with pleasure. When I had experienced all I could stand, she stopped, and I sighed with the satisfaction of a man who has been cared for through and through.

I grabbed a blanket and pulled it over me, not so much for warmth but because I didn’t want Khadijeh to see my groin exposed by the dawn. Sometimes when I was with her, I would dream that I still had all my parts, before waking up to the startling sight of my flattened pubis.

On my cheek, I felt Khadijeh’s warm breath, and my bones became heavy with sleep. I allowed myself to doze for an hour in the comfort of her arms. How contented I would be if I could stay with her all night! I had been her secret companion for more than two years, but had never been able to wake beside her.

While it was still dark, I awoke and dressed so that we would not be discovered. Khadijeh was sleeping soundly, her cheek resting in her hand. I pulled the bedcovers around her and whispered, “Good night, and may God bring us together again soon.” Then I tore myself away.



The hammam for eunuchs was separate from that of men who might be disturbed by the sight of our flush pubic areas and our exposed tubes. It had small brick alcoves for washing and a large central pool with turquoise tile for bathing. The pool was surmounted by a dome whose windows let in sunlight and starlight. The hammam was deserted at that early hour, and I suspected that my arrival might have displaced a few jinn. After what had happened the day before, they would be wise to be more afraid of humans than we of them.

To make the necessary Grand Ablution after sexual contact, I said the name of God and then washed my hands, face, arms, ears, feet, legs, and private parts, gargled and cleaned my head. My chin and cheeks felt rough, so I asked the bath attendant to give me a shave. Because I had been cut so late in life, my facial hair still grew, although more slowly than before.

As I soaked in the hottest tub, I felt as if I were trying to cleanse myself of the gruesome scene I had witnessed. The hot water normally leached away all my worries, but not today. I would not feel safe until a new shah was in place, and yet, only a prince among men would do. I longed for a visionary, like Akbar the Great of the Mughals, who reenergized his huge bureaucracy, or Suleyman the Lawgiver, the statesman, conqueror, poet, and patron of the arts who steered the Ottomans to world-dominating splendor. Hope stirred in my heart at the thought of such a boon, yet how rare it was!

After dressing, I made haste to attend on Pari at her house. She had donned her darkest mourning robes and was in her writing room applying her seal to a letter. Beside her lay an open book penned in exquisite calligraphy with illustrated pages. It was the Shahnameh.

“Good morning, lieutenant of my life,” I said. “How is your health?”

“Surprising,” she replied. “I still walk and breathe on this earth, unlike my poor father and his ill-starred son. I can hardly grasp that there are now two royal corpses in the palace, one of a son who may have killed his father, and one of a father whose erstwhile allies have killed his son. I have turned to Ferdowsi for guidance, but nowhere in the Shahnameh do I recall a like situation that could advise or console me in my grief.”

“Princess, I remember that in the middle of the poem, Ferdowsi laments the death of his only son. Do you recall how he interjects himself into the story to announce his grief?”

“I do. That is the keenest statement of mourning that a man of such personal restraint could make—yet no consolation is offered.”

“Perhaps none is possible.”

She sighed. “None is possible.”

“I am hopeful that this will be your final sorrow.”

She looked so youthful and vulnerable that I was reminded of her brother Mahmood when he was small, and I felt a pang. I missed him.

Her smile was pained. “I would be grateful if that were true. God willing, Isma‘il will take the throne, but at what cost? Never would my father have approved of one of his sons being hunted down and murdered like a rabbit. Even Isma‘il, who our father felt betrayed him, was not dispatched like a piece of meat. It is a disgraceful insult, one that makes my shattered heart feel more shattered still.”

“Princess, you did everything you could. It was God’s will.”

She paused for a moment. “Your service to me has been a consolation. I wish to thank you for all you did yesterday.”

She handed me a cloth bag, which I opened to discover a stack of finely embroidered blue silk handkerchiefs. They showed a noblewoman reclining on a carpet under a walnut tree, her attention focused on a book. My heart soared: For the first time, Pari had entrusted me with one of her personal possessions. From now on, I would carry one of her handkerchiefs inside my robe in case she needed it.

“Thank you, Princess. Your confidence in me fills me with joy.”

“I heard you avoided an attempt on your life by one of Haydar’s men. I didn’t expect you to be so brave.”

I bowed my head, thinking about how ruthlessly the eunuch Bagoas led the ancient empire of Iran, crushing even mighty Egypt.

“I am going to need someone of your mettle in the days ahead. Until Isma‘il arrives, nothing is certain. I have written to him this morning and advised him to come quickly so that the nobles whose aims have been disappointed don’t rebel. Take this letter to my chief courier and tell him to deliver it at once.”



In her public reception rooms, Pari positioned herself behind the lattice. The hall was crowded with people, from lowly errand boys with messages from their masters to noblemen like her vizier Majeed, who was the first admitted. He spoke in a breathless, high-pitched voice, as if he had not been able to calm himself since the events of the day before.

“Esteemed princess, the court is in chaos. Many nobles who supported Haydar have fled in fear of their lives. The ones who have remained don’t know to whom to report. The cooks have abandoned their kitchens.”

Pari’s eyebrows shot up in surprise. “Go to Anwar and tell him to meet with the head cook. Their first responsibility is to restore the service of the kitchens immediately.”

“Yes, esteemed princess,” Majeed replied, “but Anwar won’t know from whom to take his orders, now that the Shah is dead.”

“Tell him his future depends on taking them from me.”

Majeed’s brow furrowed and his lips contorted before he blurted out, “And where is he to get the money?”

“From the royal treasury, of course.”

“The chief treasurer is nowhere to be found, and the officials whose seals are needed are gone.”

“I will find those people and demand their help,” Pari said. “In the meantime, tell Anwar I will pay for it out of my own purse.”

“But much silver will be necessary!”

“My good vizier, perhaps you don’t realize that I have inherited my legal share of my father’s fortune.”

Majeed looked as perplexed as a man whose horse has just bolted away from him, never to return. “But only your exalted father was allowed to—”

“Don’t delay. You will need to be persuasive.”

“What am I to say?”

“It is an order from Safavi royalty. Now go.”

Pari’s voice was so crisp that Majeed’s entire body stiffened in response, like that of a captain receiving his orders to lead a charge. Then he bowed his head in submission. Pari looked as implacable as a general, and I stared at her, astounded. May God be praised! She had just seized the reins of state!

I returned to fetch the next man in her waiting room and noticed that the crowd was growing. The questions and demands were relentless. Would she say the funeral prayers for her father herself? Where should Haydar’s body be interred? How would she protect the noblemen who had not taken sides in the dispute? What about the wives of the men who had died in the skirmish, what would become of them and their children? Would she advocate for the son of a close friend of her father for a high government posting under the new shah? One after the other, men begged for favors.

By the late afternoon, Pari’s eyes were weary. “Who is next?” she asked me with a sigh.

“Mirza Salman Jaberi, head of the royal guilds.” He had just arrived, but as he was one of the fourteen officials closest to the late Shah, I escorted him immediately to the visitors’ side of the lattice, and then I returned to Pari’s side. He was a short, thin man who made the very air around him feel crisp with purpose.

“And what do you want?” Pari snapped. “Surely the business of the guilds can wait.”

He didn’t seem perturbed. “Indeed it can. The guilds are fine.”

“Well, then, what is it?”

“Nothing, esteemed princess. As a devoted servant of your late father, I came to ask if I might offer assistance to you.”

Pari raised her eyebrows in disbelief. “You have no requests?”

“None. I merely wish to serve you.”

Pari whispered, “He is the only one who is man enough to offer some help!” When she noticed my affronted expression, she apologized.

“Where do I start?” she said to Mirza Salman. “Everything is in disarray. Where is everyone?”

“Hiding. Waiting. Worrying.”

“The nobles must return to their posts to keep the government functioning until Isma‘il arrives. I wish to call a meeting to give them their orders.”

“But only the shah or the grand vizier can call a meeting. No one else outranks them.”

“There is no such man. What do you suggest?”

Tahmasb Shah had gotten so tired of grand viziers that he hadn’t bothered to appoint a new one.

“I will say that a high-ranking member of the Safavi house has ordered the meeting, but not who. The nobles will think it is a prince. Have your uncle preside for you so that everything is proper.”

The fact that the same Farsi word was used for “he” and “she” would help our cause.

“It is good advice.”

“By the way, I have a tip for your ears only.”

“Yes?”

“Whatever you plan to achieve at the meeting, don’t rely on the chief of the treasury. I know him well. He will bow only to the authority of the new shah.”

“What makes him so confident that my brother will retain his services?”

Mirza Salman chuckled. “True. Some people see their wishes as their destiny.”

“Do you?”

He hesitated for the first time. “No. I see my actions as my destiny, in accordance with the will of God.”

“Well said. We will need men like you. Call the meeting then for tomorrow morning at my house.”

“Chashm.”

After Mirza Salman was escorted out, Pari said, “What a surprise! How well do you know him?”

“Not well,” I replied. He had been part of the second innermost ring of men who served the Shah. Those people kept a tight lip and rarely socialized with their inferiors.

“I remember Mirza Salman carried out an unpleasant task for your late father by disciplining a cabal of gold sellers who tried to cheat the court. His guilds have been as clean as a bathhouse since. He would be an excellent ally, I think, and an equally fierce enemy.”

“We will watch him then and discover how true he is.”

“What is our chief goal at tomorrow’s meeting?”

Pari’s hand trembled a little as she smoothed a lock of hair away from her face. “Preventing a coup.”

Deh! I had not heard any rumors.

“Whom do you suspect?”

“The Georgians and the Ostajlu might decide they are better off supporting another prince.”

“I will redouble my efforts at gathering intelligence.”

But first, Pari asked me to take a message to her uncle Shamkhal requesting that he preside over the meeting the next day.

“Princess, I thought you were angry at him about the death of Haydar.”

She sighed. “I am, but I need him.”



In the history of the Safavis, no woman had ever taken charge of the men so directly. We left nothing to chance. I helped the princess select the cloth that would separate her from the nobles, since such an exalted woman would never show herself to a group of men to whom she was not related. We settled on a bolt of thick blue velvet patterned with scenes from the hunt, most notably a repeating motif of a mounted prince thrusting his sword through the belly of a lion.

Pari concealed herself behind the draped cloth while I stood in different corners of the room to listen for how well she could be heard. Her voice was melodious: very low for a woman, but with an agreeable timbre, and it didn’t take much practice before she could easily be heard at the far corners of the room.

“One thing, princess. Your father spoke slowly. If you do the same, you will make the men pause and listen just as he did.”

“Very well. Have I forgotten anything?”

“Since you won’t be able to see the expressions on the men’s faces, I will report anything notable to you.”

“You will be my eyes, as you are around the palace.” She smiled, and I felt as if the sun were warming my skin.

The next morning after dawn prayers, I went to my post at Pari’s house. As soon as it became light, I was gratified to see both men of the sword and men of the pen arriving. They filed into her public rooms and arranged themselves on cushions according to rank, forming a semicircle around the curtained area. The air seemed heavy and portentous, as before a storm.

Shamkhal Cherkes’s wide shoulders and enormous white turban made him look like a giant when he mounted the platform. He welcomed the men and bade them listen well to the words of his niece, favorite daughter of the late Shah. Majeed stood near Pari’s curtain, ready to convey any private messages she might wish to send. I chose a position on the side of the room where I could see everyone. As I stared at the battle-hardened men, the enormity of our task seized me. The late Shah had barely managed to keep them under control. The Ostajlu and the Takkalu had fought a bitter civil war, and there were countless feuds and grudges between other groups that had to be navigated. We must find a way to tame the men at all costs.

Pari’s voice was clear and strong. “Nobles, you honor the memory of my blessed father—may God’s judgment upon him be light—by your presence here. You are the shining stars of our age, recognized by my father as such during his lifetime. But don’t forget that a heinous act has recently occurred: a near takeover of the palace by those who wished to install their candidate on the throne.”

Several men looked as if they wished to flee. Others, like Mirza Shokhrollah, the chief of the treasury, smirked.

“Despite these horrors, our responsibility at this moment is to ensure the security of the state. Every man must perform his job, but not every man has stayed at his post. Where has everyone been?” Her voice was loud and strong as she issued the challenge.

No one replied.

“The palace can’t run itself. All of you are needed until a new shah is in place. I want to hear from you now,” she continued. “Despite what happened a few days ago, I am going to ask you—all of you—to support Isma‘il as shah. Well?”

Amir Khan Mowsellu stood up to speak first. “You have our full support,” he replied in a booming voice.

Since his sister Sultanam was Isma‘il’s mother, it was no surprise that Amir and his allies heeded her call. But some of the other men did not join in, and they began whispering and conveying their disapproval with a flick of their hands, precisely the kind of discord we had feared.

Mirza Salman arose to speak. “You have my pledge of loyalty as well,” he replied, “and perhaps I can help others by posing a question. Noble daughter of the Safavis, sometimes men are misguided in their choices. How can you expect them to support Isma‘il if they fear for their lives because they threw themselves behind the wrong man?”

“That is right!” came a chorus of voices.

“It is true that men are sometimes ill-advised,” Pari replied. “Since the situation was confusing, I don’t wish to punish those who made the wrong decision if their intentions were to act for the good of the state. Therefore, if you are all willing to pledge your loyalty to Isma‘il, I will promise to advocate on behalf of those who supported Haydar and to help break the rod of royal displeasure.”

“What guarantee do we have that he will listen to you?” asked Sadr al-din Khan, an Ostajlu leader who had dared to show his face.

“I have been in communication with him.”

“But did he offer amnesty? Show us the letter!”

“I don’t have an offer of amnesty. I will ask for one.”

Some of the men paused to think about that, knowing how powerful Pari’s advocacy could be. But Sadr al-din Khan was not satisfied.

“That is not good enough,” he replied.

Pari was silent behind the curtain. I suspected she didn’t know what more to promise to assuage him and avoid a revolt. Both Majeed and Shamkhal looked at a loss. My heart seemed to flip-flop like a fish on dry land. I had never had an official role in a meeting of such importance, and I did not know what to do.

Pari’s cousin Ibrahim Mirza stood up to speak. He had been Tahmasb Shah’s favorite nephew and had even been permitted to run his own bookmaking workshop long after Tahmasb had lost interest. He had the ancient Iranian mien—thick black curls, smooth wheat-colored skin, rosy cheeks, and shapely lips, but his good looks could not hide that he had supported Haydar.

“Now wait a minute,” Ibrahim said in a loud voice. “Amnesty is only the concern of people who were on the wrong side. But it is hardly the most pressing issue, is it? Almost no one has laid eyes on the prince for twenty years. How do we know he is not blind, sick, or a crazed fool?”

“That is heresy. He was a hero to all of Iran when he was young!” shouted Amir Khan Mowsellu.

“Maybe so, but what about now? A just leader is the only thing we should care about when the future of our country is at stake!” Ibrahim replied.

From the conflicted looks on the men’s faces, I understood that not everyone agreed. Most nobles wished to advance the interests of their own people. As a “double-veined” child, with intertwined Tajik and Turkic strands, I wanted a shah who wouldn’t be swayed by petty jockeying for power.

“Isma‘il will be such a leader!” declared Amir Khan Mowsellu, but his words met deadly quiet.

“Who knows?” asked Sadr al-din Khan. “The prince isn’t even here. Why doesn’t he arrive and claim his throne?”

“He will enter the city any moment now,” argued Kholafa Rumlu.

“It is easy for you to say—you who can expect a fat reward!” complained Sadr al-din Khan.

Kholafa had been the mastermind who spread rumors that Isma‘il and his troops had arrived, thereby dooming the Ostajlu. He smiled at Sadr al-din Khan. “That is because I used my head.”

“Some would argue that you were merely blessed with luck.”

The two men jumped to their feet and began hurling insults at one another. Some of the Takkalu began poking fun at Sadr al-din Khan, delighted by the disgrace of their longtime Ostajlu rivals.

“Choke yourselves!” commanded Shamkhal, but no one was listening.

I slipped behind the curtain to check on Pari. Her face was shiny, and her cheeks looked hot.

“Change strategy,” I advised. “Tell them you need help getting the palace in order. That is something they can all agree with.”

In the hall, Shamkhal had to threaten to call for the guards before the nobles quieted down again.

“My good men, I require your assistance,” Pari told them. “We have urgent problems—broken gates and poisoned arrows on the palace grounds, instability in Qazveen, and a closed bazaar. Won’t you help a royal woman when she needs you?”

“All of that will require funds,” said Mirza Shokhrollah.

“You may proceed with a report from the treasury.”

His large, soft jowls wobbled as he claimed that he could not provide what she needed. The princess pressed him for reasons. He launched into a list of obfuscations until she lost patience.

“Do not forget who I am,” she commanded in a cold voice. “Until just a few days ago, I had my father’s ear. Do not think for a moment that I won’t protect the interests of the dynasty as fiercely as he did—with or without your help. All of you must return to your posts. Tomorrow morning, we will begin with reports from each department, including the treasury. It is your job to ensure that the next shah doesn’t meet chaos and confusion upon his arrival. I should not wish to report that you were absent when you were needed most.”

Shamkhal cut off further discussion. “Heed the words of the foremost daughter of the Safavis! You are dismissed.”

Shamkhal showed the men out, including Majeed, so that Pari could emerge. I lifted the curtain, and she came out wiping her face with a cloth. She looked as wilted as day-old basil.

“I didn’t accomplish what I had hoped. How unruly they are! I will send an urgent message to Isma‘il and tell him how delicate the situation is.”

“God willing, he will come soon,” I replied, hearing the alarm in my own voice.

“I hope so. I feel as if I am holding on to his throne with a thin silk thread.”

Shamkhal returned and approached his niece. “You did well, my child,” he said, but his hooded eyes did not look happy.



That afternoon, as Pari and I began working, the princess’s mother came to see her unannounced. She walked into the room so quietly that neither Pari nor I heard her until she greeted her daughter, and we looked up from a document to find her standing there.

“Mother, be welcome,” said Pari. “How is your health?”

“I endure.”

Pari raised her eyebrows. “May I offer you some tea? Sweetmeats? A cushion for your hip?” Her tone was considerate, but I sensed her impatience.

Her mother declined refreshments and sat down stiffly near Pari, a proximity that made it difficult to see any common traits. Daka Cherkes Khanoom was a woman of about fifty who didn’t appear to have had the strength to pass on anything of herself to her daughter. She was small-boned, with fair skin and pale brown eyes.

“Daughter of mine, star of my universe, I think you know why I have come.”

Pari’s smile was strained as if she were bracing for what was ahead. Daka stared into her daughter’s eyes, and to my surprise, the princess looked away. I had seen Pari tolerate much in the last few weeks, but never had I seen her look so uncomfortable.

“You have refused me the pleasure for years, but the time has come for you to think about marriage.”

I was alarmed by the thought. If the princess married, I would be under the command of her husband, not her. What if he were a boring old drudge? Pari made my mind feel as alive as a buzzing nest of bees.

“Can’t you see that I must manage the affairs of the palace?”

“My dear child, how long do you think that will last?”

“Only God knows.”

“You have always prided yourself on your reason. Isma‘il will arrive and take the throne, and then what will you do?”

“I will advise him.”

Her mother’s gaze was pitying. “You haven’t spent as much time with Sultanam as I have,” she said. “Lately, she has been in an uncommonly good mood. Once when she did not think I was near, I heard her singing, ‘farewell, ill-favored fairy!’ meaning you. If any woman will advise her son, it will be her.”

Pari’s mouth turned down in displeasure. “She doesn’t know what I know, and neither does her son. If a man is to be appointed a subgovernor, which four officials must affix their seals to the document and in what order? All she can do is whisper her likes and dislikes in his ear. He will soon tire of that.”

“It doesn’t matter. She will poison his mind against you.”

“Mother, you overestimate her.”

“She wishes to bury you. I beg you to let me find you a new protector in the person of a husband.”

Her mother took Pari’s hand, her eyes shining with hope. “We will look for a handsome man whose face will be like the sun to you every morning. Someone as strong and as fierce as a lion to hold you in his arms.”

Pari withdrew her hand abruptly as if the very idea made her wish never to be touched again.

“Mother, who could that be? Who can match the purity of my blood but a son of my father?”

“None, but what about a son of his brother?”

“Ibrahim, Badi, Hossein—they all have first wives. I will not be married as a second wife.”

Daka grabbed her cushion as if to brace herself against her daughter’s arguments. “Pari, you know that someone could be found if you wished it.”

“What, some noble who is posted to the provinces? I would be bored.”

“But, daughter of mine, don’t you wish for children?” Her mother looked desperate. “What about grandchildren for me? I grow old. I can’t wait forever.”

“Suleyman and his wife will provide them for you, I am certain.”

“Pari, where is your womanly feeling? I tell you, there is nothing more satisfying than holding your own child in your arms. You don’t know it yet, but I pray that you will soon.”

“I have told you many times that I am content as I am. I take after my aunt Maheen Banu.”

“Not exactly. You have not predeceased your protector, and therefore, you must be cautious.”

Maheen Banu had served as one of Tahmasb Shah’s most sagacious advisors all her life. People at court couldn’t stop talking about how she had argued for providing military assistance to the Mughal emperor Homayoun when he needed it. In gratitude, he had ceded the entire province of Qandahar to Iran.

Pari didn’t reply. Her mother adjusted the scarf over her hair, the lines at her lips deepening with determination.

“I mean no disrespect, but your father was very selfish. He kept your aunt as a bride for the Mahdi, in case the Hidden Imam should return from occultation to bring justice back to Iran during her lifetime—”

“—and he kept a horse saddled at all times, I know, Mother, I know, so that they could depart whenever they wished.”

“But you he kept for himself,” her mother added in an accusatory tone. “I can’t forgive him for putting his love for you over what was best for you.”

“Mother!” said Pari. “What he did was best for me, too.”

“It is true that no woman had his ear like you did, but that is why so many are now eager to see your demise.”

Pari’s generous lips curved into a frown. “People love to dwell on the pain of others; they love to stick their fingers in it and suck on it as if it were honey. But I won’t allow them to feed at my hive. I didn’t leave my father’s side, for the simple reason that I preferred his company to that of any other man.”

“You can’t assume you will retain your old position.”

“You must let me see what fate brings me,” said Pari, her voice rising in exasperation.

Daka looked as if she would not give up. “Pari, I didn’t want to say this, but I am frightened. Let me keep you safe. You know I would sacrifice myself for you!”

She tore the silk scarf off her head, revealing thin, graying hair. She bent her head forward, yanked out a few hairs from her mousy pink scalp, and laid them in front of her daughter.

“As your mother, I demand that you heed my counsel!”

She grabbed another few strands and prepared to yank them out. It was awful to witness.

“Ah, ah, Mother, stop!” Pari cried, grabbing her hand and pulling it away from her head.

Daka let her wrist go limp. “My child, this time I won’t be dissuaded. All I ask is that you consider a list of candidates. If none pleases, you may say so. But if you are in trouble, a rapid marriage could save you. I won’t leave this cushion until you give your assent.”

From outside we heard the call to prayer. The day was passing.

“Pari, you must not be so stubborn. Times have changed, and you must change, too.”

“On the contrary, Mother. Other women are moonlike, waxing and waning. Not me.”

“Please, my child. I beg you. As the woman who gave you your first milk, I have rights that transcend your own will.”

Pari sighed heavily; her mother had made the one argument that no child could deny. “All right then, if you must, but do not make this quest public.”

“Why not?”

“Because it is my last choice.”

“My child, how strange you are!” her mother said in vexation. “What kind of woman wouldn’t wish to be married?”

Pari looked away. “You would not understand—it is not in your blood.”

“Voy, voy!” said her mother. “I have never pretended to royal blood like yours. But perhaps your blood is what makes you such an oddity compared to other women.”

“Perhaps,” Pari replied, in a tone as final as a door being slammed. “Mother, I wish I could sit with you all day, but now you must give me leave to do my work.”

“It is granted,” Daka replied, standing up stiffly. “But do not forget—protecting you is my right. You must keep that in your heart, even when you dislike how I choose to do it.”

“I will, Mother.” Pari softened. “I remain your devoted daughter.”

“I know.”

Daka marched out of the room with the pride of a wounded old soldier who has finally won a long-running battle.

Pari shook her head as if to clear it and sighed. “Hope flares in her heart again!”

“Princess, will you never marry?” I asked, hoping she would say no.

“Only God knows,” she replied vaguely. “The truth is that I don’t think about it much, but it gives my mother something to do. Now let’s attend to our planning before the hour grows too late.”



That evening, I received a letter from my sister, Jalileh, who was now fourteen. I tore it open, eager to hear her news. Jalileh was living with my mother’s second cousin in a tiny town on the hot, humid coastline of southern Iran. She wrote to me every few months, which allowed me to monitor the progress of her life and her studies. Supervising her education from afar had been difficult, but I had insisted that my cousin find the best tutor available, and now, despite my cousin’s complaints, I sent money to the woman directly.

Jalileh wrote that the weather on the Gulf had become hot and moist, making it difficult to keep her mind fresh, but all that had changed when she began studying the poetry of Gorgani.

His words are so beautiful they make me want to jump up and dance. When he suggests that we seize our fondest desires before our clay crumbles, I wish to become his disciple! But then my tutor reminds me that I must learn to be as steadfast as the sun, and I quell my racing heart and obey.

Dear brother, does my writing please you? Might some employment be found for me close to you? I am almost grown, as our mother’s cousin keeps reminding me, and I am impatient to be useful.

If only I could do something! Jalileh now wrote a better hand than many of the ladies at court. I longed to ask Pari to employ her, but as she had just hired me, it was too early to request such a great boon. I would not break Jalileh’s heart—and my own—by promising her anything until I was sure. The memory of the last time I had seen her still lay heavily on me, her little body twisted around on the receding donkey, her arms stretched out to me, her face so streaked with tears it looked as if it had melted. Nor could I forget my mother’s parting words: “Restore our honor. Not for me, but for your sister.”

I wrote Jalileh right away, praising the beauty of her handwriting, and I asked her to be patient.



Before nightfall, I took a walk around the center of Qazveen. The pigeons in the square near the bazaar flapped their wings forlornly, hungry for their usual crumbs. The large wooden gates were still closed, and no peddlers lined the streets. I proceeded to a nearby tavern where I knew the bazaaris liked to go, and introduced myself to a few of the men as a merchant from Tabriz. The men’s faces were drawn with worry, and conversation was slow until I bought and shared a few jugs of wine, as well as tea for the strictly pious.

“Let’s hope we don’t die of starvation,” I said, trying to open the floodgates of the conversation.

“What is worse—starving to death or being assassinated in the streets?” asked an old fellow with shrewd eyes. Shouts of laughter filled the room as the men joked about the worst way to die.

“You are right, brother,” I said, as if I knew what he was talking about. “Can I pour you a little more?”

It didn’t take long for me to learn that the bazaar was still closed because of a string of murders. The rumor was that the Takkalu had been assassinating Ostajlu to get revenge for all the years they had been favored by Tahmasb Shah, and then others began taking the liberty to settle scores with people they envied or despised.

“Someone needs to tell those donkeys at the palace to do something,” the old man grumbled.

At the next day’s meeting, after being briefed by me, Majeed, and Pari, Anwar sounded alarms about the closed bazaar. The palace was not receiving its usual deliveries, the kitchens were merely limping along, produce was rotting in the fields, and soon trade would be affected. “The heartbeat of the country is slowing to a halt,” he concluded.

The men listened carefully because Anwar, who prayed without fail three times per day, was known for both piety and honesty. The late Shah had honored him by putting him in charge of harem operations and of efforts to fund mosques, wells, and pilgrimage sites.

“The merchants refuse to open because ordinary citizens are being slaughtered,” Pari added from behind the curtain. She could not challenge the Takkalu openly without inciting a civil war.

Her uncle stood up. “I think we should send soldiers to arrest the evildoers and have them put to death. That will set an example that others will wish to avoid.”

“Isn’t that an extreme measure?” Pari asked. I remembered what had happened to Haydar and worried about Shamkhal’s thirst for blood.

“Not if we give the citizens fair warning first,” he replied.

The chief of the late Shah’s private army, Khalil Khan Afshar, who had been named Pari’s guardian when she was a baby, interjected his opinion. “We should deputize a group of soldiers to ride through the city and announce that anyone found to be plotting or executing violence will be punished,” he said. “We will spread the word far and wide.”

“Do that,” said Pari, “and remind them that judgment over another man is the province only of the shah and his Councils of Justice. My brother will prosecute the known murderers once he has been crowned.”

“If he is crowned,” said Sadr al-din Khan Ostajlu from the back of the room. “He has to arrive first, doesn’t he?”

“He is on his way,” insisted Pari.

“Esteemed princess, we will deploy the soldiers tomorrow,” said Khalil Khan. “Is there anything else you wish us to do?”

“There is,” she replied. “All the Takkalu should ride to my brother’s side and pay their respects as soon as possible.”

I almost laughed out loud: Pari was learning quickly. If the Takkalu left, the Ostajlu would feel less besieged and would be less likely to revolt.

“The other men should return to their posts and report to me on the progress they make every day.”

“Chashm.”

“I don’t see why we should follow these orders,” argued Mirza Shokhrollah. “You are not the shah.”

“Do you doubt the purity of my blood?” Pari asked sharply.

“Not your blood,” he replied. “We honor you for your ties to the Safavi dynasty.”

“In the absence of a crowned shah, I will do my duty by ruling this palace and everyone in it, including you.”

Mirza Shokhrollah did not reply, but made a face to indicate that he did not take her seriously, and he began reciting a poem.

Since women don’t have any brains, sense, or faith

Following them drags you down to a primitive state.

Women are good for nothing but making sons

Ignore them; seek truth from the light of brighter ones.

Mirza Shokhrollah looked around as if expecting support, but there was an uncomfortable silence. No doubt some of the men in the room agreed with the sentiments, but it was insulting, possibly even treasonous, to degrade a royal princess of Pari’s stature. I would have liked to stuff his long gray beard into his mouth.

“You had better watch your wayfaring tongue,” Shamkhal said, puffing himself up like a snake about to strike. Next to him, Majeed looked like a mouse in search of a hole. How intimidated he seemed by his elders! If I had his job, I would be moving from man to man to rally support for Pari.

I went behind the curtain to check on the princess. “That poet was hardly the greatest thinker on the topic of women,” Pari retorted in a loud, strong voice. She paused for a minute, closing her eyes, and I felt as if I could actually see lines of poetry being composed on her pearly forehead. In the commanding voice that she used to recite, she countered with her own verse:

A fine silk robe can do well to hide

The pompous ass who is hidden inside

To know the truth that only God knows

Look beyond the fineness of clothes.

Seek much further to what is below the skin

Shatter the barriers, discover what is within.

By glitter and glamour don’t be deceived

Truth lies beyond what the eyes have perceived.

Ask “What is just? What is true? What is real?”

Only pigs devour garbage without a squeal.

Mirza Salman guffawed, and the rest of the men followed. Storm clouds gathered over Mirza Shokhrollah’s brow.

Mirza Salman stood up to speak.

“Princess, I will be glad to assist the chief of the treasury in producing the report. My men are available.”

I dashed out in time to see Mirza Shokhrollah glaring at him. “That won’t be necessary.”

“I am at your service,” said Mirza Salman with a mocking smile.

“No, thanks,” the treasury chief said again. “I don’t need your help.”

“In that case, how soon can we expect the report?” Pari said from behind the curtain, a note of triumph in her voice.

Mirza Shokhrollah hesitated. “I don’t know.”

“Really? Everyone knows how smoothly Mirza Salman’s guilds run and how thorough his reports are. Surely yours can be, too, now that you have his assistance.”

Mirza Shokhrollah glared at Mirza Salman, who met his gaze without flinching. If anything, his slim body became even more erect.

“I will see what I can do.” Mizra Shokhrollah scowled as if Pari were a night soil collector who had presumed to give him orders.

Shamkhal stood up and said quickly, “You heard the favorite daughter of the late, lamented Shah. You are hereby dismissed.”

The men filed out in separate groups of supporters of Isma‘il and Haydar, their disunity evident. I hoped Isma‘il would hurry. It was only a matter of time before the nobles decided to go their own way, as they had when Tahmasb was a child ruler. That was my worst fear: that the men would factionalize, give support to other candidates, and boost one of them to the throne. Then Pari’s power would dwindle, and all my hopes would turn to ash again.



When I finally had a moment to myself, I went to the building that housed the royal scribes and asked to speak to Rasheed Khan.

“He is away today,” said his assistant. Abteen Agha was a eunuch with chubby cheeks and a high, womanly voice.

“I need to have a look at the History of Tahmasb Shah’s Glorious Reign,” I replied. “The princess has asked me to do some research for her.”

It was a fib, but a harmless one.

“Where is your authorization letter?”

“She sent it a few days ago.”

Abteen Agha went off to check the status of the letter.

When I had asked Pari for the letter, I had wanted to confide in her about my father, but hadn’t dared. I feared that revealing my quest would make her suspect that my loyalties were divided. Instead I told her that her letter would make it easier for me to unearth information for her.

Abteen returned soon with a sour look.

“What exactly do you want to examine? The manuscript is thousands of pages long, reflecting the Shah’s nearly eternal reign. I am not going to bring out all the pages for you.”

I would have to sweeten him up with a gift. For now, I simply said, “I need to read about the principal officers who served Tahmasb Shah.”

“All right then. Come back another day, and I will have the pages for you.”

“Tomorrow?” I must have sounded overly eager.

“Do you have worms?”

Abteen was one of those functionaries who like to make everyone wait so that they understand how important they are. But as discretion was more important to me than hurry, I told him I would be back the next day.

The following afternoon, I returned with a fine brass bowl engraved with silver flowers and felicitous inscriptions. Abteen accepted the gift without fanfare and went to get the pages. He placed them in front of me on a low table inlaid with bits of mother-of-pearl and ebony.

“Mind you don’t bend or soil the pages,” he said.

“I have been around good paper before.”

“All right, then.”

The paper had been dyed with something like onionskin so that it was a pleasing ivory color and easy to read. All the pages consisted of short biographies. First there was a long list of the men of God who had served the Shah as religious leaders, followed by nobles descended from the Prophet. Then came lists of governors, viziers, and men of the pen, eunuchs in charge of the royal household, astrologers, doctors, calligraphers, artists, poets, and musicians.

Some of the men had found great fortune and been rewarded with land or governorships, but others had taken a fall. One man had been accused of being part of a blasphemous religious sect and executed. Another had fallen in love with a manservant that the Shah was quite fond of and so was killed. Still another had stolen money and had been sent away in disgrace. As I read through the story of the men’s afflictions, my heart began to bleed with sympathy. So many had gone the way of my father!

Eventually, I came upon the long list of accountants, scribes, and historians. My hands grew warm as I perused the list. I didn’t know if my father would merit an entry. Often, the historians ended their lists by writing, “None of the others are important enough to mention,” or words to that effect.

But then my heart seemed to stop in my chest:

Mohammad Amir Shirazi: Born in Qazveen, he served the Shah for twenty years, becoming one of his chief accountants. Many colleagues praised the accuracy of his accounts and his swift dispatch of court business. He seemed destined to rise up through the ranks of the men of the pen, until one day he was accused of crimes against the Shah and executed. Later, doubts were raised about the truth of the accusations. In his world-illumining mercy, the Shah did not execute his accuser, but it is also possible that his decision was influenced by the fact that the man had powerful allies whom the Shah didn’t wish to offend. Only God knows all things with certainty.

Why, oh why, had the historian not mentioned the courtier’s name? What rank was he that the Shah hadn’t punished him?

I decided to take a risk and ask Abteen. After I beckoned to him, he approached with an exasperated sigh.

“See this entry?”

He peered at it and then looked up. I have never seen a man read so fast. “What about it?”

“What is the name of the courtier?”

“How should I know?”

“Aren’t you a historian, for God’s sake?”

“If it is not written down, it means we don’t know. Who has time to run around verifying details about minor officials? Nobody is going to give a damn about this Mohammad Amir in the future.”

I stood up abruptly, bumping into the table and upsetting the manuscript page, which floated to the floor.

“I give a damn!”

The historian stooped to pick up the page, then tripped on his long robe as he stood up. “You have bent it, you donkey! I told you to be careful.”

“As careful as you are with your facts?”

He cursed me and I walked out, surprised to see that my fingers were lightly stained, as if I had dipped them in my father’s blood.



Isma‘il wrote to Pari that he had received her letter and would depart from Qahqaheh shortly to resume his rightful role in the capital. When he had first heard of his father’s and Haydar’s deaths, he had barred the gates to the prison, certain that it was a trick, and waited until a crowd of trusted noblemen had appeared outside the gates. After they had confirmed the news, he allowed them to be opened again. He wrote that he looked forward to seeing his sister after an absence of so many years, and he thanked Pari for her service on his behalf. He signed the letter, “your loving brother.”

Pari was elated by his kind salutation. “He sounds just like the lion-man I remember!” she said, her eyes moistening with relief.

But that was all we heard from Isma‘il for days, until Sultanam told us that he had decided to stay on at Qahqaheh to allow nobles to visit him. When still he failed to arrive, we discovered that he had voyaged to Ardabil, the home of his ancestors, to visit the shrine there, and lingered for longer than expected, sending no word as to when he would appear.

Pari had no choice but to take full charge of administering the palace. Because of her orders, the kitchens were reopened and the denizens of the palace filled their bellies gratefully. The hospital on the palace grounds resumed operation, the sick received consolation from men of religion, and the dead were properly buried. The Takkalu left town to visit Isma‘il, and the murders in the city ceased.

Even though the palace began to function again, we were not calm, because the palace was teeming with rumors. Haydar’s mother, Sultan-Zadeh, infuriated by the murder of her only child, had been making efforts through her allies to find a worthy opponent to Isma‘il, if for no other reason than to thwart Sultanam’s ambitions. And a group of nobles was weighing the possibility of rallying behind Mustafa Mirza, the late shah’s fifth son, in a bid for the throne.

When I passed people in the gardens they averted their eyes, not knowing who would be their next master or whether any confidence would result in future betrayal. One morning, I surprised Anwar at the baths before it was light. He leapt out of the water, ebony knees bent and muscular arms raised to fend off an attack, and uttered a battle cry so fierce it curdled my blood. When he realized it was only me, he dropped back into the water, displacing a good deal of it.

“Only an idiot would sneak up on me like that,” he growled.

When I reported the rumors to Pari, her face darkened with distress. “Why doesn’t Isma‘il hurry! I have written to him again about the need to claim his place, yet still he gallivants around the country. What makes him so restive?”

“Lieutenant of my life, you must vanquish the rumors,” I said. “Once they gather, men will suspect that no one is in charge and throw their support behind another.”

Pari sighed. “It would be unthinkable to lose the throne now, just when it is within our grasp.”

“Then we must convince the nobles that they have no choice.”

At the next meeting, Pari swore to the men that her brother was on his way to Qazveen with an army of twenty thousand soldiers. “‘Sister of my heart,’” she read out loud from a letter we had composed together the day before, “‘I grant you my authority to govern as you see fit until I return to take the throne. Do not brook any opposition from those who would try to derail my ascension, which has been ordained by God.’”

She paused a moment for effect. “If you don’t wish to believe me, you can explain yourself to our new shah and see what he makes of your disobedience.”

Her voice vibrated with authority, just as a great orator’s stirs his listeners to accept the justice of his arguments. I could feel its power surge through my heart, making me eager to fight for whatever she demanded. And it was not just me. I heard Ibrahim Mirza say to Mirza Shokhrollah in a low voice, “She has it—the royal farr. Do not cross her.”

Shamkhal and Majeed exchanged a glance of excitement and Majeed leapt up, his face glowing with triumph, to repeat what Ibrahim had said to another noble, and then he sped to the other side of the room to make sure the words traveled from man to man. I could not contain myself: I repeated Ibrahim’s words to the amirs nearest me. Their faces softened as they stared at the curtain and imagined the glory behind it.

“Mirza Shokhrollah, I need to hear from you.”

“It is understood,” Mirza Shokhrollah replied in a subdued tone.

“Good. I expect the full report on the treasury tomorrow even if it takes you all night to prepare it. As for the rest of you, soon you will see with your own eyes that Isma‘il’s candidacy is assured. So now I ask you, do you promise to make this country whole again by supporting Isma‘il? I want to hear an answer from every man.”

Isma‘il’s supporters responded right away: “Al-lah! Al-lah! Al-lah!” they chanted, sounding like loyal soldiers marching in step. Even the Ostajlu added their voices to our forceful affirmations.

By then, I had gone behind the curtain where Pari sat, and when she heard the men shout out, she jumped to her feet triumphantly as if she had just mobilized an army. Shamkhal arose and declared an end to the meeting. Mirza Salman and Majeed began conferring together, looking as surprised as if an untested polo player had scored a decisive goal. I, too, was awestruck: Pari had the royal farr, a radiance so irresistible that the men responded like sunflowers following the sun.

A few days later, Pari received a letter from Isma‘il giving her authority to govern the palace as she saw fit in his absence. He thanked her for her efforts and told her he could not wait to see her with his own eyes, “a woman of true Safavi blood, a sister-in-arms, and a fierce protector of our family and our crown.” A reward awaited her upon his return, which he was eager to bestow.

Pari read me the letter, her eyes bright with hope.