Equal of the Sun A Novel

CHAPTER 4



THE ROSE IS HEARTLESS





During Zahhak’s reign, a noble child named Fereydoon was born. The destiny of this child was so powerful that his birth penetrated and disturbed the sleep of the king. Zahhak dreamed that Fereydoon would become a brave warrior and unseat him from his throne. He awoke in terror, so disturbed that he ordered a manhunt for the child.

When Fereydoon’s mother, Faranak, heard about the king’s edict, she agonized about how to protect him. Where could she conceal him in a place no one would look? One day she passed a resplendent cow whose coat of hair shone with thousands of colors. She approached the cowherd and asked if he would allow his glorious animal, Pormayeh, to nurse her only child. He agreed, and Faranak entrusted him with her son. Pormayeh nourished Fereydoon every day on her sweet milk until he grew into a strong little boy. Still, Faranak sensed that he was not safe. After he was weaned, she secreted him away to India, where she found a sage who promised to teach him all he knew.

Zahhak was not far behind. Having learned that a cow had nurtured Fereydoon, he had his men inspect all the cows in the land until they located Pormayeh, whose coat still shone with thousands of colors, and he butchered her with his own hands. After the deed was done, peasants must have gathered round and stared at the dead cow, aghast that a life-giving animal should be so wantonly slaughtered. What a terrible waste, they must have cried, tears streaming and bellies rumbling. What kind of king would destroy a nurturer of men?





The coronation was scheduled for the hottest month of the year, so most of the festivities would take place in the Promenade of the Royal Stallions for the public and under pavilions within the palace for the courtiers. Preparations at the palace had started from the moment that Isma‘il had been welcomed at Kholafa’s house. All the chambers had been aired, scrubbed, and perfumed with frankincense from Yemen. Roses were cut and placed throughout the palace in large vases. A grand feast was under way; all of the cooks in the court’s private kitchens had been hard at work. The trays of sweetmeats alone would probably feed all the citizens of Qazveen.

On the morning of the coronation, the palace was astir well before it was light. Balamani and I went to the baths with the other eunuchs. We donned our best robes and turbans and proceeded to the large courtyard closest to the Ali Qapu. All of the servants of the shah—the royal family, the men of the pen, sword, and religion, the eunuchs, the messenger boys, and the male slaves—were assembling there in order of rank. I took my place among the eunuchs, well behind Anwar, whose position in charge of the royal household made him one of the most exalted servants, but far ahead of those who served ladies of lower status than Pari.

Before long, we heard the pounding of horses’ hooves and the powerful blast of the royal drums. Thousands of us stood up to greet Isma‘il. The palace gates were opened, and we saw the crowds of citizens lining the Promenade of the Royal Stallions to welcome the new shah. Isma‘il charged in on an Arabian mare, whose skin was so dappled it looked wrapped in snow-white lace. Its saddle was covered with a crimson velvet cloth worked with silver. Great shouts of welcome rose up from among us: “Thanks be to God!” “The star of the universe has arrived!” “We would sacrifice ourselves for you!”

Isma‘il was followed by a large retinue on foot, including soldiers dressed in battle armor. As he rode through a channel that had been cleared for him, all of us fell to the ground and placed our foreheads against the courtyard’s stones, which vibrated in response to the horses’ hooves. Saleem Khan commanded all of us to stand, and we arose as a single body to salute our new leader. Isma‘il wore a green velvet robe, sober yet very fine, bound by a white silk sash threaded with gray, and a turban of the same white silk with a gold aigrette surmounted by an emerald the size of my eye. Around his waist, a jeweled belt held a curved damascened sword. The jewels threw off brilliant sparkles in the morning sun, so bright that they looked as if they might annihilate any man they struck.

The Shah proceeded through the palace to Forty Columns Hall, and all of us followed. The crowd was so large that many of us had to assemble in the gardens outside the hall. The long fountain was lined with courtiers, and all of the open-air pavilions were thronged. Only royalty and the highest-ranking nobles fit inside the hall.

When every man was in his proper place, Isma‘il mounted a jewel-encrusted throne. Then Saleem Khan recited his lineage, starting with the mystic Safi al-din, who gave the Safavi dynasty its first inspiration, followed by the great deeds of his grandfather Isma‘il, who declared Shi’ism the official religion of Iran; his father Tahmasb’s long reign; and his own valor on the battlefield. A crown the length of a man’s arm was offered to Isma‘il on an engraved silver tray. The crown was decorated with small pearls and beads of pure gold, and at its peak gleamed a ruby the size of my fist surrounded by diamonds. Isma‘il removed his white turban, revealing wisps of thin black hair. He lifted the crown and placed it firmly upon his balding head. No one could crown an adult shah except for himself, since no one overmastered him but God.

Saleem Khan spoke to the assembly. “I call upon all of you to take the oath of loyalty to Isma‘il II, our new shah. Today you swear to follow his commands, to protect him at all costs, and to offer your lives for his. Remember, your oath is a legal contract; the penalty for breaking it is death.”

Our voices raised such a thunder that I am certain it was heard in heaven. At last, after months of waiting, we had a new leader! The orderly palace I remembered under the late shah would finally return, and peace and prosperity would be our everyday fare.

Isma‘il’s favorite companion, Hassan Beyg Halvachi Oghli, knelt down to pull off the Shah’s dusty riding boots and replaced them with pristine gray silk slippers. Hassan Beyg had voluntarily endured five years of confinement with Isma‘il at Qahqaheh, earning his master’s trust. Anwar described him as a trained monkey; now that monkey would sleep under bedcovers embroidered with gold.

Saleem Khan called Sultanam’s eldest son, Mohammad Khodabandeh, to approach the Shah. Mohammad walked toward him slowly because of his poor vision, led by his handsome eldest son, sixteen-year-old Sultan Hassan Mirza. As the elder brother, Mohammad might have wished to compete for the throne, but his near blindness made him ineligible. I had heard that he had no such desires and not enough force inside him to master other men. Rather than governing, he preferred to spend his time listening to poetry. He bent low, reaching out his hands tentatively in search of his brother’s feet. When he finally found them, he kissed their insoles and congratulated his brother with dignity.

Next came the late Shah’s sons born of other wives, consorts, or slaves: among them was the feckless Suleyman Mirza, Pari’s brother, whose clay had not received the blessings that had gone to her. He lumbered to the throne. Mahmood, by contrast, although still young, strode confidently toward the Shah, his bearing erect from his lessons in swordsmanship and horse riding. I felt a surge of pride. He kissed the Shah’s feet in a good-natured but not servile fashion.

After all of Isma‘il’s brothers had come forward and kissed his feet, they were followed by their uncle Bahram’s sons and then their children. All the highest-ranking members of the clergy, dressed in their black robes, came forward next; the Shah would be their spiritual guide. Then followed the Mowsellu nobles of Sultanam’s family, their red batons fiercely erect in their turbans even as they bent down for the kiss. Other qizilbash were honored, too: the Rumlu, the Shamlu, the Qajar, and the Afshar, followed by the Georgians, the Kurds, and the Circassians. As Shamkhal bent to perform the kiss, Isma‘il flattered him with a smile.

Then salutations were read by ambassadors from Murad III of the Ottomans, Akbar the Great of the Mughals, Zhu Yijun of the Ming, and Abdullah Khan of the Uzbeks, the most exalted and powerful rulers on earth, as well as a few from those who ruled the Christian kingdoms to the west, Philip II of Spain and Elizabeth I of England, who were currently sparring with one another over faith. Each of the great empires had sent delegations with hundreds of emissaries and dozens of animals laden with precious gifts. The richest offerings were presented for all to see, including a beautiful copy of the Qur’an by the finest calligraphers of the Ottoman court, huge blue porcelain vases from the Chinese emperor, and ewers made of gold from the Uzbeks. A hush fell on the crowd when a mahout sent with the Mughal delegation paraded an elephant before us. I had never seen such a creature before, nor such costly trappings. The animal wore a jeweled cap on its intelligent brow, and its tusks were wrapped in sheets of gold.

When the ceremony was almost finished, I slipped away, walked through the checkpoints, and entered the harem. The women had sworn their oath to Isma‘il earlier in the day, and now they were taking turns watching the ceremony from screened areas on the top floor of Isma‘il’s new residence. He had spared no expense in appointing the building. The large guest room where the women had gathered was filled with the sweet aroma of jasmine and the soothing burbling of a fountain that wafted up from the floor below, which was open to the air. I slipped off my shoes; the carpets were made of such thick silk that they seemed to caress the soles of my feet. A wall decorated with battle shields caught my eye. One was made of lacquered black leather with a central medallion of gold, pale turquoise, and pearls; another boasted open silver metalwork with a spray of emeralds, like drops of dew caught in a spiderweb.

The ladies had attired themselves in robes the felicitous colors of a sunrise and laid chains of gems against their foreheads or under their chins. How beautiful they were, from the golden-haired women of the Caucasus to those from the south whose curls glistened as black as naphtha! They kept their eyes on the coronation scene below, and the room buzzed with excitement when the elephant moved into view.

“Look at his jewelry.”

“If you had half as much, you would be rich!”

The elephant let loose a steaming pile of dung, and shouts of laughter erupted throughout the room. It had been months since anyone had felt free to celebrate, and the excitement seemed almost hysterical.

Although Pari had told me she would be there, she had already left. I pretended that she had instructed me to wait for her, so that I could watch the other women.

Sultanam sat near Khadijeh, her new daughter-in-law, and held her hand on her day of motherly triumph. Sultanam seemed to have expanded in width so that everyone in the room appeared insubstantial beside her. Khadijeh, who was seated on a cushion at her right, looked as ripe as a peach. I couldn’t deny that her marriage agreed with her. When she saw me, her lips curved into a tender smile.

I had never before seen Khayr al-Nisa Beygom, Mohammad Khodabandeh’s wife, who lived with him in Shiraz. She had small, stern features except for her mouth, which was so large that it seemed to overpower her whole face. As she watched the ceremony, she kept adjusting her legs on her cushion as if she couldn’t get comfortable.

“How my head aches!” she complained, her voice loud and high-pitched.

Sultanam offered her rose water, herbs, and cool compresses, but Khayr al-Nisa rejected all of them.

“Look!” said Khadijeh. “He is arising to take his leave.” Through the latticed windows, I saw Isma‘il mount his horse and canter in our direction, while all the men bowed low.

Sultanam leaned toward Khadijeh like a conspirator. “So now it is official. After nearly forty years of waiting, the bird of hope has stirred in the ashes of my heart and taken flight! How sweet the beat of its wings! How my heart soars!”

Khayr al-Nisa’s lips turned down, but she kept her eyes carefully averted from Sultanam’s. If not for her husband’s blindness, she would have been queen of all Iran.

Sultanam didn’t seem to care how she felt. She put a hand lightly against Khadijeh’s flat belly. “Is it too much to ask that I should also be grandmother to the next shah? May God forgive me for entertaining this hope on a day when my other hopes have been realized—but may he also look kindly on my desire.”

Khayr al-Nisa’s torso twitched as if she had been struck. At that moment, a maid offered her saffron rice pudding on a silver tray. She reached out her hand as if to accept, but then, with an almost imperceptible flick of the wrist, she sent several bowls flying to the floor. They landed with a great crash on the carpet, the embroidered pillows, and on her, the sticky pudding clinging in great white clumps.

“Forgive me!” wailed the maid, her face twisted with fear. Khayr al-Nisa glared at her. Servants rushed to clean the spill.

“Ah, ah! How clumsy you are. I must go change.”

“Yes, I suppose you must.” Sultanam dismissed Khayr al-Nisa from the room with a condescending look.

“What a spoiled child!” she said to Khadijeh after Khayr al-Nisa had left. “It is lucky for the rest of us that she is not queen.”



Two grand celebrations were planned for that evening in the birooni and andarooni. Pari was obliged to join a celebration for the women organized by Sultanam, and she sent me to attend the festivities at Forty Columns Hall. My stomach rumbled in anticipation of the rich dishes that would be served, giving us our first taste of the new Shah’s generosity. But even more than that, I hoped that Mahmood Mirza would be there. Ever since he had left, I had had to train my heart. I told myself I had no claim over the boy, other than as his teacher. Yet you cannot spend eight years with a child without feeling as if he were a member of your own family. Mahmood was just two years older than Jalileh, and I knew him better than my own sister. I missed him and wanted to find out if his new life suited him.

Forty Columns Hall glittered in the night. Servants had decorated it with so many hanging lamps that its arches and painted ceiling glowed, and the hall was flooded with golden beams. Bouquets of freshly cut flowers bloomed in the corners of the room and spilled their perfume into the air. The doors opened onto the large garden, illuminated on this night with torches so that all of nature seemed part of the celebration. Heaping platters of fruit and nuts hinted at the lavishness of the meal to come. Balamani found me so that we could feast together, and we took a seat on one of the cloths that had been laid out in the garden under a sky thick with stars.

When Isma‘il entered Forty Columns Hall that evening, everyone stood up. He was wearing a saffron-colored robe, the color of gaiety itself, and had put a jaunty blue feather in his turban, despite the recent death of his father.

“I have prepared a special indulgence tonight,” Isma‘il told us. He sat down on a jewel-encrusted portable throne, and all of us sat with him. Then he raised his hand, and a servant ran out of the room to do his bidding. After a moment, from a nearby room, the high, sweet sounds of a three-stringed kamancheh filled the air. I turned to Balamani, surprised. In my twelve years at court, I had never heard festive music in the palace. After Tahmasb Shah had become devout, years before my arrival, he had fired the court musicians and dancers. The court had become a sober place, one that favored learning, effort, and religious devotion.

The musicians entered the room and sat down on cushions placed near the Shah. The orchestra consisted of the kamancheh, a reed flute, a six-stringed tar, and a daf drum with metal rings that gave percussion such a rich sound.

All of a sudden, a voice emerged from the other room that seemed to be pouring directly from the singer’s heart. I sat riveted, held still by wonder. A voice! Singing! It filled the palace with its deep longing, bypassing all objections, cutting straight to the soul. The singer entered the room, his arms open wide to the Shah, and sang lines of poetry about the heart’s search for the gates of spirit and how he would gladly sacrifice himself for a glimpse of light under the gate.

When the song ended, the group of musicians changed its tune. The daf marked out the beat clear and strong, and then the lively, sweet sounds of the kamancheh took over. The vocalist began singing about the joys of love everlasting. I felt my feet begin to move, and I could see from the flutters in Balamani’s robe that the rhythm had moved him, too. I didn’t think it possible to dance at the palace, but my body strained against my robe like a lion against his cage. Around me, a surge rippled through the men’s bodies, and they began to move faintly, with longing.

The Shah tilted his head as if he was listening deeply. I watched his bare foot begin to tap in time to the music, softly and then more emphatically until it was pounding against the carpet. Suddenly he sprang up and thrust his hands in the air. He began stamping to the beat, and with his arms held high, he formed powerful rosettes by twirling his hands. That was all he needed to do before two small boys ran to join him, unconstrained by the majesty of the royal person. The children swayed to the music, their faces transfixed with pleasure.

Some of the nobles jumped up and lifted their arms, circling their hands in time with the beat. At last I need resist no longer! I leapt up and pulled Balamani with me, stamped my feet as if to destroy the floor, raised my arms, and snapped my fingers to crack the air with noise. Balamani’s kind old eyes shone as he paraded his big belly, and I could imagine him as an impish young man, full of life. We eunuchs looked different from women when we danced, more like proud cypress trees than swaying rosebushes, but with our arms lifted high in the air, our hearts were wide open.

“Not only music, but dance, too! The late Shah would have his head for this!” Balamani whispered as he stamped by me, his face beaming with glee.

“But what harm?” I replied. “Only the impious can’t listen to music for fear of what it will make them do.”

“The late Shah would have had your balls, too!”

I laughed as lustily as if I still owned such treasures.

The tune ended and we sat down for a rest, as did others. Everyone looked as if they could not believe what had actually happened, and a touch of embarrassment coursed through the room.

When the musicians took a break, all the men returned to their places, out of breath, and wiped their foreheads with silk handkerchiefs. Isma‘il dropped to his cushion and grabbed a confection from his wooden box, which always accompanied him, and swallowed it without chewing. I searched for Mahmood Mirza, but it was crowded and I didn’t see him.

Late in the night, a grand feast was served, and we ate richly from silver platters laden with roasted meats, vegetable stews, rice brightened with saffron, fresh greens, and sheep’s yogurt, as well as platters of dates and halva, pastries, and flagons of drinks. Then we all arose and danced again. The merriment only increased as the evening progressed and dancing girls emerged and entertained the men. For the first time since Isma‘il II had been crowned in Qazveen, pleasure invaded every spirit and hope took root in every heart.

Before I thought it possible, I heard the first call to prayer, signaling the approach of dawn. It seemed as if I had just closed my eyes when Massoud Ali tugged at my bedclothes and told me that a visitor had asked for me. I arose, heart racing. We entered one of the palace buildings near the Ali Qapu that was used to greet visitors. A young man who had his back to me was observing a mural on the wall. When he turned, I saw it was Mahmood Mirza.

“Esteemed prince!” I exclaimed. “Your visit brings joy to this eunuch’s heart. What may I do to increase your comfort? Massoud Ali, bring tea and sweetmeats for our honored guest!”

The boy scuttled out of the room.

“I came to town for the coronation,” replied the prince, “and I am about to ride home, but first I thought I would stop in and see my ostaad.”

“Blessings upon you, my child! Your heart is made of diamonds to remember your old teacher. How you gladden me with your joyful presence.”

Mahmood sat on a cushion, begging me to join him and be comfortable. I asked for his news with as much excitement as if I had been his older brother.

“How are things in Shirvan?”

“It is a minor posting, but I like it. Several of my father’s trusted servants advise me about how to govern. I love the open plains and the animals so thick they travel in caravans. There are more animals than people in the province, which suits me well.”

His eyes gleamed as he leaned forward, warming to his subject. “You know, the province is teeming with wild horses. Sometimes I am able to catch one of them, and lately I have been experimenting with interbreeding them with our mares. I never knew how much I would enjoy living outside the confines of the palace. There it is just me, my men, the animals, and the sky above. It is a fine life!”

He opened his arms enthusiastically as if embracing the wild spaces that he loved so well. I understood for the first time how constrained he must have felt by life in the palace, and I was glad he had broken free of it.

“My good prince, you have always had a loving touch with animals. Your skill with horses even as a boy astonished everyone. Thank God above you have found your calling! But I am sure you are destined for even greater things.”

“Greater things?” he said, a question in his voice. “To me, God is great, and so are the gifts He gave to man. Those are all I need. I was never good at books. You did your best with me, though, and I am grateful for how hard you worked to shape this poor vessel into a better form.”

He smiled a big, boyish smile, and my heart lurched.

“A rose could not be cultivated unless it contained the heart of a rose.”

He accepted my compliment and reached into a saddlebag. “I brought something for you.”

Mahmood handed me a parcel, which I unwrapped slowly. It was a copy of the Shahnameh written in an exquisite hand, its margins decorated with gold leaf. Although I had studied the book and had memorized parts of it, I had never been able to afford my own copy to read whenever I wished.

“This is a small gift for all the years you worked with me,” he said. “After I left, I came to realize how much you had done. Without your determined training, I never would have been qualified to be a governor. You instilled an appreciation of learning in me, despite myself, and for this I shall love and respect you always.”

I could no longer speak. I knew it was presumptuous of me, but he was the closest I would ever come to having a son. I loved him.

“My esteemed prince!” I finally said, straining to keep my tears at bay, “how you fill your old master’s heart with joy. I am proud of you. May your way be blessed, may God put sweet fortune into your path, and may your burdens always be light.”

“Insh’Allah,” Mahmood replied, his eyes dancing. He stood up, and I noticed that he was dressed for riding.

“I have a long journey ahead of me, and I must go,” he said. “I will call on you the next time I come to Qazveen.”

He said his farewells and promised to return soon.

Massoud Ali came in to ask if I needed anything. He appeared to be in an uncommonly good mood.

“What makes you so happy, my little radish?”

“I have never seen you smile before!”



After sending Massoud Ali to bed, I decided to report to Pari’s quarters for duty since I was already awake. In one of her antechambers I found two old women waiting for the princess, unsupervised. How negligent all of Pari’s servants had become during the festivities! One of the women had a wrinkled face, with lines radiating away from her eyes and mouth, and her back was hunched. The other’s hair and eyebrows were frosted with gray. Both wore humble cotton robes, but there was an air of insolence about them.

“Who are you?” I challenged.

“We wish to see the princess,” said the hunched one in a gravelly voice. “Only she can redeem us.”

“We need money, a place to stay, something to eat, and her blessings. A little jewelry would be nice, too,” added her gray-haired companion.

Both women burst out laughing, and I realized I had been duped. The one with the gray locks was Pari.

“Princess, what a transformation!”

“It is all Maryam’s doing. She made the clothing and painted our faces and hair. Then we went to a gypsy encampment and watched the women dance. How pretty their voices are, how bright their robes!”

A gypsy encampment? If Isma‘il discovered they had slipped away, he would have their heads. But how had they gotten out of the palace? All the doors from the harem were heavily guarded.

“Next, I will make you a gypsy outfit with beads and coins,” Maryam promised, a wicked gleam in her eyes.

“If I like it, perhaps I will dance for you,” Pari teased back.

“Were you recognized?” I asked, thinking ahead to the need for an alibi.

“Not at all!” Pari was overcome with delight. “We even got close enough to look at the gypsies’ wares, and we bargained hard for a few necklaces.”

“If we hadn’t, they would have known something was wrong,” Maryam added.

“What a different life those gypsy women live; they are like birds compared to us,” Pari said.

Their cheeks were bright with color. I had never seen them so carefree and happy.

“Did the palace guards look the other way?” I asked incredulously, still trying to discover how they had escaped. Women were not allowed to leave the harem except under carefully defined circumstances. They could accompany the shah wherever he wished to take them—to one of his other palaces, on a hunting trip, or to a picnic. With permission and with escorts, older women could travel to visit the households of their sons. Other cases were decided as the need arose.

“Ah, Javaher! You can’t expect me to reveal all of my secrets,” Pari replied with a toss of her snowy hair.

The expression on my face sent Maryam into fresh fits of laughter.



The coronation celebration was a masterstroke on the part of the Shah. He had finally thrown us a crumb of joy, and we gobbled it up as if it were a whole meal. It was followed by three days of leisure, during which Sultanam invited her son and all the women of the harem to a picnic in the countryside. The women immediately began preparing and packing luxurious foods and games, excited by the rare outing. The whole household was busy until Friday morning, when we set out right after morning prayers. I left the palace with a group of eunuchs armed with daggers and swords as part of the advance party; we rode for about an hour until we arrived at the palace’s favorite picnicking spot near a river, and eunuch guards were posted around a huge perimeter so that no men would accidentally wander into the women’s sphere.

It was a clear, hot day, the hawks zooming overhead as if racing with the clouds, the mountains bluish in the morning light. The day before, servants had staked large tents to provide shade and laid down mats and cushions. Archery targets had been set up, and games like chess and backgammon, as well as balls for the children, were placed a safe distance away. Fires had been laid for barbecuing meat and boiling rice, and an oven dug in the earth to bake bread.

A cloud of dust announced the arrival of those royal women who were adept at riding. The army of Arabian horses, so beautiful in dappled shades of white, tan, and brown, bore hundreds of chador-wrapped women on embroidered saddles with red, yellow, and silver fringes. Some rode sidesaddle, but Pari rode like a man, leading the pack with the grace of a soldier.

Older women and children followed not long after in carved wooden palanquins that had left the palace earlier in the day. Isma‘il had ridden separately, with his own guard, and when he approached the site, he sent his guards far away. Then the ladies shed their head and face coverings, revealing bright short-sleeved robes, padded trousers, and low boots.

We breakfasted on tea, cheese, nuts, fruit, and puffy bread fresh out of the oven. Pari and her mother jumped up and began strolling arm in arm near the river, talking animatedly. Other women followed, their girls in tow; the herbalists among them collected plants. Boys kicked off their shoes and dared each other to get wet in the river; others played with balls or wrestled. Massoud Ali observed them, his shoulders sagging. I called him over to the games area and taught him the rudiments of backgammon. He picked it up quickly, and when I praised him, I was rewarded with a shy smile. I found another novice player for him to test himself against and watched their young foreheads pucker with concentration as the game deepened.

Khadijeh and Isma‘il had mounted their Arabian mares; they spurred their horses and disappeared into the distance in a mock race. All the unmarried women followed them with their eyes, watching Isma‘il’s horse overtake hers. When they returned, Khadijeh’s cheeks were glowing like the moon, and for a bitter moment, I hoped she would not take pleasure in his male parts.

Before lunch, Isma‘il invited Pari to shoot with him, and we all gathered around the archery range. Women spoke together so excitedly that Balamani and Anwar had to march to opposite ends of the field and demand silence. Finally, all was ready, and Pari stepped onto the range. I was eager to see how well she could shoot. Her brown cotton robe draped gracefully over her long, lean body as she threaded an arrow between her fingers, placed its nock against the bowstring, drew it back to her cheek, and fired. The arrow obediently struck a target, and her ladies ululated so loudly that the air seemed to vibrate with their high-pitched cheer. One voice was higher and louder than the others: Maryam’s.

Pari waved her hand to indicate that no further ululation would be necessary. Then she began firing one arrow after the other at targets placed near and far. The arrows thwacked into the middle of the targets with so much regularity that they mimicked the beat of a drum, and a thin veil of sweat shimmered on her forehead.

Pari stood aside to relinquish the targets to Isma‘il. The bowmen cleared her arrows from the targets and stepped away. Isma‘il reached out tentatively for his bow. He pulled back the bowstring with great effort, his arm trembling, and shot a few arrows, which missed their mark. Sweating profusely, he tried a few more. I shifted anxiously from foot to foot until, finally, one of his arrows struck the edge of a target. The ladies ululated so loudly, led by Sultanam, that the birds flying overhead veered away from us.

Isma‘il ceded the range to Pari. Instead of politely pleading fatigue, she turned her attention to an empty target and struck it with arrows marking north, south, east, and west. Her ladies couldn’t help themselves; they ululated again, their tongues moving faster than the eye could see, but I was beginning to feel uncomfortable.

Pari placed another arrow against the bowstring and concentrated so hard and for so long that the whole crowd seemed to hold its breath. Not a single silk sash fluttered while we waited to see what the princess would do. Finally, when the suspense was almost too great to bear, she loosed the arrow. It flew straight and true, striking the middle of the target to mark Mecca, the center of all things. All of us gaped in amazement at her prowess.

Isma‘il’s lips drew down at the corners. “Let’s hear your voices for my talented sister,” he choked out.

Pari beamed with pride. Isma‘il approached his mother and conferred with her for a moment.

“My mother says it is time to eat,” he announced and walked away without firing another shot. Balamani gave me a knowing look.

Servants began bringing out platters of barbecued meat. Balamani and I walked toward a blanket near the water and sat down.

“Pari is the better marksman,” I said. “Why should she conceal it?”

“The greatest skill, for those close to the Shah, is making him look good.”

“You believe he is quite so fragile?”

“He is a man, isn’t he?” He crooked his index finger obscenely, and I snorted with laughter.

Massoud Ali came running to us, his eyes shining with excitement. “I won a game! I won!” he said with a grin that seemed as huge as his face. “I beat Ardalan.”

“Of course you did, my little radish,” I replied. “Mash’Allah!”

Out of the corner of my eye, I could see the errand boy scowling in our direction. Ardalan was known for getting into scraps. I fixed a stare on him until he looked away.

Anwar and a few of the other eunuchs joined us for the meal. A platter of lamb kabob arrived, its juices soaking the bread underneath it. We waited for Anwar to begin. Wrapping a piece of lamb in lavash, he began telling a story about how his father, who had been a chief in Sudan, had decided a dispute over a sheep. In the end, all the parties felt that they had gotten the better deal.

“Now that is good diplomacy!” he concluded, and we all laughed.

“I wish I remembered my father better,” Balamani said wistfully. “I was younger than Massoud Ali when I was brought here.”

Several of the other eunuchs murmured that they had also arrived as children.

Massoud Ali looked puzzled. “Your parents brought you to court?”

“No, my child. My father was very ill, and I spent my time at the seashore trying to fish or find a little work. One day, a dhow sailed in, and a sailor asked me if I wanted to train as a captain’s boy. I got my family’s blessing and joined the crew, surprised to find eight or nine boys already on board. Before we arrived at the next port, the sailors strapped us down and chopped off our parts. One of the boys, Vijayan, got an infection and died. He was my only friend on board.”

Balamani brushed at his eyes. “A few weeks later, we arrived at a port. After we were fully healed, an agent of the court bought us and brought us here.”

Massoud Ali stared at Balamani, his eyes round, as if he couldn’t believe that the robust man in shining silk robes whose orders were law had once been a child slave.

“What about you?” Massoud Ali asked me innocently. An odd hush fell on the group. Some of the other eunuchs looked away or fidgeted.

“I remember my father well; he was a courtier before he was killed,” I blurted out, hoping someone could help. “I am still trying to find out what happened.”

Massoud Ali’s brow became so furrowed that I wished I hadn’t said anything.

“God willing, you shall,” replied Anwar.

In the distance, I spotted an old, ripped ball used by horsemen in their games of chogan. I got up and kicked it around until all the stuffing had leaked out of it, and then it was time to pack up and go home.



After Isma‘il was crowned, many people who had previously fallen out of favor with his father felt safe returning to Qazveen and attempting to win royal grace. One of them, a former court astrologer named Looloo, wrote to me unexpectedly to say that he had known my father and wished to see me.

Late one afternoon, I walked toward Looloo’s home in the southern part of the city. My path took me through the Ali Qapu gate and past the large, beautiful homes that lined the Promenade of the Royal Stallions, most of which were owned by nobles and their kin. Nearby lay the town’s main bazaar and just beyond it, a river full of cold mountain water that pierced the heart of the city. Families picnicked on its banks, their children dashing around with glee, and smoke from charcoal fires danced above them.

I took the long way through town just for the pleasure of it, passing the part of the bazaar where animals were sold. Sometimes there were rare animals like cheetahs for sale or strange creatures from as far away as Hindustan or China. The healthy odor of sheep and goats filled the air. The bazaar was crowded with men examining the animals’ mouths and flanks and bargaining for the best creatures.

The sound of young boys’ jeers made me stop. Surrounded by the youths was a small goat with its head bowed. A single eye dominated the center of its forehead. Its nostrils were missing, and for lack of another way to breathe, it drew rasping breaths through its mouth.

One of the boys poked the goat with a stick. Another pelted it with a stone. The animal backed away, though it had nowhere to escape, and its frightened eye darted around in fear. Rage coursed through me.

“Scatter, you brats! Leave the goat alone or I will whip every one of you until you bleed.”

I grabbed the ringleader and pulled the stick out of his hands. When I lifted it above my head, the pack scattered, leaving the boy alone. Fear blurred his eyes.

“Now you are just as scared as the goat. Have some mercy, illiterate!”

“Let me go,” he whimpered. I released him and sent him on his way with a poke in the back.

The sight of the Friday mosque’s turquoise dome restored my spirits, its swirling white lines seeming to carry all of mankind’s hopes heavenward. Past the mosque lay the flat stones in the town’s cemetery. I hurried my pace, my heart heavy. My father was buried there. It had been a long time since I had visited his grave. I knew I should pay my respects more often, but every time I thought about it, my stomach burned at the idea of going to him empty-handed. I wanted to visit only when I could rejoice that justice had been served, and when I could whisper to the soul of my mother, who was buried in the south, that I had heeded her cry for revenge.

Beyond the cemetery lay a cluster of small homes where people of modest means lived. The neighborhood, though not wealthy, was tidy and well kept. Looloo’s home looked as if it had only three or four rooms. How had a court astrologer come to this? Such men were usually well rewarded.

I found Looloo in his birooni with his two sons, who were about my age. The paint on his walls was old but very clean, as were the wool carpets on the ground. The men were sitting on simple cushions and drinking glasses of tea, their legs sprawled out in front of them. I thought with regret of how I had never been able to share such simple pleasures as a grown man with my father.

“Welcome, my friend!” said Looloo. A black cap covered his head, and the lines at his eyes looked like the rays of the sun. His white beard and mustache were closely cropped and bright against his walnut-colored skin. “Your presence adds joy to our festivities. Please join us for tea.”

The astrologer was in the middle of describing how he had once accompanied Tahmasb Shah on a fishing expedition to a river full of small, tasty trout. He had lost his balance and fallen in, getting soaked from his beard down. When he emerged wet and confused, the Shah burst into laughter, and the astrologer, though embarrassed, joined in with his whole heart.

“My sons, be sure to take any dunking with a sense of humor, even a big one,” he concluded.

When they had finished their tea, his sons left, and Looloo turned his attention to me.

“Thank you for visiting. I was released from service by Tahmasb Shah shortly after you joined the court. I have returned to see if I can find employment with the new Shah, and I hoped you could help. Also, I wanted to see how you were getting along after all these years.”

“I apologize, but I don’t recall your name. Did you know my father well?”

“Just as a passing acquaintance. How sad for you that his life was cut short when you were so young.”

“It was,” I replied. “For many years I have been trying to find out exactly what happened to him. Do you know anything about his murder?”

Looloo tugged at his black cap. “Yes, but I must caution you that I always seem to be telling people things they don’t wish to hear. The reason I was banned from Tahmasb Shah’s court was because of an astrological reading that outraged him.”

“I wish to hear everything. I have always wanted to clear my father’s name.”

His eyes darkened. “I can’t help with that.”

I was taken aback. “Why not?”

“Every man wishes to think his father innocent,” he said.

“Mine actually was.”

“How would you feel if you learned yours wasn’t?”

“I wouldn’t believe it.”

“My friend, let me tell you what I remember. Your father was a good man, may God be praised. But the reason he was killed is that he was discovered diverting money from the treasury.”

“That is preposterous! We had plenty of money. My father wasn’t a common thief.”

“No, he wasn’t,” Looloo agreed. “He didn’t take money for his own personal gain, but to fund a rebellion.”

“My father was a loyalist to his core! He would never have done such a thing.”

“Sometimes being a loyalist means rebelling,” he replied. “It is one of the paradoxes of serving the court. I wouldn’t be at all surprised if he had decided to rebel for your sake, with the idea of bequeathing you the results of his labors.”

“I have faced such malicious slander about my father ever since I was a young man,” I said, in an angrier voice than I intended. “I am sick of it!”

The astrologer’s eyes were compassionate. “Yes, I can see that.”

“Who made these allegations against him?” I said, feeling the angry perspiration gathering at the back of my neck.

“I think it was another accountant.”

“But why?”

“Most likely he would have found a discrepancy in the accounts and reported it, or if he was eager, he might have taken justice in his own hands by murdering your father and explaining himself to the Shah later.”

Something in Looloo’s sincere demeanor made me feel I should listen. As I tried to speak, my voice closed in on itself and grew tight. “Your words bruise me. I have been trying to return the luster to my family name. How can I do that, especially in my own heart, if my father wasn’t loyal?”

“Some men would consider your father moral for trying to change a situation he felt was wrong. It takes great bravery to do that.”

Could it be true? Could I love my father for being a rebel?

“You and your mother were probably the dearest things to him in the world. He must have felt very strongly to risk so much.”

“But do you think he had good cause? What are the just reasons a shah can be removed?”

“If you are the shah, there are none,” Looloo replied with a laugh. “But from the point of view of citizens, the reasons can include incapacitating illness, imbecility, inability to sire an heir, or madness.”

“What about evil behavior?”

“That, too,” the astrologer said. “The question is how much evil is too much. That is when some men, like your father, take the law into their own hands. Had he been successful, everyone would now praise his name.”

My father would have become one of the closest allies of the new shah, and as his son, I would have been catapulted to high position. I might well have married one of the shah’s daughters. That much was true, but the rest of his story didn’t make sense.

“If the Shah thought my father was guilty, why would he allow me into his service?”

“For two reasons. First, you astonished him by becoming a eunuch in order to serve him. How many men would do that?”

He paused and stared at me curiously. I stayed mute, not wishing to explain myself yet again.

“Then, before he met you, he asked me to prepare your astrological chart. Did you know that?”

“No.”

“I discovered something I have never forgotten. The conjunction of planets present at your birth indicated that your destiny and the dynasty’s are interwoven like warp to weft.”

“Is that such a big surprise? I work for them.”

Looloo laughed. “You don’t understand. The chart is the reason you were taken into service.”

“Why?”

“Your stars foretold that you would help spur the rise of the greatest Safavi leader ever.”

“Me?”

“Yes.”

“How?”

Looloo chuckled, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “The stars are never quite that specific. I suggested that the Shah stay attuned to details that might emerge in his dreams, which gave him excellent guidance all his life. But that is about all I know, because I was banished not long after.”

“What crime did you commit?”

“The Shah asked me to make charts for all his sons to determine who would be the greatest leader. He didn’t like the results.”

“What were they?”

“Not one of them was destined to be great, and I refused to pretend otherwise.”

“Is that why he didn’t name an heir before he died?”

“Possibly. It may also explain why he was so eager to hire you and keep you in his service.”

“What a surprise!” I said, thrown into a whirl of confusing thoughts. “But there is something else that bothers me about my father’s story. The official court history says that the Shah decided not to punish his murderer because he was so highly placed, but doesn’t name him. Do you know who he was?”

“No, but I suspect that once the Shah had been apprised of the murder, he would have talked the matter over with one or two of his closest advisors. After deciding not to punish the murderer, they would have all kept his name quiet for the same reason the Shah decided not to punish him to begin with.”

“Why wouldn’t his name appear in the court histories?”

“Did you ask the historians?”

“One of them claimed he didn’t know.”

“There is another possibility: What if the man is powerful and still alive?”

I thought for a moment. “They would omit his name?”

“Why should they risk his wrath?”

“By God above! You may be right. Thank you.”

“You are welcome. Please return to take tea with me and my sons at any time. We would enjoy your company.”

“I will. And I will be sure to recommend your services to the palace.”

“I am deeply grateful. As you can see, I could use the work.” He gestured around him at the threadbare carpets and humble furniture. I thought about the court astrologers I had known, who spent much of their time observing the stars in the countryside at night. They rode out of town on the finest Arabians I had ever seen, sparing no expense on trappings or tents or tools. How costly it was to fall out of favor!



Balamani was already asleep when I returned to our quarters. I lay on my bedroll and thought about my father, remembering how he would come home every day in time for afternoon tea, spin stories about the court, and make my heart thrill at the idea of being part of it. But now that I was grown, I realized that my father had chosen to show me only the brightly shining silver of the court, not its old, tarnished samovars.

But had my father really been a rebel? The more I investigated, the more the truth seemed to recede from my grasp.

I resolved to look again at the History of Tahmasb Shah’s Glorious Reign, taking notes on all the accountants who had served the Shah during my father’s time, as well as all those leaders who had been the Shah’s closest confidants. I didn’t dare approach them outright, but I would try to piece together the picture by collecting all the tiny shards of information I could find.

The next day, I awoke early and discovered that Balamani was already gone.

As I was dressing, Massoud Ali came in with a letter for me. His sleeve fell away, revealing large purple and yellow bruises.

“What happened?”

He shrugged and looked down. It took quite a bit of prompting to get him to admit that Ardalan, the errand boy, had pummeled him after being bested again at backgammon. I made a mental note to reprimand him, and I told Massoud Ali that I would send him to a tutor for lessons on combat.

“But right now,” I added, “I want to tell you the most important story you will ever hear. It is a long one, so I will tell it to you in parts. At the end of it, you will know how to stand up to bullies like Ardalan.”

Massoud Ali’s fingers went to a bruise as if to soothe it.

I sat down on my bedroll, even though I had much to do. “Once, long ago,” I began, “there was a ruler named Zahhak whose evil knew no bounds. The way Ferdowsi tells it, all the world’s problems started when he decided to usurp his father, who had been a just leader. One day, with some help from the devil, he . . .”

Massoud Ali hung on every word, his eyes wide. When I got to the part about how Zahhak had destroyed Pormayeh, he jumped up angrily as if he wished to save the cow. I promised that I would help him learn how to defend those who needed his help.

It was late, so I sent Massoud Ali off on his duties and rushed to the hammam. Many other eunuchs had already gathered there to clean themselves before Friday prayers, and the sound of their voices echoed throughout the room. Balamani was in the largest tub, pouring bowls of warm water over his bald, charcoal-colored head.

“Aw khesh,” he said in satisfaction as the water coursed over his broad, smooth body.

After greeting him, I soaped myself, rinsed with buckets of water, and slid into the tub, where he was scrubbing a callus on his thumb. Before I had time to adjust to the heat of the water or to tell him what I had learned the night before, he asked, “How is your health?”

“God be praised,” I said. “And yours?”

“From your cheeriness, I can tell that you haven’t heard the news.”

When I shrugged and admitted defeat, his black eyes twinkled merrily. In the business of gathering information, Balamani was still the master, I the student. Since it was impossible to know when trifling details would become valuable, he collected them all. If you pick up a few shards of colored tile, he explained when I had first joined the palace, you have nothing, but gather enough shards and you can piece together a mosaic.

Balamani poured another jug of water over his head, then wiped his face. “Hossein Beyg Ostajlu was captured yesterday trying to leave the city. After hearing about that, I decided to go to the home of one of the Ostajlu nobles to quiz his eunuchs about the tribe’s status at court. Not far from the palace gates, I noticed a number of fine tents had been torn down, stomped on, and soiled. A man was rummaging under one of the tents trying to collect abandoned items. He told me that a few days ago, the Shah sent a message to the Ostajlu in the form of an arrow. It had been lodged in one of the palace’s plane trees during their invasion, and its arrival at the Ostajlu camp chastised them for entering the palace grounds and attacking royalty.

“On the morning of the coronation, the Ostajlu pitched their tents and sent a written reply. ‘We recognize we are in disgrace,’ the message said. ‘We can’t take another breath on this earth without pleading for forgiveness. We beg you to tell us our punishment so that we may one day fill our lungs with the sweet air of royal grace.’”

“What was the Shah’s response?”

Balamani raised his eyebrows. “He sent a group of soldiers to tear down the tents, and looters walked away with silver platters, embroidered pillows, silk robes, and even carpets.”

“What a humiliation! Have the Ostajlu been welcomed back?”

Balamani grimaced as he scrubbed at the tender flesh below his callus. “We will see,” he said. “They have been ordered to present themselves today.”

“On a Friday?” I asked, incredulous. The late Shah had never conducted business on the holy day.

Balamani stopped scrubbing. “The meeting is at Forty Columns Hall. Shall we observe it together?”

“Of course,” I replied.

By the time we arrived, the hall was already packed with men sitting cross-legged knee to knee. The heat from the bodies made the room seem suffocating, and the acrid smell of sweat hung in the air.

I couldn’t help but look at all of them with a new eye. If Looloo’s guess was right and my father’s murderer was alive, could he be here? I stared at men with long gray beards and creased foreheads as well as those in the prime of youth with thick black mustaches and smooth, sun-browned skin. Might I be looking at him?

Near the portable throne that marked the Shah’s place sat most of the qizilbash leaders, as well as the Circassians including Pari’s uncle Shamkhal, who looked uncommonly ruddy and well. Mirza Shokhrollah sat closest to where Isma‘il would emerge. The leaders of the Ostajlu, the Georgians, and the Kurds sat clumped together in disgrace behind all the others for having supported Haydar. Hossein Beyg Ostajlu looked as frightened as if it were the last day of his life.

Balamani and I claimed a cushion at the back of the chamber. Saleem Khan called the meeting to order in a more sober tone than usual. The Shah entered and sat in front of a mural that showed his grandfather mounted on a horse, thrusting his spear at a warrior who had tried to resist the establishment of his rule. The Shah was wearing a pale blue robe and olive green trousers, colors so complementary to those in the painting that it was as if he had stepped right out of the battle scene. His mouth was set in an angry grimace, and the pillows under his eyes made me suspect that he had not slept enough the night before.

“You may plead your case,” he said to Sadr al-din Khan.

“Oh glorious light of the age,” said he, “we the Ostajlu gave our lives with enthusiasm during the wars fought by your father and grandfather, supporting their reign in every way. We support yours, too. At some junctures, though, your servants take the wrong path. We are guilty of having rallied behind the wrong man, but please understand that it came from a desire to keep the Safavi throne intact. We beg your forgiveness and wish to perform any punishment you require to be reinstituted into your good graces.”

“You say this now,” he replied, “but this is not the tune you were singing a few weeks ago. Hossein Beyg, stand up.”

Hossein Beyg got to his feet and faced the Shah. I remembered how fierce he had looked when he led the men into battle, but now he appeared small inside his robe and trousers.

“By all accounts, you were the leader of the soldiers who stormed the palace. Is that true?”

“Yes, defender of our faith, it is true.”

“How dare you support my opponent?”

“O merciful Shah, I am not the only one. There were many who did not understand that your star was ascendant. If you arrest me, you might as well arrest most of your court.”

“That is true,” replied the Shah, “but you were the one who led the invasion and desecrated the sanctity of the women’s quarters. How can you expect such a violation to be forgiven?”

“O light of the universe,” said Hossein Beyg, with the ferocity of a man who knows he is fighting for his life, “it was a time of lawlessness and uncertainty. We acted with the intention of protecting the royal grounds, and we were not the only ones who did so. A large group of—”

“Choke yourself!” said the Shah. “A man can find no end of excuses for his actions on earth. Why should I believe that you would become loyal?”

“Clemency makes a man loyal,” Hossein Beyg replied in a quiet tone. “Kindness is answered with greater kindness.”

“Your words are empty; they don’t convince me,” said the Shah. “Why shouldn’t I execute you? You are a conniver and a plotter.”

Hossein Beyg bowed his head respectfully, speaking to the ground near the Shah. “Your own father was faced with insubordination many times. He showed mercy by imprisoning his enemies—even members of his own family whom he suspected of rebellion.”

Others would have fallen to their knees, cringing and begging. His bravery filled me with admiration.

“Don’t dare to compare yourself to me!” replied the Shah. “Nothing you have said mitigates what you have done. If you had been successful, I wouldn’t be here, and I see no reason to trust you. I therefore order your execution, to be carried out tomorrow morning.”

He gestured to the guards. “Remove him from my gaze.”

The guards grabbed Hossein Beyg and dragged him toward the rear door. He turned back to the assembly and stared directly into the eyes of the Shah in violation of every rule of respect and protocol. I was astonished to see a man daring to behave as if he were the Shah’s equal. The faces of the men around me were transfixed with horror.

“May God punish you for this first of your sins!” Hossein Beyg shouted, his words falling on the room like a curse. “May you fear for your life every day you are Shah. May your children be murdered without mercy, just as you have condemned me. Men of the court, take heed! You will be next if you don’t root out this viper in your midst.”

The guards pummeled him so hard in the face and chest that he fell to the floor with a thud. They forced him to his feet and pushed him out of the room, but the expression on his face remained stoic and dignified.

I was appalled. Hossein Beyg had pled his case well before a man who had been a prisoner himself only a few months before. I thought the Shah should have treated him with more mercy.

After his removal, the room was so silent that you could hear the flapping of birds’ wings outside. Rather than being the gentlest of sounds, it was like listening to a beating.

“Sadr al-din Khan, your men are the cause of this disorder,” added Isma‘il Shah. “There is nothing you can say to redeem yourself for what you have done. However, I am indeed merciful, and therefore I order you merely to be imprisoned along with your accomplices.”

He named five men, two of whom were governors, and the guards lifted each man to his feet and pushed him toward the door.

I thought about the terrible warren of palace prison cells, which stank of mold and grief. They were always bitterly cold, even on the hottest days of summer.

The Shah scowled as they were led away, and twisted restlessly on his cushion. “Those of you who remain in this room, look around you. Do you notice anyone missing from your ranks?”

I checked the room, annoyed that I had not thought to do so earlier. Balamani had a knowing look in his eyes.

“Kholafa Rumlu,” he whispered.

Balamani could look around a room and see more than any other man. He could recite every noble family’s lineages and their proper titles until day turned into night.

“Perhaps you have noticed the absence of Kholafa, which you may find surprising since he was one of my greatest backers. The news about him will freeze your blood.”

No one had been a greater devotee!

“Not long ago, I offered Kholafa a new post in our government, which required him to give up his existing position. He refused to relinquish his title. Then I suggested that he be put in charge of the royal zoo.”

I suppressed a horrified laugh. Overseeing the zoo was an insult to a man of Kholafa’s rank.

“Kholafa refused to respond to my royal command. For his pride and disobedience, he too will pay the price of his life.”

I heard a low expostulation from Balamani. My heart felt as if it had stopped beating.

“As you ponder the fate of Kholafa and Hossein Beyg, don’t forget that your fate could be the same. Tell them, Saleem Khan.”

“God is great, and the Shah is his deputy here on earth. The punishment for disobedience is death,” said Saleem Khan.

We replied in unison, “We pledge submission to the light of the universe.”

But the Shah hadn’t finished yet.

“And another thing, while I am on the subject of violations of the royal person and palace. It has come to my attention that a number of courtiers have continued to call upon those who are most dear to our honor. I am certain you would agree that there is nothing as important as honor—nothing. Visiting them is absolutely forbidden.”

If he had objected, why hadn’t he said so earlier? No doubt he had been afraid of Pari’s power.

None of the courtiers dared to say a word; they bowed their heads, hoping Isma‘il would not demand accountability from them. I stared at Shamkhal but could detect no surprise in his expression, nor did he utter a single word in support of his niece.

Mirza Salman asked permission to speak, which I thought brave under the circumstances.

“O commander of all that is pure, in your absence, many of us were concerned about the security and safety of the palace. We thought that no one could guide us better than a close descendant of your revered father. We sincerely hope that we haven’t erred.”

Isma‘il looked pleased by this pretty speech. “In such a situation, when the palace is in chaos and no Safavi prince is present to make decisions, you did well to listen to a member of the family,” he replied. “But everything is different now. I am here to lead you, and therefore no such ministrations are required—or allowed. Do you understand?”

“Perfectly,” replied Mirza Salman.

The Shah signaled to Saleem Khan that the meeting was over, and that was that. In Tahmasb Shah’s time, the discipline of malefactors would have been mitigated with rewards to those who had provided good service, or something else that would have relieved the sorrow we felt over the death and imprisonment of men we all knew. How different things had become.

When the Shah arose, we stood at attention as he walked to the door, followed by the pillars of state and by the guards. After he left, the courtiers who had survived the ordeal began speaking together in quiet but fervent tones. Some wiped their brows, while others muttered prayers of thanks that they had not been taken. I heard Ibrahim Mirza speaking too loudly to one of his friends.

“I would say this is cause for celebration,” he said in an ironic tone, “that is, for those of us who are still breathing. Why not join me for refreshments at my home? I’ve commissioned a new book, and I would like to show you some of the illustrations.”

The prince was beloved among artists and calligraphers for spending so much of his fortune on books. He must have been trembling on his cushion over his support of Haydar, though he was making light of it now. Why, I wondered, had the Shah spared him?

His friend didn’t have the heart to celebrate. “Maybe later,” he said. “Right now, I am going to the mosque to give thanks to God.”

Balamani turned to me and said, “It could have been worse.”

“How?”

“Isma‘il had to show the stone in his fist. If he hadn’t punished his enemies, the moment the meeting ended, groups of courtiers would have started plotting to bring him down. Now they will think twice about the consequences.”

“But why Kholafa? Isn’t it excessive to kill your ally because he didn’t care for his new posting?”

“Vagh-vagh,” said Balamani, imitating an angry dog. “All that was just an excuse. Kholafa was responsible for making him shah. No ruler wishes to be so obligated to a mere man.”

His words were like a dagger in my heart. I suspected that a shah like Isma‘il would wish to be obligated to a woman even less.

When I entered Pari’s quarters, she was seated with a pen in her hand and a letter on her lap, which she set aside.

“You look as if you have seen a jinni,” she said. “What happened?”

“The Shah has shown his wrath by ordering the executions of Kholafa and Hossein Beyg,” I replied in a rush, “and has imprisoned Sadr al-din Khan and other supporters of Haydar.”

“Voy!” Pari replied. “That is much too harsh!”

“Esteemed princess, he has also demanded that the courtiers refrain from attending meetings with the royal women.”

“For what reason?”

“He said it was an insult to the honor of the Safavis.”

“Of course he would,” Pari replied angrily. “It is the easiest thing to say because no courtier can protest such an accusation. What he can’t say is that his sister is better at governing than he is. I can’t remain silent when those men are about to be executed, especially Kholafa. I will go plead with him immediately.”

Pari picked up her pen and wrote a letter to Sultanam demanding Isma‘il’s ear. It said, in part:

Now that you are queen mother of Iran because of my key

I beg your help in unlocking your son’s clemency.

Throw open the doors to his generosity

And remember: One day, you might need aid from me.

Sultanam replied with a message telling her to come to her quarters in the late afternoon, when she had tea with her son. When we arrived, we were shown into a small guest room with fine carpets. Sultanam and Isma‘il sat very close to one another, drinking tea spiced with cardamom and eating sugar crystals brightened with saffron. With her broad frame and wedge of curly white hair, Sultanam looked twice as big as Isma‘il, who was still thin despite the richness of the palace diet. Pari saluted Isma‘il as the lord of the universe, thanked him for inviting her into his presence, and inquired after his health. The formalities done, Isma‘il did not delay.

“I know why you are here,” he said. “The answer is no—no more morning meetings.”

This shah, I thought, did not understand the first thing about diplomacy.

“Light of the universe, that is not my purpose,” Pari said. “I come to you with great humility to ask a favor.”

“What is it?”

“I have heard of your decision to execute Kholafa Rumlu and Hossein Beyg. As your sister and as a member of the royal family with years of experience at court, I beg you to show them mercy.”

“Hossein is a traitor, and Kholafa is an ungrateful wretch. They don’t deserve mercy.”

“Perhaps not, but the question is how the noblemen will view their executions,” Pari said. “If you kill Kholafa, they will wonder why a man of wisdom and high standing, who did everything to bring you to power, has been sacrificed. Being fearful of the same fate will make them dangerous. If you kill Hossein Beyg, they will understand why, but show clemency and they will see you as merciful.”

“Why do you care? What are these men to you?”

“They are nothing to me, but it is a matter of justice. Kholafa was your biggest ally. I think we owe him thanks for his support.”

“And Hossein Beyg?”

“The loyalty of the Ostajlu is worth a great deal.”

“Even though he was a traitor?”

“He wasn’t a traitor; he simply didn’t select the winning side.”

Isma‘il turned to Sultanam. “Mother, what do you think?”

Pari looked at her expectantly; she had often been successful in begging Tahmasb Shah for clemency and had no doubt saved Isma‘il himself.

“I think your sister is right about Kholafa,” Sultanam said. “Why destroy a brilliant strategist?”

“To demonstrate that no disobedience will be tolerated is valuable.”

“But it wasn’t disobedience; it was merely disagreement,” Pari interjected.

“What is the difference?”

Was the Shah incapable of seeing the distinction?

Pari looked bewildered. “Surely you will permit your subjects to disagree at times?”

“Of course,” he said. “I am listening to you right now, aren’t I? But Hossein Beyg is a lost cause. By opposing my accession, he will always be a rallying point for the dissatisfied. As for Kholafa, his execution sets an important example to the others about the behavior I expect. By dying, he will serve me better than by living.”

“But, brother of mine—”

“I have made my decision.”

“I beg you to reconsider. When our father was alive, his brother rebelled against him several times, but it wasn’t until Alqas joined forces with the Ottoman army that he had him captured and executed. Surely your noblemen deserve mercy.”

“I am not Tahmasb,” Isma‘il said, “and I intend to be quite a different shah than he was.”

Pari looked exasperated. “But if not for his clemency, you yourself would not be alive!”

Isma‘il’s face flushed with anger. “I am alive because it was God’s will that I should become shah.”

No one could disagree with that.

“Kholafa isn’t the only person at court who needs to be disciplined,” he continued. “Some wish to usurp my power, but they won’t succeed.”

Pari remained calm at the insinuation. “I offer my opinion with the sole goal of strengthening your rule, brother of mine.”

Isma‘il snorted. “Next time, you should wait to ask if I desire your opinion.”

Pari drew back, offended, and turned to Sultanam for reinforcement.

“You must heed the words of my son,” Sultanam said quietly.

“But you are depriving a man of his life, the only worthwhile thing he has! Surely you would expect an argument.”

“On the contrary, I expect to be thanked for listening,” he said.

Isma‘il put a roasted pumpkin seed in his mouth and cracked it open. I hoped Pari would say something conciliatory, but she frowned, as if a bad smell had invaded the room.

Isma‘il spat out the shell. “There is nothing left to discuss. You may go.”

Pari arose stiffly and walked out of the room without thanking him for seeing her. I asked permission to be dismissed and followed behind, cringing at the disrespect she had shown.

“I should have fought harder,” she said as we walked through the gardens. The roses looked wilted in the heat.

“What good would that do?”

“Perhaps none, but I owe it to Kholafa. He deserves to live.”

“May God have mercy on his soul tomorrow,” I replied. “Yet I think it is most important now to earn back Isma‘il’s trust.”

“He doesn’t desire honesty.”

“Isn’t it vital to convince him that you are his ally?”

“Not if it means compromising what is right,” she said angrily.

The men would be executed in the morning. I felt sorry for their wives and families, for I knew how their faces would twist with agony when they received the bodies wrapped in bloody white sheets. Their children would suffer, too: I remembered Jalileh’s screams of distress even though she was too young to understand what had happened. And yet, rather than advance the cause of the condemned, Pari had managed to hurt her own standing with Isma‘il.

Pari was watching me closely. “What is it, Javaher? If your brow could make storm clouds, it would be pouring.”

I took a deep breath. “Princess, you know the old saying: The rose is heartless, yet the nightingale sings to it all night long.”

“Why should I sing to a stem of thorns?” she scoffed.

“Because you want to win.”

Her face darkened. “Shit-eater!”

I was offended and slowed my gait so that she would know it.

Pari waited for me to catch up. “Javaher, I know your advice comes from the bottom of your heart, but you cannot understand the fury that seizes me in his mule-like presence.”

“Princess, don’t you fear for your life? Look how casually he destroys his allies.”

Pari threw back her head and laughed. “The blood of the Safavi lions roars in my veins!”



A few evenings later, Pari summoned me to her house to fetch her most private correspondence and deliver it to a special courier. I arrived at the same time as Majeed, whom I escorted behind the lattice. His cheeks looked yellow with fear. In a shaky voice, he told us that when he had gone home that evening, he had been prevented from entering his own door by a group of soldiers, who told him that all his possessions had been confiscated by order of the Shah.

“Esteemed princess, have I offended you in any way?”

“No, my good servant.”

“Then why—?”

I scrutinized Majeed carefully. A man who wishes to succeed at court can’t collapse when the earth trembles, because when it shakes, pitches, and rolls, he will break into seven hundred and seventy-seven pieces. A bubble of hope opened up in my heart, for Majeed seemed to be crumbling.

“Do you think you can still be effective as my vizier? Be truthful. Whatever your answer, I shall treat you fairly.”

“I am afraid that showing my face at court would seem like an aggravation. Perhaps another man would do better . . .” His voice trailed off, as if he hated himself for admitting it, and his young face looked as soft as rice pudding.

“Very well, then. Stay out of sight, and I will contact you to serve me when the court is safe.”

“As you wish.”

Pari made him pledge to spread the story that she herself had requested the expropriated house. Then she released him from her service with a generous sack of silver for his expenses and the promise to resettle him in a new home. I showed him out and joined Pari on her side of the lattice.

“How I miss my father!” she said, her voice thick with feeling. The princess bowed her head for a moment to compose herself, and the room was silent except for the sound of the wind outside. Then she said, in a tone of wonder, “How did you survive your grief all those years ago?”

I had to think for a moment; no one had ever asked me that question before.

“Princess, I wish I could give you an answer coated in honey. The best I can do is to suggest that you bask in the memories of his love, the sweetest balm for your heart.”

She sighed. “I shall.”

“Why do you think Majeed’s house was taken?”

I was certain it had to do with her behavior toward the Shah, but knowing the specific reason was essential.

“I sent him back to Mirza Shokhrollah to ask for an army to protect our northwestern border. The grand vizier must have spoken out against me,” she said, but looked uncertain.

“Is it possible that the Shah objected to your plea for clemency?”

“If so, his response is cruel,” she said. “Every citizen has the right to the Shah’s ear.”

Pari batted at her temple to brush a strand of hair away from her face, but there wasn’t one. She sought neatness in times of distress. Something in her gesture made me wonder if she was telling the truth about everything.

“Can you think of any other reason for this punishment?”

“No. On the occasions that I disappointed my father, he told me why and allowed me to make amends. He didn’t punish my vizier. What a sinister way to make a point.”

“Esteemed princess, how shall we break the scepter of royal displeasure?”

“I don’t know.”

I decided I would risk making a visit to Khadijeh, who might be able to tell me what was in Isma‘il’s heart. “I will see what I can find out about this, discreetly, of course.”

“Good,” she said. “Before you go, I wish you to think upon something. Now that Majeed has been released temporarily, I would like you to become my acting vizier. The position will pay more and will require becoming my liaison to the noblemen of the Shah’s court.”

Panah bar Khoda! I was rocked by surprise to learn that Pari believed in me enough to make me her most trusted officer. I would have expected to serve for many years before receiving such an offer. A current of emotion rushed up and down my spine, and it took a moment before I could trust my voice.

“Thank you, esteemed princess. What a great honor! May I think about it until tomorrow?”

“Give me your answer in the morning. But please remember, Javaher, how much I have come to rely on you.”

She said this so sweetly that I felt ready to lay down my life for her.



Khadijeh had moved into one of the buildings that the late Shah had used to house his favorite ladies. I told the eunuch on duty that I wished to see her on a matter of business for Pari Khan Khanoom, and he announced me and allowed me to pass.

Khadijeh received me dressed in a robe of orange silk, which was brightened by her clove-colored skin. Seeing her, so unlike the other courtiers draped in dark colors, was like happening upon a field of poppies. Gold bracelets made music at her wrists. She smiled at me, but because her ladies were present, maintained her formality. I told her I needed to see her on a delicate matter about a woman in distress. Khadijeh waved her chief lady, Nasreen Khatoon, to a distant corner of the room, where she could observe but not overhear. The planes of Nasreen’s face were sharp and beautiful, but I only had eyes for Khadijeh.

“With all respect to your new status, you are even more glorious than ever to my eyes,” I said quietly. “Your new post agrees with you.”

Her smile was bright. “I am happy to be my own mistress.”

“I am sure many are asking for your favor,” I said, feeling a squeeze at my heart, “but I am here about a troubling matter.”

“What is it?”

In a quiet voice, I told Khadijeh about Majeed’s house and asked if she had heard anything from Isma‘il that would help explain the ferocity of his anger.

Khadijeh looked as if she were searching for an answer. “I don’t know him very well yet,” she admitted. “He summons me at night and delights in my company, but doesn’t say much.”

“And you delight in his?” I could not help asking.

“It is not the same as with you,” she said gently.

I was glad to hear that, but brought myself back to my duty. “Has he said anything at all about Pari?”

“You won’t wish to hear it.”

“I must hear it.”

“He called her a pretend shah.”

“On what grounds?”

“I can’t remember. It was a passing comment.”

I thought about it. “She has been leading the amirs in meetings, so I suppose in that way she resembles a shah.”

“Shahs are men,” she pointed out.

“So true,” I said, “but she has the royal farr.”

“He does, too,” she said, “and he demands more deference than you might expect. I think his years as a prisoner have made him feel entitled to it. When he speaks to me about the cruel destruction of his youth by his father, the pain in his heart flares on his face like a flame. The princess should never appear to cross him.”

“It will test her severely,” I said.

“That is too bad. He is the Shah, and she has sworn obedience to him like everyone else.”

“Has anything happened lately that he might hold against her?”

“I heard of one thing,” Khadijeh said in a whisper. “Someone sent a group of soldiers to combat a rebellion in Khui. The Shah is very angry that it was done without his knowledge.”

Ya, Ali!

“Was it Pari?”

“He didn’t say.”

I thought back to my last meeting with Pari; her answers now struck me as intentionally vague. My head grew hot with anger. Was I not to be informed of a clandestine military action of such a magnitude? Was my life to be put at risk without my consent? I might as well be one of Pari’s tea boys.

As I struggled to master my feelings, I was certain I felt Nasreen Khatoon’s eyes on me, but when I glanced up she was standing against the far wall of the room looking at the carpet in front of her.

“By the way,” I said to Khadijeh in a lighter tone, “the color of your robe suits you very well.”

“I keep a sober robe handy in case I need to throw it over my clothes when someone important comes to visit.” She giggled at her own audacity.

“Your spirit refreshes my soul. Are you happy?”

“I have everything a woman could want,” she said, gesturing around her. I noted the soft, new carpets on the floors, the matching velvet cushions, and a rich assortment of blue and white porcelain dishes arranged in alcoves. “And the best part is I have more time than ever to cook. Try this.”

She handed me a plate of paludeh, the long thin rice noodles enlivened by sugar, cinnamon, rose water, and one strange spice I couldn’t name, which shocked my tongue into uncommon joy.

I ate it in a rush of fierce hunger, licking my lips. This taste of Khadijeh’s delights made me keenly aware of what I had been missing in past weeks. I dared not look at her for a moment.

“Little did he know what a treasure would come to him when he married you.”

She smiled. “There is another thing that makes me happy, and that binds you and me together. The Shah has appointed my brother, Mohsen, as the master of cavalry to Mahmood Mirza. He loves his new posting.”

“Congratulations. What does he say of the prince?”

“Mohsen said that the two of them get along like family.”

“That gladdens me!”

“And you, how are you faring?” She didn’t attempt to conceal the tenderness in her voice, which flayed my heart. My skin longed to feel the heat of hers, my nostrils cried out for the scent of her rose oil after it had mingled with her flesh, and my thumbs itched for the feel of her—

“Javaher?”

I clasped my hands in front of me to keep them still. “The princess asked me to be her acting vizier.”

She looked awed. “What a big honor, and so soon!”

“But if the Shah dislikes her, it could prove to be a difficult job—and dangerous.”

“I promise to let you know what I hear.”

“Thank you.”

“I imagine your new position will allow you to help your sister more than before.”

“It will, but my chief desire is to bring her to the capital. I still don’t have the funds necessary to care for her here or to provide her with a generous dowry.”

“May God rain silver on your head!”

The memory of Jalileh’s long lashes, made starry by tears the last time I saw her, pierced my heart. “I don’t even know her anymore. All these years, I have not been able to visit her.”

“How could you, when you have been sending all your extra money for her upkeep? I am certain you are the light of her eyes.”

“I hope so.”

Khadijeh noticed Nasreen Khatoon looking at us. “I think you had better take your leave.”

“May I come again?”

“Yes. Be sure to come accompanied by court business,” she replied, and called her ladies to rejoin her.

“Nasreen Khatoon, prepare a robe with some tunics and trousers for charity,” she commanded. “You will deliver them to Javaher Agha when they are ready.”

For Nasreen’s ears, I said formally, “The princess will be pleased to know that you have pledged clothing to a woman who has lost her home. I will report to you how Rudabeh fares.”

“It is my pleasure,” Khadijeh replied.

With longing, I remembered the sweetness of her thighs under my tongue. The rip in my heart, which had just begun to heal, tore afresh and bled. It could not be helped: In the harem, there was no avoiding a former love and no escaping the relentlessness of desire. Khadijeh, who knew me so well, pretended to be busy with the paludeh so that I could preserve my dignity and take my leave.



Pari was drinking tea when I greeted her with a grim face.

“Javaher, do you bring me ill news?”

“Yes. I have thought carefully about your offer to make me your acting vizier. I am sorry, but I can’t accept.”

Pari looked shocked at my bluntness. No one but a fool would reject such a promotion.

“Are you joking?”

“No.”

“What is it, money?”

“No.”

“Are you frightened?”

“No.”

“Well, then?”

I looked around as if I hated for the truth to be squeezed out of me and hesitated until I had her full attention.

“Princess, the game of this court is as intricate as the pattern on the carpet you are sitting on. A vizier and his commander must work together with as much unity as a husband and wife; otherwise they can lose everything.”

“True. And so?”

“The best marriages, in my observation, are based on trust.”

“Javaher, are you proposing to me?” she asked jokingly.

“In a manner of speaking.”

I paused for effect and watched her eyes grow serious.

“Well?”

“My proposal—such as it is—goes further than the usual halfhearted alliances, as when a husband requires his wife to tell him everything while he enjoys living a secret life. Do you know what I mean?”

“Of course. Which of us is the husband?”

“You are.”

She laughed. “That suits me better than the other way around.”

“I know.”

“So I shall wear the turban, spend the silver, and make the decisions.”

“Yes.”

“And what shall you do?”

“I shall provide excellent counsel and prevent you from making mistakes that could kill us both.”

Pari looked uncomfortable. “Such as?”

“I have it on good authority that Isma‘il has intercepted money sent to support soldiers on our northwestern border and is choking with rage.”

“Oh,” she said, and her face went white. She brushed at her kerchief, looking for absent strands of hair.

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Javaher,” she said passionately, “you know as well as I do that there are spies all over the palace. I have to be very careful about whom I trust.”

“I know,” I said. “That is why, in asking for your trust, I offer to lay down my life for you if necessary. But if you can’t trust me, I would rather be in charge of your handkerchiefs than pretend to be your chief strategist.”

I waited, firm in my resolve.

“Is there anything else?”

“Do I have permission to speak honestly?”

“Yes.”

“To win over the Shah, you must cage your feelings.”

“But he does nothing!” she cried, her cheeks blazing. “How can I stand by and watch the ruination of my father’s hard work? How can I let the people who live around Khui rise up in rebellion—I, who know so much better than he what to do!”

“But, Princess, our job must be to persuade the Shah to do what is right.”

“I don’t wish to! I want to rule on my own,” she blurted out, and then looked as if she had accidentally released an angry jinni from a bottle.

At long last, she had admitted it! In my bones I had sensed the ferocity of her ambition. It was like a mountain, looming over everything and impeding all progress. Now we could finally discuss what she craved and what was possible.

“Even your father didn’t allow such liberties,” I replied. “To rule at all, you must have a willing partner. At the moment, you face a shah who has thwarted and punished you.”

Pari jumped up, her dark robe fanning out around her as if it wished to escape her fury. “Are you suggesting I have done something wrong? How dare you?”

I stood my ground. “I am the son of a noble,” I said quietly, “and I trust that I have served you well so far. I respect your royal blood with every drop of my own, but, Princess, if I see you on a path to destruction, I will say so. Never shall I be like a cringing dog that evinces affection only in order to obtain scraps, even if you release me from your service—never! For I would rather tell you the truth at my own expense than betray you with false kindnesses. So I promised your father, and so I shall do always.”

The blood pounded in my temples as I turned my gaze on her.

“You are the one who dips so freely in the ocean of smooth words,” she replied angrily. “What do you suggest?”

“As your vizier, I would do my best to calm the waves,” I said, “but it won’t be possible if you keep taunting the Shah.”

She sat down again, smoothing her robe around her. “I am willing to keep you better informed of my plans,” she conceded, “but I won’t promise to accede always to your advice.”

I could see from her stormy brow that I had pushed her as far as was possible. “Agreed.”

“Now are you willing to become my acting vizier?”

“It is the greatest honor of my life to accept,” I replied. My heart soared like that of a soldier prepared to die for his commander. “I pledge to always encircle the emerald of your trust with the gold of my loyalty.”

“That is better than any marriage vow I have ever heard!” she said, a hint of flirtation in her tone. “But I presume it is a metaphorical one.”

“Of course.”

“In that case, I accept.”

The princess’s eyes, which looked a little moist, sought mine. I felt as if we had made a pact binding us together forever.

Pari called Azar Khatoon and told her to fetch something. She returned with a package wrapped in silk and presented it to me. Inside I found a dagger in a black leather scabbard. Its fearsome steel blade bore protective words from the Qur’an worked in gold by a master metallist.

“May it keep you from harm,” Pari said, in a voice more tender than she had ever used with me before. Then and there I fastened the scabbard to my sash.

“I will wear it always.”



The next day, we discovered that Isma‘il had quietly married two women. One of them was an Ostajlu, which demonstrated that he had forgiven the whole tribe and welcomed its nobles, except those that he had executed or imprisoned, back into his closest circles. The other was a big surprise: Shamkhal Cherkes’s daughter Koudenet Cherkes, who had been raised away from court.

Pari was furious. She summoned her uncle, and he came after dark, like a thief. Pari told me to sit in a nook outside one of her private rooms and observe the meeting secretly, so that I could remember his exact words and discern whether he was telling the truth. I suspected she wished to tongue-lash her uncle, but would spare him the humiliation of doing so in front of a servant.

When Shamkhal entered the small room, he consumed so much of its space that his muscular arms and chest seemed to press against the walls.

“Salaam, daughter of my sister!” he said in a booming voice as he lowered himself onto the cushion across from hers. “I am glad to see you looking as bright as the dawn itself. What is the emergency?”

“Is your health better, dear Uncle?” Pari replied sweetly.

“Better?”

“You were sick, remember?”

He paused for a moment. “Ah, of course! I am healthy now.”

“That is good to hear. I assumed I didn’t see you for so long because you were ill. And now I hear that your daughter has become one of the Shah’s new wives! What an honor.”

Shamkhal was watching her closely. “It is.”

“I understand that the Shah has invited you to visit him every day, as well.”

“Who told you that?”

Pari smiled with the certainty of her information.

“In short, the Shah has seen fit to favor you, while he has decided to punish me. Why is that? Don’t we share the same blood?”

“We do.”

“Well, then?”

“It is fate, I suppose.”

“Uncle,” Pari said, her tone sharp, “a shah does not marry the daughter of a man, thereby tying his bloodline to that of royalty for all time, unless that man has provided a great service to him or has promised to do so.”

There was a long silence. Shamkhal looked terribly hot next to his glacial niece. In the small room I could see every bead of sweat that formed where his turban met his brow.

“Someone has damaged me in the eyes of the Shah. Having noticed your recent success, I can’t help but wonder if it has been responsible for my problems.”

Shamkhal burst out laughing. “Of course not. You have managed to create your problems all by yourself.”

“Such as?”

“Haven’t you learned that this shah won’t permit haughty behavior? You may be correct about the rebellion, but you have behaved like a fool.”

Pari looked stung, and I was secretly glad. Her uncle was able to talk to her in a way that I could not.

“How do you expect to win him over now?”

“I don’t know,” she said bitterly. “Right now, I want you to answer my question: What have you done for Isma‘il?”

“I took care of Haydar, remember?”

“Others helped vanquish him but were diminished anyway.”

“I do whatever he asks.”

Pari leaned her slender body toward his. “Have you spoken of me to him?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Too dangerous.”

“All this time, you have been thinking only of your own success!”

“Of course not,” Shamkhal said, adjusting his legs underneath his robes. “Don’t forget that I represent thousands of Circassians. If I am honored at court, all our people will benefit. We can’t ignore that.”

Pari gave him a knowing look. “And you yourself will become very rich.”

“That, too. Remember, the Circassians have only been a force at court for thirty years. We still don’t get the gifts of land and gold that the shah bequeaths to the qizilbash. The Circassians need a man like me to lobby for them.”

He had a point, but the scorn in Pari’s eyes was impossible to miss. “Don’t you understand the Shah’s strategy? He has offered you an alliance in order to curtail my power.”

“True.”

“I thought you were my ally.”

“I am your ally forever,” Shamkhal replied earnestly. “You are the child of my favorite sister, and there is no woman like you in all of Iran. But your desire to rule is not the only thing that matters.”

Pari drew back, sensitive to the insinuation that she sought power for her own sake. “Haven’t you noticed that nothing is getting done at court?”

“Of course. Isma‘il doesn’t know how to govern. He issues an order and then rescinds it. He has no idea whom to trust. His rule is a disaster so far.”

“Then how do you expect to help?”

“I know you could do a better job and I will advocate for you when the Shah learns to trust me, but no advocacy will work unless you change your ways. Isma‘il doesn’t feel he owes you anything. He is suspicious of your power. If you don’t bow down before him, you will never get anywhere.”

“But he is incompetent!”

“Don’t you understand? Your business now is rehabilitating yourself.” His tone was kind but patronizing, as if he were addressing a child. How the power between them had shifted!

Pari was silent for a long time. Desperation entered her eyes. Even though her uncle was right, it disturbed me to see her suffer. I had to stifle an urge to interrupt their meeting.

“Uncle, my father honored you after I advocated for you. Now you must help me as I helped you.”

“I will,” he said, “but not right away. Our shah doesn’t feel secure. That is why I visit him every day and do whatever he asks of me. That is why I have even offered him my best Circassian soldiers as his personal guards.”

“Why didn’t you defend me at the meeting?” Pari’s back was pressed against her cushion as if she were trying to draw support from it.

“Because he is like unexploded gunpowder: One must not set him off.”

Shamkhal reached for one of her hands and held it between his old bearlike paws.

“I will help you as soon as I can,” he said. “Trust me.”

That is what everyone said to Pari, yet who, in fact, could she trust?

“Daughter of my sister, I took a risk by coming to see you today. Isma‘il would object if he knew, even though we are kin. For this reason, I am not going to visit again unless absolutely necessary. It is silly to fuel his anger right now.”

Pari looked crestfallen; her long, thin frame seemed fragile compared to his robust one. “So you, too, are abandoning me?”

“Not abandoning you,” he said. “Waiting quietly until we have a chance to pounce.”

“Insh’Allah,” she said softly, but when she sought the comfort of his gaze, his eyes flicked away.



After we discussed Shamkhal’s advice, Pari finally admitted to the need to repair her relationship with Isma‘il Shah. Together we drafted a letter to him begging forgiveness for any transgression and requesting a meeting to show her contrition. It was a fine document, filled with flowery language and deep submission. As Pari wrote it out in her excellent hand, she grimaced now and again. But it had its intended effect: The Shah summoned us to a meeting a few days later.

I put on the “head-to-toe” that Pari had sent to me right after I had accepted my new appointment. Although such garments always accompanied a big promotion, they were finer than I had expected. The dark blue silk robe was patterned with small pale blue irises on golden stems. The robe was brightened by a pale gold shirt, a blue and gold sash, and a golden turban striped pink, black, and blue. Dark leather shoes printed with gold arabesques completed the outfit. The fineness of the head-to-toe shouted out my new rank.

“As your new acting vizier,” I said, enjoying the sound of the words, “I must remind you that the greatest humility will be required to move Isma‘il’s heart in your favor.”

“I know, I know,” she said impatiently.

We walked through the gardens and entered an elegant courtyard with a long rectangular pool of water flanked by caged parrots, which filled the air with their chattering. We stood by the pool until a eunuch arrived and showed us into a more secluded waiting room. After a while, we were summoned into Isma‘il’s private sanctum, the room where I imagined he met with Khadijeh and feasted on her beauty before taking her to his bedchamber to perform his nightly work. I tore my eyes away from the carved wooden door that led into his private quarters and tried not to think of how the servants outside would listen to the symphony of their grunts and cries. The bitterness of my feelings twisted in my belly and made me wonder whether I could ever love another woman. How could I let myself, knowing that she would one day push me aside?

When Pari and I were ushered into the room, I bowed with my hand on my heart. Sultanam was just leaving, but when the princess introduced me as her acting vizier, she congratulated me and greeted me as “the shining light of Pari’s sword of wisdom.” I thought of my father. How I hoped he was looking down on his son with pride!

The ceiling and the walls of the room were decorated with tiny mirrors arranged in patterns. Light came through a window in the roof and was reflected a hundred times into each shard of mirror, so that the room seemed to shimmer. Looking more closely, I saw a spot of darkness in the mirrors and realized it was the Shah’s eye, shattered into prisms of darkness that were reflected a thousand times around us, as if he were watching our every pore.

The Shah lay reclined against silken cushions, his legs sprawled out in front of him, his jewel-studded turban flung to the side. With his balding head exposed, he looked like an ordinary man, as subject as anyone to the cruelties of nature. On a silver tray in front of him, tea steamed in glasses, accompanied by a six-sided inlaid ivory box.

“Come sit down,” he said, his tone gentler than it had been during our last meeting.

The princess did so, while I hugged the wall at the back of the room to be close in case she needed anything.

“Light of the universe, I am here to do your bidding as your loyal sister,” she said, her voice soft, her gaze averted.

He offered her a glass of tea, which she accepted, and took one himself. Opening the box in front of him, he removed a confection and placed it in his mouth but didn’t offer one to Pari.

“I hope you are sincere in that desire,” he replied. “I haven’t seen evidence of it so far.”

Pari stiffened but made an effort to be polite. “My brother, perhaps you haven’t heard the details of what I have done on your behalf. It was I who gave my uncle the key to the harem so that he could lead his men onto the grounds and defeat those who supported Haydar.”

“I have heard,” he replied, “but of course, it was the will of God that I should come to power.”

“And I was His instrument,” she said, her voice low and soft. “I did what I could to assist you, and all I have wished for since then is to be your ally.”

“My ally?” he replied. “You can’t be my ally if you insist on going your own way. Your actions have proved to me that you are willful.”

“What actions?”

“Funding an army.”

My legs tensed in alarm. Pari didn’t deny the charge, which would have been dangerous. Her cheeks bloomed with color, but her voice remained quiet.

“Do you think I can stand by and watch the disintegration of the momentous treaty our father fought for? What kind of daughter of the Safavis would I be?”

Isma‘il looked away. “I have seen to that problem by appointing a new subgovernor of Azerbaijan, who will be responsible for investigating the problems in Khui.”

“Who is it?”

“You will wait until I announce it to everyone at once.”

He sat up on his cushion, his back straight and angry, as if responding to her unspoken charge. I suspected the Shah had not selected anyone, and Pari looked as if she thought the same.

“What about naming Ali Khan Shamlu? He is loyal,” she pressed.

“Pari, you know as well as I do that we can’t have two governments. Not even our father, who loved you so much, would have permitted you that.”

Pari sat up until she and Isma‘il appeared to be of equal height.

“I don’t want two governments,” she said. “I only wish to ensure our success in governing. Brother of mine, you were young once, and I think you felt as I do. When you were sent away to the fortress at Qahqaheh, it was because of your great zeal. Your mother told me that you wanted to score such a decisive victory against the Ottomans that they would leave us alone for generations. You took it upon yourself to raise an army for the good of your country, though some called it a rebellion.”

“That is true.”

“With zeal similar to your own, I instructed Ali Khan Shamlu to enforce the Treaty of Amasiyeh, and I spent my own money with the sole purpose of protecting our land. Isn’t it almost the same as what you did? Don’t we share the same royal blood?”

She opened her palms to the ceiling to emphasize her point, and it was as if she were offering her open heart at the same time.

“The same blood—but not the same purpose. It was stupid of our father to sign that treaty when I could have led us to victory.”

“But that’s all in the past now!” Pari protested. “Brother, I beg you to let me help you,” she added in a pleading tone that made me hope for the best. “I advised our father for years, and I could be as useful to you as I was to him.”

“You didn’t move a muscle without his approval,” he replied. “Yet you have tried to move a fighting force without my say. I am a military man, while you have never even seen a battlefield. The fact that you dare to employ such grandiose tactics can be explained by only one thing: pride.”

He tapped two fingers against his box of confections to emphasize his last few words.

“Pride? But this is what I have trained for all my life,” Pari protested. “I didn’t learn by my father’s side for so many years for nothing.”

“I differ from our father on this point,” Isma‘il replied. “He didn’t wish you to marry and leave him.”

“Nor did I wish to marry.”

“I suspect you didn’t know who you were getting when I became shah,” he said. “If you had wanted to rule through someone, you should have thrown yourself behind Haydar.”

“Haydar didn’t have the makings of a shah,” Pari said. “But if for some reason he and his soldiers had won, my support for you would have meant my death at his hands. You have shown courage on the battlefield, and I have tried to show my mettle here at the palace. I thought—I hoped—you would be pleased by my fealty.”

The edges of Pari’s silk robe trembled.

“Your fealty?” His laugh sounded as ghastly as the howl of jackals at night. “Whatever do you mean? You once said that as a child you loved me, but where is the truth in that?”

Pari stared at him, perplexed. “You doubt the love that I bore you as a little girl? Surely you must have felt how I wanted to burst with joy when you spent time with me.”

“And I loved you as if you were my own daughter,” he said, and the truth of his feelings clouded his eyes. “I would have done anything for you.”

“And I for you,” Pari replied.

He laughed again. “If only I could believe that were true.”

“What makes you doubt it?”

“If you loved me so much, what did you do to release me from prison when you had our father’s ear?”

“Release you from prison? I was a child of eight when you were taken away!”

“You weren’t a child forever. You could have urged our father to set me free. Did you ever speak in my favor?”

“You don’t understand. Our father turned yellow at the very mention of your name, sometimes even at the mention of another man with the same name as yours. I remember that when one of the nobles referred to his own father as a donkey, the Shah reached over and struck him in the face. The man was lucky to escape with his life. Another time, he asked his children to recite poetry to him, and I began reciting a tale from the Shahnameh about how two of the sons of the legendary king Fereydoon had rebelled against him and tried to destroy him, although he had given them most of his kingdom. Our father began to look very ill, and without warning, he vomited in front of everyone. I didn’t understand why until I was older and realized that what he saw as your rebellion tormented him every day. Even your mother couldn’t change his mind, although she begged him so often that he refused to see her or visit her bed. How could I, as a child, hope to calm such wrath?”

“Did you ever try?” he repeated, his small black eyes fierce.

Pari remained silent.

“That is what I thought,” he said. “And why would you? By the time you were fourteen, you had his ear to yourself. If you had succeeded in bringing me home, I would have usurped your place. I was the golden son, beloved by all, and the warrior who had led the country to victory. How could you have competed with that? You would have married Badi al-Zaman and lived in some far-flung province for the rest of your life.”

“That was never in my plans,” she replied. “It never occurred to me that I could gain some advantage through your disgrace.”

“And yet you did,” he replied. “You were my father’s companion while I wasted my youth. For this reason I am just now trying to beget sons as an old man, and I have shriveled in body and in mind. It is a wonder I didn’t become a madman, locked away as I was! But what happened to me is ugly enough.”

His eyes burned with anger as if he thought Pari was responsible for everything he had endured. For the first time, I understood the extent to which the fortress at Qahqaheh had imprisoned Isma‘il’s soul, darkened his heart, and blackened his vision. It was chilling to see his feelings so nakedly displayed.

“I was not the shah to make such decisions about your fate,” Pari replied staunchly. “Our father sent away his own mother and punished his own brother when they rebelled. On the heels of that, how could I convince him of your innocence?”

Isma‘il snorted. “Sultanam told me you did everything you could to shut her out. You pushed all the royal women away and took the place that belonged to me.”

“I could never hope to be you, brother of mine,” she said.

Isma‘il bucked impatiently against his cushion, and the tiny mirrors in the room reflected his movement a thousand times before becoming calm again.

“Then why did you try?”

Pari’s face was flushed, and yet I saw goose bumps on her arms. Her chin jutted forth defiantly.

“The minute it was possible to do so, I delivered the palace to you.”

Isma‘il sat up against his cushion, and now somehow he seemed the taller of the two.

“You are as aggressive as a man. Not long after I arrived at court, Mirza Shokhrollah told me how you pushed the men to declare you had the royal farr. What could be more insulting to a new shah? How dare you assert such a thing? But now the royal farr has passed to me. You are no longer the Shah’s favorite, and you may not make policy decisions on your own. If you do, I will consider it an act of disobedience. Is that understood?”

The cords at Pari’s neck tightened and she looked as if she were choking. She bent her head and remained silent long enough for him to know that her reply was given under protest.

“Chashm, gorbon,” she said, her voice thick with anger.

Now that it was clear that Isma‘il thought Pari had usurped him from the time she was a child, I surmised that he had interpreted all of her subsequent actions as part of the same grab for power. As her new vizier, I must intervene.

“Light of the universe, may I have permission to speak?”

The Shah looked as if he would welcome any diversion. “You may.”

“We are so awed by the royal radiance that we cannot always say what is foremost in our hearts,” I said, speaking for myself and Pari. “If there have been errors in the past, we are deeply regretful, and we seek only to right them in the royal eyes.”

“It is fitting that you are awestruck by my presence.”

“How can we serve in a way that would please the light of the universe? That is the reason we live and breathe. We will do anything”—I looked at the princess for confirmation—“that would satisfy the shadow of God on earth.”

Isma‘il glanced at Pari. She clenched her jaw, bowed her head, and humbled herself as far as she could.

“Brother of mine, I swear that is my fondest wish,” she said.

“How can I know that you will work for me, not just for yourself?”

“I would like to prove myself to you—to be your confidante—to use all I have learned to advance your interests.”

Pari was on the right track at last. Kiss his feet! I commanded her in my head.

“There is so much I can do,” Pari continued, and I became ill at ease again. Why couldn’t she stop there?

“I can advise you on the best governors to rule, recount the deeds of all the khans who served our father when you were away, or provide you with suggestions for wives—and that is just the beginning.”

He looked skeptical again, his desire to believe her fading as quickly as it had bloomed.

“I have plenty of men to advise me,” he said.

“Then what can I do?”

He was at a loss, but then he rallied. “If you like, I will arrange a marriage for you to help fill your days. Small children are very demanding of their mothers.”

Pari shivered as if ill with a fever, and I was reminded of a maple denuded of all its leaves by an autumn wind.

“How very gracious,” she replied coldly, “but I prefer to remain alone and devoted to the memory of our father.”

“It is up to you,” he said indifferently.

Yet again, I was maddened by his lack of statecraft. After you kick a faithful dog, even if it has misbehaved, you would be well advised to throw it a bone. Otherwise, don’t be surprised if it sinks its fangs into your throat. But it was Pari’s task to try to tame him, since she had the most to lose, and instead she had merely managed to make him growl.

As we left, Pari looked as if the fire that raged inside her might consume all who were near her. Her cheeks and her normally pearly forehead were red, and a wave of heat emanated from her body. I didn’t dare to touch her even by accident for fear she might loose her rage upon me.

When we were in the gardens far from malicious gossips, Pari’s words tumbled out on top of one another. “How dare he claim the royal farr! It remains with whoever deserves it most,” she said between gritted teeth. “We will see who that is.”

“We already know it is you.”

Pari sighed. “I have been given all the tools of a ruler—except the blind, blunt instrument that seems to matter—but none of the opportunities. When I read through history, my desires don’t strike me as so exceptional. Genghis Khan placed his daughters on the throne in every corner of his empire, where they ruled in his name. Our qizilbash ancestors allowed women more freedom because they lived a nomadic life. Those traditions are being buried, alas, and our women with them.”

“It is the same in many places,” I replied. “Yet the ruler of England has been a woman for the last twenty years because her father didn’t produce a male heir.”

“That is not quite true,” said Pari. “King Henry had a son or two, but they weren’t born of the one wife he was allowed to marry at any given time. What a foolish practice to deny his children their patrimony.”

“It is very limiting,” I agreed.

“But what a boon for Elizabeth. Here we are awash in male heirs; the dozens of women my father bedded made sure of that. My only chance is as an advisor to one of his grown sons or as a regent, which would suit me best.”

“You would be an excellent ruler,” I replied, “but I must admit I had to learn this by serving you. Esteemed princess, I used to think my father superior to my mother. After I began serving the royal women, I learned they could surpass men in intelligence and strategizing.”

“How well you understand! Sometimes I feel like the one solitary creature of my kind, malcontent with the way the world is made and my place in it. Yet what am I but what those around me have created?”

Her black eyes became as transparent as pools, and I felt as if I could see straight into the dark loneliness of her soul, which reminded me of my own.

“Lieutenant of my life,” I replied softly, “I empathize with your troubles with all my heart.”

She put her hand on my arm. “I know you do,” she replied. “How curious it is that you were sent to me: I would never have expected to feel such kinship with a eunuch.”

The tender bud in my heart bloomed, its petals unfurling so quickly that my chest ached.

“Remember when I asked you, months ago, about how you got cut? I know you suffered a great deal. Selfishly, though, I am glad it was your fate, because otherwise I would never have come to know you as I do. What a precious jewel you are! How brightly you shine!”

It was a sign of her great generosity that she lavished such compliments on me right after her lowest moment with the Shah. Feelings that I had never allowed to show prickled my eyes. Rather than being criticized or derided for what I didn’t have, I felt appreciated, for the first time, for all I knew and could do. An understanding passed between us that seemed as bottomless as a well.

With great delicacy, Pari suggested that perhaps I wished to return to my quarters and refresh myself with afternoon tea.