Equal of the Sun A Novel

CHAPTER 5



TEARS OF BLOOD





One of Zahhak’s subjects was a blacksmith named Kaveh, who worked hard at the forge every day to support his family of eighteen sons. Kaveh was a blessed man until Zahhak began requiring each household to deliver a tribute of young men to feed the hungry snakes on his shoulders. Kaveh’s bounty of sons made him unluckier than most. He watched his sons get taken away one by one, and each time, their heads were smashed and their brains delivered to the serpents. The blood boiled within Kaveh, but what could he do? No one dared refuse an order from the king.

At the palace, Zahhak’s peace was still being disturbed by his nightmare about Fereydoon and by intimations that his own rule had been unjust. One day, he decided to create a record of his reign that would clear his name for all time. He ordered his scribes to write a proclamation describing him as a paragon of justice in every respect. Then he commanded the nobles of his court to sign the statement. Once again, no one dared refuse an order from the king.





As the days grew darker, colder, and shorter, a new order was created at the harem. Sultanam, who had the Shah’s ear, was at the top, with the Shah’s new wives jockeying for power below her. Pari, who was now firmly associated with her dead father and the past, had been neutered. No longer her father’s advisor or the protector of the dynasty, she was relegated to the role that out-of-favor women played, doomed to struggle to find relevance in any way she could. In this, she was like many courtiers who strove to ingratiate themselves to the court after dishonor. But if Isma‘il reigned for a long time, it would be a long wait.

When someone fell out of favor with a shah, it was common to enlist allies to help with rehabilitation. The allies would report on the offending party’s feelings of contrition and would request clemency, or suggest a way to placate the shah. They would look for moments when he might be likely to soften, such as times of good fortune or religious celebrations that incited feelings of charity. Such petitions could carry on for months or years and might require enduring punishment. But I was hopeful. The Ostajlu were now the Shah’s best friends again. It could be done, and it could be done in a matter of months, as my own case had shown.

“Princess, be patient,” I told Pari. “I myself once endured the same cold winter. The best thing we can do now is to enlist your allies’ help in creating a thaw.”

I said this in part to try to console myself. With Pari so out of favor, my new role as her acting vizier didn’t provide the access I had expected, but rather obscurity and irrelevance.

During that time, Pari spent long hours in correspondence, writing to kinswomen and courtiers all over the realm to keep apprised of goings-on and to petition those who could help her. After she asked for assistance from her half sister Gowhar, who was married to Ibrahim Mirza, Gowhar revealed that despite Ibrahim’s support for Haydar, he had been invited to visit the Shah daily and had been selected as the Guardian of the Shah’s Most Precious Seal. She promised to talk to Ibrahim and let Pari know if there were any opportunities to soften the Shah’s heart. Gowhar was delightfully irreverent; once when she visited Pari, she sang a song Ibrahim had composed that referred to Shamkhal as the Ingratiator, Mirza Shokhrollah as the Naysayer, and the Shah as the Vacillator. Pari laughed so hard, she told me, she was at pains not to spit out a slice of quince.

The princess and I agreed that Mirza Shokhrollah’s position as grand vizier was a great obstacle. In addition to the fact that he had criticized her in the Shah’s presence, he was neither efficient nor clever. Isma‘il needed a smart deputy who could compensate for his own weaknesses. Pari began doing what the royal women have always done: working quietly to discredit an official she disliked and replace him with her own man.

We decided it was wise to continue to cultivate Mirza Salman. Pari asked me to visit him and take his measure, but before I could, he sent a message asking to see the princess, even though the Shah had expressly forbidden the nobles from visiting her.

From behind the lattice, Mirza Salman told us that he had been reconfirmed as Guardian of the Royal Guilds. We both felt that he deserved much better. He also reported that the business of the court was at a standstill—many governors had not been appointed, the Councils of Justice were barely functioning, and the rebellion in Khui had been ignored. For about an hour, the three of us strategized about whom to contact and what exactly they could do to throw doubt on Mirza Shokhrollah’s effectiveness.

“Ah, Princess! I miss your glorious efficiency,” said Mirza Salman as he prepared to take his leave.

“Thank you,” she replied. “I have dreams of reshaping the court so that it is neither the strict and pious regime of my father nor the lackadaisical playground Isma‘il prefers, but rather one that re-creates the glorious age that produced so many great poets and thinkers: Hafez and Rumi, Avicenna and Khayyam—such an age requires prosperity, peace, and tolerance. Yet it is possible, I swear.”

“It will rival the promise of paradise!” Mirza Salman said, his eyes shining.

“It is worth dying for,” I added.



Pari’s quarters had always been filled with people, but after she fell out of favor, they were eerily quiet. I was able to spend more time at her side, helping her compose letters and discussing strategies for her rehabilitation. Sometimes, on cold days, we created a korsi by throwing blankets over a table and heating up the space underneath it with a charcoal brazier. Then we thrust our legs under the blankets—awkh joon!—and recited poetry to one another, including our own compositions. Pari shared her heart with me more than before, telling me of the great sorrows of her young life—the loss of a beloved mare, the death of her favorite aunt, Maheen Banu, but most of all, about her passionate desire to steer Iran into a period of greatness. I began to feel, when we were alone, that we were not just princess and servant—we were hamrah, companions on the same road.

One day, Pari confessed her fear that Isma‘il would try to claim Maryam, her dearest treasure, as a way of punishing her further. Her eyes grew soft when she spoke of Maryam, which emboldened me to ask about her.

“How did she first find favor with you, Princess?”

“Her father offered her to the court because he had eight daughters and no dowry money. I was fifteen then, and I urged my father to take her in. After five years of training as a hairdresser, Maryam entered my service. Before I knew it, she had bewitched me.”

“And you, her.”

A handsome blush appeared on Pari’s cheeks.

“I have made her wealthy, but she tells me she finds all the riches in the world by my side.” She glowed with satisfaction as she said this, and I thought about how often she must have faced sycophants who pretended to love her. I was glad that she was not blind, like so many other courtiers, to honest feeling.

“And what has become of her sisters?”

Pari looked at me curiously. “God be praised, she has provided six of them with excellent dowries.”

“Princess, I confess there is someone I wish to help in the same way,” I blurted out. My heart was full as I confided in her about Jalileh and showed her one of my sister’s letters, which I kept in an inside pocket of my robe. Pari glanced at it and was sufficiently impressed to read out loud the part where Jalileh revealed her ecstatic feelings about Gorgani’s poetry.

“What a thoughtful child! Surely no one is more important to you in the world.”

“Except for you, lieutenant of my life.”

She ignored the flattery, which pleased me. “And how strange that you, too, have had to live far away from a beloved sibling.”

“It is a dagger through my heart. My fondest wish would be to bring Jalileh to serve in the harem, if you think there might ever be an appropriate position.”

I waited with trepidation, knowing I was asking for a great privilege.

Pari’s eyes were sympathetic. “I will try to grant your request, but not yet. It will not be wise until I am returned to favor.”

My heart soared with new hope, and I wrote to my mother’s cousin right away to tell her the news. I worried that my letter was premature, but I was so eager to brighten Jalileh’s long exile that I sent it anyway. Then I redoubled my efforts to help restore Pari’s reputation.



On the longest night of the year, the royal women usually stayed up very late together, telling stories, eating soup, feasting on pomegranate seeds and sweets, and celebrating the coming return of the light. After everyone went to sleep, I used to creep into Khadijeh’s warm bed. Even though I could no longer do that, the arrival of the shortest day of the year made me long for her.

After my bath, I dressed in a fur-lined hat and robe to fight the cold. In the palace gardens, my breath steamed white around my face, and everyone I passed was veiled in the same way. I thrust my hands into my sleeves to keep warm. The trees in the palace gardens were stark and lined with snow, the flowers long gone, the bushes pruned back. The snow had been cleared from the palace walkways but the ground was frozen, and before long, I could feel the cold pushing its way through my leather boots.

On my way to Khadijeh’s, I passed a woman who reminded me of Fereshteh, my erstwhile lover. She had the huge dark eyes and rosebud mouth that I had so admired in Fereshteh when I was young. I was seized with nostalgia for our time together and wondered what had become of her.

It had been a revelation to show Fereshteh all my parts and to explore, with the enthusiasm of a nomad conquering new mountain passes, every corner of her body. It was she who first explained to me the mysteries of women’s cycles. With no shame, she showed me her blood. With no shame, she reached for my keer. The sex words she used reddened my sheltered ears, then stiffened me like a tent pole. I had never known another woman as frank as she. I still hoped to see her again one day and tell her of my strange fate.

I entered Khadijeh’s building, saluting the eunuch on duty. The thick walls of the building defeated the worst of the cold, and the rooms were heated by charcoal braziers. Even so, I kept my outer robe wrapped around me and quickly drank the cardamom tea I was offered when I stepped inside.

The spice made my blood circulate faster, and my heart thudded in my chest. After some time, a seamstress came out of Khadijeh’s rooms, holding in her arms several new silk robes that had been pinned to indicate changes. I was shown in, and Khadijeh greeted me formally. She wore a violet robe that made her skin look like dark satin. Her high-cheekboned lady, Nasreen Khatoon, gave me an appraising glance.

“Your arrival brings happiness, Javaher Agha,” Khadijeh said.

“Thank you,” I replied. “I wished to tell you about the fate of Rudabeh, the woman for whom I requested help the last time I visited you. She has written to my commander from Khui to inform her that her case has finally been settled there.”

“That is excellent news,” Khadijeh said.

I rubbed my hands together and shivered as if I were still cold. Khadijeh turned to her lady and said, “See to it that our guest is served hot coffee.”

“Chashm.”

Nasreen rose to do her bidding, leaving us alone except for a eunuch who sat out of earshot near the door. Coffee was new to the court, and only the favored had access to it. It would have to be boiled fresh, unlike tea, which always simmered at the ready in a samovar. That would give us more time.

When we were finally alone, Khadijeh’s whole body relaxed. I thought of her tamarind skin and how it once seemed to warm like honey under my hands.

“How are you? You look as lovely as the moon.”

“I am well,” she replied in a soft voice, “but not as well as I was.”

“The new wives?”

“Not just that,” she replied. “It is that I see him less now that he has new women, and my chances to bear his child decrease.”

“You have hardly begun!”

“Yes, but the more distracted he is, the less he will visit, and the less likely are my hopes.”

I couldn’t argue with that logic, but I said, “With you so moonlike? You have no competition.”

“Ah, but I do,” she replied. “You won’t believe what has already happened—and why I am so fearful.”

She rubbed her nose with a gesture so endearing I wanted to wrap my arms around her.

“Khadijeh, soul of mine, what is it?” The endearment escaped my lips.

“She is pregnant!”

“Who?”

“Mahasti, a slave that he has taken, like me, in a temporary marriage. She is one of those straw-haired women from the Caucasus whose pale beauty is so prized.”

“She is already with child?”

Fresh agony filled her dark eyes.

“How do you know?”

“My ladies talk with her maids. She has been sick every morning, but at the midday meal she eats like a starved dog. She has an obviously thickening belly and complains of sore breasts at the hammam, and her servant has been boasting so loudly it will be a wonder if she doesn’t call down the evil eye on the child.”

“That is very reckless of her.”

“But why isn’t it me? I have been with him the longest.”

“Remember, when other women are heavy with child, he will turn to you at night. You will have him to yourself again!”

My heart dripped tears of blood as I comforted her, and I tried to pretend that I meant what I said. I was rewarded when a wan smile flashed on her face.

“I hadn’t thought of that,” she said.

“Khadijeh, who wouldn’t want you?”

She smiled again, even more sadly.

“Has he said anything to you about the pregnancy?”

“Not a word, but he talks endlessly about how he longs for an heir, like all men.”

I tried to keep my face neutral, but hearing this from Khadijeh was like a dagger in my heart. I wondered for a second what the child of our loins would look like, and a curly-headed boy with a mischievous laugh danced in my head, tormenting me.

“Please forgive me,” she said quickly.

“It is nothing.” It would do no good to discuss this with her, and I must make haste before her lady returned.

“And that is not the only news. An astrologer told him the child will be a boy.”

“You must make a charm for yourself—you are good at that.”

“I face Mecca every day and pour water on my head. I make tonics to aid fertility, including one with ground rhinoceros horn. Still, pray for me. If you happen to go to a shrine, be sure to whisper my suit to the saint.”

It cost every fiber of goodness that I had within me to say, “I promise.” She looked so hopeful I was happy to have lightened her mood.

“Before your lady returns, I must ask you—has he said anything lately about the princess?”

“He hasn’t mentioned her name,” she replied, “but he is always frightened that someone will try to usurp him. Whenever he disrobes at night, he takes off his sword and dagger and lays them within arm’s distance of the bedroll so he can find them in the dark.”

“I can’t blame him.”

Khadijeh leaned closer and whispered, “Once, in the middle of the night, I arose to get a drink of water, and when I returned, he threw himself on top of me and reached for his dagger, shouting ‘assassin!’ The guards rushed in, but by then he had felt my breasts against his chest and understood his mistake. His eyes looked as unpredictable as a wild dog’s, and he chided me for misleading him. I was so frightened that after he fell asleep, I pressed my body close to his so that he wouldn’t forget I was there, and I didn’t close my eyes for the rest of the night.” She shivered.

Isma‘il remained so troubled about his own safety that he had come close to murdering my beloved Khadijeh! I had to shove my hands into my sleeves to quell my urge to throttle him.

“Poor creature!” I said. “If anything ever happened to you, I would—”

Khadijeh hushed me gently with her eyes.

“It is all so strange,” I added. “The treasury functionaries count and recount every piece of silver for fear of being one coin short. The formerly gleeful bandits are so wary of him that they have stopped robbing travelers. Not even the qizilbash chiefs dare to rebel.”

“Every day Isma‘il was in prison, he expected to be assassinated. That hasn’t changed. I think he fears his own kin the most.”

“But he doesn’t fear you. Otherwise he wouldn’t leave his dagger within reach.”

Nasreen walked in a moment later with coffee on a silver tray. I thanked her, adding that I would enjoy chasing the cold from my blood, and I drank the coffee in a few gulps.

“May your hands never ache!” I said. The coffee Khadijeh served was the best. I ate a rice flour and pistachio pastry, which I recognized immediately as Khadijeh’s own from the way it tickled my tongue, and then I pretended that we were still speaking about Rudabeh.

“To finish my story, she has just regained possession of her house. She is so overjoyed that she sent you a gift.”

I unrolled a piece of embroidery displaying poppies and roses. It was stitched on pale cotton in an extremely fine hand, so fine you could not distinguish the individual stitches.

Khadijeh touched the cloth. “What skilled fingers! Please convey my thanks to Rudabeh, and tell your commander I am always happy to help a woman in distress.”

“I will do so.” With that, I protested that I had already consumed too much of her time and said my farewells.

I was stricken with concern for Khadijeh. What if the Shah had attacked her before coming to his senses? His mind was even more disturbed than I had realized, and his nighttime fears were the proof.



When I entered Mirza Salman’s waiting room for the first time as Pari’s vizier, I felt as if I had arrived at the pinnacle of my career. Mirza Salman’s salon was filled with qizilbash nobles and other men of high stature. Men went in and out of his rooms at a regular pace, an efficiency that pleased me. Because of my new status, I was shown in quickly.

Mirza Salman worked in a small, elegant room with arched openings in the walls, attended by two scribes who sat on either side of him with wooden desks on their laps. One of them was finishing a document, while the other sat poised for current business. Mirza Salman congratulated me on being appointed Pari’s vizier, and I thanked him for seeing me. I told him that Pari wished for him to know the sad news that her cousin Ibrahim’s brother, Hossein, had died unexpectedly in Qandahar, leaving the province without a governor. The Shah had honored Ibrahim and Gowhar by visiting them to express his sympathy, but had forbidden them from wearing black.

Mirza Salman frowned. “And so?”

“Hossein was running Qandahar as if it were his own. There were concerns he might rebel by making an alliance with the Uzbeks.”

“So now that Hossein is dead,” he said, “the Shah has no reason to be kind to Ibrahim?”

Mirza Salman had a quick brain.

“That is what the princess fears. She has written to Ibrahim and Gowhar to tell them she thinks they should leave town, especially since they supported Haydar. She wants to know if you can help them.”

“I will try.”

“Meanwhile, Pari has asked her uncle to advocate on your behalf. He remains in good standing with the Shah and will look for opportunities to suggest that you be promoted.”

“Thank you.”

“It is always my pleasure to serve.”

Mirza Salman scrutinized me for a moment. I sensed that he wished to take my measure now that I was Pari’s vizier.

“You say that as if you really mean it.”

“I do.”

“Your personal sacrifice is still mentioned at court as a paragon. What an uncommonly large gift you gave to the throne!”

“Larger than you could possibly imagine,” I joked.

Mirza Salman laughed but couldn’t conceal a slight shudder. He eyed me the way one regards an unpredictable sharp-toothed animal, with a mixture of curiosity and horror.

“With balls as big as that, perhaps you should have been a soldier.”

“I like this job better.”

“I have always dreamed of being a military man,” he said, and I noticed that he had decorated one of his walls with old standards used in battle. “But administrators like me are thought to be too soft.”

I made the obligatory sounds of protest.

“Now that your star is ascending, I will keep my eye on you,” he added.

“Thank you,” I said, wondering if I could goad him into revealing some information. “I always wished to fulfill my father’s dreams for me, especially after what happened to him.”

“I remember your father,” Mirza Salman replied. “A good man, true to the throne. I imagine he was pulled off his course by smaller minds.”

I felt perspiration under my arms. My heart began to race and questions flooded through me, but I concealed my feelings.

“I suppose you are right,” I said agreeably. “Do you know who pulled him off course?”

“No.”

“Naturally, I have always wanted to know more about the circumstances of his death. We were never told.”

I tried not to appear overly eager.

“Did you check the court histories?”

I thought quickly about how to get him to talk. “There is only a brief mention of the accountant who killed him,” I lied. “No doubt you recall who it was. I have always heard that your memory far surpasses that of ordinary men.”

Mirza Salman looked pleased and thought for a moment. “He had one of those common names . . . Isfahani? Kermani? Wait a minute . . . Ah, yes! Kofrani, that is it. If I am not mistaken, his first name was Kamiyar.”

Finally, a name! I played along. “What a memory you have! How did you hear about his involvement?”

“Palace rumor, I suppose. It has been so long, I don’t remember the source.”

“Has he retired?”

Mirza Salman was watching me closely. “Alas, he went to meet God a few years after leaving palace service.”

I had been congratulating myself on luring Mirza Salman into my trap, but now I realized he was far too careful to make a slip: He wouldn’t have uttered the man’s name if he had been alive.

“May he meet his just reward.”

“Would you wish to revenge yourself upon him, if he were living?” he asked. “He was an excellent man. I wouldn’t be surprised if he thought he was protecting the Shah.”

I had to decide in an instant if it would be better for him to think me fierce or flaccid. For Pari’s protection, I decided on the former.

“I would cut him.”

Mirza Salman was no innocent, but he stared at me as if I were a crazed dog who might attack for no reason.

“But if he killed my father mistakenly, perhaps I would just lop off his male parts and call it even,” I joked.

Mirza Salman laughed uneasily.

“Do you know why he was never punished?”

“No.” His eyes flicked away, and I had a feeling he knew more than he was saying.

I thanked him and left, abuzz with the name that he had planted in my mind. Kamiyar Kofrani. The murderer of my father. The name was ugly, and the man must have been, too. But worst of all, he was dead, and Mirza Salman had confirmed my father’s guilt. Now I could neither argue his innocence nor revenge myself on his killer. After all these years, I had finally collected a missing piece of colored clay from the mosaic of my own past, but I was too late to do anything about it.



That night, I waited impatiently for Balamani to finish his work so that I could tell him what I had learned. I longed for the sweet relief of confiding in a friend, and I hoped he would be able to shed more light on what had happened. But he did not arrive at the usual time.

The hours went by, the moon rose, and still Balamani did not appear. I began reading the Shahnameh that Mahmood had given me, and its felicitous rhymes helped keep me awake for a long time before I succumbed to sleep, the book on my chest. When finally Balamani entered our chamber, it was daylight. He removed his outer robe and sat on his bedroll, his face drawn with fatigue.

“What happened?”

“One of the Shah’s women was pregnant, but she lost the baby a few hours ago. She is sick with grief.”

“Mahasti?”

“No, another slave. She was losing a lot of blood. We sent for a physician and a woman schooled in religion to console her.”

“That is terrible news.”

“Then I had to go to the Shah’s quarters and wait until he arose to tell him what happened. He took his time.”

Balamani looked more melancholy than I would have expected.

“What is troubling you so?”

He threw himself back on his bedroll. “While the lady was suffering, I was flooded with memories of my mother’s death. I was only about four years old. A group of women came to our house and shut me out of her room; I remember their awful wails. No one ever told me what happened, but now I suspect that my mother died in childbirth. Today I had the eerie feeling that I was one of the attendants at her deathbed. I feel sometimes as if all the moments of my life existed simultaneously—as if I am living in the past and present at the same time.”

“May God keep the souls of your family in His gentle embrace.”

He sighed. “You are lucky to have a sister. In memory of my lost sibling, I shall give double my usual amount to the orphans of Qazveen. And now, tell me your news. Why are you awake so early?”

I sat up. “Balamani, I have finally learned the name of my father’s killer. It was Kamiyar Kofrani!” I blurted out.

“You mean the accountant? How do you know?” He didn’t sound as surprised as I thought he would be.

“Mirza Salman told me.”

“Are you sure he is the right man?”

“Do you think Mirza Salman would lie?”

“Any man can lie.”

I thought his answer very strange. “What about this Kofrani—was he a good servant?”

“Yes. One of the best.”

I did not like the sound of that.

“And his children?”

“He had three boys. One of them is dead, but I am fairly certain the other two serve the government in Shiraz, and have wives and children.”

“Which I will never have. I hope they all burn in hell.” I stared at him suspiciously. “How do you come by so much information about them?”

“Javaher, you know that I know almost every family who has served at court for the last fifty years.”

I lifted the blanket off my bedroll with so much force that it flew onto the floor.

Balamani shrugged off the rest of his clothes and got into his bed. “My friend, I can understand why you are angry. But since the man is dead, what can you do?”

I glared at him from my bedroll. “That is good advice—unless your father has been murdered, in which case something must be done.”

“Remember that I lost my father all the same. Or rather, he lost me to a slaver. But I haven’t been spending my time trying to track down the merchant who chopped off my eight-year-old penis and sold me to court.”

“Wasn’t it wrong?”

He snorted. “If it wasn’t, Muslims would castrate their own boys instead of buying gelded Hindus and Christians.”

“Aren’t you angry?”

“It is not that simple. If I hadn’t lost my keer, I would never have feasted on kabob, lived in a palace, or worn silk. My family was as poor as dirt.”

“Balamani, stop equivocating.”

Compassion softened his eyes. “My young friend, it is not just your father’s murderer you have to forgive.”

“Who is it then?”

“Yourself.”

“For what?”

“For what you did.”

Rage surged through me. “All this time, I thought you wanted to help me!”

“Of course I do,” he replied, but for the first time I could remember, he sounded as if he didn’t really mean it. I maintained an angry silence. Balamani rolled over and began snoring before I could think of what to say next.



A group of Sufis met on Thursdays to whirl their way closer to God. From time to time, I attended their sama to imbibe the peacefulness of the ceremony. After hearing the news about my father, I decided to avoid the usual Thursday-evening leisure activities, which I had no stomach for, and go to the sama. I sent a message to Pari that I was ill and left the palace through a side gate.

The Sufis gathered in a large building with windows high in the walls and roof, so that the room was dappled as if in the shade of a walnut tree. When I arrived late in the afternoon, the ceremony had already begun. The anguished notes of the flute called out the desire of the reed for reunion with its maker, throwing me deeper into memories of my father.

I took a place on a cushion and watched the Sufis whirl. They wore long white tunics belted at the waist, white trousers, and tall tan hats, while their spiritual leaders performed music to help guide their journey. The aspirants used one leg as a pivot, turning their bodies around it with surprising speed. To keep their balance and channel divine energy, they lifted one arm to the sky, palm up, and directed the other to the earth, palm down. They whirled for a long time, turning as gracefully as a leaf twirling on an autumn breeze. Their inward-focused eyes made it look as if they had briefly left the earth, and their white tunics billowed around them so that they resembled the pure white roses in the royal gardens.

I weighed the burdens on my heart. My father, whose soul cried for justice. My mother, who had died without the satisfaction of seeing her family’s honor restored. My sister, who had been deprived of the ordinary happiness of growing up with loving parents and siblings. I thought of the parts of my body that were missing and of the sons I would never have. Had I made the right choice, if I could not avenge my father? Had my sacrifice been for nothing? As I watched the Sufis whirl, I wished I could spin with them and purge my heart of all its suffering.

Eventually, the music slowed and the men began turning more slowly until they gradually came to a halt. They paused to collect themselves, then drifted to a group of cushions to sit and refresh themselves with tea and sweetmeats. They looked peaceful and happy. I envied their stillness. In the press of my daily service to Pari, it was easy to forget that such communion between the self and the divine was a gift always at hand.

An older man with a face as lined and as bumpy as a walnut shell sat down beside me. I greeted him and asked about his health.

“Don’t worry about me,” he said. “The world is ending, alas! And it is all because of a sheep.”

“Indeed? Now how is that?”

“The sheep has become ill,” he replied. “It fell down with limbs so straight and stiff it could no longer right itself.”

“Your riddles are too deep for this humble seeker. How does that presage the end of the world?”

“There are no riddles at all, my child! Not for those who know the truth.”

I pretended to be distracted by a tray of tea carried by a boy.

“We are in disgrace,” the old man insisted, his wrinkles deepening with concern. “All of us.”

“May I offer you some tea?”

I stood up to signal the boy.

“I don’t need tea. I need a remedy.”

I agreed with him silently about that. “Is there anything I can help you with?”

“The Ostajlu,” he blurted out, which surprised me into sitting down again.

“What about them?”

“A Sufi sold them a sick sheep,” he said, “and now they are angry.”

It sounded simple enough. “Why not have a specialist examine it, with restitution to follow if required?”

“It is too late,” he replied. “Men have drawn their daggers and each other’s blood.”

I sighed. “If it was only a squabble, put your trust in God, arbiter of all things.”

“God was on our side,” he whispered, leaning toward me as if I were a conspirator. “Our men beat back the Ostajlu, who have not forgiven us.”

“Your men must be fierce,” I said, to encourage him to talk.

“They are fierce, but few. Now they are in hiding, fearing for their lives. The world is ending, alas!”

He uttered an unearthly groan after he said this, but the men around us paid no attention. I persevered.

“Why is the world ending?”

“They wish to destroy us!” he said, his voice rising, and it sounded as if he might start raving. “Who can hope to resist the combined efforts of all the qizilbash?”

“All the qizilbash? Isn’t the argument just with the Ostajlu?”

“It is, but all the men of the sword have been sent against us.”

“They have? By whom?”

The boy arrived with the tea. The man placed a date in his mouth and took a swallow of tea. I stared at him, wondering if what he said could be true.

“By the one and only,” he replied, obviously too frightened to name Isma‘il Shah.

“But why would he send them against the Sufis?”

As the man paused to drink more tea, I remembered that the Sufis had regarded Kholafa as their spiritual leader.

“They fear our power,” he replied.

“May God keep all your members safe from harm.”

“Insh’Allah.”

I drained my tea, thanked the man for sharing his company, and left quickly. Why would the Shah feel it necessary to use the pretext of a quarrel over a sick sheep to punish the Sufis? He could punish anyone he wished. And if the Shah wanted the Ostajlu to take revenge on the Sufis to prove their loyalty to him, why would he bother to send all the qizilbash? I had to figure out how these strange, misshapen shards might coalesce into a picture of perfect clarity.



I rushed back to the palace and told Pari what I had learned from the Sufis, enjoying how her eyes drank in the information. But then she frowned.

“I thought you were ill.”

“I was,” I said quickly. “I went to the sama for its healing powers.”

Pari looked skeptical. “For your own protection, you had better make sure to tell me what you are doing.”

“I will.”

Before we were able to discuss my conduct or the meaning of what I had heard, her mother arrived with her ladies. I paid my respects and then awaited orders near the door.

The princess greeted her mother and called for refreshments, but she fidgeted so much on her cushion that her discomfort was obvious.

“My child, I come bearing news. Remember I said I would return to you with a list of qualified suitors?”

“I do, but I am busy today,” Pari replied, her long forehead crinkling. “I face several crises more pressing than finding a husband.”

“Hear me out,” said her mother, wincing as she placed her hip on a cushion. “I received a letter this morning from a kinswoman in Sistan, whom I had written to ask about the marital status of your cousin Badi al-Zaman.”

Pari sighed, and I echoed her impatience silently.

“Don’t worry that I will suggest him as a possibility,” said her mother. “Badi al-Zaman is dead. He was found in bed with a dagger in his heart.”

Pari’s eyes clouded, making her look as if she could no longer see. “May God be merciful!”

“It is not just him,” her mother added. “He had an infant son only a year old who was found strangled in his bedchamber.”

We were all shocked into silence. Azar Khatoon’s shoulders rounded as if she had received a blow. I could feel my face crumpling in disbelief like the faces around me.

“What a horror,” breathed Pari. “What could be more fragile, more beloved, and more precious than a baby boy? What more sickening than the murder of a child brought into the world with great suffering by his mother? It is unimaginable.”

“May God shelter his tiny soul,” whispered Daka Cherkes.

“We must not lose our ability to reason now that we need it the most,” Pari said. “The child’s death assures us that this was a political murder designed to destroy Badi al-Zaman’s entire line. Who is responsible?”

“The letter didn’t say. However, it is clear that the people of the region are disgusted with the rule of the qizilbash, and they intend to set up their own ruler.”

“So we have another rebellion on our hands!”

“I am afraid so.”

Pari’s eyes locked with my own; I knew at once what she feared. “Has anyone had news of the other princes in the last few days?”

“I haven’t,” Daka said.

“Javaher, go check on Ibrahim and Gowhar immediately.”

I rushed out of the palace and down the Promenade of the Royal Stallions to Ibrahim and Gowhar’s house. I hoped that my errand would find them safe. If so, I would be honored by the opportunity to glimpse their famous library, which housed thousands of books, including a priceless manuscript of Jami’s poems ten years in the making.

I was not even permitted to enter their courtyard. Armed soldiers halted me and told me that Ibrahim was under house arrest. Breathless, I returned to Pari’s quarters, only to be greeted by the sound of great wails. Pari’s mother clung to her, tears flowing. Pari held her gently, trying to soothe her.

“What happened?” I asked Massoud Ali, whose eyes were dark with horror.

“Pari’s brother Suleyman is dead,” he whispered.

I rocked back on my heels in shock.

“Pari’s half brothers, Imamqoli Mirza and Ahmad Mirza, have also been found slain in their chambers.”

They were only twelve or thirteen years old. I dropped to a cushion, my mind clearing all of a sudden as all the tiny bits of colored clay formed themselves into a mosaic. With the qizilbash busy chasing the Sufis, no one remained to protect the princes and Isma‘il was free to order the remaining nobles to execute whomever he wished. I was grateful that Mahmood lived in a remote province in the heart of the Caucasus, but the news filled me with terror, and I resolved to warn him right away.

“Why does God visit so much sorrow upon me?” Daka exclaimed through her tears. “First my husband, now my only son. I will never bear another. Was any woman more bereft?”

“Or any daughter?” Pari replied. “How much death must one witness?”

“My child, you who are still young have already endured so much!”

Daka brushed her fingers under Pari’s dry eyes, searching for water. “Why don’t you mourn?”

“Black clouds are pouring rain on my heart,” Pari replied. “The weather inside me is as bleak as any you have ever seen. But I won’t allow myself to break at a time when I may be able to help princes who are still alive.”

“You poor child!” Her mother collapsed into sobs.

“Mother, I must abide.”

Pari’s eyes searched mine, begging for the balm of good news. “What have you learned?”

My stomach lurched with a desire to make her feel better. “The Shah’s guard has been posted at Ibrahim’s, but I believe he is still alive.”

“Come, Javaher, we must see if someone will help us defend him.”

“Yes, and the other princes,” I said quickly, “like Mahmood.” I choked saying his name.

Pari called for her wraps, and I followed her out the big wooden door, while her mother was helped by her ladies to her own quarters.

“I blame myself for not thinking fast enough,” Pari said to me. “I saw some soldiers assembling in the Promenade of the Royal Stallions yesterday. When you told me about the Sufis, I should have figured it out. Which of the Shah’s nobles would know the full extent of his plans?”

“Perhaps no one. I suspect he would have called in his men one by one when ordering the executions.”

“We shall go see Sultanam. I am hopeful that her mother’s heart knows more.”

As we walked through the gardens, a hard freezing rain fell, lashing us with its sting. The princess’s face looked as if it was covered with tears. She wiped at her red eyes, and only then did I understand that she had not been able to prevent the escape of rivers of grief.



When we entered Sultanam’s quarters, Pari asked her eunuch to show us in to see the great lady. He replied that he would ask if she was available.

“It is an emergency,” Pari said. “We won’t leave until we see her.”

“As you wish.”

Before long, we were summoned. Kicking off her wet shoes outside Sultanam’s door, Pari entered the room. I arranged the gold-embossed black slippers neatly and placed my boots beside hers.

Sultanam was seated on a cushion dressed in a black mourning robe. Her eyes were bloodshot, and her magnificent curly white hair was loose and wild around her shoulders. Pari greeted Sultanam respectfully as the “first wife of my revered father.” After Sultanam welcomed her, Pari dropped to her cushion and began speaking in a quiet, serious voice.

“Know that I will humble myself in any way to gain your help,” she said. “Five princes are dead, including my brother, another is under house arrest, and the fate of the others is unclear. Does your son intend to destroy the entire dynasty?”

Sultanam’s eyes filled with water and her mouth bowed in defeat.

“I wish I knew what was in his heart,” she replied. “This afternoon, after I heard about the princes, I went to see him. I threw myself on my knees, tore at my hair, and begged him to spare my son Mohammad Khodabandeh and his five children. Isma‘il declared that rebellion is everywhere and that I must leave it to him to root out evildoers.”

The two women exchanged a sympathetic look.

“I am deeply sorry for your loss,” Sultanam added.

“And I for yours.”

“Are all the princes at risk?”

“Not all,” she said. “After I swore that I would die from grief, Isma‘il promised to spare Mohammad and his children, as long as they stay away from Qazveen. Still, I have sent a courier to Mohammad and to his eldest son, Sultan Hassan Mirza, to tell them to regard any strangers as potential murderers.”

“But Mohammad doesn’t even qualify for the throne,” said Pari. “Why would Isma‘il condemn a man who is already blind?”

Sultanam sighed. “Perhaps you don’t realize how children change,” she said. “They start life attached to your body, but grow into foreigners.”

No one said anything. What was there to say when even the Shah’s own mother didn’t have an explanation for his behavior?

“Revered lady,” I said, “may I ask if the sisters of the Shah are also at risk of his wrath?”

Sultanam looked at Pari. “I don’t believe he would hurt a woman,” she said. “After all, even the brightest of them may not take the throne.”

“Never mind about that,” said Pari, careless as always about her own safety. “What about the other princes?”

“I don’t know,” said Sultanam with an air of helplessness.

“But Ibrahim is under house arrest. He is one of the flowers of our dynasty, as you know. I ask you, with great humility, can you plead with your son to save him?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“I have already extracted a concession from my son. The rest is in God’s hands.”

Pari looked as if she thought Sultanam had not understood her words. “Do you understand that my other brothers and cousins are at risk of being executed?”

“I will pray for their safety.”

“That is not enough.”

Sultanam remained seated and composed. “I have done what I can.”

Pari looked as if a vein had snapped inside her head and poured blood into the skin of her face.

“I need more help than that. You are queen of all women, charged with protecting the health of the dynasty.”

“This Shah’s hand is stronger than his mother’s.”

“A queen mother must do more than protect her own interests,” Pari insisted. “Think what my father would say if he knew that you were abandoning his other children to the grave!”

Sultanam was stung. “Those are fine words coming from a woman who promotes only herself.”

“Forget about me. Stand up and do your duty!”

“You seem to think a woman can do anything, but she can’t. Don’t forget, you are a woman, too. Despite all your maneuvering, a woman will never take the throne.”

“Who cares what swings between my legs?” Pari’s voice rose, her body stiff with rage. She stood abruptly, walked out the door, and grabbed her black slippers. “At least I would have been a good shah rather than a murderer.”

“You are neither a prince nor a mother, so what use are you? You should have chosen an appropriate role rather than aspire to one you could never own.”

Pari stumbled as if she had been struck. She turned toward the room and threw a shoe at Sultanam’s head so quickly that the lady didn’t have time to shield herself. My breath stopped as the black leather slipper flew toward Sultanam and slid over the part in her hair, then slapped against the wall, leaving a wet mark.

Pari had already disappeared down the corridor, leaving me to face Sultanam’s wrath.

“A thousand apologies for my princess,” I said quickly. “The enormity of her grief has disordered her mind. Please forgive her.”

Sultanam’s cheeks were red with anger. “She has never learned to control herself. She will lose her head if she keeps up this way.”

“I beg forgiveness,” I replied, mortified. “May I remove the offending shoe from your presence?”

Sultanam made a dismissive gesture with her hand. I retrieved the shoe and asked if I might follow the princess. When permission was granted, I fled Sultanam’s chambers. Pari had put a shoe on her right foot and was walking home through the wet gardens with the other foot bare. The ground was frozen in some spots, and her foot was already tinted blue, but she seemed impervious to the cold. I handed her the shoe, and she slipped it on as if nothing had happened.

“What did she say?”

“That you have no manners.”

“Better to be ill-mannered than a coward.”

Pari was right: Sultanam had a duty to protect all her husband’s children and grandchildren, not just those who had sprung from her loins.

“We must send word to the qizilbash leaders, if we can find any in town, and ask if they will advocate for Ibrahim,” Pari said. “We should also send speedy couriers to the princes who are still alive, and to their guardians, to tell them what has happened and urge them to go into hiding. We will save them if we can.”

At her house, the princess flew into action.

“Azar Khatoon!” she yelled fiercely, and her chief lady sped into the room. Her lively step made her just the type of person that Pari liked to employ.

“Bring me paper, fresh ink, two reed pens, another wooden desk, and hot coffee, in that order,” she said. “Run!”

The lady disappeared with alacrity, and we could hear her calm but firm orders to the other servants.

“Princess,” I said, “we must word the letters carefully in case they fall into hostile hands. Let us write about the princes as if our goal is to inform the recipients that those who fall out of the Shah’s favor inevitably come to evil ends. In this way, we won’t appear to be opposed to his will in case the letters are intercepted.”

“Very clever,” she replied. “Both of us will write letters at the same time, and I will sign them. We must reach as many members of my family as we can.”

Azar brought in a silver tray with coffee, which we drank to give us fortitude. I balanced a desk on my lap, smoothed out a sheet of paper, and dipped my reed pen in ink, wiping it to avoid smudges. I penned the first letter as quickly as I could and passed it to Pari for her signature; then I penned the next one. In the middle of the night, I put the first few letters to her half brothers in a cloth bag, took them to her most trusted courier, and told him to dispatch his men immediately.

All through that long night we wrote letters to her family members, pausing only to eat a sweetmeat or drain another cup of coffee. Azar kept the oil lamps brightly lit and melted wax so that Pari could press her seal into it as soon as each letter was dry. When our forearms became tired from writing, her lady massaged them with vigor. As she kneaded my arms, I relaxed into my cushion and stared at the pretty beauty mark near her lip. I was achingly tired, and lonely. I wondered if Azar Khatoon would take me into her bed, but her indifference announced to me that she had no need.

We heard the first call to prayer while sealing the final letters. I wrote a quick additional note to Mahmood, although Pari had already written to him, urging him to take care of himself in every respect, and I signed it, “your loving tutor.”

Pari’s eyes had deep hollows under them, and I was certain they mirrored my own.

“I pray that we will save your family,” I said. Eight of her brothers and male cousins were still alive, as far as we knew.

“Insh’Allah,” she replied, and then she looked at me with new compassion in her eyes. “Now I know something of the heart-tearing sorrow that you endured when you were a young man. Death is always ugly, but to lose a family member to murder is horrifying. Alas, my broken heart!”

“Princess, I am so sorry,” I replied softly. “Please know that I understand that no consolation is possible.”

I put the letters in a bag and made another trip to her chief courier, silently praying they would be delivered in time.



A few hours later, Pari told me to go to Ibrahim’s house to check on him again. It was a cold morning, and the streets were icy as I walked down the great avenue, whose trees were now all bare. I hoped that having made his point, Isma‘il Shah would show Ibrahim mercy. Perhaps this time, I would be admitted to his house and catch a glimpse of him that I could take back to Pari as a treasure.

When I arrived, I was relieved to see that the Circassian guards were gone. I knocked using the round knocker for women, and one of Gowhar’s ladies opened the door. She told me that I could find her mistress in the courtyard.

“I cannot accompany you,” she added brusquely. “I must attend to my own work.”

I suspected her rudeness had to do with the fact that the household had been turned upside down by the guards. I proceeded down a corridor and passed a large room whose shelves were so bare they looked blue in the early morning light. No doubt this had been the famous library, but where were the books? My heart clenched at the sight of loose manuscript pages on the floor, some bearing the imprint of men’s boots.

As I approached the courtyard, I smelled a fire, which was strange for this snowy time of year. Outside, a great bonfire roared to the heavens, tended by an elderly man. Gowhar sat on the frozen ground near the fire as if she were a common servant, her back rounded under her dark robe, her sober face reflecting the leaping flames.

“Salaam aleikum. I bring greetings from Pari Khan Khanoom,” I said. Gowhar continued staring into the flames, silent as the grave. A wave of discomfort overtook me.

“My lieutenant asks after your well-being and wishes to know if there is anything she can offer to help you.”

Gowhar closed her eyes and two large tears slid down her cheeks. “Pari was right. We should have left.”

She collapsed into sobs so piteous I am certain they would have broken even Isma‘il’s heart.

“They killed him this morning,” she added, “and didn’t even have the grace to kill me with him.”

No words, no expressions could suffice in such a case. I was speechless.

The manservant poked at the fire, which ejected bits of burned paper into the sky. I suspected Gowhar had tried to destroy incriminating papers, but then I noticed several charred poetry manuscripts, their pages browned and curled.

“Agha!” I cried out in alarm to the manservant. “Some books are being burned by accident!”

He looked away. Gowhar threw back her head and laughed, making a terrible sound.

“Not by accident.”

I stared at her.

“Isma‘il will not have them!” Gowhar cried. She opened her palms and gestured to the air around her. “They’re safe at last.”

“You mean—you mean—” I could not put the question into words. “Where are they?”

“I burned them.”

“All of them?”

“All except for those,” she said, gesturing toward the charred remains in the fire.

Thousands of books—the work of countless scribes, gilders, and illuminators—converted into smoke in one morning! The loss was too large to fathom.

Gowhar’s triumph faded when she saw my expression. Her sobs racked her body with so much force that she gasped and choked. I rushed to Pari’s house and fetched several eunuchs and a lady physician. They brought a sleeping potion to Gowhar, who drank it and said, “I pray I may never wake again.”

In the midst of all of these calamities, Mirza Salman summoned me to his office to tell me that Shamkhal Cherkes had been named Guardian of the Shah’s Most Precious Seal, taking Ibrahim’s place. Ibrahim’s grave had not even been dug when the announcement was made. How quickly a favorite had been destroyed, and how quickly all traces of him were already being rubbed away!



Pari resolved to visit her uncle to ask him to help save the remaining princes. As guardian of the seal, he now held one of the highest positions in the land.

“We can no longer think of ourselves, nor worry about proprieties,” Pari said sternly. I didn’t realize what she meant until she reached into a nearby trunk and handed me some women’s clothing: a black chador and a picheh for covering the face.

“As soon as we leave the palace, you must remove your turban and cloak yourself in these.”

“Leave the palace?”

“We are going in secret to see Shamkhal at his home. That will protect him from having to acknowledge our visit.”

“That is forbidden!”

“Javaher, we have no choice.”

If we were caught, I would be punished for allowing her to leave. I was risking my livelihood and possibly even my life. But Pari spoke the truth: What good would our lives be if Isma‘il killed all his brothers and, possibly, his sisters?

“Princess, how do you expect to get out?”

“Follow me.”

We walked through the harem gardens so quickly that the air around Pari seemed to move out of her way. I followed her to a remote corner of the grounds, which were surrounded by smooth walls too high for anyone to climb. To my surprise, she disappeared into thick hedges. Beyond them lay an old pavilion that might have once been used for outdoor picnics, but was now crumbling and surrounded by weeds. Pari stepped into a room inside the pavilion, whose flooring consisted of green and yellow glazed tiles, some of which were chipped. Bending down in the middle of the floor, Pari pushed aside a large, heavy tile, panting with effort. A wide opening led down into a passageway.

“Ajab!” I said. So that was how she and Maryam had managed to visit the gypsies. Nothing about the princess could be predicted.

We walked down an incline into the dank passageway, and I pulled the tile into place above us. We continued in the dark until we reached a tall wooden door, which Pari unlocked with a key the size of my hand.

“I don’t have a lamp,” she said, “but I know the way without fail. Hold the end of my kerchief so you don’t get lost.”

Pari locked the door behind us. The tunnel was as cold and silent as the grave.

“You must never speak of this,” she said.

“I promise,” I replied, delighted that she trusted me enough to reveal her secret exit.

We walked for a long time before arriving at a second door. Pari unlocked it and we entered another passageway, stepped up on a landing, and kept shuffling in the dirt until we emerged into another crumbling building in a copse of trees in one of the rarely used parks near the Promenade of the Royal Stallions.

I wrapped myself in the picheh and the chador, holding the black cloth under my chin. It was possible to see through the loose weave of the face veil, but I felt blinded. As we traversed the park, I tried to mimic Pari’s graceful gait.

“You walk like a man,” she complained. “Take tiny steps, not wide strides. Move like the shadow of a cloud.”

I pressed my legs together and minced my steps, the way I saw women do.

We walked briskly down a side street to the neighborhood where Shamkhal lived. Men leered at us and uttered coarse suggestions that made me feel strangely dirty. Was this what it was like to be a woman, always on display? I missed my usual comfortable anonymity.

Pari announced us to Shamkhal’s servants as his sisters, refusing to remove her face covering before being shown into her uncle’s presence.

Shamkhal was drinking his afternoon tea. He looked at the shapes in front of him with surprise, until Pari began speaking and it seemed that he recognized her voice. Then he told his servants to leave and stay away until he called for them. As soon as the door closed behind him, Pari lifted her picheh, and I threw off my wraps altogether.

“By God above!” Shamkhal said, his normally florid face whitening. “How did you get permission to leave the palace?” He rushed to the door to make sure that it was bolted tight, but even with the door firmly closed, his eyes darted around.

“Has someone smacked you in the head? Imagine how you would be punished if Isma‘il found out.”

“I had to come.”

“What risks you take!”

Pari sat down while I stood at the back of the room. “I am here because of the princes who have been killed,” she said in a strangled voice.

“I am deeply sorry.”

“I didn’t come for condolences. I came to ask when the men of the Safavi court are going to halt this slaughter.”

Shamkhal stepped back. “How can we do anything? The murders are by direct order of your brother, the light of the universe.”

“Uncle, please omit the palace formalities. The Shah has destroyed half of the dynasty. Are the nobles going to do anything about it?”

“What can we do?”

“Disordered shahs can justifiably be removed.”

“But this one isn’t insane, sick, or blind. We don’t have a valid reason.”

“Isn’t injustice a reason?”

“There is no injustice when it comes from the Shah!”

“That is palace garbage,” Pari said. “Don’t the nobles care about what is happening?”

“Of course they care. No one is happy about this state of affairs.”

“Have you asked the qizilbash nobles to help?”

“No, because they have been sent to kill the Sufis.”

“Why? They don’t deserve it.”

“I know.”

“Are the nobles men or not?”

His shoulders stiffened. “Isma‘il’s spies are everywhere. No one can breathe without him hearing the sound.”

“By God above! I am an unarmed woman begging for help, and no one will do the right thing?”

“What is the right thing?”

“When a leader at other courts has been found to be of unsound mind, their nobles ask his eldest female relatives for permission to unseat him. If permission is given, they remove him. I suppose their men are braver than ours.”

He looked as uncomfortable as if she had held a hot poker near his eyes. “I wish I could help.”

“Aren’t you and the other men afraid that he won’t stop at killing his own flesh and blood?”

“Of course. Every man is hoping that by showing fealty, he will remain unscathed. Any sign of disloyalty is so rapidly punished that we don’t even dare to think disloyal thoughts.”

“My father was right to imprison him,” she said. “I wish I had taken heed. He understood things about Isma‘il that none of us knew.”

“True.”

“Can you at least protect Sultanam’s grandchildren?”

“Not if the Shah wishes them dead.”

“Shamkhal! What has become of you?”

“I survive as well as I can. That is all a man can do under these circumstances.”

“It is an ugly way to live.”

His broad face seemed to swell with anger. “You think so? It is much less ugly than other possibilities.”

“Meaning what?”

“Meaning at least I advise Isma‘il on a daily basis, arguing for clemency and mercy. I attempt to influence his decisions by pointing out examples of goodness. What do you do?”

“He hasn’t given me a chance to do anything.”

“My point exactly. You treated him with disdain. You defied his orders. You didn’t take the time to become a trusted servant. As a result, you have had no influence at all.”

Pari’s face flushed dark. “I deserved better.”

“Why?”

“Because of all I know. Because of who my father was. Because I am better at governing than he is.”

“All of that is true, but it doesn’t help us now. I begged you to bow before him and show your humility. But you wouldn’t make compromises, so you have been rendered impotent.”

“At least I am not a coward. I stand tall for what I believe.”

“Those are very fine words,” he said. “They will probably sound even better when you turn them into poetry. But what good are words? Now when you are needed the most, you can’t even get an appointment to see your own brother.”

“I’m glad that I don’t bow my head before his ridiculous orders, like you do. How many men will you stand by and see murdered?”

“As many as is necessary, while I influence him as much as I can and adjust when I can’t.”

“What if you awake to find his men hovering above you with a cord in their hands to strangle you?”

“I will have done my duty as well as I could.”

Pari was so exasperated she hit both sides of her head with her hands. “It is like trying to get a rat to stop feeding at the latrines!”

“You are the shit-eater!” Shamkhal bellowed, his voice so loud I felt it in my teeth. “What if you try to remove him and awake to see those same men waiting for you?”

“At least I will die knowing I have done what I could to oppose him.”

Pari stood up abruptly and wrapped the chador over her body.

“Daughter of my sister, wait a minute. Everyone would be grateful if you were able to tame him.”

“How can I do that now?” she replied. “All of you men were happy to allow him to shut me out of palace affairs. How quick you were to do so!”

“It was a direct order.”

“But if you had argued against it, I might have retained some influence. Maybe I am impotent, but you helped Isma‘il put me in that position. Now how is anyone to stop him?”

Despite his big black beard and broad shoulders, Shamkhal looked helpless for a moment.

“I don’t know. We will have to wait until the qizilbash come back from chasing the Sufis to see if they will help.”

“But their absence is making it possible for the princes to be exterminated!”

Shamkhal opened his palms to heaven as if to say the matter was in God’s hands.

Pari’s lips turned down with disgust as she flipped the picheh over her face. “And they say that women are cowards!” she exclaimed as she clutched her chador under her chin and strode toward the door. Her uncle didn’t plead with her to stay. Clumsily, I covered my face and body.

Outside, the princess could not contain herself.

“Oh great God above,” she prayed as we walked down the street, “look kindly on your child, I beg you. Advise me on the correct course of action, for I am lost. These times are as dark as times have ever been. Gazzali has written that without justice there is nothing—no loyalty, no citizenry, no prosperity, and finally, no country. We are at risk of losing everything. Oh Lord, show your servant a ray of light in her darkest moment!”

I echoed her prayer as we entered the park, descended into the passageway, and walked quickly in the cold. I felt relieved not to be on the street, where there was a possibility of being discovered. We emerged into the crumbling pavilion without incident, flung off our wraps, and walked back to her home through the harem gardens. In her rooms, the princess sat down, looking shaken. Her own uncle! It was the worst blow of all.

“Who can we turn to now? Mirza Salman?”

Her smile was ragged and defeated. “He is a man of the pen of second rank. The qizilbash won’t listen to him.”

Pari’s eyes looked unveiled for the first time in months. What I saw reminded me of the despair of a prisoner being led to execution. Her hands lay palm up in her lap, small, tender things, the henna designs now faded. She looked down at them for a moment.

“I am frightened,” she whispered.

I was thunderstruck by the rawness of her admission. Deep in my heart, it stirred a desire to sacrifice myself for her. I had fight enough for three men, and I vowed to do all I could to keep her safe from harm.