Equal of the Sun A Novel

CHAPTER 6



THE CALL TO BATTLE





Kaveh received word that his eighteenth and last son had been called to present himself to Zahhak and his snakes. Upon hearing the news, he abandoned his forge and marched to the palace, the thick muscles of his forearms clenching with rage. So great was his anger that he rushed past the guards and interrupted Zahhak while he was holding court.

“Illustrious King,” he roared, his eyes flashing like the sparks from his forge, “you rule over seven realms and a treasury bursting with gold. Why must you rob me of my only wealth? If you are as just as you claim, you will leave my last son alone rather than perpetrating such evil.”

Zahhak tasted metal on his tongue. How could he defend his own actions? He longed to make himself look clean in the eyes of the world.

“I will release your son,” he replied, issuing the order. “Now you must sign this proclamation attesting to the justice of my reign. Is that easy enough?”

When Kaveh read the proclamation and saw the names of all the nobles there, his cheeks turned purple, his eyes bulged, and the muscles in his neck throbbed.

“What a pack of cowards you all are!” he shouted at the nobles. “How can you put your names to such lies and still call yourselves men?”

With a great roar, he ripped the document to bits and stomped on it, while the nobles gaped at him as if he were a mad dog. Then he stormed out of the palace in a rage. At the town’s central square, he tore off his blacksmith’s apron and raised it high in the air on the point of a spear so that people could see it far and wide. They flooded in from everywhere and rallied around his cause.

“Justice!” they cried. “Justice!”





The ladies’ section of the palace was as quiet as a graveyard, and the faces of most of its inhabitants were drawn with sorrow. Fear permeated every room like a dense, stagnant fog. Was it over? Who would be next?

My mother’s cousin wrote to ask when Jalileh could be sent to Qazveen, and I was suffused with relief that Pari had told me to wait. Never would I put Jalileh, who was unschooled in the intricacies of palace politics, at so much risk. I wrote back and explained as best as I could, without any details, that the situation was unsafe.

After all the mourning ceremonies for the dead princes were completed, Pari summoned me to her home. Azar Khatoon showed me into her most private chamber, where Pari met intimates like Maryam and her mother. It was the one with the mural of the nude Shireen, fine peach-colored silk rugs, and matching cushions. Pari was reading a copy of the Shahnameh, one that I had never seen before. The book was open to a page of ornate calligraphy illustrated by a gilded painting, rich with jeweled colors.

“Salaam aleikum,” she said when I came in. “I am happy to see you. I never thought I would feel gratitude at the mere fact that someone I cherish is still living and breathing.”

“Thank you, kind princess.” My heart flowered under the warmth of her words.

“What sorrows we have endured together! If I had known they would be so great, I wouldn’t have burdened you with becoming my vizier.”

“Princess, it has been the greatest honor of my life to serve you. I would have done so no matter what,” I replied, and that was the truth.

“I am glad to hear that,” she said. “I hope you still desire to be in my employ.”

“With all my heart.”

“I expect that you don’t say so lightly. The tasks ahead are very grave.”

I waited.

Pari looked thoughtful. “It is strange how many portents are around us, if only we care to see them. I have been rereading the story in the Shahnameh about how Zahhak demanded that the skulls of young men be cracked like walnuts so that his snakes could feed on their brains. It was no more than a story to me until recently, but now I see it afresh. Haven’t we experienced the very same disaster? Our leader has destroyed some of the brightest stars of his court, from young meteorites educated in the princely arts ever since they were small, to bright blazing suns like Ibrahim who are born only once in a generation. Our leader has become the very image of Zahhak.”

Everything in me had been trained to be loyal to the Shah. I couldn’t help but look around to see if anyone was listening.

“Until now, he has spared Mohammad Khodabandeh and his children, but it is still possible he will send someone to destroy them. If he and his family are murdered—and may God prevent it—who will be left to lead the dynasty?”

“What about Mahmood Mirza? What about Isma‘il’s unborn child?”

“I don’t know who will survive. My responsibility in this matter is to defend all the princes who might lead the dynasty in the future. I must do everything I can to protect them.”

“That won’t be easy.”

“As things stand, it is impossible. I can no more prevent Isma‘il from sending out assassins than I can tell the sun when to rise. There are those who believe they can control the orbits of the planets, but I am not one of them.”

The gravity of her tone and the privacy of our meeting made me acutely sensitive to whatever was coming next.

“In times of confusion, I turn to the Shahnameh because my father held it so dear. I have been reading it for Ferdowsi’s guidance about the righteous ways to handle a disordered shah. He is very cautious on this point. After all, he was hoping for remuneration from the Ghaznavi sultan and couldn’t be seen as opposing his reign, even indirectly.”

I had continued reading my own copy of the Shahnameh almost every night, holding it with affection because it had been a gift from Mahmood.

“But look what happens to the voracious Zahhak: Kaveh sparks a rebellion. So even Ferdowsi, who is usually so careful not to offend the institution of royalty, is willing to suggest that a truly evil shah must be resisted.”

Pari was drawing a noose of logic around my neck, and I didn’t wish to be captured in a knot that couldn’t be untied. My face must have shown my feelings, because her voice softened.

“Sometimes, one person must make a sacrifice for the good of all others,” she added. “Kaveh was such a man. What an inspiration he is to all who suffer from tyranny! I can’t sit by any longer while a fire consumes the house of our future. Too often, I have acted in the hope of some gain for myself. Now I must act for others, regardless of my fate.”

She said this with so much delicacy and such understanding of her own flaws that I was touched at the core of my heart.

“May God always protect you! You are the brightest star among women.”

“Thank you, Javaher. But tell me: Do you feel as strongly as I do that our leader is disordered?”

“Yes, of course. Your revered father would never have killed his own kin with no reason.”

“I know the sacrifice you made to serve him was dear. Now I am going to request that you make an even greater one, but I won’t demand it from you. It must be freely given.”

A feeling of dread suffused me. “What are you asking for?”

“Your loyalty.”

“That is always yours. What else?”

“Your assistance.”

“With what?”

Pari lowered her voice. “He must be removed.”

My heart began pounding like the drums that march men to war. How could I agree to what she was asking of me? For a man to raise his hand against his leader, for a sister to strike at her own brother—that was cause for death if discovered, and for eternal damnation if God deemed it unjust.

The princess wanted to rip the proclamation. Yet we couldn’t do it the way Kaveh had done, because our shah was not a character in a poem; he would simply have us put to death if we openly protested his rule.

Pari was scrutinizing my face. “Javaher, will you help me bring justice to this land?”

“In the name of God above!” I thundered. “I have delivered everything but my last breath to this dynasty, including the possibility of raising my own sons. Now must I turn traitor in order to serve this same line? What kind of servant would I be? What truth would ever seem solid?”

“Your questions are fair,” said Pari, “but I suggest that you would be serving the cause of justice. That can be the only reason for agreeing to such a request. You have my permission to assist me only if you believe the cause is righteous.”

If she had said anything else—if she had mentioned personal gain or glory, I would have refused her. But she was reaching for the only part of me that was tender to her request. Isma‘il had become the very image of Zahhak; there was no denying it. Would we remain silent and allow him to destroy us at his whim? Or would we become as brave as Kaveh?

“What do you intend for him?”

“The fate he brought to others.”

“Even your father, may his soul be at rest, let Isma‘il live,” I argued.

“My father had the authority to imprison him and render him powerless. We do not. I have recently asked Sultanam if she would allow the qizilbash chiefs to remove him on the basis of insanity, but she said no. There is only one way to rid ourselves of this scourge, just as there was only one way to unseat Zahhak.”

“This defies all I have been taught ever since I was a youth! How can you ask this of me?”

“How can I not, when it is the only just thing to do? He will kill us all if we leave him be.”

“All my life, I have striven to be loyal to the throne. After my father was murdered, I wished to set an impeccable example.”

“You have done so.”

“Thank you. But now I must throw away my morals and rebel?”

“Sometimes it is the only choice.”

“I can’t answer yet; I must think.”

“I understand,” she said, “and I honor your need for reflection. Return to me as soon as you have made a decision.”

As I took my leave, I glanced back and was struck by the pretty picture she made. Sitting on a cushion in a purple robe embroidered with sparrows, surrounded by a delicate manuscript illustration of courtly women and men in a garden, with elegant peach silk rugs beneath her, she exuded feminine grace and learning. The lushness of her surroundings, the fineness of her robe, her curved, regal forehead, all made her look rare and delicate. Yet buried within her tall, thin frame was something harder than I had ever seen in her father, something harder still than what lay in the qizilbash warriors whose turbans held the erect red batons that made them look like giants. She had come to a conclusion so awful it would incite many a warrior to flee, but she didn’t flinch from it.



Pari’s request made me restless, and so did not knowing about the fate of Mahmood. I still had had no letter from him and no news. I hoped Khadijeh might be able to enlighten me about the Shah’s state of mind and whether his murderous rampage was finished. I went to her quarters and asked to see her, explaining that I brought news from the princess. There was no need to explain further, since by then the palace was buzzing with visits from one lady to another to comfort those in mourning.

When I arrived and was shown in, I was surprised to see Khadijeh dressed all in black, her hair covered by a black silk scarf, which made her tamarind skin look pale.

“My condolences,” I said, as I took my seat on a cushion across from her.

“Thank you. And mine to you.”

I wasn’t related to anyone who had died, but had dressed soberly to reflect the state of the palace.

“I have come to speak with you about a private matter on behalf of my lieutenant,” I said. Khadijeh turned to Nasreen and told her to bring me hot coffee.

The minute she had left, Khadijeh said, “You look as if you have seen the dead.”

“I feel as if I have,” I replied. “Six princes have been killed, and Gowhar is behaving like a madwoman. She is so sick with grief I am not certain she will find the strength to live. It is terrible to see.”

“May God shower us with mercy!” Khadijeh replied, a tear sliding onto her cheek.

I couldn’t help myself. I leapt up from my cushion and claimed her hand, wishing I could take her in my arms and feel the warmth of our bodies entwined.

“Has he said anything about when the killing will stop? I fear for Mahmood!”

Khadijeh looked so startled that I regretted saying anything. She stared at the door, and I quickly withdrew my hand and regained my position on the other side of the room.

“Poor Javaher. You have reason to fear,” she said softly, her eyes wells of grief.

“I know, I know,” I replied. “Why are you so sad?”

“I too have suffered a terrible loss.”

“But you are not related to any of the royal princes, except by marriage.”

“That is true,” she replied. “They are not whom I mourn. I learned this morning that my brother, Mohsen, is dead.”

“My dear Khadijeh! What happened?”

She wrapped her arms around her body. “He died trying to protect someone else, which was very like him. Mohsen always watched over me and defended me when we were young.”

Her eyes overflowed with tears, which she left glistening on her cheeks. “When I lost my parents, I thought I had lost all a woman could lose. But the fresh grief that fills my heart will never depart, no matter how long I live.”

“How I wish I could hold you in my arms and comfort you!”

“Hush!” she whispered and looked as if she were listening for something. All of a sudden Nasreen Khatoon came in bearing the coffee, arriving so soundlessly that I wondered if she had been trying to catch a few words of our conversation. I changed the subject quickly.

“The esteemed princess would like to know if you have any special medicine that would help Gowhar vanquish the worst part of her grief.”

“I do,” Khadijeh said. “In recent days, I have had many requests for the mixture, and have been taking it myself. Nasreen Khatoon, please prepare another serving of the herbs I showed you and bring it here for our guest.”

The lady laid down the tray and left again to do her bidding. Now I understood why Khadijeh seemed so composed. Her medicines were potent enough to take away all pains.

“Javaher—” Khadijeh said, but I interrupted her.

“How can we stop him?”

Her mouth turned down in disgust. “I only hope he doesn’t call for me. How can I lie under him, knowing what has happened to my brother?”

I was puzzled. “What does Mohsen’s death have to do with the Shah?”

Khadijeh sighed. “Javaher, it pains me that you must know the truth. My brother died defending Mahmood.”

I felt as if an iron hand were squeezing my heart. “May he always be safe!” I said, but my words sounded angry.

She looked at me with such compassion that my rage embarrassed me. “If you don’t want to know what has happened, I won’t tell you.”

I had no choice but to ask her.

“Mohsen was with Mahmood at a hunting camp. The Shah’s men found them by following the smoke of their fire and attacked them. A friend of my brother’s who was with them escaped with his life. He wrote that Mahmood was strangled, and Mohsen was killed with a dagger. Their bodies were taken back to Mahmood’s home to be prepared for burial. A few hours later, Mahmood moaned and woke up. His neck was badly bruised, but he wasn’t dead.”

The rage drained out of me, and I breathed in the sweet air of life, just as Mahmood must be doing. It was the first time in days that the air seemed to flow easily down my throat and into my lungs.

“I am sorry, I didn’t mean to get so angry,” I said. “I couldn’t bear the thought of losing him.”

I think I even smiled, until I realized that Khadijeh’s lovely face was twisted with grief.

“I wish I didn’t have to tell you the rest of the story,” she continued. “The assassins asked their leader what they should do about Mahmood, and he ordered that they extinguish his life. This time, they were successful.”

I leapt to my feet and kicked the tray of coffee as hard as if I were trying to score a goal. The glasses broke against the tray with a crash, and the coffee threw drops all over a blue silk rug owned by the Shah.

“He was like family!” I shouted.

“I know,” she murmured softly.

“We are being led by a dog! I spit on his face, I curse his eyes! May his star fall from the sky! May he burn in hell!”

Khadijeh twisted her body around in fright to see if someone had heard. I didn’t care, even if my treasonous words meant my death. I strode out of the room, deaf to Khadijeh’s pleas to take some of her medicine for myself. At that moment, I hated everyone in the world. Walking furiously into a secluded part of the gardens, I hurled my body against a cedar tree again and again, watching its branches quiver each time I thudded against it. Unhinged leaves drifted through the air, and broken twigs struck my shoulders. I pounded the tree as if I were thrashing the Shah to death. Then I did my duty by telling Pari the news.



While I was in the deepest throes of mourning, I reached for my Shahnameh, the only thing I had left of Mahmood, and opened it at random. Tears welled in my eyes and I could not make out the words. As I shut the book and placed it beside my bed, some lines written by Sa’adi sprang to mind:

O tyrant, who oppressest thy subjects,

How long wilt thou persevere in this?

Of what use is authority to you?

To die is better for thee than to oppress men.

God demanded that his leaders rule with justice, but what if they did not? Must we simply endure tyranny? Must we allow children to be murdered? Must we fear to draw a breath?

No! No! a voice inside me cried. If I didn’t do anything about Isma‘il, others would surely die. But if I tried to put a stop to him, would God condemn me to hell for my actions? I couldn’t know. All I could do was try to make things better for those who were still alive. So I went to Pari and swore to help her achieve her mission, and we agreed to work together even if it meant the loss of our own lives.

But how to hunt such well-concealed prey? Everything was designed to foil us. The palace itself with its high walls, the scattered, guarded buildings within its grounds secluded by trees, the labyrinthine courtyards and passages—all were built to disguise the specific locations of those within. Isma‘il surrounded himself with an army of servants whose lives and livelihoods depended on protecting him. He had secreted himself even further by withdrawing from most public appearances, and it was impossible to ask about his whereabouts because any query was bound to provoke suspicion. We would have to be more clever than a shah who was both powerful and frightened, more clever than all the walls and obstacles and guards that were purposely in place to protect him. We would have to defeat a system that was designed to thwart us.

We decided to gather more information about Isma‘il’s minutest habits, which meant getting closer to those people who knew him best. Pari said she would call on his Circassian wife, Koudenet, to see what she could learn, as well as Mahasti, his pregnant slave. Sultanam could not be expected to help us, but I told Pari I would become friendly with the ladies who knew Sultanam and might learn of his movements. I wrestled with whether I should reveal to her that one of my sources was very close indeed to the Shah, but I decided not to mention Khadijeh, out of a desire to protect her.

Most interesting was the Shah’s closest friend, Hassan Beyg Halvachi Oghli, who had such special status that even though he was a man, he was permitted to stay with the Shah in his private quarters. Pari gave me a nearly impossible task: to try to watch him, discover with whom he was friendly, and see if those people could tell me anything to make him vulnerable. She also instructed her other servants to report to her everything they heard around the palace, no matter how trivial.

Late one afternoon, when I returned to my room, I was surprised to find Balamani lying on his bedroll. His skin looked dusty gray, like an elephant’s, and his forehead was creased with pain.

“Oh jewel of the heavens! Where have you been?”

“At my usual evil deeds. What ails you?”

Balamani pointed at his foot, which he had stretched out away from everything else. His toes looked swollen.

“I can’t stand on it,” he replied. “My big toe feels like it is being burned by a flame.”

Balamani used to be as vigorous as an ox. It pained me to see him laid low.

“Do you want some medicine?”

“I am using a salve, but it does no good.”

“Well,” I said, “since your body has proved it could withstand the removal of a much bigger joint, it will no doubt heal your foot.”

Balamani laughed, but his laugh had a woeful sound. “It is ridiculous to be felled by a toe.”

“Ah,” I said, “but a man like you will never be felled so long as he can think. As it happens, I need your intelligence.”

“For what purpose, good or ill?” Balamani’s dark eyes sparkled with mischief and for a moment he looked as if he had forgotten his malady.

“Ill, of course,” I said. “After all, who could not feel ill over what has occurred?”

“Indeed; these are the darkest days I have ever lived.”

“Tell me: Were the murders necessary?”

“The Shah’s tactics are as subtle as a butcher’s knife—but then again, look at how effective a butcher’s knife is at doing its job. There is almost no one left who could challenge him for the throne.”

A cold draft of air entered the room; Balamani grimaced when it reached his toe.

“Not to mention the vanity of it,” he added.

“Vanity?”

“If the Shah has a son, he will face few rivals when he grows up.”

“But what if the killings never stop?”

Balamani adjusted his heavy body against the pillows and repositioned his leg far from any obstacle.

“Javaher, be careful. The Shah has spared his sisters, but there is no telling if he will continue to believe that they won’t harm him. As Pari’s vizier, you could be in grave danger as well.”

I decided to take a risk. I leaned close to him and whispered, “Why should a viper be permitted to rule?”

Balamani laughed out loud. “He is the shadow of God on earth, remember?”

“Do you believe this one walks in the shadow of God?”

“Do any of them?”

Panah bar Khoda! I had never heard him speak this way before.

“Men must have their fictions,” he added. “If the Shah is not God’s shadow, what reason is there for the elders to obey him? Which man’s word would be taken as final unless it were somehow tied to God’s?”

“That is not how it is supposed to be,” I argued. “We offer our loyalty in return for justice, remember?”

“Of course,” he replied. “But when there is no justice, who suffers?”

“Right now, many people,” I said through gritted teeth.

Balamani’s eyes grew tender. “I was very sorry to hear about Mahmood.”

“Thank you.”

My eyes moistened as if a spring had just been loosed behind them. Knowing that Balamani was one of the few souls in the world to whom I could show my true feelings, I bent my head and let flow my sorrow.

“May God give you strength in your suffering,” he said gently. “Remember what I told you long ago? Never, ever love any of the royals.”

I wiped my face with one of Pari’s handkerchiefs and composed myself. “Mahmood is part of the reason I came to talk with you. I have a mission, and I need help.”

“What is it?”

“Is there any way to prompt Hassan to beg the Shah to be merciful and stop the killings?”

“Hard to say,” Balamani replied. “He spends day and night with the Shah, so no one can get close to him. That is his job.”

“I need to find out more about him.”

Balamani looked at me as if reading the thoughts imprinted on my soul. “You, the tender young agha whose tongue seemed as absent as his keer, are now involved in palace intrigue?”

“I won’t speak of intrigue,” I said, “only of wishing to capture Hassan’s ear.”

“Still attached to his head, I hope.”

“Of course.”

“Yet something smells ill.”

“Your foot?”

Balamani snorted. “What information do you need?”

“How to reach him,” I insisted, although what I really wanted was Balamani’s help with our plans.

He paused. “Not even Hassan is going to succeed in convincing the Shah to be just.”

“You may be right,” I replied. “But shouldn’t we try?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“We aren’t going to do anything. I am old now. I don’t wish to be like that eunuch who lost his life just days before his time came to retire and swim in the waters of Bengal.”

“But, Balamani, there is a madman in our midst. We could all be cut down.”

“No.”

“I will be your eyes and ears—and your feet,” I said. “You will direct me and I will carry out this business.”

“Too dangerous.”

“But I can’t do it without you,” I insisted. “How can you obstruct what you know to be right?”

Balamani was watching me closely. “Ah, my friend, you still don’t know.”

“What?”

“What you are.”

“What am I?”

“You are me.”

I was taken aback.

“Yes,” he said, “I have taught you all I know, and now I pass my place to you.” He leaned over and slapped my chest. I felt a surge there, which heated me to the top of my head.

“Balamani—”

“You have earned it. What you don’t know yet, you will learn. It is time for you to be master.”

“But, Balamani—” I said, feeling like a disciple whose master has abandoned him too soon. It was a strangely lonely yet buoyant sensation, like being released on the wind and flying high above the earth, as free as a cloud.

“Everything I am, I owe to you,” I said in a voice I didn’t trust.

“God sent you to me,” Balamani replied humbly. “He said, ‘Take this proud, shattered child and make him whole.’”

“That was asking a great deal, wasn’t it?”

His smile was pained, like that of a parent helping his child through a devastating illness.

“Indeed. But don’t imagine that your quest is complete. What have you discovered lately about your father?”

The sudden look of enthusiasm in his eyes surprised me. It was as if he were goading me to prove my skills.

“I haven’t had time to pursue it. Solving an old murder doesn’t seem as important right now as preventing a new one.”

“God be with you, my dear friend,” he replied, and I had the impression that I had just passed an important test. “Now get to work!”



The next time I visited Khadijeh, I used the pretext of requesting more medicine for Gowhar. When Nasreen Khatoon left the room to prepare it, I asked Khadijeh to contrive to meet me as if by accident in the gardens that evening, following the last call to prayer. After Nasreen returned with the medicine, I took my leave promptly and delivered it to Pari, but I didn’t tell her where it came from.

Later that evening, I strolled through the dark among the tall walnut trees deep in the harem gardens until I found Khadijeh, who had hidden herself behind a huge tree. She had covered her face and wrapped a black scarf around her hair and body so that she could not be easily recognized. I feigned surprise when I saw her, and she replied, “Be quick. I mustn’t tarry.”

I stood near her under the tree and imagined, for only a moment, lying down and taking my pleasure with her there.

“Khadijeh, I need your advice,” I whispered. “Are the killings done?”

She shuddered. “I don’t know. He called me to him a few nights ago, and I pretended delight although I am sickened by him. To get him to talk, I told him I was glad he was destroying his enemies, and he replied, ‘I plan to root them out one by one.’”

“Did he say anything about your brother?”

“He didn’t even know he had been killed!” she replied. “When I told him, he expressed regret, but suggested that since Mohsen sacrificed his life for him, he would find his reward in heaven.”

My throat burned from bile. “How unnatural!”

“I think his twenty years of confinement have shattered his reason.”

“There are some who feel that he must go.” I was testing her to see how she would respond to this unholy idea.

“Vohhh!” she said, and then she clapped her hand over her mouth out of fear that we might be heard.

She was silent for such a long time that I feared, for a moment, that she did not agree. Then, in a low voice, she confessed, “I must admit that I pray for it daily.”

“How can it be done?”

“Do you mean—permanently?”

Her eyes searched mine to confirm what I meant, and then her teeth shone in the darkness like those of an animal on the prowl.

“It won’t be easy. He removes his dagger when he sleeps, but I don’t know which of his women would have the stomach to stab him, especially since the perpetrator of such a deed would immediately be killed. Poisoning would be more difficult to trace, but everything he eats or drinks is sampled first by the royal taster. Even my own pastries must be tested before the Shah touches them.”

“Does he drink water in the middle of the night?”

“Sometimes, but he won’t touch a flask—water or wine—unless its contents have been tested and sealed.”

“Does he ever open a vessel and drink from it after time has elapsed?”

She paused. “It is possible he would do that in a moment of inattention—after much wine and much love,” she conceded.

“What can you tell me of his other habits?”

“Very little,” she said. “He doesn’t announce his plans to me. But I know of one thing he can’t live without.”

“What is it?”

“Not long ago, I noticed that he often became irritable without provocation. A box of sweets he always kept nearby seemed to calm him. Once, when I thought he was asleep, I lifted the lid and peered in to see what kind of magical confections had tempted him away from mine. He woke up, discovered what I was doing, and became angry until I explained that I wanted to make him my own recipe of date pastries with cardamom to rival what was in the box. He smiled at me then, because he thought I hadn’t seen what was there. It was opium.”

May God be praised!

“How often does he eat it?”

“Every few hours, except when he is sleeping,” she replied. “He receives a sealed box and keeps it with him at all times.”

“So he can’t live without it?”

“That is how he endured the long years of his confinement.”

“Who prepares the contents of the box?”

“I don’t know. It would be best to look for a situation in which he forgoes caution.”

“Will you let me know if such a situation suggests itself to you?”

“I will.”

An owl hooted, a bad omen, and Khadijeh shivered in the cold night air.

“I must go.”

She disappeared into the garden without another word, and I remained under the walnut tree for a long time so that no one would suspect the two of us had been together.

The moon hung full and lovely in the sky. I permitted myself to think for just a moment of what might happen if the Shah were gone. Would Khadijeh be mine again? Would I be able to take her into my arms and lie with her until the sun rose? The thought of possessing her again filled my heart with joy, but that emotion was quickly succeeded by dread. Would we survive this terrible time? If there was one life I wished to shield from harm, it was hers.

When I returned to my quarters to ponder what to do next, Massoud Ali was waiting with another letter from my mother’s cousin. I had come to dislike her letters. The only time I heard from her is when she wrote to demand something. I felt powerless to care for Jalileh the way I wished to, and I must pacify every demand for fear that Jalileh would be made to suffer. I broke the seal.

Greetings and may the blessings of God be upon you. As you know, your sister Jalileh is fifteen now and nearly pickled. Since you haven’t managed to bring her to Qazveen, it is time for us to find a good husband for her and allow her to become the treasure of another family. We have endeavored to fulfill your mother’s dying wish by caring for her, and although she is a lovely child, we regret that we cannot do so for the rest of her life. Can you send a generous dowry for her? We will find a good man to take responsibility for her. Please let us know if this accords with your wishes.

The threat was clear: They were tired of caring for her. They were probably already looking for a husband. I hastily penned a reply, insisting that no marriage should be contracted without my permission and promising to bring Jalileh to Qazveen as soon as I could. I wrote that since the palace was teeming with problems, they must be patient, for I would not expose Jalileh to danger. I promised them a generous reward for all their help once Jalileh was returned to my care, but I did not send money, to avoid facilitating a marriage. I hoped my response would placate them until I figured out what to do.





Balamani had gotten much better. His toe wasn’t hurting anymore, and his appetite had returned. We decided to have lunch together during the workweek, a rare treat that our duties usually prevented. We met in the guest room of our building and started our meal with hot bread, sheep’s cheese, and mint, along with yogurt mixed with diced cucumber. As we began eating, the noon call to prayer resonated throughout the palace.

“Have you heard the latest rumors about Isma‘il’s faith?” Balamani asked.

“No.”

“People say he is a secret Sunni.”

“A Sunni!” I exclaimed, so surprised that I withheld a morsel of bread from my mouth.

“The clerics are angry,” Balamani said, “but they can’t do much about it, since their spiritual leader is the Shah.”

“What a reversal for a dynasty founded on Shi’ism! The qizilbash whose grandfathers fought for the dynasty must be outraged.”

“To be sure. And that is not the only reason. Lately, Isma‘il has been arguing that we should start a war with the Ottomans.”

“Why?”

“He wishes to regain territory lost by his father.”

“But that is preposterous,” I said. “Why disturb a long-lasting peace with one of the world’s most powerful empires? Pari will be furious on both counts.”

Balamani wrapped some greens and sheep’s cheese in lavash. “I didn’t say these things were logical.”

“In that case,” I said, “why don’t those fiery, well-armed qizilbash khans take charge of the situation?”

A servant from the harem kitchens brought in dishes of stewed lamb and rice with lentils and cinnamon. I wrapped some rice and lamb in a piece of bread and ate it.

After the servant left, Balamani said, “It would mean death for many of them. You know the risks.”

“So you are telling me that all those warriors, whose balls are so big that they dangle near the ground and whose penises are as thick as tent poles, are cowards?”

We laughed so hard that the walls shook.

“Balamani, I ask you again: How can I learn more about Hassan Beyg?”

“Easily,” Balamani said, his dark eyes twinkling. “Not long ago, Anwar sent me to deliver a document to the Shah. Did I ever tell you I was directed to leave it at Hassan’s home inside the Ali Qapu gate?”

“Don’t tease me,” I replied. “I know the name of every family that has a home inside the Ali Qapu. His is not one of them.”

Balamani smiled, triumph gleaming in his eyes. “It is well disguised,” he replied. “From the outside, it looks like an old administrative building. Go stand in the courtyard facing the Ali Qapu and look toward the city for the minaret of the Friday mosque. Walk directly toward the minaret, and when you get to the palace wall, count three doors to your right. You will see a battered old wooden door that looks as if it might lead to a servant’s quarters. In fact, the door opens onto a huge garden with a house in back of it. There are always guards inside the old wooden door, so don’t do anything foolish.”

I laughed in admiration. He was still the master, after all.

It was easy to locate the old wooden door, but I could hardly stand there and watch it without arousing suspicion. Up on Pari’s roof I found a spot with a partial view of the house’s interior courtyard. Since the ladies of Pari’s household used the roof to hang laundry and to dry fruits and herbs in the hot sun, I was able to conceal myself beneath a chador. Sitting on a small cushion and an old rug, I shelled peapods or picked the debris out of rice, just in case anyone observed me from below. Azar Khatoon came and went with herbs and fruit and occasionally stopped to tease me about the poor quality of my work.

“Look here!” she said, sifting through my rice and uncovering a few tiny stones. “A child could do better.”

I had to agree. Mostly I kept my gaze fixed on the activities at Hassan’s door. Tradesmen arrived laden with goods, which were accepted in the courtyard by servants, but no one of high rank ever went in or out. My vigil lasted for five days with no results, and I decided to stay on the roof all night as well. For three nights nothing happened. Then one night when I had dozed off, I was startled awake by the sound of a door slamming shut. The moon was bright, and I could make out the shapes of several men in the courtyard. Hassan was wearing a simple white cotton tunic and cotton trousers rather than his usual silk finery. A tight-fitting black cap covered his head. Except for his handsome face, which was unlined from sun or work, he could have been an ordinary fellow of modest means, like a merchant who owned a small shop in the bazaar. It was odd for someone so close to the Shah to be so casually dressed. The person with him had darker skin, and it was difficult to see his features clearly. His robe was brown and nondescript, and he had wrapped a cloth around the lower part of his face. Yet there was something familiar about the way he moved, a slouching gait that made me suspect it was the Shah in disguise. A few men that I recognized as bodyguards accompanied them.

The men walked toward the back of the house’s gardens and all of a sudden disappeared from view. On a hunch, I threw off the chador, ran downstairs, and exited the palace through a side gate with the help of a friendly guard. I arrived just in time to catch sight of the men disappearing into one of the alleyways in the direction of the bazaar. By God above! Hassan’s house must also have a secret exit that led to the Promenade of the Royal Stallions.

I assumed the men were going to a tavern or some other pleasure house, but I didn’t dare follow them for fear of being discovered. I decided to enlist Massoud Ali, who would be less recognizable than me and could pretend to be out on an errand. We kept vigil together on the roof for several nights, during which his refusal to succumb to sleep and his desire to perform his job as well as a grown man made my heart swell with pride. We spent the long hours telling each other stories and playing backgammon, and I taught him a few new game strategies to try out on the other errand boys.

One night, when we were both restless, he began to demonstrate the techniques he had been learning in combat class to block hand strikes. Still clad in my disguising chador, I raised my arm as if to hit him, and he practiced batting it away and landing his own strike. Although he wasn’t strong, he was very fast. At one point he scored a strike on my chest that I had failed to see coming.

We were so engrossed that I didn’t notice when men appeared in Hassan’s courtyard, but Massoud Ali alerted me to their movements in the dark. Stealthily the men moved toward the secret exit. Massoud Ali jumped up and raced after them, armed with a plausible excuse. I watched him until I could see him no more, a twinge of fear in my heart.



Several hours later I went to see Pari, who was wearing fine ivory cotton pajamas and a long yellow silk robe. She was sitting on a cushion, and Maryam was brushing out her long black hair, which reached her waist. Maryam must have recently applied henna to Pari’s hair, because it glistened in the lamplight like a black grape bursting with juice.

“I am very sorry to disturb you, esteemed princess,” I said, “but I have information for your ears only.”

Maryam didn’t pause her brushing. Pari said to her, “Soul of mine, you must leave for your own protection,” and only then did Maryam arise and quit the room, her face sour.

I imagined she would return to brush Pari’s long black hair, and then they would disrobe and hold each other in the dark. I tried to keep my mind away from the thought of the strong, wiry body of the one and the plump, peach-like curves of her fair-haired friend. I missed Khadijeh more and more. Aside from the pleasures of exploring her body, I yearned for the ordinary expressions of affection I used to enjoy, her back curved into my chest or mine against hers, the heat rising in the space between our bodies.

“What is it?” Pari asked impatiently.

“My nighttime vigil has taught me that the Shah leaves in disguise to pursue his pleasures in the bazaar,” I said. “Massoud Ali has discovered that he buys halva from the same sweets vendor every time he goes out.”

We discussed the merits of replacing the vendor with a man of our own, but decided it would provoke too much suspicion. Then we talked about the possibility of modifying the Shah’s opium before it was formed into balls. That, too, seemed fraught with peril.

“Have the Shah’s women been forthcoming about his other habits?” I asked.

“Not really. Mahasti talks about nothing but the baby in her belly. Koudenet is only fifteen, but she is not stupid. I whisper that I am trying to redeem myself in her husband’s eyes and insist that if she came to know me, she would agree my cause is just. She looks as if she wonders when I will strike with my snake’s venom.”

Maryam entered the room uninvited. “It is time for bed,” she announced. She flung back the velvet bedcover on the bedroll, revealing embroidered silk pillows, and stared at me.

“The princess is tired,” she said pointedly.

Pari leaned back into a cushion and closed her eyes. “Good night, Javaher. Tomorrow morning we will talk more.”

Maryam began brushing Pari’s hair with the ivory brush as if they were already alone. A small sigh of pleasure escaped the princess’s lips. I left them to one another and returned to my empty bed.



The goading look in Balamani’s eyes when I had mentioned my father made me wish to prove my skills by solving the puzzle of his death, despite what I had said. There was a gap in the information I had gleaned from Looloo, Balamani, and from Mirza Salman that bothered me. Why would the Shah choose to protect an accountant who had killed one of his men? I was haunted by the mystery and felt humbled that I, the vaunted information gatherer, could not get to the bottom of it.

I went to the office of the scribes and requested the History of Tahmasb Shah’s Glorious Reign. Abteen Agha, the sunken-chested eunuch, hadn’t looked impressed with the fine gift I brought on my last visit, so I had taken pains to inquire about his taste in sweets. This time I brought white nougat studded with pistachios from his favorite sweets vendor. He raised his eyebrows at me as he whisked away the gift. “More business for your princess?” he asked sarcastically as he delivered the documents. I ignored him.

I found the entry for Kamiyar Kofrani easily enough and read through it. He was born in Shiraz and had been an accountant until he retired. He had married a woman who was unnamed and had four sons. Presumably two of them had died, since Balamani knew of only two living sons. He had assisted the late shah with some financial reforms that allowed the ledgers to be read and understood more easily, making it possible to uncover fraud. He had retired and died a few years later in Qazveen.

There was no mention of my father’s murder, which was odd, and no reason to think that high status or family connections had prevented the Shah from punishing him for it.

Something was bothering me, something just beyond my grasp. Mirza Salman and the histories averred that the killer was dead, but Looloo’s suggestion that he might be living had taken root in my thoughts. Unable to make sense of this contradiction, I returned to the entry about my father.

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

I scrutinized the words, but the mosaic didn’t form a clear picture; a critical piece of tile was missing. I stared at the words again, which seemed to reveal and conceal the truth at the same time. It seemed to be right there—the pieces going in and out of focus, until suddenly, I shouted out loud.

Abteen Agha’s rounded shoulders spasmed, and he glared at me. “What is your problem? You could make a scribe ruin an entire page by hollering like that.”

“I—finally found the answer to a question.”

“Next time, keep the good news to yourself.”

I looked down and reread one fragment of a sentence: the Shah did not execute his accuser. . .

What if the paragraph referred to two different men? The murderer was Kamiyar Kofrani. The accuser was a man with powerful allies who was probably still alive. The way the paragraph had been written suggested that someone, perhaps a scribe in the accuser’s pay, had purposely obscured the truth. If so, I realized with growing excitement, I could pursue the man after all.



The next morning, I had just begun strategizing with Pari when we heard a series of long, anguished cries, followed by the sound of running. I jumped up and ran to the door, my hand on my dagger. Azar Khatoon came rushing in, out of breath.

“What is the trouble?”

“Sultanam. She is in a woeful state.”

“Show her in right away,” Pari said.

The moans became louder and Sultanam burst into the room, her leather slippers still on her feet. She stepped onto Pari’s best silk carpets as if she didn’t know they were there. Her kerchief had fallen off the crown of her head, and her white hair was a nest of snakes around her face. Her cheeks were streaked with tears, her mouth as wobbly as a suppurating wound.

“Eldest mother of the palace, what ails you?” Pari said, rising to her feet, as it was her duty to be solicitous. “How can I ease your suffering?”

“My heart has been torn out of my chest and eaten by a wolf,” cried Sultanam. “Help me! By God above, help me!”

She fell to the floor on all fours like an animal and beat her fists against the hard ground. The princess tried to coax Sultanam to a cushion, but she shook Pari’s hand off her arm as if the very touch burned her.

“Has someone hurt you, revered mother? Let me know who it is. I will render justice.”

“Yes, you must render justice!” Sultanam cried, raising herself to a seated position. “I am sick with grief. I have lost the light of my eyes!”

“Who has been harmed?”

“It is my grandson, Sultan Hassan Mirza. I wish I could have died in his place.”

My eyes met Pari’s in alarm. Sultan Hassan was the eldest child of Mohammad Khodabandeh by his first wife.

“What happened to him?”

Sultanam wailed so loudly I felt the sound of her grief in my teeth. “He has been strangled in Tehran by Isma‘il’s men!”

“What a calamity!” Pari said. “I thought Isma‘il had promised you that he would keep Mohammad Khodabandeh and all his children safe.”

Sultanam’s anguished wail made it clear that he had changed his mind. “Isma‘il heard that some of the qizilbash were planning to support Sultan Hassan Mirza in a bid for the throne,” she replied, “but I know that the boy had gone to Tehran simply because he wanted to request a better position at court. Now Isma‘il has put Mohammad Khodabandeh and all his other sons under house arrest in Shiraz and Herat. I am terrified he will kill them all.”

I tightened my hand on my dagger.

“May God keep them safe!” Pari replied. “Mother of so many Safavi generations, let me offer medicine to help relieve your pain.”

“I don’t want medicine,” Sultanam raged. “I want justice!” She threw her arms high in the air and let her hands fall from above and strike her head and chest, battering herself.

“What would you like me to do?”

Sultanam stared at Pari with red-rimmed eyes. “I am here to tell you, in no uncertain terms, that my son must be deposed for the good of the state.”

I could hardly believe my ears.

“Revered elder, are you certain? You said otherwise the last time I saw you.”

“That is because no mother can conceive of deposing her own son, until she discovers that her son is a monster. Pari, you must take charge.”

“How? The nobles won’t help.”

“Then you must find other means.”

“What has changed your mind so completely? Isma‘il has already killed far and wide!”

It was as if the princess were speaking the same thoughts that were forming in my mind.

“If Isma‘il kills Mohammad and all his children, the dynasty will be finished. I must relinquish him to safeguard the future of my country.”

Pari’s face shone with awe. “How brave you have become!”

Sultanam’s face looked like bread that has fallen flat. “This is also for myself. I do—not—wish to lose the rest of my family and be alone for the remainder of my days.”

“Of course not. God willing, you will live to see many more generations.”

I hoped Sultanam could help us catch our prey.

“Esteemed mother,” I said, “your son, the lord of the universe, is very well defended. Surely it is impossible to remove him!”

“You must try to extract information from someone who knows Hassan Beyg.”

“Such as who?” I asked.

“A prostitute named Shireen.”

“How do you know such a woman?” Pari asked.

“She came to see me a few months ago after she had begun serving members of the court. After unveiling herself, she showed me the black bruises under her eyes and the welts on her legs. ‘I pay my taxes like any honest prostitute,’ she told me, ‘and I beg you to protect me from customers who behave like madmen.’

“The culprit was the son of a khan. I directed my vizier to reprimand him, as well as to tell his father that his son would be beaten exactly as he had beaten her if it ever happened again. Shireen was so grateful for my protection that she has been feeding me information on her clients ever since. Hassan Beyg is one of them.”

I almost laughed out loud at the thought of the Shah’s favorite escaping into the arms of a prostitute.

“Can you get any information from Hassan for us?” Pari asked.

“No. Even the mother of a monster can do only so much. Go to Shireen and tell her I sent you.”

“Where does Shireen live?” I asked, my feet as impatient to march as a soldier’s.

“Near the Sa’eed water reservoir.”

“Where the rich merchants live?”

“Yes; she is very beautiful.”

The most beautiful prostitutes had to pay a higher tax than other women who sold themselves, but they also earned the most money.

Pari’s eyes filled with admiration. “Your courage is an example to all women. I will never forget your words today, yet I know your heart bursts with sorrow over your grandchild. May I visit later today and weep with you over your losses?”

Sultanam stood up tall and broad, consuming the space of two women.

“Don’t waste time grieving with me,” she replied. “Just do what I command before more of my kin are executed. Hurry!”

“Chashm, gorbon.”

Sultanam returned to her quarters, leaving Pari and me dumbfounded over what we had just witnessed.

“What a wonder,” Pari said, her eyes liquid with sympathy. “Can you imagine bearing a child, only to have to destroy it?”

“I don’t think I could do it. Could you?”

“My job is to mother my country, not bear children. Yours is the same.”

Our eyes locked in understanding. How different we were from ordinary men and women! No children would issue from our loins, but we would endure the birth pangs of a better Iran. That mission, so much more grand and strange than any I had originally imagined for myself, made me buoyant with hope.



Pari gave me an engraved silver ewer to give to the prostitute as a gift, implying the promise of greater future rewards. After wrapping it in silk, I rushed toward the homes clustered around the bazaar, using the Sa’eed water reservoir as my landmark. It was one of dozens of underground reservoirs in the city that stored water directed from the mountains through gently sloping underground tunnels.

The mud-brick houses surrounding the reservoir were pleasant and well-kept. When I saw a group of children playing in the street, I asked for directions to Shireen’s house. A boy led me there through winding alleys, as if he had done this many times before. When we arrived, he gestured to the house with an embarrassed look. I thanked him with a small coin.

I stepped through Shireen’s wooden door into a tiny but neat courtyard with well-kept apricot trees. The brick walls of her house were covered with serene blue and yellow tiles, and I smelled musk at the doorway. I told her servant I had been sent by a member of the royal family and gave him the ewer. After being shown into Shireen’s waiting room, I was served a vessel of tea flavored with rose water, along with a plate of thick dates and honeyed pastries. Birds sang merrily from somewhere in the house.

Just when I had finished my tea, a servant arrived to tell me that Shireen would see me. I arose and entered a smaller private room deep in her birooni. It was painted with a mural showing a man and a woman reclining in a garden. The woman’s back rested against the front of the man’s body, and his hands explored the secret passageways inside her robe, whose folds parted teasingly at her breast and knees. In the next scene, the one I began imagining in my mind, her robe would be halfway shed, revealing pomegranate breasts. Shireen’s clients would be eager for her services after being so aroused.

When Shireen arrived at the door, still giving instructions to a servant, I inhaled an unforgettable perfume that combined smoke, frankincense, and rose. Her back was to me, and under her long dark hair, her cherry red robe brocaded with golden songbirds shimmered.

When she turned, I was startled by what I saw. Her dark eyes were huge, like deep wells below thick, velvety eyebrows. Her nose and mouth looked tiny by comparison. No one could ever forget such a face.

“Fereshteh!” I exclaimed. “Is it you, or do I dream?”

Her lovely eyes searched mine. Then she replied, in sober but sweet tones, “It is me. But when my servants come in, please call me Shireen. I don’t use my real name anymore.”

“May God above be praised!” I said. “I didn’t think I would ever find you, especially after I heard you had gone to Mashhad.”

“I decided to go all of a sudden,” she replied, but she did not say why. “I was sorry when I learned what you had done to yourself. Payam, is it true?”

The sound of my old name brought perspiration to my brow. She was the only woman from my past who knew all about me; the only one who had seen my adult male parts. Many times I had dreamed of telling her, remembering her tenderness.

“Yes.”

“Thank God you survived.” Her face didn’t show any of the disgust or horror I feared, nor did she turn her gaze away. I took a breath.

“When did you return to Qazveen?”

“About a year ago,” she said. “I had done so well in Mashhad that I was able to make the pilgrimage to Mecca. While I was there, I vowed that as soon as I had earned enough money, I would relinquish my means of earning my living. I asked one of my clients in Mashhad to recommend me to members of the court.”

“So I can call you Hajjieh Fereshteh,” I said. “May God be thanked that you have made the hajj!”

“It has changed me through and through,” she said. “God is merciful, and He has poured His grace on me. I am still an outcast of course—my sisters refuse to see me or accept my gifts—but I had to do what was necessary at the time.”

“It was the same for me.”

“Really? Why did you do it?”

Her gentle curiosity filled me with an urge to tell her everything. I began recounting my youthful despair, my dreams, and my progress since I had seen her last. As I spoke, something large and tight seemed to loosen in my breast.

“Back then, I thought it was my only choice. Now that I am older, I wonder if something deep within me wanted to sacrifice myself for my father, just as he had given his life for us.”

I had never expressed that feeling before, not even to myself. How good it felt to admit the truth after so many years!

Fereshteh’s gaze was affectionate. “I am not surprised. You were so young and so passionate about everything! The way you ate, the way you made love—it was as if your heart were newly born. I confess I thought of you often.”

I had not expected her to say that, and her words warmed me through and through.

“And I, you,” I replied, my mind alive with memories of how we had devoured each other in the dark. Her skin had been almost translucent, like fine paper, against the blackness of her hair. After our lovemaking, she had curled my body around hers like a snail snuggling in its shell.

“How has being a eunuch changed you?”

I stopped to think for a moment. “No one knows the ways of both men and women as well as I do—except perhaps you.”

She smiled.

“But that’s not all. Had I been a nobleman serving at the court as planned, I would have shunned many of those I have come to love.”

“Is there someone you love?”

“An African slave has become my friend,” I replied, trying to keep my heart still. “If I had remained a nobleman of rank, I doubt I would have spent so much time with her.”

“I am glad to hear you have found love despite your changed state.”

I looked at her. She was the same Fereshteh, but grown more beautiful. True, there were small lines at her mouth, but she was a ripe woman now, and her graciousness enveloped me like a sweet-smelling cloud.

“What about you? Would it have been better to remain at your stepmother’s house?”

She smiled sadly. “I would have been married to the first man who asked, no matter what I thought about it. I doubt I would have been happy.”

“Are you happy now?”

“More or less.”

“Have you found love?”

“No,” she replied. “What man wishes to make a prostitute his wife? But I have other boons, like my daughter, whom I love with all my heart.”

The hope that filled me was so great I was afraid to speak. What if, by the grace of God, Fereshteh had left Mashhad because she was pregnant with my child? A little girl with Jalileh’s pretty dark eyes sprang to life in my mind. Silently, I prayed to God, offering any sacrifice He desired.

“How old is she?”

“Six.”

I sighed; she was far too young to be my child.

“What a lovely age.”

A servant poked his head in the door and announced the arrival of another visitor.

“My friend, I wish I could stay with you longer, but for my daughter’s sake, I must attend to business. Perhaps you will come another time.”

“I will,” I said, “but let me tell you why I am here. Sultanam has sent me. You have probably heard about the problems at the palace.”

“I hear about them all the time. I have already received a message from her asking me to help you—but she called you Javaher.”

“That is my palace name. Tell me, what do you know of Hassan Beyg?”

A knowing smile played at her lips. “Hassan Beyg is comely, but not bold. He trembles with fear that he will be killed when the Shah tires of him.”

“Does he wish for another situation?”

“No, he is a loyalist. But he loves women, too.”

I thought about how impossible it was to know a man’s true face without knowing about every place he showed it.

“What does he say about the Shah?”

She paused for a moment. “Very little. If he is in a rambunctious mood, Hassan always mentions one thing—but it is quite impolite.”

“What is that?”

“The Shah bloats like a pig, but nothing comes out.”

I guffawed. This was the frank, funny Fereshteh I remembered from so long ago.

“Do you suppose that could make a man ill-tempered enough to kill?”

She laughed. “No doubt.”

“How does the Shah treat his condition?”

Fereshteh stared at me, alert to danger. I would not have wished her to behave otherwise. No one is more dangerous than a reckless informant.

“Why do you want to know?”

“Sultanam has asked me to find out everything I can about her son. You may check with her if you don’t believe me.”

“I will.”

“Can you ask Hassan about the Shah?”

“Perhaps.” Her eyes told me she would think about it.

“I would be grateful for any help, Fereshteh. You are as celestial as your name, yet you are an earthy angel, too.”

“And your eyes are still kind, but your mouth has become shrewd. May God be praised! Despite what you have endured, you have changed for the better.”

No wonder Hassan Beyg visited so often! Fereshteh had a way of making a man feel embraced without even touching him. As I left, I remembered how velvety her skin had once felt under my fingertips, and how the huge wells of her eyes had always seemed to reflect my own sorrows. Her eyes, like mine, were much more guarded now.



A few days later, I received a brief coded letter from Fereshteh, which must have been penned by a scribe, since when I knew her years ago, she couldn’t read or write. It said,



Remember the problem I mentioned to you? A friend says that the remedy is specially prepared digestives. Can you help me obtain some for my mother? God willing, they will greatly ease her suffering.

When I told the princess, she looked excited by the news for the first time since we had made our pact.

“I understand now. Do you?”

“I imagine the digestives loosen his bowels.”

“There is more to it than that. Opium can turn a man’s innards into sludge. If he is truly an addict, he is probably constipated for days at a time.”

Pari’s face suddenly lit up. “I have just remembered a peculiar poem by Sa’adi:

“The capital of man’s life is his abdomen.

If it be gradually emptied there is no fear

But if it be so closed as not to open

The heart may well despair of life;

And if it be open so that it cannot be closed,

Go and wash your hands of this world’s life.”

“How frank! I have never heard anything quite like it,” I said.

“Sa’adi didn’t hesitate to write about any topic, even the bowels.”

“What a gassy imagination.”

She laughed. “How can we infiltrate the Shah’s digestives?”

The apothecary in the second courtyard of the palace provided all the medicines used by the palace’s inhabitants. Eunuchs delivered the medicines into the women’s and the Shah’s quarters.

“Good question. I am certain that his medicines undergo special security.”

“I will pretend I am having a stomach problem and order some digestives to see what they look like. In the meantime, try to find out who brings them to him.”

Late the next afternoon, I went to see Khadijeh again. I bought pastries in the bazaar and went to her quarters, claiming they were a gift from Pari. It was a rather poor excuse, but I couldn’t help myself.

I was shown in to see Khadijeh in the kitchen she sometimes used within her quarters. She was wearing a purple cotton robe and lemon-colored trousers, and had wound her long hair at the back of her head. An ivory kerchief held the rest of it away from her eyes, but a few curls escaped at the back of her neck. Her dark lips looked plump enough to eat. Nasreen Khatoon was peeling a knobby quince, slicing off the thin skin with an expert touch. A pot full of quince boiled bright orange on a flame behind her, and ground nutmeg and cardamom lay ready in mortars, along with sliced lemon, rose water, and sugar.

“Good afternoon,” I said to Khadijeh, who stood at the stove stirring the pot. “I bring you a gift of pastries from my lieutenant, with thanks for your help on that charitable matter we discussed earlier.”

Nasreen Khatoon’s eyebrows shot up.

“It is always my pleasure to help,” Khadijeh replied. “Nasreen Khatoon, please bring coffee for my guest.”

“May I make it here?”

“No. Get it from the main kitchen. It will be quicker.”

Nasreen Khatoon’s lips twitched as she left.

“How are you faring?” I asked her tenderly.

She sighed. “When the Shah touches me, my belly contracts with loathing.”

I wanted to save her from him with all my heart. “One possibility has come to light.”

“What is it?”

“Digestives.”

Khadijeh put down the quince she had begun to peel. “Good idea. He ate some the last time he visited.”

“Really? What do they look like?”

“They are about the size of a grape, and they seem to be made from herbs and honey.”

“Who brought them?”

“He asked a servant to fetch them.”

“Then how does he know the medicine is safe?”

“The box was closed with a seal.”

“Whose seal?”

“Hassan’s.”

I wasn’t surprised. A shah’s closest companion would typically take care of the things he needed to have at hand—medicines, handkerchiefs, and the like.

“How does the medicine get to Hassan?”

“I don’t know. Most likely a messenger brings it to him from the apothecary, and he tastes it before adding his seal.”

“Can you obtain one of the digestives for me?”

“I can try.”

The jam was boiling delicately. She stirred it, tasted it, and added more sugar and rose water. The floral scent saturated the air, reminding me of the first time we had kissed. When Mahmood’s mother was ill with the stomach ailment that eventually killed her, I used to go to Khadijeh to request soft foods she could digest, like rice pudding. One day, after we had begun flirting, Khadijeh offered me a serving of baklava redolent of rose water and bade me eat it from her fingers. I licked them, and then—

“Javaher, please don’t.”

My hands shook with frustration. “Does he still speak of plots? Does he arise in the night and grab his dagger?”

“Not anymore. But that doesn’t mean he won’t strike again.”

I wished we had struck at him first.

“What about the jam?” she said, staring into the bubbling pot. “Do you think I could put a dose of something into it?”

I was horrified. “Where would you get such a dose?”

“I know people.”

“Don’t even ponder such a thing!” I said, angry at myself for having planted the idea in her mind. “His taster will try it, and then you will be sacrificed. No matter what happens, you can’t do that—for my sake.”

She sighed. “I wish I could help you more.”

“You are helping me more than you know. Just seeing you here makes me happy. Keep yourself safe for the sake of your future children.”

Khadijeh smiled sadly. “Insh’Allah.”

She lifted a spoon of the jam out of the pot and blew on it. When it had cooled, she offered it to me. I sucked the jam onto my tongue and held it there, feeling its sweetness flood my mouth. My eyes met hers, and I remembered the sweet taste of her tongue.

“Incomparable,” I said. “I had better go before I violate all protocol and lay you down right here.”

She looked away, and a pang in my heart prompted me to ask her a question. “Khadijeh—do you think, if you were ever free again, you and I would—”

She put down her stirrer and pressed her lips tightly together. She looked at the floor.

“I want children,” she said softly, “and besides . . .”

She made a gesture of helplessness by opening her hands to the sky. I stared at her and guessed what she meant. She preferred a fully equipped man, now that she knew what it was like to have one.

She smiled even more sadly. “I am sorry.”

“You are in my heart always,” I said, feeling another rip in that tender place.

“Javaher—” she said, and I saw pity clouding her eyes. That was something I couldn’t endure.

“I must go.”

I left the kitchen just as Nasreen Khatoon returned with the coffee. I thanked her and told her I had pressing business for Pari. She looked surprised by my abrupt departure.

I should have reported to the princess for duty, but I didn’t have the heart for the business of the palace. I sent a message that I was ill, returned to my quarters, and lay awake most of the night, watching the sky change from indigo to ash. At dawn, a weak, useless sun failed to brighten the dim sky.



Khadijeh sent me an octagonal wooden box inlaid with tiny pieces of gilded ivory that formed a pattern of golden stars against a shimmering white background. The box had been sealed with Hassan’s red wax seal. I lifted the lid, revealing a single digestive nestled in its own compartment.

The digestive was a lemon-yellow ball about the size of the end of my thumb. The large size indicated to me that it was intended for chewing, not swallowing. It was missing a corner and bore a bite mark. I imagined Khadijeh complaining to the Shah of a stomachache in order to obtain one; then she would have had to eat some of it. I hid the medicine in a fold of my robe.

That afternoon, Pari summoned me to show me the digestives she had received from the apothecary. They had been sent in a plain wooden box that bore the apothecary’s seal. Pari lifted the lid, and I probed one with my finger. It was sticky.

“My messenger told the apothecary that I needed a digestive as good as what he makes for the Shah. He swore to my messenger this morning that he used exactly the same recipe.”

I wondered about the veracity of that. “What do they taste like?”

“Mint. Do you want one?”

“No, thank you.”

“Take them now and have them re-created by an expert who will not betray us.”

“Just a minute,” I said, thinking it wise to be cautious. “I have obtained one as well. Let us compare them.”

“From whom?”

“An impeccable source.”

I unwrapped the digestive I had received. It was larger than the others, despite its missing part, and a brighter saffron. Although it smelled of mint, the fragrance of cinnamon was much stronger.

“Look at that! Are you certain it is from the Shah’s private stash?”

“I am certain. I have the box as well. It is much finer than the one you received.”

“Who gave it to you?”

“I think it is better not to say, for everyone’s protection.”

“I need a hint.”

“Very well, then. It is one of his women.”

“Someone you trust?”

“With my life.”

“Javaher, you are worth your weight in gold.”

If we had copied the apothecary’s digestives, we would have been found out right away. Khadijeh had already saved us.

“What excuse have you used for visiting her?”

“I have requested charity for Rudabeh and the other women who petition you for favors.”

“All right, then. Can you have the digestive re-created by someone who can’t betray us?”

“I will try.”



It wasn’t an easy task. I needed a person skilled enough to know how to make poisons, but compromised enough to prevent betrayal.

I couldn’t use anyone with the slightest connection to the Shah, so I began to think about the men who had opposed him or who had suffered a grievance. The large family related to Kholafa was a possibility, but I couldn’t find any medical men or apothecaries among his kin. I didn’t wish to seek some unknown person in one of the alleyways of the bazaar who might decide to betray me in exchange for money. Finally, I remembered Amin Khan Halaki, the physician whose bright blue robe I had spotted when he was hiding in the harem—unsupervised—after Haydar had tried to take the throne. I knew he had escaped because I had seen him a few weeks later in the bazaar.

The Halaki family owned a home near the river. The servant who opened his door didn’t wish to let me in when he discerned from the fineness of my attire that I was from the court. He tried to claim that his master wasn’t home, but I pushed open the door, stepped inside, and told him he had better rouse the physician. Cowed, the servant disappeared to do my bidding, returned quickly, and showed me into his master’s public rooms with florid apologies.

Amin Khan had thick gray eyebrows that obscured his eyes. He wore a dark gray robe that added to the impression that he was trying to disappear. His jaw clenched at the sight of me.

“So it is you.”

“You sound as if you were expecting me.”

“Of course. I knew you would want a favor in return.” His voice bled sarcasm.

“I do.”

“Well, come in. I was in the middle of making something. Follow me.”

We entered a large room that held the tools of his profession. The alcoves were stuffed with clay jars filled with herbs, as well as medical texts such as Avicenna’s immortal treatises and a smattering of books by the ancient Greeks. The room smelled of hundreds of herbs, including a pile of something dark and green whose bitter aroma filled the air. I sneezed a few times as we continued into a courtyard, where a metal pot filled with a bright yellow liquid bubbled on top of a fierce charcoal fire. Another pot contained pale roots that were steeping. Amin Khan stirred the yellow liquid.

“What are you making?”

“My work is confidential,” he replied in a tone just short of snapping.

“That is good to hear,” I replied, “since that is exactly what I require.”

“State your business.”

“I trust you can help me,” I said. “I know you will keep your promise of confidentiality, given where I last found you. No doubt you have heard that Isma‘il doesn’t take kindly to those he suspects of evil deeds.”

“I cared for his father. Was that an evil deed?”

“No, except for the small matter of the orpiment being poisoned.”

“I know nothing about that,” he replied, his face closing as if he were withdrawing behind the thicket of his eyebrows.

“You would have to persuade him. I am sure you don’t wish to have to do so, especially given all the people he has killed.”

Amin Khan dropped the metal stirrer into the pot and uttered a curse as he fished it out.

“What do you want?” He kept an eye on the pot while talking.

“I have a personal matter to resolve,” I said, “and I need some poison to settle the matter to my heart’s content.”

“Who is your prey?”

“The murderer of my father.”

“Is he a nobleman?”

“No.”

He laughed. “Don’t worry, I don’t believe a word of what you have said so far. What kind of poison do you need?”

“Something quick and tasteless.”

“That is what everyone wants. Do you need a powder, a cream, or a liquid?”

“What do you advise?”

He looked exasperated. “It depends how you are planning to use it.”

I reached into my robe and drew out the digestive I had stored there. “I need eight servings that look and taste exactly like this.”

He smelled the digestive and took a small bite, chewing it thoroughly. “Wormwood, cinnamon, peppermint oil, turmeric, honey, and a touch of ground rubies. Duplicating this will cost you plenty.”

“Ground rubies? How can you tell?”

Amin Khan smiled. “How much money do you have?”

I put a bag of silver that Pari had given me on the table. Amin Khan’s eyebrows shot skyward.

“Your life savings? The prey must be quite important.”

“I am paying for an impeccable dose—and for your silence.”

Amin Khan didn’t reply. He grabbed the pot of steeping roots and poured it through a sieve into the yellow liquid. The liquid jumped to the lip, bubbling fiercely. As it settled, it became white and opaque.

“When you need your order, send me a messenger requesting your stomach medicine. I will send a boy back to you who will tell you where to go in the bazaar to pick it up. I don’t allow my messengers to go into the palace with such dangerous materials.”

“All right.”

“Once you have it in your possession, never let it out of your sight. You can guess why.”

“Yes,” I replied. I never thought I would be pursuing such black arts, and I was surprised to discover that his work both repelled and fascinated me. A capacity for destruction seemed to lie within me. I thought about my father and wondered if he had experienced a similar feeling.

“Who taught you how to make such things?”

Amin Khan’s bushy eyebrows lowered in self-defense. “If you are hired to be the shah’s physician, you must know how to make everything,” he answered.

I peered at the liquid in the pot. It was cooling and reducing in size. Small islands of white powder formed on its surface. I had never seen such alchemy before.

“What is in the pot? It looks wicked.”

He smiled. “It is. In a few hours, it will turn into a fine face powder. Ladies ensnare men with it as easily as if they were the devil himself.”



Pari was getting thinner and thinner: Her drawn face made her cheeks look even more sculpted than usual, and her robes seemed to hang off her body. I knew she was worried about her brother Mohammad Khodabandeh’s safety and that of his four children, in the absence of any guarantee from Isma‘il Shah. Whenever a messenger rushed into her quarters, her eyes widened with alarm.

I offered to visit Mirza Salman and ask if he had any information about Isma‘il’s plans. So far, Mirza Salman had been my best source of information about my father. I grabbed at any excuse to see him again.

Mirza Salman’s waiting room was crowded, but I was shown in quickly.

“The princess fears for the safety of Mohammad Khodabandeh’s family,” I told him. “She wonders if you think the killings are done.”

Mirza Salman frowned. “Isma‘il must be careful not to offend Sultanam. People will become angry if they think he has wronged her excessively. Recently, though, he made some comments that were very disheartening.”

“What were they?”

“He said that everyone thought his grandfather was close to God. They were so convinced his royal farr could protect them that they would fight without armor. Today, no one believes Isma‘il is anything but a man. He blames that on his father. Who can believe in his omnipotence after he was imprisoned for nearly twenty years?”

“True.”

“That is why he feels he has to show his power through brute force.”

“I see. Do you think Mohammad and his children are at risk?”

“Yes.”

“May God protect them. How about the princess?”

“He hasn’t said anything about her.”

“Will the nobles try to stop him?”

“No, because only about half are against him.”

“I see. And what is your strategy?”

“To survive.”

“I suppose that is better than the alternative.”

He laughed, but once again, I sensed that he was ill at ease with me. I decided to try to take advantage of his discomfort.

“Speaking of the alternative, may I ask you another question about my father?”

“Certainly.”

“What do you remember of him?”

“Your father was an excellent raconteur who was welcome at every party he attended. But like many people who are good at talking, he didn’t know when to stop.”

“Do you know how his plot was uncovered?”

“From what I heard, he imbibed too much one night and couldn’t keep quiet. It didn’t take long for the story to find the ears of someone willing to betray him.”

“That doesn’t surprise me. He loved to talk.”

A eunuch entered and told Mirza Salman that Mirza Shokhrollah needed to see him. I would have to hurry.

“There is just one other thing. The court history says that Tahmasb Shah didn’t punish Kamiyar Kofrani because he had such important allies. Do you know who they were?”

Mirza Salman’s eyes looked guarded, and I had the distinct impression that something was amiss.

“No. You have reached the limits of my knowledge on this subject.”

The more I investigated my father’s murder, the more the truth seemed to slip from my grasp. I remained silent, which I often found was a good way to encourage people to keep talking.

“The lesson in all of this is that a man must never be sloppy at court,” he added. “Look at Isma‘il Shah. What discipline he has! His security is impeccable. He hasn’t made a single mistake yet.”

Mirza Salman was ever the slippery courtier.

“Is that what matters most?”

“Perhaps not, but it has certainly forestalled any attempts on his life.”



The princess wasted no time before asking Gowhar if she knew anyone who might be able to help us deliver the digestives once we were ready. Gowhar mentioned a eunuch named Fareed Agha who had worked for her for several years before coming to serve at the palace. After Ibrahim was killed, he had visited her to pay his condolences and hinted about how unhappy he was regarding affairs at the palace. Gowhar summoned him and told him that if he would be willing to perform a special mission for her, it would make him rich, and he agreed to hear the terms of it.

We made our plans, and then I sent Massoud Ali to Fareed Agha to tell him to meet me underneath one of the big walnut trees in the harem gardens at midnight the following day. At the appointed hour, I wrapped myself in dark cotton clothes and waited at the base of the tree, where it was as black as naphtha.

When Fareed appeared, I recognized him slightly, not because of his looks but because of his scent. The acrid smell of urine wafted around him due to some leak that must have resulted from the way he was cut. Such unfortunate eunuchs were usually put in lowly messenger jobs so that they didn’t bother anyone by lingering too long. He would welcome Pari’s money.

When he saw me, he looked surprised. “Is this mission for your princess?”

“Don’t ask questions. My orders are to lead you to the person who has summoned you.”

Fareed followed me to the back of the harem gardens and through the hedges, which had grown thicker since my first visit with Pari. The night was flooded with moonlight. We would have to hurry to avoid being seen. I stepped into the old pavilion and looked around. It was empty. I told him to wait a moment for me, and then I went into the room with the green and yellow tiles and lifted the old tile so Pari could appear. She emerged wrapped in a black chador, which concealed her head and body. She had also placed a picheh in front of her eyes so she could see but not be seen.

I called out for Fareed Agha, who entered behind me. He looked startled when he laid eyes on her. In her black clothing she was like a spirit hovering in the darkness.

“What is it, a jinni?” he asked, as if making a joke, but I could see he was awed.

“Come here,” Pari commanded, and he approached a little closer, but not too close.

“Who are you?” he asked.

“I won’t tell you who I am, only that I have a splendid gift for you. Behold!” she said.

She opened a bag and spilled silver in front of him on the floor. The coins struck the tiled surface like music. Even in the dark of night, they gleamed, and his eyes became round with desire as he calculated what the money would mean.

“So you are a jinni after all!”

“Not so. I am a taskmaster.”

“What do you require?”

“Something very simple. I won’t tell you what it is unless you agree to be employed.”

“What is its purpose?” he asked.

“Ending the killings at the palace.”

There was a long silence.

“So this is a dirty business.”

“It is an essential business, one that requires a trustworthy man like yourself.”

“Why me?”

“I thought you might be a man of justice.”

“A man of justice? I have never seen myself that way.”

“Most of us haven’t until we are called on to do something of great importance.”

He looked uncomfortable. “I am just an ordinary servant.”

“That is exactly what we need. I understand that you served Gowhar and Ibrahim honorably for many years.”

“True. I feel very sorry for her now.”

“As do I. What do you do at the palace?”

“I make deliveries.”

“Of what?”

“Food, mostly.”

“Do you like working here?”

He was silent for a moment. “I used to.”

“What has changed?”

“The palace has become a place of fear,” he said. “One day a man is raised high; the next day his head is displayed on a stake outside the Tehran Gate. There is no logic to it.”

“That is the problem we wish to address,” said Pari.

“If your cause is pure justice, why do you pay?”

“In consideration of the great risk to you. We would do it ourselves, but we can’t go where you can.”

He took a deep breath. “Whom do you wish to extinguish?”

“I will tell you what you need to know if you accept my commission. If not, our conversation is finished. What is your decision?”

“It depends how you will protect me.”

“After you perform the deed we require, you will receive these coins and will be escorted outside, where a horse will await you. You will depart for a distant city and will live as a rich man from then on.”

“I would rather stay in Qazveen.”

“You can’t. It is not safe for any of us.”

“How do I know you won’t turn on me? Or blame me for what you yourself have tried to do?”

“I will give you my word.”

“And why should I take your word?”

“Royal blood flows through my veins. Isn’t that good enough?”

“Not if you can’t prove it.”

“What would satisfy you?”

“Only one thing: I need to see you.”

“And how do I know you won’t betray me?”

“I give you my word.”

Pari laughed. “That is not good enough.”

“That is what I want,” he said. “Show me your face to prove who you are, and I will do what you ask.”

“Don’t do it,” I whispered to Pari. If he could name her, and he betrayed us or was caught, people would believe his story was true.

Heedless of her own safety, Pari lifted her picheh and revealed her face. Her dark eyes were just visible in the moonlight that filtered into the pavilion. A drop of turquoise set in gold gleamed at the center of her forehead. The silver threads in her robe glowed as if she were a ghostly apparition. She was fearless—and in that moment my heart swelled to bursting.

“When you perform what I command, know that you do so by order of a princess who has the good of her dynasty foremost in mind.”

He was speechless at the sight of her.

“Our time is at an end,” I said. “Will you help us or not?”

He eyed the money on the floor one last time as if making calculations. I could imagine what he must be thinking: He would never have to work again, and he would live a life of ease. I envied him.

“What must I do?”

“When we summon you, you will come here alone to pick up a box. You will deliver the box to a location outside the harem and return here. Then you will receive your money and be escorted outside of the palace. Is that simple enough?”

“It is simple enough to kill a man.”

“True.”

There was a long silence. There was no turning back now.

“When the time is right, I will summon you,” I said.

“Not so fast. I want half the money now, and half when I return from delivering it.”

“No,” I said. “Half when you pick up the box, and half when you return.”

“Done.”

“May God be with you,” he said, and I watched him disappear into the dark. I returned the coins to the cloth bag. When he was far enough so that he would not hear or see anything, I gently lifted the tile, descended into the passageway, and left the bag of money there. Beside it, I placed the Shah’s inlaid ivory box, which had been concealed in my room. We were almost ready.



When I awoke a few days later to the sound of music, I thought I was dreaming. It seemed as if an orchestra were exploding with joy. How long had it been since I heard such notes of happiness at the palace? I sat up to ask Balamani the reason, but he had already left for the day. Massoud Ali knocked and entered my quarters dressed in a new blue robe. A curl of unruly black hair had escaped from his turban, as if the forerunner of the exciting news.

“The whole palace is rejoicing. The Shah has an heir!”

“My little radish, are you sure you don’t have some bad news for me?” I teased. “Where are the dark clouds that always ring your youthful head?”

I collapsed on my bedroll, pleased that I didn’t have to rush out to attend to a problem.

“You will see nothing but blue skies today,” he said. “Unless you want me to look harder for rain clouds!”

I swatted the air and told him he was a shaytoon—devil—which made him laugh.

“What is the child’s name?”

“Shoja al-din Mohammad. The light of the universe has rewarded the messenger with a silk robe of honor. There will be a grand celebration, and all the townspeople will be invited to feast and celebrate the Shah’s good fortune in the Promenade of the Royal Stallions.”

He paused, his black eyes dancing. “Can we play a game of backgammon to celebrate? I bet I can beat you now.”

I laughed. “Certainly. But first, how is Mahasti?”

“She is healthy and has already received visits from some of her kinswomen.”

Even though Mahasti was a slave, she would be sure to claim better rooms and more servants, and perhaps she would even receive her freedom or an offer of permanent marriage from the Shah. I could only imagine how Khadijeh and the other wives felt now that she had succeeded in giving him his first son.

“Does Pari know?” I asked.

“She has just gone to visit Mahasti.”

“Quick, set up the board while I get ready.”

We played a game, and for the first time, I had to pay close attention to every move. Massoud Ali made his plays with skill and zeal, and although he did not win, the sparkle in his eyes revealed how much he relished the closeness of the battle.

“Mash’Allah!” I said, and rewarded him with a big chunk of halva. While he ate it, I told him another installment of the story of Zahhak and Kaveh. When he heard the part about how Kaveh had confronted the tyrant, stomped on his proclamation, and raised his leather banner in the air, his eyes widened with disbelief.

“How brave!”

“Especially because Kaveh didn’t even brandish a weapon—just the strength of his own character and the truth of his own words.”

“Vohh!”

“But a man who takes such a stand has to believe in it with his whole heart and soul. That is the only way that his enemy will be overcome.”

“With his whole heart and soul,” Massoud Ali repeated softly.

It was getting late. I sent Massoud Ali on his errands and went to Pari to find out about her visit.

“He is a handsome child with a great howl,” she told me enthusiastically. “I could see my father in his eyes.”

“How is Mahasti?”

“Like all new mothers, she behaved as if drugged. I tried to ask her about the Shah, but she was so preoccupied with the baby that I think she has forgotten the name of his father.”

We laughed together.

“How is Koudenet?”

“Full of envy. She wishes she had borne the first son. She is also peevish because the Shah isn’t visiting her as much as he used to.”

“I imagine he wishes to be with Mahasti right now.”

“I don’t think so. Mahasti mentioned that he won’t return to spend the night until the child is sleeping through the dark hours.”

“When is the celebration?”

“Tomorrow, and it will last for three nights. The first night is for the Shah and his closest retainers. The next night will include all the noblemen. The third night is the public celebration for the citizens of Qazveen.”

Our eyes met and we did not have to say much.

“The third night?” I asked softly.

“Yes. If God is with us, we will succeed.”

Pari sent word to a groom to order the horses that would carry Fareed to safety three nights hence, and I sent a message to the physician ordering the digestives. As I went about my tasks, I felt the enthusiasm of a soldier primed to meet his enemy on the battlefield. We had been planning our assault for a long time. At last, victory seemed close at hand.



That night, I fell into a deep sleep, a luxurious blackness in which I would have liked to remain. But some time very early in the morning—too early—I heard a noise near my door. It must be my little radish coming to bring me some news, I thought fondly, smiling a little, but then came the sound of iron ripping wood. Before I had time to leap out of bed, the door split open, its lock broken, and four eunuchs armed with daggers and swords burst in. Ya, Ali! I didn’t recognize them, but from their engraved shields and metal helmets, I knew they were part of the Shah’s guard.

Balamani opened his eyes. “What is all this noise about?” he asked almost lazily, and I realized he was hiding any sign of concern.

“Get up. You have been summoned by the Shah,” the captain announced to me.

I acted as if I had a clean conscience. “It is my pleasure to be of service,” I replied, getting out of bed.

“The work of a loyal servant is never done,” Balamani said. “Wake me when you get back.”

He rolled over, and before long, a believable snore escaped from his nose.

As I wrapped myself in a dark robe, placed my turban around my hair, and put on my leather shoes, I silently inventoried all the things that could have gone wrong. Had the physician betrayed me? Had Sultanam laid a trap for us? Had Fareed blabbered to someone? Had I made the same mistakes as my father by talking to too many people?

“Follow me,” said the captain, and when I did, one of his soldiers hugged closely behind. Massoud Ali came speeding down the corridor, but when he saw the soldiers, he wisely continued elsewhere, his eyes wide with worry. The other soldiers remained in my room, which meant they would be searching my things. I broke out into a sweat.

We walked through the still-dark gardens, which were heavy with dew, and entered the Shah’s birooni. Its ceiling was decorated with plaster carved into the shape of icicles, which made it look as cold as a cave. A mosaic of tiny mirrors on the walls reflected every detail of my frightened face and made me imagine that the Shah’s eyes and his spies were everywhere.

I was called in right away, a terrible sign. My heart fell further at the sight of Pari, who had dressed hastily in a plain robe, with no jewelry, her hair loose over her shoulders except for a white kerchief holding it in place. I tried to discern from her eyes what to say or do, but she made no sign. Sweat leaked from my armpits into my sash.

The Shah was seated on a low throne covered with cushions on a blue silk carpet. There were hollows under his eyes, and although he wore a fine silk robe, he had not bothered to put on his turban, and his hair stood on end. I pressed my hand to my chest, bowed low, and waited.

“Let’s hope your servant can explain himself,” the Shah said to Pari, with no preamble. His voice rumbled with rage. “Why have you been visiting my servant Khadijeh? Remember that you lie to your shah on pain of death.”

I saw Nasreen Khatoon sitting by herself at the back of the room. I would have to be as smooth as perfumed oil.

“Light of the universe, I have visited your servant on several occasions to request charity. She has been very generous.”

“Charity for whom?”

“For unfortunate women who presented themselves to my lieutenant, Pari Khan Khanoom, and begged for help.”

“That is ridiculous. My sister has enough money to help anyone who asks.”

“Yes, but the need is great, and often other women wish for an opportunity to help their fellow Muslims.”

He stared at me skeptically. “Tell me about every visit.”

I looked at Pari for a sign that I was on the right track, but she gave no clue.

“Certainly. I will try to remember. The first time, a lady had come to my lieutenant after losing her house because she needed assistance in the form of clothing for herself and her child. She was from Khui. The second time, the lady had recovered her house and sent a thank-you gift of embroidery, which I delivered to your servant. It was very fine, with poppies and roses.”

“You can omit the florid descriptions.”

“I beg your pardon. On another occasion, a lady that my lieutenant knew was ill needed medicine to quiet her grieving heart. I had heard that your servant was skilled at such things—”

“Skilled indeed!” interrupted the Shah, looking around at his assembled staff. “But not as skilled as she had hoped!” His laugh was loud and horrible. All the eunuchs and the women in the room looked chastened, as if the subject were too ghastly for words. A pit of fear opened in my belly.

“That is three visits. What about when she was making jam?”

“Jam?” I said, to give myself time to think. Nasreen Khatoon had seen me with Khadijeh that day. Delivering a gift from Pari seemed like a flimsy reason, especially since the two women hardly knew each other.

“Answer me!”

I feigned embarrassment. “Forgive me, lord of the universe, but I went to see her because I was ill. Since she is famous for her medicines, I asked for some.”

As Nasreen Khatoon hadn’t stayed in the room, she wouldn’t be able to contradict my assertion. I only hoped I wasn’t laying a trap for Khadijeh.

“That is a stupid excuse. You have use of the palace apothecary.”

“I needed it right away,” I said. “I was having trouble with something I dare not mention in the royal presence.”

“Give me an idea.”

I hoped that the Shah might have a shred of sympathy for a roiling stomach, since he had a bowel problem of his own.

“Something I couldn’t stop from pouring out of me—”

“Diarrhea? Don’t mince words.”

“Like water, lord of the universe.”

“Is the medicine in your chambers?”

“No. She didn’t give me any.”

His eyes were cold. “If you have nothing to fear, why are you so nervous? You are sweating.”

“I am afraid I may have somehow offended the royal radiance. Nothing pains me more than that idea.”

The Shah turned to Pari. “Did you know he asked one of my women for medicine?”

“No,” she replied angrily. “It is not correct for my vizier to make personal requests of the women close to you. He will be reprimanded for his transgression.”

I assumed a fearful look and threw myself at the Shah’s feet. “Light of the universe, I beg your forgiveness!”

“Get up,” said the Shah, and I rose slowly to my feet, my face crumpling out of concern. I was frightened in a way I had never been before—for myself, for Pari, and for Khadijeh.

The Shah called in the captain who had broken my door. He entered and bowed low. “Did your men find anything in his room?”

“Nothing but a book of poetry,” said the eunuch. “But a messenger has just arrived for him from a physician.”

I realized with a jolt that the messenger had come to lead me to the poison in the bazaar. My mind became clear and cold as I began to think of what I might say to justify buying poison, and I decided that although I would lose my life, the only way to protect Pari, and maybe even Khadijeh, would be to swear that I had decided on my own to poison the Shah.

“What did he want?”

“His stomach medicine is ready,” the guard replied.

“What is it with you eunuchs?” the Shah demanded. “You always have problems at one end or the other!”

“Please forgive me for my unworthiness.”

Someone whispered in the Shah’s ear, and he turned his attention on me once again. “Ah. You are the self-gelder, aren’t you?”

“I am.”

“What a freakish tale. I expect you think you have proved your loyalty once and for all. Know that I will require further demonstrations of it.”

“Chashm gorbon,” I replied, my head bowed.

The Shah turned to Pari. “Do you understand now why I have to be so thorough? You never know when a murderer will strike.”

His words threw another arrow of fear into my liver.

“The light of the universe is wise,” Pari replied.

The Shah looked pleased. “I intend to root out every would-be killer in the palace,” he added.

His courtiers’ faces blanched with fear; the silence in the room felt suffocating. For a moment I caught Nasreen Khatoon’s eyes, which were like ice.

The Shah waved his hand to dismiss me. “Your servant has leave to go,” he said, not bothering to use my name. “But you had better keep a closer eye on him in the future.”

I walked to Pari’s home and gave my heartfelt thanks to God that I had survived. It was just becoming light, and birds had begun singing in the trees. Their cheerful tune filled me with sweet relief.

When Pari arrived, her face was closed. She called me into her private rooms and slammed the door. Rather than sitting down, she stood so close to me I could smell the sharp scent of fear emanating from her body.

“Javaher, have you lost your reason?”

I didn’t care for her angry tone. “It was for the sake of getting information.”

“Why didn’t you tell me about her?”

“I gave you an idea of my source. I thought ignorance would protect you, and her, too.”

“Was she the person who gave you the digestive?”

“Of course.”

“What else were you trying to discover?”

“The Shah’s personal habits.”

Her frown was so deep it made her face look like a weapon. “You could have gotten us killed. Now he is going to be more careful than ever, and it is all because of you.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean you have overstepped your authority.”

“By the fires of hell! How did you think I procure such excellent information for you?”

She pointed her finger at me accusingly. “You need to tell me when you take such risks. You have violated one of your own rules by keeping your activities secret from me all this time.”

“I wanted to keep everyone safe, including myself. That is my job.”

She guffawed suddenly, but the sound was devoid of mirth. “Okh, okh! You donkey! You have behaved like a know-it-all.”

I was in no mood to be accused of things, even if they were true. I turned my face away as if from a bad smell.

“Fortunately, I knew enough to tell the Shah that you had requested charity for my petitioners. When he pressed me for more details, I told him I had so many cases I didn’t know which ones you had brought to which ladies. It was only luck that you had mentioned charity to me not long ago—pure luck. We need a better strategy than that.”

“It seemed to work well enough,” I retorted.

Pari glared at me as if I were a worm. “By God above, don’t you understand what has happened?”

“No.” My belly clenched with pain.

“Last night, the Shah was awakened by suspicious noises. He noticed that Khadijeh was standing near his flask of water and fumbling with something. When he jumped up and grabbed her around the waist, she screamed. Crushed in her hand was a clay vial, which she claimed bore amatory musk. She told him she hoped the potion would work its magic and allow her to bear a child.

“The Shah was almost convinced until he decided to order her to drink it. She argued that she didn’t need it to feel amorous. When he insisted, she tried to rid herself of the vial, but he forced her to drink its contents. Before long, she began clutching her stomach and writhing in agony. Just before she died, she told him she had acted on her own to avenge the death of her brother, but he didn’t believe her. All this morning, he has been interviewing her ladies and her visitors to discover who else is to blame.”

The room around me had grown dark and suffocating. I clapped my hands against my chest and held them there.

Pari stared at me. “Javaher, why do you look as if you have lost the light of your eyes?”

“I have!” I exclaimed, but stopped myself there. I couldn’t admit to Pari that I had been in love with one of the Shah’s wives. She would consider it an unpardonable transgression.

“If only I could take her place!”

Pari’s lips turned down in surprise. “Why?”

“Because,” I continued, half-choking, “because this means the Shah has proven himself willing to kill a woman, and now you are no longer safe, either.”

I couldn’t stop angry tears from dampening my eyes, so stricken was I by the news.

“Javaher—you are truly frightened for me—is that it?”

“Yes, my lieutenant,” I replied, wiping my face and trying to collect myself. “I am truly frightened.”

“Don’t worry about me. Very few people know of our plans: only Gowhar and Sultanam, who are on our side, plus Fareed, who needs money, and the physician, who is compromised by his own past. Is there anyone else?”

“No,” I said, because I did not want to implicate Fereshteh or Balamani. And then I was filled with fear: Would they betray us?

“All right, then. We will curse Khadijeh’s name and express righteous pleasure that the Shah has foiled a slave’s plot against his life.”

“It was brave of her to make the attempt,” I insisted.

“I can’t approve of a slave deciding to poison the Shah. It was overstepping her station.”

“Overstepping? Then why is it right for us to do so?”

“I have royal blood.”

I was flooded with rage. She should be praising Khadijeh’s name, not condemning her.

“Javaher,” Pari said, looking at me strangely, “you are shaking. Did you have anything to do with Khadijeh’s plan?”

“Nothing at all,” I replied, and it was the one true thing I had said all morning. “But I am sick over it. I only wish I had known so I could have stopped her.”

“By God above, I have never seen your heart so inflamed. What are you keeping secret from me?”

I remembered Khadijeh offering me a taste of jam, her eyes sweeter than the sugared quince. Now those eyes were sightless forever. Fervently I wished I had never revealed our plans; what a fool I had been!

“We were good friends,” I confessed. “Now she is dead, and it is all because she wanted to help.”

I fell to a squat, my arms dangling brokenly between my knees. I felt as if my skin had peeled off, leaving all my organs bare to the elements and every nerve pulsing with pain. I longed from the depths of my soul for the extinction of all my senses. Had I been near a high mountain pass, I would have leapt with gratitude to my death. For a long time, I forgot where I was.

When my head finally cleared and I stood up, shaken, a tray had appeared beside me with one of Pari’s handkerchiefs and a vessel of something. I wiped my face.

“Javaher, drink the mixture. It will soothe you.” Pari’s voice seemed to come from far away.

I smelled bitter herbs and honey, which I consumed in a single draft. Dullness flooded through me.

“I am sorry about your friend.”

I could not speak.

“How I wish that even one of my brothers could boast the kind and loyal blood that sparkles like rubies in your veins! I deeply regret that your service to me has caused you so much grief. Oh, Javaher! If you only knew how much I wish I could shield you from the ugly business of the court, how I long to make our lives shine as bright as gold. How can I ever thank you enough for the risks you take for me every day?”

Her moist eye and anguished lip revealed the depth of her concern. How caring she was in that moment of my most crushing sorrow! Was it even—could it be—the tenderness of filial love that I saw blossoming in her regard? She had virtually said so, had she not? As I walked back to my quarters in the harsh morning sun, I felt as if my heart would shred with feeling, like a peony swirling its bloody skirts.

For the rest of that week, I was at pains to assume the expression that I must wear when Khadijeh was mentioned, one of grim satisfaction that justice had been served at the palace. But when I allowed myself to think of her, I remembered the delicacy of her brown body under her orange robe, and I drew courage from knowing that she had needed nothing to guide her but her determined heart. Had there ever been a man who could claim to be as fearless? She had never even held the heavy swords and sharp daggers that gave soldiers their swagger. Khadijeh may have been a slave, but in her heart, she was a lion-woman.