Equal of the Sun A Novel

CHAPTER 7



AN END TO THE CHASE





As soon as he was old enough, Fereydoon began learning the arts of horse riding, swordsmanship, and military strategy. Once he had mastered these endeavors, he began training an army in the desert to combat Zahhak’s tyranny. For good luck, he asked a blacksmith to make him an iron mace topped by an animal’s head. Some say it was a cow, but I like to think it was an ox—a castrated bull.

One day, from his camp, Fereydoon saw Kaveh marching to him with his leather apron flying high in the air and his army of protestors behind him, and he knew that the time to liberate Iran had come. Fereydoon gave Kaveh a hero’s welcome and decorated his humble apron with jewels, gold brocade, and fringes until the banner glittered in the sun. Then, when all was ready for battle, Fereydoon’s soldiers carried the banner on the front lines as he led his army to the city to fight Zahhak.

Upon arriving, Fereydoon discovered that Zahhak had left for a campaign of pillage in India. He stormed his empty palace, liberated those who had remained, and took possession of the women.

Before long, Zahhak returned with an army to reclaim his city. His men surrounded the palace, only to find that the local population had sided with Fereydoon. Enraged, Zahhak broke away from his army and used a rope to lower himself over his palace walls to try to take Fereydoon by surprise. But Fereydoon recognized him right away by the snakes slithering on his shoulders, and he struck Zahhak with enormous blows of his mace until the tyrant was subdued. Then Fereydoon claimed Zahhak’s throne and declared himself the ruler of a new era.

That is how the brains of the men of Iran were saved from destruction, and justice returned to the land.





When my father died, it was as if I were being pulled deep into a lake of grief; it seemed impossible to swim to the surface. After Khadijeh’s death, I sorrowed just as deeply, but not with the helplessness I had felt as a boy. Instead, what grew inside was a sharp coldness like the edge of a sword. I became unswerving and vowed to carry out my mission even unto my own death.

To keep strong in my purpose, I began visiting the House of Strength at the palace and training with the heavy wooden clubs that athletes swing over their shoulders to tone their bodies. As the weeks passed, the muscles in my arms, chest, and thighs became as dense as the clubs themselves. My neck became even thicker than before. I developed a ravenous appetite for meat and ate lamb kabob daily, even as the excess weight on my body began to fall away. When I caught a glimpse of myself in a mirror, I realized I looked more like a normal man than I ever had.

For some time after Khadijeh’s death, Pari and I struggled to reestablish the solidity of our relationship. We still met daily and she delivered assignments to me, but they were minor and I could see in her eyes that despite the affection she had expressed for me, she wasn’t certain she could trust me. This new veil saddened me. I longed to feel as if we were comrades in arms again.

One night, I dreamed that Isma‘il Shah had discovered our plot and that we were about to be executed. I woke up sweating with fear, my sheets damp. In the dark, I admitted to myself that I had been wrong not to tell Pari about Khadijeh, especially after I had taken the princess to task for not keeping me informed. As the sweat on me cooled, I shivered at my foolhardiness, which could have doomed us.

The next day, I told Pari about the dream and begged her forgiveness for jeopardizing our lives. I had been too stricken with grief to admit that I had erred, I told her, and I promised to modify my approach. Pari accepted my apology graciously; but more importantly, it lightened her spirit. A smile appeared on her lips the next time she greeted me, and I began to feel that she was enjoying my company again. As the weeks went by, we found a new way of working together, and trust grew quietly between us like that of an old married couple.

Pari and I didn’t discuss how we would rid ourselves of the ongoing scourge. It was too dangerous to mention any plans; security had become tighter than ever, and anyone around us could be in the pay of the Shah. But we both knew our goal remained the same. When no new murders came to light, we thought it prudent to bide our time until our sleuthing revealed an ideal time to strike.

While we were engaged in this dangerous business, it would have been folly to bring my sister to court. I took Balamani aside and gave him a sealed letter with my final instructions. If anything happened to me, he was to use all my means—including my precious dagger and my Shahnameh—as a dowry for my sister and make certain that she was settled in a good family in Qazveen. I did not trust my mother’s cousin to treat her well in the event of my death.



Six months passed, and life returned to its accustomed patterns. The snows gave way to spring, the New Year, and a hot summer. We commemorated Moharram and the martyrdom of the Imam Hossein with ceremonies recalling his immense suffering on the battlefield, and we thought about all the other injustices that we had yet to tackle.

Gradually, the palace hierarchy began to shift in our favor. Shamkhal Cherkes won a few high postings and land concessions for the Circassians. Mirza Salman managed to get himself appointed grand vizier, through a relentless campaign of sabotaging the reputation of Mirza Shokhrollah, who was ultimately dismissed in disgrace. We hoped that Mirza Salman’s appointment as second in command meant that Pari could be rehabilitated one day, even though he must now keep his distance from her.

Ramazan arrived that year in the second month of autumn. For weeks in advance, preparations were made at the palace for the fact that day was about to become night, and night day. Tradesmen brought in plenty of oil, since lamps would burn all night while we were awake, as well as all the necessary supplies of food that did not need to be fresh—rice, beans, dried fruit and vegetables, spices, and the like.

On the eve of Ramazan, I stayed up late with Balamani, a few of the other eunuchs, and Massoud Ali. We took a walk near the mountains and sat in the open country, wrapped in wool blankets, to drink hot tea that we made over a charcoal brazier. I watched the night light up with stars and imagined that I saw Khadijeh’s eyes there. When the night grew late, Balamani suggested we recite some poems. The flasks of wine and much stronger aragh came out and all of us grew emotional as the night wore on and we recited the lines that were dearest to our hearts.

I stood up and addressed the moon, calling her beautiful, but in my heart I was speaking of Khadijeh. The poem I declaimed was about a lover whose love had gone to another, leaving the flower of his soul withered forever.

Then I recited a poem about a young man lost in battle, while thinking of Mahmood. The other men shouted, “Bah, bah!” when I recited an especially beautiful line, and I wiped dampness from my eyes. It was safe to weep together over the beauty of the lines of poetry, even though all of us were no doubt thinking of our own losses.

Massoud Ali, who had stayed by my side all evening, begged to practice a few submission holds he had been learning in his one-on-one combat class. Gleefully, he wrapped one arm in front of my neck and one arm behind it, locking me in a deadly embrace. I praised him and showed him a few tricks to increase his power.

Even though it was very late, he asked me to finish telling him the story of Zahhak and Kaveh. I sat up on a cushion and began where I had last left off. When I reached the part about how Fereydoon struck down Zahhak with his great mace, I emphasized the role of the hero’s great strength. Massoud Ali’s eyes lit up with joy.

“How can I be just like Fereydoon?” he asked. Before I could answer, he yawned, curled up against me, and sank into a deep sleep. From the lively, changing expressions on his face, I had no doubt that he was playing the role of Fereydoon in his dreams.

All of us ate a large meal before dawn, returned to the palace, and performed our morning duties. Then we returned to our quarters to rest. When I awoke in the afternoon, Balamani was still asleep on his bedroll, a pillow cradled in his arms. During the month of Ramazan, many of our official duties took place after the cannon boomed and lasted well into the night. There was no need to disturb him yet. I got up quietly and went to the baths, where I saw Anwar and another eunuch through a veil of steam. Both had pendulous breasts and flat pubic areas, which made them resemble women. In another corner of the bath, a younger, sylphlike eunuch flirted with an older one, displaying his pretty, smooth body as if it were for sale. I was glad I had not developed such feminine traits, due to being cut so late. My chest was still hairy, square, and manlike, God be praised, and my arms bigger than before due to lifting the heavy wooden clubs.

When I was clean and dressed, it was still too early to go see Pari. Alone in the quiet afternoon, I felt the heaviness of the loss of Khadijeh. If I had had a mother or a sister close at hand, I would have gone to one of them for comfort, but now I had no one nearby. So I left the palace and walked toward the well-tended neighborhood where Fereshteh lived. People were just starting to open their shops. I passed a fruit seller whose bright red pomegranates made my stomach growl loudly at the thought of their sweet juice.

When I was shown in to see Fereshteh, I noticed that her pillow had left a mark on her face. She looked fresh in a pink robe with a purple tunic underneath. I removed my shoes and sat down on a cushion across from her.

“Your visit brings happiness,” she began.

“Thank you. I came because problems continue at the palace. I am wondering if you have heard any news about the Shah’s habits.”

“Nothing important. What is new?”

It took a moment before I could continue. My voice seemed to have stopped deep in my chest. When I could speak again, I told her what had happened to Khadijeh.

“I couldn’t save her—”

Fereshteh’s large eyes filled with concern. She reached over and cupped the top of my bare foot with her warm palm, which was hennaed a beautiful shade of red. I remembered how the mere touch of her hand used to send desire jolting from my toes through the rest of my body.

“Ah!” I exclaimed, surprised through and through. I felt it again, my missing limb, just as clearly as if it were stiffening against my clothes. How could it be? I hadn’t expected that feeling to surge through me.

Fereshteh could read the signs in a man’s body as easily as others read the written word.

“Is this the reason for your visit, then?” Her tone was cold. Abruptly, she pulled back her hand.

“I admire you as much as before,” I said, “but I didn’t come as a client.”

“Then why did you come?”

I reached out for her hand and held it between both of mine. It trembled. I felt as if I were enclosing a butterfly that demanded the greatest gentleness.

“I need a friend. I have lost many, and you are one of the few people I remember with affection.”

“I will always be your friend,” she said evenly.

“And I yours. In addition, when it comes to matters of the body, I am not the same man as before. I remember being very demanding, but now I will only lie with a woman if she both desires and demands it.”

Fereshteh looked surprised. “I don’t know if I desire such things anymore. I do them so often that they have fallen out of the realm of desire.”

“I understand. As for myself, I don’t proceed in the same way.”

“What do you do without those parts?”

“I know what to do,” I said with a smile, “but I reveal my knowledge only if invited.”

Fereshteh looked as if she was pondering something, and I wondered if I would be invited. The silence between us lasted a long time, until finally she said, “You look as though you could use an embrace.”

I felt embarrassed at being so transparent.

“I could,” I admitted.

“In that case,” Fereshteh replied, “I invite you to embrace me as a friend. No one ever does.”

I opened my arms and wrapped them around her, and she leaned the weight of her body against mine. I felt the gentle rhythms of her breath, like an ocean spreading its waves out onto a shore. I watched her eyes close, her dark eyelashes fringing her white cheeks.

“Aw khesh,” I said in satisfaction, knowing that the embrace was for my sake.

We stayed that way for a long time without speaking, and I thought about how differently I felt from when I knew her before. Rather than being possessed by an urgent animal desire, now I simply wished to give whatever comfort she needed and to take whatever she offered.

The room darkened as the autumn day faded, and the cannon boomed, signaling that it was permissible to eat, drink, and love. I held Fereshteh until a servant knocked and announced that one of her clients had arrived. Reluctantly, I released her.

Fereshteh rearranged her clothes and tightened her sash. “It is good to be cared for, even though it is so fleeting.”

Something in her tone made me bristle. “Because I am a eunuch?”

“Because long ago, you disappeared.”

We were both silent, remembering those days. I thought about how confused my feelings had been. Because I had spent so many nights with her, she had meant more to me than someone to be used and discarded, yet I had not permitted myself to think of her as anything more than a prostitute.

“Regardless, I will send a messenger to you if I hear anything useful.”

“I would like to visit you again whether you discover anything or not.”

“All right.”

Her tone was cool, but it reminded me that some people become cruel when they say goodbye because it is the only way they can bear to part.



Fereshteh’s maid showed me out into the courtyard, where a man dressed in a fine brown silk robe appeared to be dallying for a moment by the fountain. He turned around at the sound of our voices.

“You are supposed to show him out through the back door,” he complained to the maid, who blushed in embarrassment.

“I beg your forgiveness,” she said. “I won’t be so careless again.”

I wondered why the man cared so much until I realized that it was none other than the Shah’s companion, Hassan Beyg. We stared at each other, mutually surprised. Hassan Beyg had unusually elegant eyebrows that looked as if they had been shaped to match the contours of his turban. They set off his high cheekbones and smooth brown skin. Although probably in his late twenties, he looked younger because his skin was so flawless. The haughty way he kept his chin lifted suggested he was well aware of his status as a handsome trophy. Introducing myself as a servant of the court, I signaled to Fereshteh’s maid with a nearly invisible flick of my hand that we were to be left alone. She scooted away, a quick learner.

“I serve Pari Khan Khanoom,” I said, and when he showed no reaction, I made my lips jerk downward as if in an involuntary sign of resignation.

He smiled, revealing small, perfect white teeth. “I have heard all about her.”

“No doubt, but I am not sure any man alive knows what it is really like to work for such a woman. What have you heard?” I raised my eyebrows as if to indicate there were plenty of confidences to be had from me that Isma‘il might want to hear.

“That she is a power grabber.”

I laughed. “And what royal woman isn’t! But you wouldn’t believe what I have to go through sometimes. I don’t know what it is like for you, but her petty requests make me wish I worked for a man. The other day I was sent back to the bazaar three times until I delivered the right face powder. What a waste of time!”

“I prefer to serve men,” he replied.

“I understand.”

The door cracked open and the maid indicated that Fereshteh was ready to see him.

“What is the rush?” I said, turning back to Hassan.

“Didn’t you enjoy yourself in there?” Hassan replied, and then he stopped for a moment. “Wait a minute. You don’t even have a . . . What are you doing here?”

“It is true I didn’t come here for the usual reasons,” I replied swiftly. “The business I conduct is confidential. Today it has nothing to do with face powder, thank God.”

“What is it?”

“I really shouldn’t say.”

I knew he would feel better if he forced it out of me. His opportunities for subjugating men of my rank were few.

“As Isma‘il’s companion, I demand that you tell me.”

I acted as though I had been humbled by one of my betters. “W-w-ell,” I stammered, “the t-t-truth is, I came to ask about a certain charm that makes people fall in love.”

“For whom?”

“I am not allowed—”

“The princess wants a man to fall in love with her?”

“But of course,” I replied disingenuously. “Doesn’t every woman?”

“Her brother will kill her.”

“I don’t think so,” I replied. “The charm is intended for him. She longs for his brotherly love.”

He laughed. “I see. I will let him know.”

“I beg you not to reveal the business of my princess,” I pleaded. “I will get in trouble.”

“I won’t,” he said, but I knew he was lying.

He had his tidbit, and now I wanted mine.

“No doubt you came here on business, too. I am certain you are not here for yourself.”

“No, of course not.” Hassan rubbed his fingertips across his pretty lips. I was certain he found it easy to distract others by doing that. “If you tell anyone you saw me here, I will deny it.”

“Of course I won’t,” I said. “Like me, you must need an occasional reprieve.”

A look of relief crossed his eyes at being understood, but he did not let it linger.

“But surely you are taking a risk. Given all the murders around the palace, don’t you fear for your life?”

He looked frightened; he was as soft as yogurt. “Don’t you?”

“Every day. Serving the royals is like gambling one’s life on a game of backgammon. Some days I think it will either make my fortune or dig my grave.”

He laughed. “So it might.”

“Where do you find relief besides here? I have no way of taking advantage of what Shireen offers.”

He held my eyes with his sugary brown ones. “During Ramazan, it is not so bad,” he replied. “The celebrations put him in a good mood.” But rather than look overjoyed at the prospect of entertaining the Shah, he appeared weary. As he adjusted the gold chain he wore around his neck, I caught a glimpse of his seal, which filled me with foreboding.

“Well, then, I hope you enjoy yourself,” I replied. “Perhaps, like me, you are happy enough if the prospect involves drawing in another breath. Yet sometimes I wish I could take a breath like an ordinary man. Do you know what I mean?”

The veil dropped from his eyes, and he looked as lonely as the goat who had been unable to escape his tormentors in the bazaar.

“How do you plan to celebrate?” I prodded.

He hesitated for a moment, and then he said, “Tomorrow night after breaking the fast, we will gallivant around the bazaar in disguise, just as if we were ordinary men.”

I stared at him, surprised. His revelation seemed like just what an unhappy man might let slip to try to change his circumstances. He said a hasty goodbye and entered the house.



Pari had just come back from visiting Mahasti and Koudenet, who remained coy about revealing anything useful about the Shah. When I told her about the Shah’s plans, her eyes glowed with hope. She opened a book of poems by Hafez to take an augury and read the poem she chanced upon out loud:

Seeing but himself, the Zealot sees but sin;

Grief to the mirror of his soul let in,

Oh Lord, and cloud it with the breath of sighs!

“It is as if the poem had been written about Isma‘il,” she remarked. “A more committed zealot I have never seen. I will take that as an augury in our favor.”

She closed the book. Her forehead was smooth and calm, her bearing decisive.

“Proceed!”

“Chashm.”

I sent a message to the physician to let him know I was finally ready to receive the digestives. The next afternoon, I fetched them from his man in the bazaar, placed them carefully into their individual compartments in the octagonal box, and returned the box to the passageway. Pari summoned Massoud Ali and ordered him to tell Fareed to await our summons. He departed on fleet feet.

“It is time to renew your vigil on my roof. Once you are certain they have gone out, Fareed can make his delivery.”

“If I am discovered, what is my alibi?”

“Say that you can’t resist the urge to dress up in a woman’s chador. It is hardly worse than claiming diarrhea.”

I laughed so hard my turban loosened, and so did something in my heart. This was the first time that Pari had joked with me about the excuse I had made in front of the Shah. At last, she had forgiven me completely.

Covered in a chador, I climbed the steps and sat on Pari’s rooftop watching the Ramazan revelers make their family visits. Each time I heard a door open, I thought it might be Hassan’s. After the cannon boomed, Azar Khatoon brought me hot milk and bread with cheese right away, followed later by lamb kabob with a generous serving of rice. “How lovely you look with your body obscured by your chador, like the moon by a cloud!” she teased.

“Don’t the poets describe the fairest men and women in exactly the same way?” I teased back. “They have rosebud lips, cheeks as red as apples, large, soulful eyes, dark velvety eyebrows, curly black hair, and a beauty mark just like yours.”

Her long, throaty laugh kept me company as she descended the stairs. As it faded I wondered, if boys and girls were so similar as love objects, both in painting and in poetry, why were they treated so differently when they grew into men and women? What was the difference between having a tool and not having one? Even I could not say.

I had just finished my meal when the heavy wooden door to Hassan’s house creaked opened, and Hassan, the Shah, and their men, all in disguise, entered their courtyard and walked toward the wall with the secret door. I rushed downstairs to tell Pari.

“They have gone out,” I said, hearing the excitement in my own voice.

“I will summon Fareed,” Pari said, her hands trembling as she smoothed the hair at her temples.

“I will go to the passageway to await him.”

Just then my stomach roared nervously.

“Wait!” Pari commanded. She bent down to a tray and wrapped some bread and cheese in a cloth. “At least take this.”

I opened my palms and bowed to accept her offering, touched to the core of my heart. No doubt Pari had never handed food to a servant before. Her kind gesture acknowledged the risk I was taking on her behalf.



From the Promenade of the Royal Stallions, I found the small park, disappeared behind the trees, and descended into the dark with the key to the passageway’s doors at hand. For a moment, I felt I had lost my sight, and not knowing the way as well as Pari did, I groped around the passageway and its many offshoots, but soon my feet remembered our previous walks and carried me along until the ground sloped upward and I felt the bag of money against my toe.

Once I had assured myself that no one was near, I removed the tile and placed the box of digestives and a bag with half the money on the floor of the pavilion in the next room. Descending again, I pulled the tile into place above me, sat down in the passageway, and listened for footsteps. If there were more than one pair, I would know that we had been betrayed, and I would flee through the passageway and warn the princess.

I ate my bread and cheese and prepared for a long night. The damp underground air seeped into my skin, as if I had been buried in my grave. I went over every detail of our plans in my mind, plagued by the one thing that could mean our doom: The box would not bear Hassan Beyg’s seal. I began thinking about what would happen if we were to get caught. Of course we would be killed, but before we died, we would be tormented in ways too terrible to contemplate. I imagined how the soles of our feet would be beaten until they bled, our eyes burned with hot irons, our backs broken.

The sound of running made my hair stand on end, and my ears went on full alert. A deep scraping noise made me worry that someone was trying to remove the tile. Something brushed my knee, and I leapt to my feet, stifling a cry. Pulling my dagger out of its scabbard, I thrust it before me, determined to strike first. My dagger made contact with something firm, and I grunted with satisfaction and relief. I groped for my prey, but my fingers found only the dirt wall. Angry squeaks in the distance made me realize that I had been startled by rats.

I don’t know how much time passed before I heard footsteps. They paused in the room where I had left the box. The coins jingled, then fell quiet. Wood scraped against the tiles. Then the footsteps retreated.

I waited until the only sound I could hear was my own pulse before I lifted the tile and looked around. The box and bag were gone. I descended back into the passageway to await Fareed’s return. Now my agitation came back. Would Fareed perform his mission as he had promised? If he were caught, how quickly would he betray us? Had he already sent someone to investigate the pavilion? The scuttling of small animals in the passageway sounded to me as loud as an army of soldiers sent to hunt me down and kill me.

It seemed like a long time had passed before I heard footsteps above me. I paused, hot with nerves. Fareed could easily have told soldiers to wait at a distance from the pavilion. I listened for voices and footsteps in vain until I had no choice other than to proceed. Lifting the tile gently, I stepped outside, leaving the passageway uncovered in case I had to run. Tiptoeing into the next room, I said, “Salaam aleikum.”

Fareed jumped to standing. “By God above! You are a jinni.”

“Were you successful?”

“The servant who opened the door was bleary-eyed from lack of sleep. I thrust the box into his hands, and he took it without asking any questions.”

“All right, then. Let’s go.”

“Where is the rest of my money?”

I handed him a bag, which he stuffed in an inner pocket of his robe. Pulling a long cloth out of my robe, I covered his eyes. I walked him around the pavilion to try to make him lose his bearings, guided him down into the passageway, and quietly replaced the tile.

“Hold on to the back of my robe,” I said.

“It smells of death.”

“Don’t worry, I will lead you.”

“Is this a grave?” he said, his voice rising with panic.

“Of course not.”

“I don’t believe you!” he cried. “I will see for myself.”

He let go of my back and, after a moment, began to shriek. “I can’t see! I can’t see! You have thrown me into a hole.”

He was yelling so loudly I was afraid he could be heard aboveground.

“Choke yourself!” I commanded. “We can’t walk out through the palace gates in full view of the guards, can we? Now grab my robe and hold on so that we can quit this place.”

He began reciting passages from the Qur’an about protection from evil, and I felt his hand on my back again. It was trembling, and I knew he had understood the enormity of what we had done. I tried to soothe him.

“There are horses waiting for you,” I said. “Your work is finished, you are rich, and you will soon be free. I envy you.”

More verses issued from his lips, but he grabbed the back of my robe, and we stumbled slowly through the dark.

“I don’t like this at all,” he said. “How can it be right to kill? Is God already punishing me for my role in this?”

“Of course not. All you have done is deliver a box,” I said. “And what else are we supposed to do? Shall we act like sheep until we all get murdered?”

“May God protect us,” he murmured.

“Listen,” I said. “Let me tell you a famous story. Once, long ago . . .”

I began telling him a tale from the Shahnameh, throwing in the actual lines of poetry where I remembered them, to soothe his nerves. To my relief, the tale worked its magic. Fareed stopped whining and seemed eager to follow the thread of the story.

When we finally reached the end of the passageway, I covered my body in a chador and my face with a picheh and led him outside into the small park. Nearby, I saw the groomsman waiting with two horses, just as Pari had promised. Fareed couldn’t stop himself from breaking into a run. I accompanied him to the Tehran Gate and made sure that he left the city.



The princess’s face beamed like the sun bursting out between the clouds. Her gaze warmed me to my very core, making me feel that all my hard work was worth it. I knew not to speak until she sent Azar Khatoon out of the room for tea and dates.

“All is in order,” I said simply.

“Did anyone notice the lack of a seal?”

“No. Not yet, anyway.”

“Fareed?”

“Gone. He is so frightened I don’t think he will ever leave the imprint of his foot in Qazveen again.”

She let out a long, deep sigh. “May God always keep you safe.”

We discussed our movements during every hour of the last two days and agreed that if either of us were challenged, we would say she had been in her rooms writing letters to her female allies at other courts.

“The Ottomans still haven’t sent an emissary to congratulate Isma‘il on his coronation,” Pari said. “It is such a breach of protocol that I need to write to Safiyeh Sultan, Murad III’s wife, to express my concern about maintaining the peace treaty, and naturally I will also send a gift. If questioned, I will say that I hired the horses and groom to send the items on the first stage of their journey.”

“What shall I say about my whereabouts?”

“You have been assisting me. If someone saw you in the bazaar fetching the digestives, you will say that I gave you permission to go in search of a new medicine for your stomach—which by now has been well established as a vexing problem.”

I smiled.

“Now, before you return to your quarters, I wish to read you a poem I have written.”

“What a welcome surprise.”

“Sit down.”

I stared at her. Sit down, while she was still standing? It would be the first time I had ever violated this protocol.

“Go ahead.”

I lowered myself carefully onto one of her cushions. Pari picked up the burnished cotton paper on which she had written her poem and read it out loud.

“At first you would think he was a mouse

Scuttling discreetly through the house

He could make himself seem to disappear

In quietness and stealth, he had no peer

Like an honest woman, he listened well

His selfless words could comfort you in hell

You might be tempted to think him soft as gruel

As if weakened through lack of some tool

Yet inside he was made of damascened steel

His heart was a lion’s; his roar was real

He proved the truth that a man’s fragile skin

Gives no hint of the white fury within

That a man of the pen schooled mostly in poems

Can rise to a height surpassing the greatest domes.

Was he a man? A woman? A bit of each?

I would argue the third sex has plenty to teach

From now till eternity, one name holds this key:

It is Payam Javaher-e-Shirazi!”

“May your hands never ache! It is beautiful.”

“You say that because your ears hear only beauty,” she replied demurely.

“I mean it,” I said, feeling myself soften. To think that the princess would write me such a loving poem! It was more than I had ever hoped for. Men would always think of me as lesser because of my missing tool, while women would imagine that I was exactly like them. They were both wrong. I was indeed a third sex, one more supple than those stuck in the rigid roles handed to them at birth. Pari had understood. Rather than seeing me as defective, she chose to celebrate the new thing I had become. My birth as a eunuch had finally been recognized and recorded with as much fanfare as the moment a male child enters the world.

I was a man, so I wanted to embrace her; yet as her soldier, I must only salute her. The conflicting feelings made me leap to my feet in an effort to pursue the right course. Then I just stood there, not knowing what to do next, until Pari’s smile told me that she knew what was in my heart.



The palace was quiet all that day. I was as skittish as a cat, wondering if every noise in the corridors announced that the deed was done. But all was calm. Late in the afternoon, I told Pari I wanted to return to my vigil on her roof to try to discern whether the digestives had been eaten.

“You may go,” she said. “I will send one of my ladies with a platter of food for you.”

“Thank you, Princess.”

I removed my turban, borrowed one of her ladies’ chadors, covered my body, and ascended the staircase to the roof. A white chill pervaded the air. I covered my head and stared at the sky, watching the first few stars appear. When one winked at me, I imagined Khadijeh was signaling her approval.

After the cannon boomed, Azar Khatoon brought me a blanket and my meal. Pari must have told her to spare nothing. I ate roast lamb falling off the bone, several types of rice, stewed lamb with greens and tart lemons, chicken with sweetened barberries, cucumber with yogurt and mint, and hot bread. When I had finished, Azar brought me a large vessel of tea flavored with cardamom.

“That black garment brightens your coffee-colored eyes,” she teased, and her smile showed off the pretty black beauty spot near her lower lip.

“Only a rose like you would be so gracious even to the humblest of flowers,” I flirted.

“What are you doing on the roof?” she asked as she descended the stairs.

“Studying the stars,” I replied. “The princess has asked me to improve my astrological skills.”

I hoped not to see the door of Hassan’s house opening, because that would mean the Shah had survived. But when the moon rose high in the sky, the door creaked open and Hassan exited with a man swathed in ordinary robes—the Shah—and a few well-armed bodyguards. I burned with disappointment. Obviously, he had not eaten the digestives yet. But what if he had, and they had not been strong enough?

After they disappeared, I didn’t see any reason to stay outside in the cold. I went downstairs and found Pari.

“They have just left for their celebrations,” I said, feeling anger in my teeth.

“Very well, then,” said Pari coolly. “Why don’t you help me with these letters?”

My body was tensed for action. I reminded myself what Balamani had once told me about cheetahs. They are the fastest animals on earth, but they don’t eat very often. Sometimes, in a matter of seconds, they run out of energy and give up while their prey dances away.

I forced myself to relax. “Of course.”

While Pari finished her letter about maintaining the peace treaty, I voiced similar sentiments to other notable women, writing as her scribe. My pen flew across the page. All my nerves were so alert, I felt as if I would never need sleep again. We drank tea and ate sweets to keep our strength high. Pari called in her servants regularly so they could witness us at work and provide an alibi. The only sign of how the princess felt was that from time to time she dribbled ink onto her letter and had to start over.

Deep into the night, she turned to me and said, “I think I have finally understood why my father didn’t designate an heir. He was only too aware of the problems each man would have brought to the throne and couldn’t settle on any one of them.”

Her eyes were thoughtful, her face soft. I decided to take a risk and reveal some of what I longed to know. “Perhaps he wanted fate to reveal who would be the greatest Safavi leader.”

Pari stared at me, surprised. “So you know about your chart? How did you find out?”

I smiled. “I have my ways, Princess.”

“I know you do.”

“But I don’t know everything, of course. Is that the reason you and your father decided to employ me at court?”

“It is one of the reasons, yes. But don’t think for a moment we would have kept promoting you if you didn’t deserve it.”

“Thank you, lieutenant of my life. May I know why you didn’t tell me about my chart?”

“We were advised not to. When people hear such a prediction, they try to fulfill it. We wanted you to be a vessel for truth.”

Tahmasb Shah had followed the guidance offered by his dreams, and they had never failed him. It didn’t surprise me that he had taken the prediction about me so seriously.

Azar Khatoon entered the room and asked Pari if she wished for more refreshments. I waited impatiently for them to be done. Sweat gathered at my temples where my turban hugged my head.

When they had finished talking, I said, “May God grant that I fulfill the prophecy you mentioned! But right now something else troubles me. For a long time, I have been trying to unravel the story of my father’s murderer, Kamiyar Kofrani.”

I thought it was safe to tell her now. She needn’t worry that a quest for revenge would split my loyalties.

“I understand you have kept the court historians busy with your requests.”

“Deh!” I should have known her spies would report me to her.

“What is it you still wish to know?”

“The histories say he had powerful allies.”

“Really?” Pari’s forehead puckered, and her eyes looked puzzled. “As far as I know, the man was an ordinary accountant. You might ask Mirza Salman. He employed him a long time ago in Azerbaijan.”

Why hadn’t Mirza Salman ever mentioned that?

“Do you know why he wasn’t punished?”

“Yes.”

Panah bar Khoda! I stared at her, my eyes full of questions.

“Javaher, I can’t tell you the reason just yet. Have patience, and I will reveal it to you when it is safe for you to know.”

Now my concentration disappeared entirely. Seeing me so flummoxed, Pari told me to return to my quarters and rest. The lines at her mouth looked deep with worry. I didn’t blame her.

I went to my room, making sure to mention to a few eunuchs how tired I was from assisting Pari with letters all night. Balamani was already asleep. I lay on my bedroll with my copy of the Shahnameh, but instead of reading, I found myself thinking of the cord at Mahmood’s young throat, the poison in Khadijeh’s belly, and the dagger in my father’s chest. Why couldn’t Pari tell me what she knew?

I lit a lamp and opened the Shahnameh to the page about how Kaveh had stood up to Zahhak and chastised him for his bloodthirstiness. Kaveh’s boldness in the face of injustice had so surprised the tyrant that he hadn’t been able to stop him. One man had to stand up to Zahhak so that others would finally gain enough courage to fight for justice.

I marveled at the bravery of that humble hero of old, who had neither nobility nor money nor friends—nothing but his sense of justice to guide him.



Well before noon, I arose, dressed, and went to see Pari. When I arrived at her house, she was wearing the same blue robe as the night before, and the hollows under her eyes were even darker. She was just where I had left her.

“Princess, what ails you?”

“I couldn’t sleep. Every time I heard a noise, I expected news. Just now, Mirza Salman sent a message that he needs to speak with me urgently. I must discover the reason.”

“Could he have unearthed our plans?”

“No. He would have sent the royal guard instead, and he wouldn’t have asked permission.”

It didn’t take long for Mirza Salman to arrive. He came with only one servant rather than the usual large retinue that accompanies a grand vizier. My pulse quickened when I noticed a few stray hairs hanging out of his normally impeccable turban. I showed him to his side of the lattice in Pari’s birooni and stayed to better observe him.

“Esteemed servant of the realm, your visit is welcome.” The princess’s low, sweet voice filled the divided room.

“Princess,” Mirza Salman replied in a sober tone, “an unprecedented situation has occurred at the palace. Your brother, the light of the universe, hasn’t shown the sunshine of his face this morning, and everyone at the palace is worried.”

My heart soared with hope.

“Indeed?” Pari said, sounding surprised. “When did he go to sleep?”

“A few hours before dawn. By midmorning, his retainers had gathered outside his rooms as usual to await his emergence, but there has been no sound. They don’t know what to do.”

“Has someone knocked at his door?”

“No. They have been fearful of disturbing him.”

“For God’s sake!” said Pari, her voice rising in what sounded like distress. “What if he has fallen ill? You must knock on his door immediately.”

“And if there is no answer?”

“Break it down, and tell him you did so at my command. Go now without delay, and take my vizier with you. He will report to me what has happened.”

“Chashm,” Mirza Salman replied, and said his farewells.

I followed Mirza Salman and his man out of Pari’s door. He hadn’t said where the Shah had gone to sleep, but he crossed the courtyard, marched toward Hassan’s house, and banged loudly at the wooden door. It was opened by the servant who usually attended to tradesmen. We passed into the courtyard, which I had observed so many times from Pari’s roof. The servant showed us deep into the house’s andarooni, the most private quarters. The furnishings were opulent, but I could not focus on them.

When we arrived at the rooms that adjoined the bedroom, we greeted the Shah’s physician, Hakim Tabrizi, as well as two of the most esteemed qizilbash amirs, Isma‘il’s uncle Amir Khan Mowsellu and his new Ostajlu chief, Pir Mohammad Khan. The Shah’s bedroom lay behind a thick carved wooden door, which even the amirs did not dare approach.

After greeting the men, Mirza Salman said, “Has there been any sign?”

“No,” said Amir Khan.

“Is it possible the light of the universe has already departed through another door?”

“That is the only one,” replied Hakim Tabrizi.

“In that case, by order of the highest-ranking woman of Safavi blood, I am going to knock.”

The men’s eyes widened with awe; probably no one had ever dared to disturb Isma‘il Shah before. Mirza Salman strode to the door and rapped on it with two polite taps.

We waited a long time with no reply. He knocked on the door again, this time more firmly, and when all remained quiet, banged with his fist. I was filled with hope and fear.

“What now?” asked Amir Khan.

“Hush!” replied Mirza Salman. “Listen.”

A weak sound reminiscent of a sheep’s bleats emerged.

“Help!” I thought I heard. Was it the voice of the Shah?

“Hassan Beyg, is that you?” asked Mirza Salman.

“The d-d-door! H-h-help!”

Mirza Salman directed a “four-shouldered” soldier to take charge of the door, and he swung a metal mace at it until it groaned under his attack. The wood began to splinter and crack. When the door was finally breached, the soldier bent his arm inside and released the bolt. The broken door swung open, and Mirza Salman and Hakim Tabrizi rushed inside. Two forms were huddled under bedcovers.

“Light of the universe, can you hear me?” Hakim Tabrizi asked. When there was no reply, he pulled the covers gently away from the Shah’s face. His eyes were closed, his mouth slightly open. The physician bent over him and placed his ear against his chest.

“His heartbeat is weak.”

My own heart sank in my chest like a boulder falling into a river. How could the poison not have worked?

Mirza Salman gingerly lifted all the bedcovers off Hassan’s side of the bed. He didn’t dare do the same for the Shah, who might not be in a proper state of dress. Hassan lay on his side, dressed in pale yellow pajamas.

“By God above, what happened?” Mirza Salman demanded of Hassan, who hadn’t moved.

“Can’t m-m-move . . . l-l-legs,” Hassan slurred. The skin over his sculpted cheekbones looked dull and slack.

It took a long time to get the story out of Hassan because he could barely talk. He related that he and the Shah had gone out the night before and had eaten several pills of opium, as well as a large meal and a few servings of halva. When they returned home, the Shah asked for his digestives. The box had been refilled, but it didn’t have Hassan’s seal. Hassan advised the Shah not to partake, but he was insistent, so Hassan ate one first to make certain that they were safe. When he experienced no ill effects, the Shah ate three of them, and they went to bed. Hassan didn’t wake up until he heard the pounding at the door.

“What a ridiculous story,” said Mirza Salman. “Who else but you could have poisoned him?”

“Why? I would f-f-fall from the firmament faster than a shooting star. Do with me as you like, but that is the t-t-truth.”

Mirza Salman crept around the bed to where Hassan couldn’t see him. He removed a small dagger from his sash and poked the tip of it into the back of Hassan’s thigh. Blood welled out and stained his pale yellow pajamas. Hassan did not move.

“He tells the truth,” the physician declared.

“What about the Shah?” asked Mirza Salman.

“All we can do is pray for his recovery,” the physician said.

Silently, I cursed the physician Halaki, who had promised to provide a perfect poison.

“Is he comfortable?” asked Mirza Salman.

“He feels nothing at the moment,” replied Hakim Tabrizi.

“Let’s check the digestives. Where are they?”

“C-c-cushions,” replied Hassan. Mirza Salman fetched the box and opened it.

“Four are missing, as you have said. Now I need an animal.”

A servant was dispatched to the street and returned quickly with a scrawny cat with yellowish eyes and long matted gray fur. It purred loudly as if hungry. By God above! If it ate one of the digestives it would surely die, and then they would know it was poisoned. I wiped my forehead as I watched, although the building was cold.

The men put the digestive on the ground and pushed the cat toward it. The animal sniffed it and walked away. Even when coaxed, the cat refused to eat it.

While the men were occupied with the cat, I kept my eyes on the Shah, hoping he wouldn’t open his eyes or speak. By God above! I felt as if my life hovered in balance with his.

Hakim Tabrizi still had his fingers on the Shah’s pulse, but after a few moments, he suddenly cried out. “May God be merciful. His pulse is fleeing!”

The Shah’s faint breathing sounded ragged, as if he were trying to grab air and failing. He began to make choking sounds that were horrible to hear.

The physician patted the Shah’s face, but there was no response. Amir Khan and Pir Mohammad rushed into the room to see him for themselves. I remained outside since I did not hold such high rank.

“Alas!” the physician cried suddenly. “I can no longer feel his breath!”

Mirza Salman bent over and put his ear against the Shah’s nose, then moved it to his lips and back again to try to detect breath.

“Woe to us, great woe!” he cried.

Amir Khan, who stood to lose a great deal because of his status as Isma‘il’s maternal uncle, bent over the Shah, then arose with a grim expression.

“By God above, his life has fled!”

Pir Mohammad began reciting lines from the Qur’an.

“Who is the culprit?” asked Amir Khan with a snarl. “I will kill him with my own hands.”

My knees grew tense underneath my robe.

“We must find him as soon as possible,” Pir Mohammad replied, but he didn’t sound equally upset. Some of the Ostajlu were still in prison, after all.

“Wait a minute. Hakim Tabrizi, what is the cause of death?” Mirza Salman asked.

The physician looked uncertain. “I will have to examine his body and issue a report.”

“Is it poison?”

“I don’t know yet.”

The physician and the qizilbash leaders stared at the Shah’s corpse and then at each other, not knowing what to do. Only Mirza Salman looked as crisp and efficient as ever.

“We must not let the news of the Shah’s death leak outside the palace,” he said. “Remember how the city sank into lawlessness when Tahmasb Shah died? I will ensure that the Ali Qapu gate is closed so that the news can’t penetrate into the Promenade of the Royal Stallions. Then we will convene the top-ranking amirs immediately and discuss how to guide the state through this crisis.”

“What about the killer?” asked Amir Khan Mowsellu.

“Is there one? Hakim Tabrizi, let us know if you find poison in the Shah’s body.”

“I will.”

The men left Hakim and Hassan in the room with the dead Shah. Hassan still had not budged. Pir Mohammad and Amir Khan departed to convey the news to the noblemen. When Mirza Salman came out of the Shah’s bedroom, I affected grief.

“What a world-changing calamity. May God show mercy on us all!”

“Insh’Allah,” he replied.

“I only wish I didn’t have to inform my lieutenant of this terrible news.”

Mirza Salman leaned close to me. “Surely there was no love between them!” he whispered.

I squelched my surprise at his provocative words. “Siblings may quarrel and still love each other,” I replied gravely. It would only harm us if he spread the rumor that Pari was her brother’s enemy.

“But not these two. In any case, please be sure to tell her I am at her service for anything she needs. She knows of my loyalty: I will not fail her even if people say the deed shows her hand.”

“I will let her know.”

As I rushed across the square to Pari’s house, my heart felt lighter than it had in more than a year. For the first time since Isma‘il had become shah, justice had finally been done at the palace.

When I arrived, I told her servants I had an urgent message. She was sitting on a cushion in her private rooms with Azar and Maryam, who was massaging her hand. A cast-aside letter suggested to me that her hand had cramped from all the writing she had done lately.

“My lieutenant, I regret that I come to you with a message of woe, one so grave I wish my tongue could turn to stone rather than utter it.”

“But speak you must.”

“The light of the universe didn’t emerge from his bedroom this morning. Suspecting illness or foul play, his noblemen broke down the door and discovered that he had breathed his last. One of his doctors believes he may have consumed too much opium.”

I thought I should launch a plausible rumor about Isma‘il’s death as soon as possible. I would urge Azar Khatoon to spread the rumor far and wide.

Pari let out a terrifying scream and collapsed forward, while her ladies bent forward to comfort her. In her scream I heard not woe but rather the ferocity of her relief, like my own. Her ladies began to keen with her. Now, I thought with satisfaction, everyone can scream with joy.

“The gates to the Promenade of the Royal Stallions are being closed while the nobles decide what to do,” I added.

“I understand. You may leave me to my sorrows.”

I went back to my quarters, lay on my bedroll, and closed my eyes. My body pulsed as if I had just left a victorious battlefield. Whatever happened, even if my eyes should open to the sight of guards poised to kill me, everything would be different from now on. One disordered man would no longer terrorize us. We would no longer fear the cold blade of execution. Zahhak was dead.



At every moment, I expected the Shah’s guard would come for me and call me to account. Someone would betray me: Fareed would be unable to restrain himself from confessing, or the physician would rule that poisoned digestives had killed the Shah and tie them to me, or Pari would be questioned and tortured, since even the person I trusted most could be broken through her body. But what actually happened surprised me even more.

That afternoon, black cloths were draped from the windows and balconies of Hassan’s house. The Shah’s wives hosted a mourning ceremony, and from everywhere in the palace arose the sounds of lamentation. Sultanam’s sorrow was real; she had more of a right to it than anyone else. A few other people who truly loved the Shah or stood to benefit from association with him looked grief-stricken. All of us had donned black mourning robes and our faces were sober, yet there was an irrepressible feeling of relief in the air, like the one that precedes the first temperate day of spring after a cruel winter.

I caught a glimpse of Haydar’s mother, Sultan-Zadeh, whose green eyes looked as unclouded and as radiant as a summer sky, even as she pretended to wipe away tears. She had received her revenge at last on the man who had displaced her son. The Shah’s sisters, many of whom had lost their favorite brothers to his murderous hand, were at pains to suppress their feelings. They kept their eyes downcast, but the corners of their mouths lifted spontaneously with joy.

A woman with profound religious knowledge came to the grieving ceremony in the harem and spoke of the tremendous sadness of a man taken too soon. When a man was loved, such speeches would bring tears to the eyes of everyone in the room. This time, the official mourners howled frenetically as if to make up for the fact that the relatives couldn’t summon much grief. Sultanam’s face was grave, but she was not weeping. Only Mahasti’s eyes were red with sorrow. As the mother of the Shah’s firstborn son, she would have enjoyed high position all her life had the Shah lived. Now her future was in doubt.

Afterward, I went to see Pari. She invited me into her most private room, the one with the mural of the unabashedly naked Shireen, and shut the door. I remained standing until, to my surprise, she gestured to the cushion to indicate that I should sit. I lowered myself onto the peach velvet pillow, feeling as if I were about to have tea with a friend.

“My loyal servant,” she said, “the physician has just issued his report on the cause of death. It suggests several possibilities: Either the Shah ate too much opium, consumed so much food that it cut off his ability to breathe, or he was poisoned.”

“Do you think our efforts produced the intended result?”

“We will never know for certain.”

“Is that a comfort to you, Princess?”

She thought for a moment. “I suppose it is. I had to force every nerve in my being to hew to this task. Nothing could have been more unnatural to me.”

“Only a lord of orders like yourself would have dared to be so bold.”

Pari smiled. “If not for you, this terrible task could have foundered. I am pleased I decided to promote you to be my vizier. I wasn’t certain you were ready, but you have earned your promotion in seventy-seven different ways.”

“I thank you, Princess.”

“In gratitude for our good fortune, I have manumitted a dozen of my slaves, all of whom have chosen to remain in my service. They will be given employment for as long as they wish to stay with me. I have also promised to arrange for the adoptions of any girl orphans presented to me from the city of Qazveen. Finally, I have sworn to go on a pilgrimage to Mashhad and to endow a new seminary there.”

“Your munificence makes your name shine bright!”

“But now we have much to face in the days ahead. I refer to the future of this country.”

“What do you anticipate?”

“Iran needs a just leader,” she said. “The remaining princes are too young and inexperienced to rule. The only suitable person is me, even though no woman can rule officially.”

“True. What do you desire now?”

“I wish to be made regent to Isma‘il’s son Shoja. I will rule in his name until he is old enough to rule for himself. When I am finished with his education, he will be a leader of excellent character.”

I was awestruck. “That means you would essentially serve as shah until he is of age.”

“Yes! At last, I will claim my rightful sphere. I will rule this country with a loving hand and bring justice back to those who have lost it.”

I was filled with pride at the sight of her in her dark robe, her intelligence bursting from her pearly brow, the very pinnacle of learning and grace produced by three thousand years of Iranian civilization. No one would be a better ruler! She had proved herself once, and now she would finally receive the opportunity to show all she could do. My heart soared with joy for her.

“May God shower His blessings on you!”

“As my devoted servant, your position will become more exalted,” she added. “I will provide a good title for you when I organize the men of the Shah’s inner circle.”

“Princess, it is my life’s greatest honor to continue to serve you.”

I had good reason for hope. I would finally be able to bring Jalileh to Qazveen and to provide her with a sumptuous dowry. If she married one day and had children, their laughter would echo all through the house. At last, I would be part of a family again.

A messenger knocked at the door and announced Shamkhal Cherkes. It had been months since we had seen him. I stood up before he entered and positioned myself in my usual place near the door. There were more lines on his face and more gray hair in his beard than I remembered; it looked as if his service to Isma‘il had been hard on him. He sat on a cushion across from Pari, his powerful body tense.

“Princess, I came as soon as I could to offer my condolences about your brother Isma‘il,” he said. “Not to mention all the other princes who died during his reign.”

“Thank you,” Pari replied, then lapsed into silence.

“May I speak with you in private?”

“My servant Javaher is like one of my own limbs.”

My heart bloomed under the sun of her words.

“Of course,” he said, not bothering to glance at me, so great was his desire to please her. “I came to tell you how much I admire your courage.”

“No doubt it comes from our family,” Pari said, returning the compliment, but with only the thinnest of politeness.

“Really, I mean it.”

There was an awkward silence, which Pari refused to fill.

“I have come to ask whether, in this difficult moment, there is any service I can provide for you.” There was a pleading look in his eyes.

“No, thank you.”

Shamkhal adjusted his large white turban awkwardly. Pari didn’t bother to offer tea or sweetmeats or other comforts.

“It is difficult to explain how trying it has been to live under the constant threat that the Shah might decide to kill me.”

“You, too?” asked Pari sarcastically.

“I deeply regret not helping you more,” Shamkhal continued. “We were all paralyzed by fear, as if caught in a fog through which we could not see. You alone weren’t afraid.”

“I was afraid.”

“But you didn’t permit your fear to stop you from taking care of the problem.”

“Uncle, whatever do you mean?” she parried, wisely refusing to admit to anything. “My poor brother died from an opium overdose and extreme indigestion, by God’s will. The important question at the moment is what will happen next.”

“That is why I am here. I want to assist you.”

He was too vital an ally to dismiss outright, yet how could she trust him? Her eyes were full of reproach.

“I haven’t always done what you wanted,” he said, “but have always kept you in my heart.”

“Indeed? What I am to do with someone who promises loyalty to me, then gives it to someone else?”

“What else could I have done? I couldn’t say no to the Shah’s promotions without offending, and I couldn’t countermand his orders without getting in trouble.”

“Did you advocate for me?”

“I tried, but he wouldn’t budge. I suspect that someone powerful has been speaking out against you, Pari.”

“Mirza Shokhrollah?”

“I don’t know. At one point, Isma‘il mentioned a reason for his animosity. He said that you had thrown your support behind Mahmood Mirza before he was crowned.”

“You know I never did.”

She spoke the truth.

“I wonder if that rumor originated with Mirza Salman,” he continued.

Pari looked unconvinced.

“His promotion to such a high post was a surprise. What did he do to earn it?”

“He is good at his job,” she said. “He is also fiercely loyal. He even came to visit me after the Shah had prohibited it.”

Shamkhal looked abashed. “Pari jan—my life, listen to me. We are family. I will always advocate for you, unless the Shah orders otherwise. At least I am willing to admit to the truth of things, unlike others who walk a tightrope of loyalties, hoping that neither side tugs too hard.”

“I require more than such a tentative vow. Say or do what you must regarding the next shah, but I don’t want your help unless you swear yourself to me.”

“I understand. What do you wish to do now that the Shah is dead?”

“I want to be Shoja’s regent, with your advocacy.”

“How bold you are! No woman is like you, and no man, either. With deep humility, I swear my allegiance to you.”

To my surprise, he bowed and bent to kiss her feet as if she were shah. Then he looked up in the hope of receiving her acceptance of his pledge.

“All right, then. I will think about it.”

“You will think about it?”

“That is all.”

“But, Princess—”

Shamkhal looked as if he might burst out of his robe to convince her of his goodwill.

“That is all that is possible at the moment.”

I was glad that she disciplined him. How could she trust him otherwise?

A messenger knocked at the door and announced Mirza Salman. “Here, now, is the grand vizier. Let’s hear his news.”

In her birooni, Pari seated herself on one side of the lattice with her uncle while I joined Mirza Salman on the other side. He was still wearing the same robe as the day before. Judging by the darkness of his upper lids, he hadn’t slept.

“Salaam aleikum, Grand Vizier. I am here with Shamkhal Cherkes,” Pari said through the lattice.

“Salaam. I wish to report to you on the emergency meeting that I called to determine the future of our country. Alas, the amirs almost came to blows.”

“How unusual,” she said archly. “Over what?”

“Each group wants influence. I implored them to withdraw their swords until a new shah is named.”

“Thank you, Grand Vizier. As always, you are as effective as a sharpened blade. I wish to congratulate you on your recent promotion.”

“It is an honor, but one that didn’t last long. Please accept my condolences on the loss of your brother.”

“And please accept mine in return. Some things . . . can’t be helped.”

His eyes were untroubled; he was one of those courtiers who float over every wave.

“Nothing has been settled yet. The amirs have inquired as to your wishes.”

“Why didn’t they come to my quarters?”

“Having been prohibited from seeing you by the Shah, they felt honor-bound not to flout his command. As I promised you earlier today, I proposed that you should be regent to Isma‘il’s son.”

“And?”

“The men didn’t like the idea.”

“Why not?”

“They were adamant that Isma‘il’s son shouldn’t rule. One of them stood up and recited a section of the Shahnameh.”

“Which one?”

“It went like this:

“My noble lords, no man has ever seen

A king as wicked as this king has been:

He hoarded all he’d stolen from the poor,

His reign was murder, rapine, grief, and war.

No one has heard of any former reign

That was so evil, or that caused so much pain.

We do not want his seed here on the throne

And from his dust we turn to God alone.”

“Indeed? They fear baby Shoja?”

Her tone was barbed, implying that the men did not like the idea of her ruling so unencumbered.

“They suggested that the natural leader of Iran is your late father’s son, Mohammad Khodabandeh, who is after all the eldest.”

“But he is blind! Why did that disqualify him only a year ago, but not now?”

“For one thing, his mother Sultanam is qizilbash, and the qizilbash like to support their own. Also, he has four young sons who could succeed him, which gives them comfort. When his name was mentioned, the unanimous refrain of ‘Allah! Allah! Allah!’ was spoken and everyone swore to support him.”

“What role shall I have then?”

“You will be his chief advisor, since he cannot rule on his own.”

“Mirza Salman!” exclaimed Pari. “Tell the truth: The men feel that Mohammad Khodabandeh will be easier to influence, isn’t that so? Everyone knows he has no interest in being ruler. The amirs will be able to get him to agree to whatever they propose.”

“No one said that,” Mirza Salman replied.

“But that is the reason, no doubt.”

“I can’t report on words that weren’t spoken.”

“Regardless, it is your duty to anticipate what the amirs are thinking and to be strong in the face of their demands.”

“I will, I promise. And I assure you that I fought fiercely for you and did as much as a lone voice could do. But now the men are waiting for a word from you. They won’t inform Mohammad Khodabandeh until you agree. They recognize all you have done.”

There was a long silence; Pari wasn’t pleased and neither was I. Shamkhal’s deep voice boomed from the back of the other side of the lattice.

“You are the grand vizier. Why can’t you bend them to your will?”

Mirza Salman rolled forward on the balls of his feet as if to make himself taller.

“You don’t know how hard I tried.”

“But you haven’t been successful.”

“That is a strange thing for you to say.”

“What is your meaning?”

“My meaning is that no one has been more loyal to the princess than myself.”

“You should have done more.”

“If any man believes he can do better, he is welcome to try.”

Shamkhal was in no position to force the qizilbash to do anything. His bluster was an attempt to win Pari’s love.

“Why are you trying so hard to convince her that Mohammad Khodabandeh is a good choice?” Shamkhal asked. “Is it because his wife’s a Tajik, like you?”

Mirza Salman looked offended, but his words were calm. “My concern is for the safety of the realm. We need to decide on the succession quickly to prevent invasions and to avoid another spate of lawlessness.”

“I agree,” said Pari.

“By the way,” Mirza Salman added, “I also argued that we shouldn’t waste any further efforts trying to determine if Isma‘il Shah, may his soul be at peace, was poisoned.”

“Why not?” Pari asked in a sharp tone.

“I argued that he is in God’s hands, and it is our job to think of the future.”

“They should be grateful that Isma‘il’s death has shielded the surviving princes from his sword—not to mention themselves,” the princess said.

Mirza Salman’s forehead creased a hundred times. “True. One of the men admitted that he had been ordered by the Shah only a few days ago to execute Mohammad Khodabandeh and his boys.”

Pari drew in her breath so sharply we could hear it on our side of the lattice. “All of them?”

“Yes. He delayed as much as he could because he was so loath to carry out his task. By the grace of God, he didn’t have to do so.”

“How narrowly we have escaped a terrible fate! My dynasty would have crumbled.”

“I reminded them of that.”

So Pari had changed the course of history once again. For that matter, so had I. Was this what my stars had meant? Who, then, was destined to be the greatest Safavi leader? Could it be Mohammad Khodabandeh?

“Why didn’t Isma‘il’s nobles bother to do anything about the injustice he imposed on those around him?”

“They had sworn their loyalty to him.”

“I see,” she said. “So I am correct that the amirs did nothing.”

Her condemnation hung in the air for a moment before she continued. “Everyone acknowledges that a royal princess has saved the realm and deserves a reward. I want you to convince them to make me regent instead of what they suggested.”

“I can’t. Not a single man spoke in favor of the idea after I proposed it. This was the best concession I could get after arguing with them for a long time.”

I believed him. He had every reason to make a deal for her that would make him her most trusted ally.

“Please consider, esteemed princess, that you will be performing that very role when you are Mohammad Khodabandeh’s chief advisor.”

“Unless, for some reason, he doesn’t wish it.”

“As you have pointed out, he is known to be malleable.”

“Which amirs spoke in favor of the idea that I should advise him?”

“All of the leaders agreed it is a good idea. They believe that you are fair and make good decisions.”

“So they will support me as his advisor?”

“They will.”

There was a pause while Pari discussed with her uncle something that I couldn’t hear.

“In that case, you may tell the men these exact words: I accept their decision that I shall become chief advisor to Mohammad Khodabandeh, but only if every one of them agrees to stand behind me in that role. Will you get their word man by man? And tell them there is no longer any prohibition against meeting with me. If they fail to appear at a meeting after the third-day mourning ceremony for the late Shah, we don’t have an agreement.”

“Chashm. Thank you, princess, for ensuring that this transition will be more orderly than the last one. May I convey the news to the elders?”

“You may.”

Mirza Salman took his leave, and when he was gone, I rejoined Pari and Shamkhal. Pari looked angry.

“What did he mean about you?” she demanded of her uncle.

“Nothing,” he replied. “Can’t you see how he tries to manipulate you by pretending to be the most loyal of all?”

“Isn’t he?”

“I have my doubts.”

Pari looked at him quizzically. I too was wondering whether he was trying to make Mirza Salman look deceitful to advance himself.

“How well do you know Mohammad Khodabandeh?” Shamkhal asked her quickly, changing the subject.

“Not well. He has served outside the capital ever since I was a child. But since he has no interest in ruling, I will take charge.”

“What if the situation is like the last one?”

“Mohammad Khodabandeh is much weaker than Isma‘il ever was, and more reasonable.”

“His wife is fiery, I hear.”

I remembered how Khayr al-Nisa Beygom had knocked over the tray of pudding when Isma‘il had been crowned.

“She will arrive with very little standing in the palace. I will put her in her place if needed.”

“Too bad Mirza Salman wasn’t able to be more effective,” he said with a dismissive sneer.

“What do you think?” Pari asked me. It was rare for her to solicit my opinion in the presence of her uncle.

“Serving as a blind shah’s chief advisor is a reasonable compromise,” I said. That was the truth of politics: A compromise was the best we could hope for.

Shamkhal looked from me to her and back again, as if he could feel his influence draining away.

“How can I help?” he finally asked.

“I will let you know. Forgive me, Uncle, but now I must attend to other things.”

“I see. May I call on you again soon?”

“Yes, yes, of course.”

Shamkhal stood up, clearly disappointed at being dismissed, and took his leave. Pari remained seated for a moment after he left; she looked lost in thought, and then she sighed.

“I miss my father. Little did I understand, when he was alive, that no other man would ever match the constancy of his love.”

An inadvertent protest escaped my lips. Pari added softly, “I meant no other relative.”



As was customary, Isma‘il Shah was interred on the day he died. Before the official ceremonies late that afternoon, I met Balamani at the baths. After giving my robes to the bath attendant, an old eunuch who was missing a few teeth, I washed myself all over with soap and buckets of water, then eased myself into the hottest tub beside Balamani.

“Aw khesh,” I exclaimed as the heat warmed my bones.

“Hello, my friend,” Balamani replied, as the waves I made splashed against his chest. “What surprises have greeted us! The thirteenth of Ramazan is a day we won’t ever forget.”

“God is great.”

My affirmation echoed through the room. Balamani lowered his voice so that only I could hear him.

“He is, but it is difficult for people to understand why this cataclysmic event occurred. A rumor has been circulating that the Shah was poisoned.”

“Indeed?” I said, turning to Balamani, whose large body looked whitened by the steam. “And who is to blame?”

“They say it is his sister.”

His words alarmed me. “Does anyone believe that rumor? I happen to know she was writing letters all night, since I was with her.”

“That is good to know,” he said. “I will pass on the information. In the meantime, I hope you are satisfied.”

His tone wasn’t entirely friendly. I had closed my eyes, enjoying the heat, but I opened them to look at him.

“I believe everyone is satisfied,” I said.

“Not me.”

“Why not?”

He lifted water to his forehead and cheeks, smoothing away the lines for a moment.

“I am thinking about Tahmasb Shah. He certainly sent his share of men to their execution, even his own kin. The problem comes when a man starts to believe that he is entitled to do such things all the time.”

“True.”

“I would hate to think you might become such a man,” he added.

“Me? Are you joking?”

Balamani ignored me. “Your lieutenant will become very powerful now. These rumors about her won’t hurt, as long as they can’t be pinned on her. In fact, they make her seem as tough as the men, if not tougher.”

“She is fierce,” I agreed proudly.

“Pari has proved herself willing to do something they were too afraid to do. They will fear her for it.”

“What is wrong with that? It seems to work.”

“Things could be tricky if she decides to take such action again. In that case, she will ask those closest to her for their help.”

“That will never happen. Just because we have gotten rid of a Zahhak doesn’t mean we have to become one.”

He poked my forearm the way he used to do when I was young and missing his point.

“I would keep my eye on the question if I were you. Remember, others will now be watching you, and if they wish to bring her down, they will start with you.”

I had expected praise from him, the man who had been like an uncle to me, but his words were harsh.

“Balamani! Aren’t you my friend?”

“Always,” he said, “but I am a friend of this court’s, too. If the point of your actions was to bring about the return of justice, don’t become uglier than what you destroyed.”

His words offended me. I lifted myself out of the bath and signaled to the attendant that I needed a towel.

“You have hardly begun to soak off the dirt,” Balamani said.

I glared at him.

“Listen, my friend,” he said. “Don’t make any mistakes that would require you to make a lifetime of amends.”

“Of course I won’t,” I said as I dried my back.

His expression was so full of something like remorse that it stopped me from leaving as quickly as I had planned. I wrapped the towel around my middle and sat down on the ledge above the water, immersing my legs again. Balamani slicked water over the crown of his bald head. His eyes were clouded as if he were remembering something.

“Did that ever happen to you?” I finally asked.

“Yes.”

“How?”

His face twisted with regret.

“You still don’t know why I took such an interest in you?”

He was like a big angel with his smooth charcoal-colored skin, lilting voice, and generous belly. He had been an angel to me many times. The ghosts of my past rose within me all of a sudden, and I shivered.

“I thought you felt sorry for me.”

“Yes, that is part of it.”

“What else?”

“You might dislike me forever. I know things that I couldn’t tell you—until now.”

Looking into his dark eyes, I felt as if I were falling into a deep pit. Suddenly the image of a bloodied white sheet scalded my vision.

“My father,” I said softly.

“Yes.”

“Why was he killed?”

“You know why. He was accused of diverting money from the treasury.”

“Who made the allegations against him?” Challenge roughened my voice.

“What have you deduced?”

“I have come to suspect that someone else gave the order to Kamiyar Kofrani to kill my father.”

“Well done,” said Balamani, his almond-shaped eyes filled with appreciation for my sleuthing. “Have you figured out who it was?”

He was ever the master pushing me to make discoveries on my own. My heart began pounding; my voice tightened in my chest.

“I suspect Mirza Salman.”

“No. Look higher.”

Higher? That left only royalty and the handful of men closest to Tahmasb Shah. I thought about each one of them. Mirza Shokhrollah? The Shah’s previous grand vizier? The qizilbash nobles? I had no evidence against any particular courtier.

“Here is your towel, my good man. Would you like a shave or a massage, gorbon, from the man with the golden hands? Surely an exalted fellow like you . . .”

The voice of the bath attendant welcoming a new bather shattered my concentration. How fawning he was in the hopes of earning tips! Even the littlest man had his fiefdom to maintain, just like a shah. My father had lost his life to someone who was determined to protect his own. Who could it have been? Who, back then, would have been most passionate about the throne other than the Shah himself?

Balamani’s eyes were full of encouragement, as they had been when he was first training me. All of a sudden, I shouted out loud.

“Isma‘il?”

“Yes.”

I was incredulous. “From his prison in Qahqaheh?”

“That is right.”

“Why?”

“The last thing he wanted was for another man to usurp the throne while he was incarcerated. He didn’t think Tahmasb Shah would believe his allegations, so he hired an assassin of his own.”

“In that case, why didn’t Isma‘il have me killed when he became shah?”

“Why should he risk incurring Pari’s wrath when he was so afraid of her? You were neutered in his eyes—though he was wrong about that.”

“How do you know all this about my past?”

“Isn’t that my job?”

“Answer me.”

Balamani shifted in the tub, sending a current of water to the other side. “Years ago, I was charged with taking messages between Isma‘il and his mother. Hidden within one of his letters was the order for your father’s murder.”

“Wasn’t the order sealed?”

Balamani laughed. “Of course.”

“Once you had read it, why did you deliver it?”

“I had to. A courier who destroys royal letters can be executed.”

I felt as if a lightning strike had scrambled my thoughts. “Why didn’t you tell me all of this after I came to the palace?”

“When you were a hotheaded young man, I feared you would try to take revenge on Isma‘il and get yourself killed.”

I cast my hand over my forehead. Had all of that been written there?

“And so I have.”

“And so you have. Little did you know how I prayed for the success of your mission. There is justice in the world, although it takes unpredictable paths.”

“May God be praised.”

“Your father’s murder is one of the reasons that Tahmasb Shah kept his son locked away at Qahqaheh. After that episode, the Shah was doubly certain that he couldn’t trust him.”

“Now I understand why you looked after me so well. But why did the Shah take me in to begin with?”

“He decided to make it up to you.”

“You mean I didn’t have to get myself cut?”

Balamani grimaced, and I was pierced by a sensation as extreme as the one that had followed the removal of my parts. I had to clap my arms around myself to keep from crying out.

“I don’t know. The Shah paid attention to your plight only after you requested an audience. That is when he told Anwar to investigate the matter, and Anwar reported his belief that your father had been falsely fingered by people who wished to bring him down because of the favor he enjoyed. When the Shah discovered that you became a eunuch out of a desire to serve him, he was doubly moved by your story.”

“If the Shah thought my father was innocent, why didn’t he admit the mistake and give restitution to my family?”

Balamani laughed ruefully. “How often does a leader admit someone has been killed in error? Besides, he wasn’t the one who ordered the killing.”

“How strange my fate has been!”

“One of the strangest. That is why I wished to help, as did others, like Tahmasb Shah. He thought highly of you.”

“How do you know?”

“I heard him tell Pari that your intelligence and loyalty made you one of the jewels of the court. He made her promise to treat you well.”

Balamani sighed deeply, creating ripples in the bathwater. “I wish I could have told you all of this sooner. You are like the nephew I never had. I hated to have to withhold the truth from you for so long.”

I looked at Balamani’s thick, knotted fingers and thought about how those very hands had carried the order for my father’s death. Yet the same hands had also massaged my temples when I was ill with a fever and had intervened for me whenever I needed help. Blaming him would be like attacking a messenger who happened to bring bad news.

“Balamani, I owe you nothing but thanks,” I said in a congested voice. “How can I ever repay you for so many years of kindness, oh wise, fearless, and loving friend! You have taught me what it means to be a complete man.”

Tears sprang to Balamani’s eyes. He rinsed his face with the bathwater, his broad shoulders shaking. How lucky I had been that God had sent me to him!

The heat of the bath was making my head swim; the steam in the room obscured my vision. I felt as if I couldn’t breathe. Easing my legs out of the tub, I called to the bath attendant to bring my clothes and handed him a generous tip.

“Javaher, are you all right?” Balamani asked.

“I need air.”

As I left the hammam, I felt a strong urge to visit my father’s grave. I hadn’t been there in years, and now the things I had learned made my spirit long to commune with his.

I passed through the Ali Qapu gate and turned down the Promenade of the Royal Stallions toward my old family home, remembering the day my father’s body had arrived wrapped in a bloody cotton sheet. I didn’t know who lived in the house now and didn’t want to know. After leaving the Friday mosque behind me, I arrived at the cemetery at the southern outskirts of town where my father was buried. At the entrance, I bought rose water from a peddler and went in search of my father. The cemetery had grown since the last time I had visited, and it took me time to find the granite slab marking his grave.

I called one of the graveside attendants to sweep away the dirt and wash the slab with buckets of water. While he did his work, I heard the cry of birds above me. I looked up and saw a flock of white geese that were leaving on the vanguard of winter for warmer climes.

An old man in a tattered cotton robe approached me. “Shall I recite the Qur’an for you?” he asked in a hoarse voice.

“No, thank you, I will do it myself,” I replied, and gave him a coin anyway.

“Blessings on you and all your children.”

“Thanks, but I don’t have any.” I heard the bitterness in my own voice.

“Trust in God, my good fellow. You shall.”

He sounded so sure of it I almost believed him.

Once he and the grave washer had gone, I closed my eyes and recited prayers for the dead, losing myself in the rhythm and the rhyme of the words. They rolled off my tongue in the crisp air, softening my heart and everything around me.

I crouched on my heels and gazed at my father’s gravestone. He had only been about ten years older than me when he was murdered. It was one thing to be felled by God, through illness or an accident, which we all expect one day or another; it was quite another to be felled by a man.

I sprinkled the rose water on the stone. “May your soul rise to heaven, and may you revel in the reward you deserve,” I whispered.

The flock of geese soared overhead again, crying out as they passed. Looking up at their pure white bodies, I was filled with lightness, as if my father’s soul had just then been freed. In the vastness of the sky, I could feel his warm brown eyes smiling on me.

I heard the call to prayer from a nearby mosque and felt moved to communicate with God. I beckoned to the grave washer and asked for water, a prayer mat, and a tablet of clay from Mecca. After spreading out the mat near my father’s grave, I washed my hands, face, and feet. As I bent low to pray, my heart was full of more things than I could say. I thanked God for His protection and prayed for His judgment on my soul to be light. I asked Him to look kindly on me because I was a strange creature, one that He had not designed and perhaps did not countenance. Feeling the caress of the tablet of dried earth against my forehead, I prayed for the tenderness and mercy that He showed all his creatures, even the most humbled.

In the bazaar there were always strange creatures like the one-eyed goat that were derided and jeered at, yet I always tried to stroke their noses for a moment or two, because how could they have come to be, without God’s hand? Soldiers returned from wars with missing parts—limbs torn off or eyes gouged out. The old lost the powers they had had as youths, becoming as gnarled as branches and as sedentary as trees. My mother developed a fissure in her heart and was felled by sorrow. God had created perfection in man, but time on earth ate away at him, part by part, until finally nothing remained and he vanished into spirit. Yet there was glory in being half, not whole, glory in the task of it. I thought of a blind man who had recited poetry at court and how he cried out the lines of the Shahnameh as if they were seared into his heart, as if the loss of his eyes had allowed him to see more clearly into the soul of the words. He spoke true, truer than a man with eyes could ever speak, and he cracked open the hearts of those who heard his call.

The lines of a poem suddenly blazed within me:

Praise, oh praise! Praise for the not-whole

Praise for those who stumble along

Though wounded in body or soul

Praise for the one-legged man

Who runs races in his mind

Praise for he who sees truth as clear

As light, though he is blind

Praise for the deaf man who hears nought

But the voice of God all the time

Praise for the woman forced to trade

Her dearest possessions for bread

Praise for all who have been cut or lamed

Twisted, wrenched, battered, or torn

Within or without, whatever the wound

Oh praise! For when the soul’s mirror is cleaned

Then man becomes spirit while still man.

When I stood up from prayer, my heart finally felt at ease for the first time in twelve years. No doubt it had been my fate to become a eunuch. If I hadn’t, I would never have gotten close enough to Isma‘il Shah to avenge my father.