Equal of the Sun (12 page)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“He is on his way,” insisted Pari.

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

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

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

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

“Chashm.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

    
Following them drags you down to a primitive state.

    
Women are good for nothing but making sons

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

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

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

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

    
A fine silk robe can do well to hide

    
The pompous ass who is hidden inside

    
To know the truth that only God knows

    
Look beyond the fineness of clothes.

    
Seek much further to what is below the skin

    
Shatter the barriers, discover what is within.

    
By glitter and glamour don’t be deceived

    
Truth lies beyond what the eyes have perceived.

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

    
Only pigs devour garbage without a squeal.

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

Mirza Salman stood up to speak.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It was a fib, but a harmless one.

“Where is your authorization letter?”

“She sent it a few days ago.”

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

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

Abteen returned soon with a sour look.

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

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

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

“Tomorrow?” I must have sounded overly eager.

“Do you have worms?”

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

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

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

“I have been around good paper before.”

“All right, then.”

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