Equal of the Sun (14 page)

The princess sent me to her brother’s camp with a letter of welcome and the gift of a fine astrolabe engraved with silver. I rode to the camp on one of the royal horses on a hot morning, hoping for a glimpse of the shah-to-be so that I could report on how he looked and perhaps take a kind word back to Pari. The camp was huge, and there were so many men delivering gifts that it was late by the time the astrolabe was recorded, and I had to ride back empty-handed.

Fifteen days later, the astrologers finally determined that the stars were auspicious and Isma‘il set his arrival into Qazveen for the following morning. We had a lot to do. I reported to Pari’s house after the midday meal to help plan for his arrival and was surprised to be escorted to one of the private rooms near her bedchamber.

I expected something resembling Pari’s austere public meeting
chambers, but this one had peach-colored carpets, thick velvet cushions, and an entire wall painted with a mural of the legendary Shireen bathing in a river, her high breasts like pomegranates. Shireen lounged in the water so voluptuously that I felt as if she were offering her white-skinned thighs to me, and I turned away in confusion.

I heard Pari’s loud, frank laughter, a sound so rare that it seemed unfamiliar. She cried out, “Come in, Javaher! I need your help on a vital matter of statecraft.”

She and Maryam sat together on one cushion, while Pari’s industrious lady, Azar Khatoon, was rummaging in a trunk.

Azar drew a bright red robe out of the trunk and held it up for us to see, her pretty face transfixed by pleasure.

“That is one of my favorites,” Pari said, taking the thick silk into her hands.

Woven into the fabric was a portrait of a young nobleman in a blossoming garden, a falcon perched on his fist. The feathers in the falcon’s wing mimicked the folds in the young man’s turban, conveying the profound oneness of the man and bird. Any human would be lucky to be loved as much.

“It is fit for a shah!” Maryam said.

“Yes, but too bright for the first meeting with my brother,” Pari replied. “I am still in mourning.”

Azar pulled out another garment, this one with a repeated pattern of bright orange poppies and a delicate young doe. Gold-wrapped thread made the garment glow as if infused with sunlight.

“Bah, bah, that one is lovely,” Maryam said, her honey-colored eyes sparkling. Maryam was one of dozens of pretty village girls who had been brought to court to serve Tahmasb Shah, but who ended up becoming companions to the royal women if he showed no interest in bedding them. Her family had probably gotten a little money or a goat in exchange.

Pari took the robe from Azar and laid it against Maryam’s body, spreading out the wide sleeves so that they covered her arms. Her golden hair flowed over the robe as if there were no separation between the two.

“The little doe with the pretty face reminds me of you,” Pari said teasingly. “You may take that one.”

Maryam’s eyes widened with disbelief. Her everyday attire was lovely, but nothing could match the fineness of the robes made for the princess. She wrapped her arms protectively around the robe and stroked one of its sleeves with the tip of her fingers. “It is softer than skin!” she said, and Pari smiled.

“I need a robe in a much darker color,” Pari told Azar, who plunged her hands obediently into the trunk, though her mouth looked bitter. After some time, she pulled out a brown silk taffeta robe, whose surface seemed to shimmer. Pari caressed the robe with satisfaction.

“Touch this one,” she said to Maryam, who leaned forward to feel it.

“Who wove it?” she asked.

“The head of the taffeta weavers’ guild, the master Borzoo.”

Even the Venetians declared his silks to be finer than any produced in their own city. I held the robe gently. It was light enough to fold up into a package the size of my hands, yet as sumptuous to behold as velvet. A delicate pattern of gold brocade peonies seemed to tremble on its surface as if in a light breeze. White roses paraded on its pale orange borders, which were edged with stripes of brown, orange, and blue.

Maryam urged her to try it on, and Azar slipped the robe over Pari’s outstretched arms. It fit tightly at her bodice and tapered to meet her narrow waist, then flared out pleasingly over her legs. The delicate brown made her black hair look darker than usual, while her cheeks blazed with color.

“You are magisterial,” said Maryam.

I stared at Pari and had the strange feeling that I was looking at the late Shah. “You are the very image of your father,” I blurted out. To some women, that would not have been a compliment, but Pari’s smile was immediate.

“Now I need help choosing the garments to go with it. Maryam, you have the best eye for this.”

Maryam bent over another trunk and assembled a pale blue tunic,
beige trousers with bands of flowered embroidery at the ankles, a silk sash with bands of orange, beige, and gold, and a chain of dark rubies and pearls for Pari to wear on her forehead. Meanwhile, Pari directed Azar to put away the other garments, which she folded and stored away as tenderly as if they were precious gems. Then Pari called for tea and sweetmeats and for her box of earrings. Massoud Ali brought in a brass platter with small chickpea cookies shaped like clovers and round walnut cookies that made me think longingly of Khadijeh.

Maryam spooned a surprising amount of sugar into her tea. Only a member of the court could be profligate with something so costly.

“Your brother will be pleased to see you in such finery,” she said.

“I hope he will recognize me. I was a child of eight when he was sent away.”

Pari watched Maryam peruse her earrings, her eyes lighting with pleasure when she came upon an especially beautiful pair. Maryam looked up to find us staring at her, and a smile played at her lips.

“What do you remember of him?”

The princess put down her steaming glass of tea. “He was always in good spirits, his big laugh booming from one end of the courtyard to the other. My heart would leap at the thought of seeing him.”

“How often did he visit?”

“Often,” said Pari, her voice soft. “He gave me my first lessons in archery. He would even stand behind me and help me draw the bow. He could have allowed the archery masters to teach me, but he knew I adored him. After he left on campaign, I practiced every day. I liked to imagine myself riding on a horse beside him, shooting arrows and striking targets.”

She looked thoughtful for a moment. “I wanted to be just like him.”

“Why was he sent away?” Maryam asked. She bit into a thick date and took a sip of her tea.

Pari called a eunuch to carry away the trunks of clothing and told Azar to follow him. Only when they were gone did she begin to speak. With troubled eyes, she explained that she had been too young to understand what had happened. Although everyone agreed Isma‘il had bravely beat back the Ottomans in the north, accounts
differed as to why he raised his own army without his father’s permission. Some contended the purpose was to try to vanquish the Ottomans forever; others accused him of intending to overthrow their father. Before then, Tahmasb Shah had barely been able to squelch coups organized by his mother and by his brother Alqas, and dissent had become intolerable to him.

“Yet it is also possible that my father was envious. It wouldn’t be the first time a man has wished to shine as brightly as his warrior son.”

“What a tragedy to think of a family separated for so long,” said Maryam.

“It was a dagger through our hearts.”

Maryam took her hand. “When Isma‘il sees you in that gazelle-colored robe, he will be pleased by the way you reflect the beauty of your family.”

Pari’s eyes brightened. “People always told us we looked more alike than any of my father’s children.”

“I trust he will welcome your good counsel,” said Maryam.

“It will be difficult for him if he doesn’t. My father’s courtiers have alliances and arguments that span generations. All Isma‘il knew before his imprisonment was how to command Turkic warriors, not how to manage Tajik administrators, Jewish tradesmen, Armenian exporters, Zoroastrian priests, Arab mullahs, diplomats from the Christian lands, emissaries from the Ottoman and the Indian courts, and all the other supplicants we see on a daily basis. He needs me.”

“Isma‘il will be lucky to have such a powerful ally,” Maryam said.

“Not just an ally.”

Maryam looked at her, puzzled. “What more could you be?”

Pari made as if pulling back the string of a bow; then she released her hand as if shooting the arrow.

“I want to be his closest counselor, just as my aunt was for my father.”

“Has he agreed to this?”

Pari looked away. “Why wouldn’t he? The same royal blood runs through our veins.”

“Esteemed princess,” I said, “I think we should plan what you will say to the new shah to obtain his favor.”

“Obtain his favor? I am the reason he will be crowned!”

“True, but I don’t think we can be too careful.”

“There is no doubt he will shower her with love,” interjected Maryam, her warm eyes beaming so much admiration at Pari that I was discomfited to witness it.

Maryam turned back to her task of perusing Pari’s jewelry. After a moment, she said, “I think I have found just the right pair. Try these.”

She showed Pari a pair of gold earrings shaped like moons with dangling pearls and rubies.

“Come here and put them on me.”

Maryam leaned over Pari and gently inserted the end of each earring into her pierced ears.

“Bah, bah! How lovely you look.”

Pari looked up into her eyes, which were only a handsbreadth away, and Maryam’s cheeks bloomed like a pink rose. Then Pari reached for her chin and held it, her eyes filling with an animal gleam. Maryam’s lips parted. The moment lengthened until I became uncomfortable and pretended to a fit of coughing. Finally, Pari turned around and dismissed me.

“Tell my servants not to disturb us,” she said as I left, her eyes fixed on Maryam’s.

No wonder she cared so little about marriage! Why would she wish to ally herself to a man who could take away all her pleasures? The hunger I had witnessed in Pari’s eyes reminded me unnervingly of myself before I had been cut. With Fereshteh, I had been like a lion sinking its teeth into the flank of an onager, my appetite ferocious. How different I was now.

I felt glad Pari had found someone to love, and even gladder that she trusted me enough to show how she felt. The women of the court who didn’t marry, either by chance or by choice, must either find love quietly among themselves or remain loveless and thwarted forever. When Maryam brushed Pari’s hair or drew a line of kohl on her eyes, the affection that poured through her fingers was as visible as sparks. The palace women scrubbed each other’s backs, drew henna designs on each other’s bodies, helped each other through the
screaming pain of birth, washed each other’s dead, and held each other’s hands in moments of joy and grief. I envied them sometimes. They lived in such a deep state of feeling for each other, whether love or hate, that it surrounded them like the weather.

As I left Pari’s rooms, my eyes rested on Shireen’s painted thighs and I thought with a pang about Khadijeh. She had ripened to bursting. She was likely to marry one day, as I could not offer her the things an uncut man could provide. But that did not mean I had been able to prevent myself from loving her.

The next morning, Isma‘il rode into Qazveen on a fine Arabian mare whose saddle and bridle were studded with jewels, followed by a large retinue on foot, including soldiers in battle armor and dozens of young men dressed in velvet bearing hawks on their fists. The streets of the city were lined with citizens who had come out to witness his arrival. They had decorated every corner of the city with flowers and laid out an avenue of brightly colored carpets to welcome him. Citizens dressed in their best robes stood on the carpets and chanted blessings as he passed, and musicians placed at every corner of the city filled the air with sweet sounds to honor his arrival.

Isma‘il’s men left him at the home of Kholafa Rumlu. Kholafa would expect significant rewards for assisting in the killing of Haydar, no doubt. The first one was that Isma‘il would honor him by staying at his house. Isma‘il would remain there until his astrologers decided the right moment had arrived for his entry into the palace itself, at which point more auguries would be taken and the coronation would be scheduled.

As soon as he had settled into Kholafa’s house, Isma‘il started receiving visitors. One of the first to be called was a small group of royal women including the princess. She asked me to accompany her, and when I arrived early in the morning to take her to Kholafa’s home, I drew in a breath at the sight of her in the rich brown robe, the ruby jewelry gleaming on her forehead. Maryam, who was an
expert in the seven types of makeup that made a woman’s wardrobe complete, had scrubbed her skin until it shone, painted artful lines of black kohl on her eyelids, reddened her lips and cheekbones with madder, and anointed her with a perfumed oil that smelled like myrrh and lilacs.

“You are even more beautiful than a princess painted by the master Behzad!”