Equal of the Sun (21 page)

“Sometimes being a loyalist means rebelling,” he replied. “It is one of the paradoxes of serving the court. I wouldn’t be at all surprised if he had decided to rebel for your sake, with the idea of bequeathing you the results of his labors.”

“I have faced such malicious slander about my father ever since I was a young man,” I said, in an angrier voice than I intended. “I am sick of it!”

The astrologer’s eyes were compassionate. “Yes, I can see that.”

“Who made these allegations against him?” I said, feeling the angry perspiration gathering at the back of my neck.

“I think it was another accountant.”

“But why?”

“Most likely he would have found a discrepancy in the accounts and reported it, or if he was eager, he might have taken justice in his own hands by murdering your father and explaining himself to the Shah later.”

Something in Looloo’s sincere demeanor made me feel I should listen. As I tried to speak, my voice closed in on itself and grew tight. “Your words bruise me. I have been trying to return the luster to my family name. How can I do that, especially in my own heart, if my father wasn’t loyal?”

“Some men would consider your father moral for trying to change a situation he felt was wrong. It takes great bravery to do that.”

Could it be true? Could I love my father for being a rebel?

“You and your mother were probably the dearest things to him in the world. He must have felt very strongly to risk so much.”

“But do you think he had good cause? What are the just reasons a shah can be removed?”

“If you are the shah, there are none,” Looloo replied with a laugh. “But from the point of view of citizens, the reasons can include incapacitating illness, imbecility, inability to sire an heir, or madness.”

“What about evil behavior?”

“That, too,” the astrologer said. “The question is how much evil is too much. That is when some men, like your father, take the law into their own hands. Had he been successful, everyone would now praise his name.”

My father would have become one of the closest allies of the new shah, and as his son, I would have been catapulted to high position. I might well have married one of the shah’s daughters. That much was true, but the rest of his story didn’t make sense.

“If the Shah thought my father was guilty, why would he allow me into his service?”

“For two reasons. First, you astonished him by becoming a eunuch in order to serve him. How many men would do that?”

He paused and stared at me curiously. I stayed mute, not wishing to explain myself yet again.

“Then, before he met you, he asked me to prepare your astrological chart. Did you know that?”

“No.”

“I discovered something I have never forgotten. The conjunction of planets present at your birth indicated that your destiny and the dynasty’s are interwoven like warp to weft.”

“Is that such a big surprise? I work for them.”

Looloo laughed. “You don’t understand. The chart is the reason you were taken into service.”

“Why?”

“Your stars foretold that you would help spur the rise of the greatest Safavi leader ever.”

“Me?”

“Yes.”

“How?”

Looloo chuckled, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “The stars are never quite that specific. I suggested that the Shah stay attuned to details that might emerge in his dreams, which gave him excellent guidance all his life. But that is about all I know, because I was banished not long after.”

“What crime did you commit?”

“The Shah asked me to make charts for all his sons to determine who would be the greatest leader. He didn’t like the results.”

“What were they?”

“Not one of them was destined to be great, and I refused to pretend otherwise.”

“Is that why he didn’t name an heir before he died?”

“Possibly. It may also explain why he was so eager to hire you and keep you in his service.”

“What a surprise!” I said, thrown into a whirl of confusing thoughts. “But there is something else that bothers me about my father’s story. The official court history says that the Shah decided not to punish his murderer because he was so highly placed, but doesn’t name him. Do you know who he was?”

“No, but I suspect that once the Shah had been apprised of the murder, he would have talked the matter over with one or two of his closest advisors. After deciding not to punish the murderer, they would have all kept his name quiet for the same reason the Shah decided not to punish him to begin with.”

“Why wouldn’t his name appear in the court histories?”

“Did you ask the historians?”

“One of them claimed he didn’t know.”

“There is another possibility: What if the man is powerful and still alive?”

I thought for a moment. “They would omit his name?”

“Why should they risk his wrath?”

“By God above! You may be right. Thank you.”

“You are welcome. Please return to take tea with me and my sons at any time. We would enjoy your company.”

“I will. And I will be sure to recommend your services to the palace.”

“I am deeply grateful. As you can see, I could use the work.” He gestured around him at the threadbare carpets and humble furniture. I thought about the court astrologers I had known, who spent much of their time observing the stars in the countryside at night. They rode out of town on the finest Arabians I had ever seen, sparing no expense on trappings or tents or tools. How costly it was to fall out of favor!

Balamani was already asleep when I returned to our quarters. I lay on my bedroll and thought about my father, remembering how he would come home every day in time for afternoon tea, spin stories about the court, and make my heart thrill at the idea of being part of it. But now that I was grown, I realized that my father had chosen to show me only the brightly shining silver of the court, not its old, tarnished samovars.

But had my father really been a rebel? The more I investigated, the more the truth seemed to recede from my grasp.

I resolved to look again at the
History of Tahmasb Shah’s
Glorious Reign,
taking notes on all the accountants who had served the Shah during my father’s time, as well as all those leaders who had been the Shah’s closest confidants. I didn’t dare approach them outright, but I would try to piece together the picture by collecting all the tiny shards of information I could find.

The next day, I awoke early and discovered that Balamani was already gone.

As I was dressing, Massoud Ali came in with a letter for me. His sleeve fell away, revealing large purple and yellow bruises.

“What happened?”

He shrugged and looked down. It took quite a bit of prompting to get him to admit that Ardalan, the errand boy, had pummeled him after being bested again at backgammon. I made a mental note to reprimand him, and I told Massoud Ali that I would send him to a tutor for lessons on combat.

“But right now,” I added, “I want to tell you the most important story you will ever hear. It is a long one, so I will tell it to you in parts. At the end of it, you will know how to stand up to bullies like Ardalan.”

Massoud Ali’s fingers went to a bruise as if to soothe it.

I sat down on my bedroll, even though I had much to do. “Once, long ago,” I began, “there was a ruler named Zahhak whose evil knew no bounds. The way Ferdowsi tells it, all the world’s problems started when he decided to usurp his father, who had been a just leader. One day, with some help from the devil, he . . .”

Massoud Ali hung on every word, his eyes wide. When I got to the part about how Zahhak had destroyed Pormayeh, he jumped up angrily as if he wished to save the cow. I promised that I would help him learn how to defend those who needed his help.

It was late, so I sent Massoud Ali off on his duties and rushed to the hammam. Many other eunuchs had already gathered there to clean themselves before Friday prayers, and the sound of their voices echoed throughout the room. Balamani was in the largest tub, pouring bowls of warm water over his bald, charcoal-colored head.

“Aw khesh,” he said in satisfaction as the water coursed over his broad, smooth body.

After greeting him, I soaped myself, rinsed with buckets of water, and slid into the tub, where he was scrubbing a callus on his thumb. Before I had time to adjust to the heat of the water or to tell him what I had learned the night before, he asked, “How is your health?”

“God be praised,” I said. “And yours?”

“From your cheeriness, I can tell that you haven’t heard the news.”

When I shrugged and admitted defeat, his black eyes twinkled merrily. In the business of gathering information, Balamani was still the master, I the student. Since it was impossible to know when trifling details would become valuable, he collected them all. If you
pick up a few shards of colored tile, he explained when I had first joined the palace, you have nothing, but gather enough shards and you can piece together a mosaic.

Balamani poured another jug of water over his head, then wiped his face. “Hossein Beyg Ostajlu was captured yesterday trying to leave the city. After hearing about that, I decided to go to the home of one of the Ostajlu nobles to quiz his eunuchs about the tribe’s status at court. Not far from the palace gates, I noticed a number of fine tents had been torn down, stomped on, and soiled. A man was rummaging under one of the tents trying to collect abandoned items. He told me that a few days ago, the Shah sent a message to the Ostajlu in the form of an arrow. It had been lodged in one of the palace’s plane trees during their invasion, and its arrival at the Ostajlu camp chastised them for entering the palace grounds and attacking royalty.

“On the morning of the coronation, the Ostajlu pitched their tents and sent a written reply. ‘We recognize we are in disgrace,’ the message said. ‘We can’t take another breath on this earth without pleading for forgiveness. We beg you to tell us our punishment so that we may one day fill our lungs with the sweet air of royal grace.’”

“What was the Shah’s response?”

Balamani raised his eyebrows. “He sent a group of soldiers to tear down the tents, and looters walked away with silver platters, embroidered pillows, silk robes, and even carpets.”

“What a humiliation! Have the Ostajlu been welcomed back?”

Balamani grimaced as he scrubbed at the tender flesh below his callus. “We will see,” he said. “They have been ordered to present themselves today.”

“On a Friday?” I asked, incredulous. The late Shah had never conducted business on the holy day.

Balamani stopped scrubbing. “The meeting is at Forty Columns Hall. Shall we observe it together?”

“Of course,” I replied.

By the time we arrived, the hall was already packed with men sitting cross-legged knee to knee. The heat from the bodies made the room seem suffocating, and the acrid smell of sweat hung in the air.

I couldn’t help but look at all of them with a new eye. If Looloo’s guess was right and my father’s murderer was alive, could he be here? I stared at men with long gray beards and creased foreheads as well as those in the prime of youth with thick black mustaches and smooth, sun-browned skin. Might I be looking at him?

Near the portable throne that marked the Shah’s place sat most of the qizilbash leaders, as well as the Circassians including Pari’s uncle Shamkhal, who looked uncommonly ruddy and well. Mirza Shokhrollah sat closest to where Isma‘il would emerge. The leaders of the Ostajlu, the Georgians, and the Kurds sat clumped together in disgrace behind all the others for having supported Haydar. Hossein Beyg Ostajlu looked as frightened as if it were the last day of his life.

Balamani and I claimed a cushion at the back of the chamber. Saleem Khan called the meeting to order in a more sober tone than usual. The Shah entered and sat in front of a mural that showed his grandfather mounted on a horse, thrusting his spear at a warrior who had tried to resist the establishment of his rule. The Shah was wearing a pale blue robe and olive green trousers, colors so complementary to those in the painting that it was as if he had stepped right out of the battle scene. His mouth was set in an angry grimace, and the pillows under his eyes made me suspect that he had not slept enough the night before.

“You may plead your case,” he said to Sadr al-din Khan.

“Oh glorious light of the age,” said he, “we the Ostajlu gave our lives with enthusiasm during the wars fought by your father and grandfather, supporting their reign in every way. We support yours, too. At some junctures, though, your servants take the wrong path. We are guilty of having rallied behind the wrong man, but please understand that it came from a desire to keep the Safavi throne intact. We beg your forgiveness and wish to perform any punishment you require to be reinstituted into your good graces.”

“You say this now,” he replied, “but this is not the tune you were singing a few weeks ago. Hossein Beyg, stand up.”

Hossein Beyg got to his feet and faced the Shah. I remembered how fierce he had looked when he led the men into battle, but now he appeared small inside his robe and trousers.

“By all accounts, you were the leader of the soldiers who stormed the palace. Is that true?”