Princess of Dhagabad, The (14 page)

“Make way for the sultan!” Ana’id exclaims in
the manner of a captain of the guard escorting a royal procession.
Women back off—their faces a mixture of joy and fear. Joy at the
birth of a son; fear, because this son is not the first to be born
to the sultan. It is not enough for the son to be born. The newborn
has to live.

The sultan knows the reason for the fear, but
he pushes it aside in a wave of excitement as the old midwife hands
him a tiny bundle of cloth, a downy head, no larger than Chamar’s
fist, buried deep in its folds.

Chamar had held many of his babies soon after
they were born and he never ceases to marvel at the eyes of these
tiny creatures, not quite human in appearance, but bearing that
bright look of ancient wisdom, as if they had come from a world
more perfect than the one they have just been brought into. Later,
after several weeks, this expression disappears, replaced by the
more familiar cute, senseless, and curious look of a little baby.
But with the newborns Chamar always feels inferior, as if beholding
a higher truth.

“Is he well?” Chamar asks the midwife, his
lips trembling with emotion. He feels like crying. But nobody has
ever seen him cry, and he, the ruler of a great empire and the
master of this palace, will not cry.

“So far he is fine, your majesty,” the
midwife answers. She has delivered many of the sultan’s children
and she knows the stakes better than anyone. She is not about to
disillusion the sultan in any case, and her calm confidence soothes
him. He holds the child as a priceless treasure, watching the
moonlight stream upon his wrinkled face, the huge eyes, blue like
all babies’ eyes are. He watches the boy stir in his wrappings,
opening and closing his toothless mouth.

“Why doesn’t he cry?” Chamar asks in
alarm.

“He is a good boy, your majesty,” the midwife
says. “He doesn’t need to cry. His mother will feed him
anyway.”

She takes the child from the sultan with firm
hands and carries him back into the house. Chamar, standing in the
middle of the courtyard, feels weak and lost.

“Come, master,” Ana’id says from behind,
gently putting an arm around his shoulders, as if he himself were a
child. “Come back to bed. Zarema and the baby need rest. We’ll
visit them again in the morning.”

Unwittingly, Chamar lets her lead him away,
undress him and make him lie down beside Leila, who is fast asleep,
curled in her blanket at the farthest corner of the bed. Ana’id
takes off her robe and lies next to him, covering them both with a
single blanket. She puts Chamar’s head on her shoulder and caresses
him, and he feels more and more like a child cuddled against his
mother. He feels like crying again and swallows a lump at his
throat, burying his face in Ana’id’s breasts, letting her soothe
him to sleep just like a mother would. Just like his newborn son,
now asleep at his mother’s breast.

The first sunbeams shine into the window.
Overwhelmed by a sense of urgency, Chamar gets out of the bed,
trying not to awaken the two women sleeping at his side. He puts on
his robes and goes straight to the fourth courtyard.

The crowd of women in front of Zarema’s door
is gone. The door itself is open and, feeling his heart beat
faster, the sultan walks inside.

Zarema is asleep in her bed, her face pale
and drawn, her hair in disorder, her swollen breasts bare over a
sheet that covers the rest of her body. The midwife, sitting at the
side of the bed, is dozing off, her head rhythmically nodding
forward and jerking back in an unconscious reflex to stay awake.
Two slave women in the corner, putting away the bloodstained
sheets, throw fearful looks at Chamar and recede into the depth of
the room.

At first Chamar cannot see the baby, but then
he notices a bundle on the bed, by Zarema’s left arm, a tiny
wrinkled face close to her breast.

“Wake up!” Chamar exclaims, striding into the
room and shaking the midwife. “How can you sleep?”

The old woman sits up, yawning. It takes her
several moments to awaken completely and hurry over to the
child.

“It wasn’t an easy delivery,” she mutters.
“Let the poor girl sleep. We’ll take care of the baby.”

As she reaches over to pick up the child, the
mother stirs too. Seeing the sultan, she tries to sit up, but she
is still too weak.

The sultan gives her a gentle nod of
appreciation. But his attention is devoted to the child.

“How is he?” Chamar asks the midwife. Seeing
the concern on the old woman’s face he rushes toward her, watching
her slowly unwrap the tiny body. Unlike other newborns, the baby is
too still, barely moving its tiny arms and legs. Alas, he has seen
it all too often.

“I’ll fetch the doctor!” he exclaims. “By the
gods, he needs a doctor!”

“Your majesty! A man?” The old woman rolls
her eyes.

“I don’t care!” Chamar runs out, calling for
the eunuch guards.

“Have all the concubines stay in their
rooms!” he orders. “And fetch me doctor Rashid! Hurry!”

The wait for the doctor seems like an
eternity. Chamar sits on the edge of the bed, watching his tiny son
struggle, watching the women try in vain to offer a breast. The
lump at his throat just won’t go away. When finally the eunuchs
open the curtain to let in the doctor, Chamar feels the relief of
exhaustion. He is glad, more than anything, to place his problem on
somebody else’s shoulders.

Rashid, a deft middle-aged man, is probably
the best doctor in the whole of Dhagabad. He does not specialize in
childbirth, leaving it to the midwives, but in case of serious
problems Chamar trusts him above all. And now, even as Rashid walks
in and opens his bag of instruments and medicines, Chamar feels
easier.

In strained silence he watches Rashid examine
the baby, using some strange tools that include a metal tube with
two widened ends, resembling a trumpet of sorts. Rashid puts one
end against his ear and the other against the baby’s tiny chest,
listens, and then consults with the midwife in a low voice. The
frown on their faces makes Chamar’s heart sink.

Finally they approach the sultan, their faces
grim.

“Alas, your majesty,” the doctor says. “There
is nothing we can do.”

“Do you mean—” Chamar pauses to collect
himself. “Will my son die?”

“I am afraid so,” Rashid says, bowing his
head. “I am very sorry, your majesty.”

Chamar clenches his teeth, once again
addressing the gods in his silent prayer, this time stained with
bitterness. Why do they give something to him only to take it back?
Why do all his sons have to die?

He sees the little body in the midwife’s arms
stir less and less, finally ceasing his struggle. Unable to watch
any more, Chamar strides out into the now sunlit courtyard, sinks
down onto its cobbled stones, buries his face in his hands and
weeps.

Chapter 8. The Will of the Gods

The princess is absently watching the sage
Haib al-Mutassim move a long wooden pointer over the old maps
covering the walls. The sage is saying something, but the princess
finds herself unable to focus on his words. She is much more aware
of Alamid sitting next to her.

She hasn’t spoken to her friend since the
incident with Hasan, more than a week ago, and she is torn between
her hurt feelings and a natural desire to be on good terms with the
outside world and all its inhabitants. More than that, in the very
depths of her soul she somehow understands her friend’s desire to
touch Hasan’s arm, forgetting herself in the face of his
overwhelming charm. This understanding itself disturbs her, and
although she is trying to cover it up with her anger at Alamid for
lying, it doesn’t allow her to feel righteously offended.

From time to time she glances sidelong at
Alamid, who appears to be fully absorbed in the history lesson. But
when the princess looks away it seems to her that Alamid also
steals occasional glances in her direction, making the princess
more and more certain that her older friend also wishes for peace
between them.

“Princess!”

The sage’s stern voice makes her jump. She
realizes with terror that the teacher has been addressing her, and
that she, absorbed in her thoughts, doesn’t have the slightest idea
what the lesson is about.

She stands up, eyeing the sage with fear. He
is probably the wisest and the most well-read man in the whole
palace, and he takes it upon himself to teach the princess those
disciplines that are necessary for her difficult role as the
sultan’s heiress. She takes lessons with him three times a week,
with Alamid as her companion, and she knows very well what in means
not to pay attention to the lesson.

The sage’s long wrinkled face, his skin
looking even darker because of the whiteness of his hair and beard,
is not smiling.

“Repeat what I just said, princess,” the sage
says with terrifying calmness.

“You—you called me, teacher,” the princess
says desperately; she knows how useless it is to try to stall her
teacher like this.

“Before that.”

“I—I wasn’t listening, teacher.” She lowers
her head, feeling the blood rush up to her face and make her ears
burn.

“Very well,” the sage says. “Today’s lesson,
for your information”—he frowns and she feels her heart sink—“was
on the Ghullo-Aethian war. Since your highness did not consider the
subject worthy enough to pay attention to, I would expect you to
study it on your own and to tell me about it tomorrow.”

The princess knows well what it means when
the sage calls her “your highness,” and she lowers her head even
more. She respects the sage Haib al-Mutassim greatly, and she
always struggles to win his approval. When she fails to do it, like
today, she feels completely defeated.

“Yes, teacher,” she manages.

“I will see you tomorrow at noon then,” the
sage says. “The lesson is over.”

As the princess and Alamid find themselves
again outside the classroom, all the concerns arise in her with new
force. This is definitely not one of her best days.

“Alamid,” she begins, willing to make the
first step.

“Well,” Alamid bursts out. “You shouldn’t
worry about that lesson, should you? Just tell your new slave to
punish the old man!”

“Punish?” the princess suddenly feels
lost.

“You should use your djinn for
something
, don’t you think?” Alamid exclaims with
sarcasm.

“What do you mean?” the princess asks.

“Well…” Alamid rolls up her eyes. “I know
you are beyond such things, but he is a man, you know. And a
handsome one, too.”

“He is a spirit,” the princess corrects
her.

“That’s what he told you. But it’s enough to
take one look at him to realize he’s a man. I mean, he is a
sorcerer, and he knows all their tricks, but in the end it is just
the same. And you can order him to do anything you want,
right?”

“Right,” the princess says, still
uncertain.

“Well,” Alamid says impatiently. “You are not
the saint you are trying to look like. And it’s time for you to
grow up, just a little bit! All I am trying to say is that you can
put him to many uses.”

“Like what?”

The conversation is not going the way she
expects, and the princess is trying very hard to catch her friend’s
meaning.

“Like—not having to learn lessons.
Like—making people do what you want. Like—
enjoying
him,
you know!”

“I think I do, Alamid,” the princess says
quietly. She suddenly realizes that Alamid is completely missing
the point. To her, Hasan is merely a slave, a
tool
to serve
her pleasures and to achieve her goals. That was why she behaved as
she did, the princess suddenly understands. And that is why they
are so different. In fact, they are so different they may never
understand each other.

“I’ll see you at tomorrow’s class, Alamid,”
the princess says. Turning, she walks away.