by Alan Gold
“Why do you wish to see the holy imam? Important matters are normally discussed at the palace of the caliph.”
“The walls of the caliph’s palace have many ears. The things I have to say to the imam are for his ears only.”
“I am his ears,” said Da’oud. “You will speak with me. You are a stranger here and unknown to us.”
Zakki took a sip of juice, buying time as he pondered the dilemma. He was under strict instructions from Hadir not to talk to any other person about these matters, but if he could not see the imam, what choice did he have?
At last Zakki nodded. “There are people within the caliph’s palace who would see the imam dead,” he whispered. “Friends of mine, friends in very high places, have bade me to come here to warn him and advise him to leave Baghdad immediately, for the sake of his life and the lives of those who serve him.”
Da’oud leaned back on his divan and stared at Zakki.
The silence impelled Zakki to continue. “This threat is real. Men very close to the caliph’s throne, though not the caliph himself, are bent on eliminating the imam so that those of you who are Shi’ites will become leaderless. They want to go to war against you. I am here to prevent this war.”
Da’oud nodded. He, too, took a sip of his drink and slowly, deliberately, ate a sliver of fruit. He chewed it as though calculating his response. “Who are these friends of yours who have given you this information?”
“I cannot say.” As the words left his lips, Zakki knew how vulnerable he was.
“You are as nothing in my eyes. You say you’re a scholar yet you dress in the clothes of a street vendor.” Da’oud looked at Zakki, and the doctor was aware of how inferior and plain he looked by comparison with Da’oud’s immaculate silks.
“What stock should I put in the words of a poor Jew far from home? How do we know that you’re not one of those who wants to get close to the imam and then do the deed yourself?”
Zakki had no answer. What could he offer that would satisfy the question? He spoke anyway. “I am at your mercy, and I have nothing to gain by being here. You are right, though: I am a stranger, one of the many unknown people of Baghdad. I know little of your politics and your struggles. But I have this message and am compelled to deliver it, knowing that I am at your mercy. And having delivered it, I have done my duty. What you do with my information is your decision.”
It was all that he could say. It was the truth, and Zakki hoped that it might just be enough to have Da’oud send him on his way, back to his family.
Da’oud considered Zakki’s words for a long moment. “And what makes you think, Doctor, that we did not know of the things you tell us?”
At this, Da’oud stood and left the room. The interview was over.
Once outside and on the busy street, Zakki found himself caught up in a stream of people funneling toward the marketplace. Lost in the crowd, he pondered what Da’oud had said and thought of the way in which Hadir ibn Yussuf ibn Gibreel, vizier to the Abbasid caliph, had sought him out. There were many Jews in Baghdad. So why had he been given the task? Was it to stop a war and save the life of a holy boy, or was there something else behind Hadir ibn Yussuf’s words?
• • •
Two days passed before Hadir sought out Zakki again. He was walking from the House of Wisdom after another frenetic day of trying to understand the minds of Greek doctors long dead. Zakki was lost in thought when he felt a tap on his shoulder. Startled, he turned and saw Hadir behind him. This time was different; this time the vizier was alone.
His voice came as a whisper. “Did you see the imam? Did you give him my words?”
Zakki swallowed hard. “No.”
Hadir’s eyes narrowed.
Zakki explained, “I saw the imam’s uncle. I spoke to him. I gave him the warning.”
Anger flared in Hadir’s face. “Da’oud? But you were to speak only to the boy! I gave you clear instruction that you were to speak only with the imam. Why did you disobey?”
Zakki cowered. He was many different people—a man of learning, of thought, of medicine—but he was not a man of conflict. “I did what I could,” he stammered. “They would not let me see him.”
“Fool of a man! You have no idea how much damage you’ve done.”
Zakki closed his eyes, almost as if expecting a blow. But Hadir had turned on his heels and paced away. On impulse, Zakki reached to his throat and grasped the ancient seal at his neck to steady his nerves.
• • •
The following day, even though the hall at the House of Wisdom was full of scholarly shouts and groans and moans and the occasional laughter of discovery, Zakki found time to sit with Hussain of Damascus, a scholar in the theology of the Koran.
Zakki’s mind had been swirling since the encounter with Hadir, and the threat to his family drew his thoughts away from his work. Ultimately, Zakki found the words to ask Hussain what he knew about the vizier to the caliph of Baghdad.
Hussain shrugged. “Little is known about him, but he is not the sort of man you should befriend or whose enemy you should become. He’s the sort who will not see you as he walks past, yet is your best friend when he is in need of your services. It’s said of him that he came here to Baghdad twenty or so years ago, as a merchant with trading connections deep into Asia, as far as China along the Silk Road. He sought out the caliph’s father, Muhammad ibn Harun al-Amin, who was beset by problems. There was war with the Byzantines in Syria and Anatolia, and many of the governors of the provinces were breaking away and forming their own caliphates.
“The caliph’s coffers were being drained, so when Hadir came and told the caliph’s vizier how he could provide a stream of great wealth because of his connections with the caravanserai and the traders he could persuade to pass through this city instead of Damascus, he was elevated to advise the caliph. And that’s when the whispers began.”
Hussain looked around the hall as if to check that no one was listening, but the act seemed superfluous, given the din of debate all around them.
“They say Hadir quickly undermined the vizier and took his place within the year. Since then, he has sat at the left hand of the caliph.” Hussain opened his hands, palms out. “And again we have become a wealthy and prosperous city. So it would seem Hadir knows what he’s doing, even if he had to destroy the wealth and happiness of some people along the way.”
Zakki listened carefully and asked his next question softly, so he couldn’t be overheard. “You say the left hand of the Caliph. Who sits at his right hand?”
“The imam, leader of those who follow the way of the Shi’ites.”
“And if the vizier, Hadir ibn Yussuf, asked a favor of me, in order to do some good in the city, what would you think of that?”
The scholar thought for a moment before speaking. “I would ponder his words. I would reflect on his request. I would look at the city of Baghdad and all that is within its walls. I would look at the wealth that the vizier has acquired in a few short years, and then I would wonder not what good it would do for the city but what good the favor would do for Hadir.”
One hour west of Ras Abu Yussuf
1947
ALTHOUGH HIS HEAD was no longer aching, he still didn’t have the strength to keep up with Mustafa. Yet his excitement threatened to overwhelm his common sense, and he half ran, half walked down the steep gorges.
Shalman had intended to return home the previous day, but then Mustafa decided to trust him sufficiently to tell him about the caves in a secluded valley, far away from roads or tracks taken by goatherds or shepherds, where he had found the Roman coins. Shalman wasn’t well enough for an archaeological expedition, but he had been so excited that Mustafa decided to take the risk. The caves were not far from where Shalman had fallen.
As they made their way there, Mustafa told Shalman of the other things he had seen in the area—stones of ancient houses and shards of pottery—and these thoughts made his head feel even better.
They had re
ached the remote gorge within an hour of setting off from the village, and from the top of the rise they could see the towering buildings of Jerusalem far in the distance. Because of the folds of the hills in between the gorge and the mountains on which Jerusalem was built, the valley was invisible unless one was standing on its very edge, looking down. It was so narrow, little more than a deep scar on the landscape, that it was easy to miss.
Even from the top of the rise, Shalman could see the entrances to a number of caves. There was little disturbance of the vegetation around them and no sign of tracks or footpaths leading in their direction. This place hadn’t been explored recently—perhaps hundreds, if not thousands, of years—and Shalman doubted that many people ever had reason to come to the area.
Though it was difficult terrain and Shalman kept slipping and sliding on the scree, he and Mustafa quickly reached the bottom of the valley and stood in the gorge looking up at the steep sides; from the bottom where they stood, only a strip of sky was visible. Mustafa was correct: Even a cursory glance showed him there were once buildings standing here. It was perfect protection for the ancient inhabitants: far enough from major roads to be ignored by the Romans, yet close enough to Jerusalem to enable them to purchase supplies and trade with only a day’s journey. Shalman looked closely at the layouts of the buildings, and it soon became apparent that they were too small to have been dwelling places.
Pointing out the circumference and possible internal structures, Shalman told Mustafa, “I think these are temples.”
“Temples? They’re too small. They’re tiny.”
Shalman shook his head and said, “The whole area might have been a necropolis, a burial site from ancient times. I’ve read about such places in Greece and Egypt and Turkey, but I didn’t think they existed in ancient Israel.”
“But the caves in the foothills of the mountains north of Jerusalem were the burial places of the ancient Jews. Not here.”
Mustafa was right. The burial locations had been decreed by kings Solomon and David and, like so much in ancient Israel, were a ritual born of pragmatism—the southerly wind blew the smell of decay away from the city.
Shalman looked at Mustafa curiously. “How do you know these things?”
Mustafa shrugged. “A man must know the land on which he lives.”
Shalman had little time to consider the words of his companion before a sound caught his attention. Mustafa shaded his eyes with his hand as he lifted his head toward the sound coming from the sky.
“It’s a plane,” said Shalman, and grabbed Mustafa’s wrist, pulling him out of the open space of the gorge and toward the caves and small temple ruins.
The sound grew louder until a British Spitfire roared into the gorge. Shalman pulled Mustafa to the ground beside him and watched as the aircraft thundered past at very low altitude.
“British air patrol. They’re looking for weapons smugglers.”
Mustafa pulled back from Shalman, whose hand was still on his arm, and Shalman could not help but feel that his companion looked at him with an edge of distrust.
“They are looking for your people,” said Mustafa, and it was true. The manufacture and flow of ammunition and arms to Lehi through underground networks and secret factories in remote kibbutzim were key to their struggle against the British. And in the wake of bombings and attacks on their major command structures, the British army had stepped up the patrols, road blocks, and searches.
Shalman saw the plane disappear as it rose sharply into the air and away from the valley, the sound of its engines receding and bringing a semblance of peace back to the landscape. But then he saw it bank to the right, its wings curving up toward the sun and arching around to sweep down the valley once more.
“Do you think they saw us?” asked Mustafa.
“Let’s not find out.” He stood to a low crouch and put a hand out to help Mustafa to his feet. “A Jew and an Arab together out here? They’ll think we’re conspiring.”
There was no time to laugh as the Spitfire wheeled and dived back down the valley. Mustafa and Shalman dashed toward the open recess of a small cave and slipped inside to the cool, dry dark.
Their hearts pounding, they waited for the roar of the plane to grow as it passed overhead, then diminish as it found the valley empty of life.
The cave seemed bare save where the roof had collapsed, probably through earth movement, and debris had accumulated floor to ceiling. They sat there looking out at the narrow space of sky they could see through the cave entrance and listening for the plane.
They waited a couple of minutes. They could still hear the plane but could not gauge how near or far it was. But then silence, a biblical silence of the eons, returned.
As though the Spitfire had been an irritant rather than a deadly weapon of war, Shalman reverted to a previous conversation. “You said you wanted to go to university in Lebanon. Why not Jerusalem?”
Mustafa raised an eyebrow. “A Jewish university?”
“There’s nothing to say you couldn’t.”
Mustafa just laughed.
“I could tutor you,” countered Shalman, and in the moment he was unsure why he’d said it or even thought it was possible. Was it guilt? Was it a debt he felt needed to be paid to the enemy who had saved him from the vultures?
“I will,” Shalman insisted. “I’ll tutor you. People say that I’m the best student. When I learn things, then I’ll teach them to you.”
Mustafa burst out laughing. “You’re a crazy Jew. You know that, don’t you?”
“You have to be a little crazy to be Jewish.”
Mustafa’s mirth faded, and he asked in a voice full of earnestness, “Why? Why would a Jew do that for an Arab?”
It was a simple question and an obvious one, but Shalman was struck by it. “I don’t know. Why did an Arab save a Jew’s life? I could have died out there: the vultures, the sun, the crack on the head. You saved me.”
“So you owe me? This is to repay a debt?”
“Perhaps,” said Shalman, feeling the intensity of the young Arab man’s gaze. “Or perhaps it’s because I like you. We’re the same age, and if you lived next door, we’d be friends.”
“How could an Arab live next door to a Jew?”
“With that attitude, we’ll never be able to share this land of ours.”
Mustafa looked at him in amazement. “Ours? Our land? The Jews want all of this land for themselves.”
“And what do the Arab leaders say? They want us gone so this land is only for the Arabs. Why is your philosophy better than ours?”
Mustafa sighed. He didn’t answer. Then he said softly, “You’re right. I was reading about that man you told me about: Gandhi in India. Maybe cooperation is the best way.”
Shalman said, “Unfortunately, he was talking about non-cooperation.”
“Yes, I know, but I’m only an ignorant Arab. How do you expect me to know the difference?”
Shalman looked across the cave mouth at Mustafa. The young Arab’s face was a mask of innocence. They both burst out laughing.
They devolved into silence, but when they were confident that the Spitfire had gone away for good, Mustafa looked deeply into the cave and said, “The roof has collapsed. Nothing here.” He turned to leave, but something held Shalman back. He looked closely and saw a gap between the pile of rocks and the roof of the cave. Instead of leaving, he climbed to the top of the pile, where the rocks had fallen from the ceiling, and began pulling the upper rocks away.
Mustafa turned and saw what Shalman was doing. “Why are you doing that?”
“I don’t know. I’d just like to see if there’s anything beyond this rockfall. It might only have blocked this part of what could be a bigger tunnel.”
Mustafa returned, climbed to where Shalman was, and joined in.
It took them half an hour to make a large enough space for them to shine their flashlights inside the depth of the cave. The rockfall had prevented men and animals from entering. As they peered
in, they saw that the depths had been undisturbed from time immemorial. They pulled more and more rocks down, until natural light from the cave mouth was able to penetrate and shine a dim glow into the chamber.
The young men climbed over the lowered top of the pile, then half fell and half scampered down to the rock-strewn floor until they were able to enter the rest of the cave.
As he shone his torch around the interior, Shalman’s heart leaped. On ledges carved out of the rock wall were three mummified bodies, wrapped in shrouds, as well as two caskets of white sandstone, still sealed with pitch, once jet black but now gray with age.
“My God,” Shalman said softly to himself.
“Allahu Akbah,” whispered Mustafa as he shone the torch deeper into the cave. He walked gingerly up to one of the shrouded bodies.
“We really shouldn’t disturb anything here, Mustafa. This is untouched,” warned Shalman.
Mustafa nodded. “These shrouds, they’ve gone as thin as paper. You can see that they started off white, but they’ve turned brown with age. There’s something here, Shalman.” He pointed to what looked like an object tucked inside a fold in the linen covering one of the skeletons. “Look, you can see something sticking up above the material.”
Shalman walked over and shone his torch at the skeleton. An object of some sort had been placed inside the folds of the ancient linen. Mustafa began to reach between the sheets of cloth.
“No, Mustafa. You shouldn’t touch it. This is amazing. We need professional archaeologists.”
Mustafa paid no attention and slid his long fingers delicately between the sheets, grasping what appeared to be a stone or metal disc. He maneuvered it out delicately and held it in the light of his torch as Shalman drew closer, transfixed.
Mustafa turned it from front to back. It was distinct, saved by the cloth from degradation by eons of dust and debris. The folds of linen had insulated it.
Shalman took it carefully and held it between his thumb and forefinger. He read out what was written, first on the front and then on the back. “ ‘I am Ruth, wife of Abram the doctor. I walk in the footsteps of Yahweh.’ ”
