And God answered him:
“You shall have your boon. You may walk the earth until Judgement Day. And any men that you succeed in distracting from submission to My will shall be your companions, and go with you to Jahannam for all eternity.”
So it was that Iblis of the Jinni became the Great Shaitan, the Tempter who whispers in the ears of men, in the hope that they will fall for his lies and join him in perpetual suffering. For this reason he is also known as Abu Murra; the Father of Bitterness.
***
“I’m not sure I like this friend of yours, Abu Ali. His punishment is not lessened, the more it is shared. Is he not merely a spiteful loser?”
“Ah, Abbas! Beware, I shall tell him what you said about him. Besides, does he not have reason to feel aggrieved? It is galling, as we all know, to have to grovel and scrape to those of lower intelligence.”
Abu’l-Atahiyya looked terrified at these near-treasonous comments, but at that moment the lethargic rutting of the young novices came to a shuddering halt. The girl sat up without covering her nakedness. She was slim and pretty, but her face was vacant, possibly drugged, and I felt only sadness when I looked at her. Besides, I was trying to remember where I had heard the name Abu Murra before.
Abu Nuwas, who had now been given a goblet of wine, waved it at the couple.
“Such fine entertainment – this is indeed a perfect evening. Wine, wit, the company of three gentlemen and a musician …”
If I was disgruntled not to be counted amongst the gentlemen, this was nothing to the reaction of the surly Ibrahim.
“I am as much a gentleman as you, Abu Ali, you lisping fop. And my verse is the equal of yours.”
“When did you become so grouchy, Ibrahim al-Mosuli? You used to be able to take a joke. Play us a song, al-Mosuli. These butchers have got that tune pinned to the floor, they only need you to come and slit its throat.”
Ibrahim smiled mirthlessly.
“Well, since we are discussing your friend the Father of Bitterness, you might like to hear my latest composition. It’s a setting of a lyric of yours, on precisely that subject.”
The other two poets clapped and shouted their approbation. Ibrahim al-Mosuli walked over to the musicians and took the lute, putting a halt to their desultory busking. After a muttered discussion the drummer started to beat a lively pattern. The tunbur joined in, its long, thick strings thumping out a ground. Over this al-Mosuli began to pick a complex progression, wild, forlorn, yet somehow sly and knowing in its harmonic sophistication.
The mizmar player was listening with a look of furious concentration. As he picked up the sequence he joined in with a wailing phrase, like the cry of a desperate lover. After a couple of repetitions he took the reed from his lips, grinning with satisfaction. Al-Mosuli nodded at the vastly improved sound the band was making, then began to sing, in a high, sonorous voice that seemed incongruous coming from his grey-bearded face.
I gave rapt attention to the words of the song. It was my first encounter with the poetry of Abu Nuwas. I expected the traditional lament for a lost love, but instead the lyric was teasing, an unsettling combination of lightness and shocking blasphemy:
My sweetheart was sulking
His letters stopped coming
I called on the Devil
And said to him, weeping,
“How could you forsake me?
See how I’m hurting!
I’m worn to my bones
With tears and not sleeping,
The worry has caused
My elan to start drooping.
I’ve done what you asked of me –
All of it, everything –
Spat on your enemies,
Never stopped sinning.
So make his heart burn for me
(to you, that’s nothing)
Or I’ll turn away from you
I’ll start repenting!
Give up music and poetry
Even stop drinking
I’ll read the Quran again
Spend long nights studying
Go as pilgrim to Makkah
Give virtue a fling …”
It was not three days later
My boyfriend came visiting
Begged for forgiveness –
The change was astounding.
After such misery
Joy is abounding
With the boy in my bed
And Iblis as my king …
As the last notes of the song died away, Ibrahim al-Mosuli launched a new theme. The band, revived by the challenge of keeping up with him, watched his fingers on the lute strings, then began to accompany him. The mizmar player, who had had little to do during the singing, improvised a melody that caused al-Mosuli to laugh with sheer pleasure. He was transformed by his music, almost unrecognisable as the taciturn man I had first encountered.
I reflected that Hermes might forgive my desertion, if he could see me now. Only my second night in Baghdad, and I was sitting with poets and musicians! It was true that the surroundings were seedier, and the conversation more coarse, than I had envisaged, but their intelligence and learning were unmistakable.
Then I noticed the sapphire eyes of Abu Nuwas fixed on me. Abbas and Abu’l-Atahiyya were deep in a muttered discussion, and his attention was on me alone. When he offered me the wine jug, I hesitated; it had been a seemingly endless night. I could hardly believe it was only a few hours since I had lain hidden in the alcove, eating an apple. Suddenly I felt tired, and wondered where I might go to sleep. However Abu Nuwas grabbed my hair and tipped the wine into my mouth, so that I had to swallow it or choke.
“You are right to think twice, boy. The common horde make these decisions lightly, as if they are of no consequence: what shall we eat, what shall we drink, whom shall we fuck. But the man who lives the life of thought knows that each choice is critical. At every moment you are gambling your life, staking eternity, on your understanding of the world.
“The fifth Surah of the Holy Quran teaches us that wine is an abomination. Yet an earlier Surah talks of the vine as one of the blessings of God, because it provides intoxication. The hadith describe the day the ban on alcohol was announced, and tell us the streets of Madinah ran red with discarded wine. The poet al-Asha was on his way to convert, but turned back when he heard of the ruling, preferring damnation to sobriety.
“But we are also told that the Quran has existed perfect and complete since before the world began. How can wine be permitted one day, and forbidden the next? Does the word of God change according to his whims?
“The forfeit for those who fail to untangle these paradoxes is nothing less than agony for eternity, with no hope of redemption. Yet still scholars argue over the meaning of the Quran, and which of the Sayings are genuine. If God truly is a merciful and loving God, why could He not transmit His word to us in a way that permits of no ambiguity? Is He not also an all-powerful God?
“We must play His game, be rewarded for success and punished for failure. Yet we are not told the rules of the game. All we are given is scraps and shreds, as if we are overhearing knowledge not meant for us. Then we must piece together the truth, or lose everything. What cruel father is this, who lays such traps to confound us, His children?”
He interrupted this learned discourse to force on me another mouthful of wine. I was sick from drink and exhaustion, and did not resist. His voice lulled, a charm tightening around me.
“You may decide to take the path of caution, and abstain from anything which might incur the wrath of God. But now another fear arises. What if there is no God, after all? What if this little glimmer of light is all we have, all we can ever know? Then the only right way to behave is to gorge on sensual experience, to seek out variety tirelessly and inventively. And the greatest evil would be to cower timidly, wasting your span preparing for an afterlife that does not exist.
“Most people do neither of these. They compromise and equivocate, neither ascetic nor aesthetic. They can only live thus
because they are somehow numb to the agony of awareness. Somehow they go for years at a time without thinking of the single most important fact in their lives; that those lives will end, and that that end could come at any moment, without warning or preparation. When forced to confront it, they assume that, if they mean well and muddle through, then all will be well in the end.
“But that gentle blindness is not for us, those of us who are condemned to wonder, to question, to try to answer the unanswerable questions. We must make our choice, and endure the consequences, like Iblis, with our heads held high.
“Perhaps, after all, we are not meant to use our reason, but instead to trust our intuition. Perhaps the only true guide – the only thing that matters – the only thing that exists is love.”
He leaned towards me, his lips close to my face, breathing liquorous fumes. The memory washed over me of the rough hands of the pirate captain, his suffocating weight on my immature body, and I sprang to my feet. Abu Nuwas tumbled over, to the sound of coarse laughter from the other men. He got up staggered towards me, crooning with a mixture of mockery and menace.
“How could you refuse me? Both God and the Devil command you to submit to me!”
He was much bigger than me, and his strength frightened me. Fortunately the wine was wearing him down, and he was having trouble staying upright. I dodged around the room, evading his clumsy lunges, until I could make a break for the door. Flinging aside the curtain I dashed out – only to run straight into the muscled torso of Ilig the Khazar.
“Come with me. The Wazir does not like to be kept waiting.”
Six
The Postman’s Tale, which includes, The Tale of the Righteous Ones
Abu Nuwas sulked all the way back to the city, like a child whose plaything has been taken from him. He goaded the Khazar relentlessly, with comments on his parentage and cheap jibes about the length of his sword, but the bodyguard had said all he was going to say. I was still shaken and angered by the poet’s crude attempt to seduce me, and seethed in silent resentment. So we were a merry crew as we trudged through the barren streets in the hour before dawn.
To my surprise Ilig did not conduct us to the Round City, and the house of Salam. Instead he led us east through Zubaydiya and over the northernmost bridge across the Tigris. One secret of the ancients that had been lost was the building of arch bridges. In Ifriqiya I had seen many stone viaducts still standing from the days of the old Roman Empire, six hundred years or more before. The bridges across the Tigris however were all pontoons, planks laid across a line of moored boats. The timbers creaked under our feet, and swayed slightly as we crossed.
The North Bridge took us to the exclusive district of Rusafah, on the east bank. Although outside the symbolic centre of Baghdad, this was a less constricted neighbourhood, where lavish mansions sprawled over generous acres. Here we were led to an imposing residence, through a magnificent courtyard with fountains and caged birds, and into an anteroom. Ilig left us here, and Abu Nuwas and I sat wordless on a bench. For some reason I was reminded of the slave market at Tiaret.
The walk must have sobered him up, because after a while he broke the silence.
“Go on then, boy. Say it.”
“Say what, Father of Locks?”
“That you saved my ungrateful skin at the Garden of Delights, and deserved better of me than to force myself on you.”
I pondered for a while what I assumed to be an apology, or as close as I was going to get.
“I do not say that, Father of Locks. However I do say this: I don’t know what the Barmakid has planned for me, whether I am a slave, a prisoner, an errand boy, or something else. But I am no man’s catamite. The last villain who violated me was food for fishes before the next sunrise. I would rather die than submit to such treatment again. Believe me, though, if that becomes necessary I will not be going to Jahannam alone.”
Abu Nuwas looked at me for a while, then nodded. At that moment a servant appeared, and we were led into an adjacent chamber.
Ja’far al-Barmaki was not in the room. Instead there was an old man, a Persian, studying a scroll. A pile of similar parchments lay on a table beside him. The richness of his robes and the huge jewel in his turban spoke of wealth and power, but even in rags this man would command obedience. Sharp eyes glinted from below bushy eyebrows, and his beard was long.
He did not look up from his scroll as we entered, and in the end Abu Nuwas spoke first.
“Good evening to you, ibn Khalid.”
The old man took a few moments to look us over before replying.
“Good morning, Abu Ali. And you, I presume, are the boy Ismail al-Rawiya?”
I nodded nervously. Abu Nuwas seemed nervous too, but ventured a question.
“Where is your son, ibn Khalid? I had expected to see Ja’far.”
“My son has retired to bed, as he has a busy day ahead of him, managing the affairs of the entire civilised world. I agreed to see you on his behalf, before I go to my diwan.”
This, then, must be Yahya ibn Khalid al-Barmaki, father to Ja’far the Wazir. The old man wrinkled his nose as he scrutinised us.
“You stink, poet. And your presence was requested several hours ago.”
Abu Nuwas made to answer, but instead Yahya addressed me.
“What happened, boy?”
I related the events in the Garden of Delights, and our visit to the Abbey of St Pachomius, in terms of careful neutrality. I decided it would be wise not to give any details of what went on at the monastery. When I had finished, Yahya al-Barmaki shook his head.
“If it was up to me, Abu Ali, I would throw you into prison, if for no other reason than to preserve the morals of the Ummah. However, my son considers you useful, so instead I have a task for you.”
“But – with respect, ibn Khalid, I understood that debt had been paid! Your son promised me – after the last time …”
“Shall I tell the Khalifah, then, that you refused to assist his minister? I am sure he will be disappointed in this lack of loyalty from his so-called friend.”
Abu Nuwas looked thoroughly miserable.
“But you cannot ask me to leave Baghdad, not now! Everything I have worked for – my reputation, my patrons –”
“No, you will not need to leave Baghdad. This task will not be like your others. However Ja’far seems to think it will suit your particular talents – whatever they are.”
Yahya paused, as if waiting for further objections from the poet. When none was forthcoming, he went on.
“The Devil has been sighted on the streets of the city. My son would like you to … look into it.”
Abu Nuwas seemed about to laugh, but the sound was strangled in something close to fear.
“If anybody else had said such a thing to me, ibn Khalid, I would have thought that they were mad, or joking. Or drunk.”
“I can assure you, Abu Ali, that I am sane, serious and sober. I would not be wasting my time with this matter, if I were not deeply concerned.
“A hooded man was seen lurking in Sharqiya. It is a poor district, but tightly knit, and strangers attract attention. When he was challenged by a respectable widow, he told her he was Iblis.”
“And that is causing you concern? A foolish old woman claims a stranger told her he was the Devil?”
“No, poet. What causes me concern is that the stranger then hurled a bolt of fire, which destroyed three houses before the blaze was finally extinguished.”
Yahya ibn Khalid allowed these words to sink in, before he continued.
“The hooded man disappeared in the confusion, and now all of Sharqiya is in uproar. Only the widow spoke to the stranger, but several witnesses saw him cast the spell which caused such devastation. And we cannot afford disquiet in the streets, not while our visitors are in town.”
“Visitors?”
“So you are not as well informed as my son believes. Well, you will hear soon enough. Every beggar in Karkh will know about them by sunset.”
&nb
sp; “But why me?”
The Barmakid’s smile was cold.
“I ask myself the same question. My son is clever, but some day he will trip himself up with his cleverness. Still, he is old enough to make his own mistakes. A child can be told, but a man must face the consequences of his choices.
“Besides, are you not considered to be something of an expert on the Great Shaitan?”
Abu Nuwas made no response. Yahya stood up.
“Go home, poet. Get some sleep, wash yourself, cover your head, try to look like a true believer. After the call for midday prayer, go to the Sharqiya Watch House and ask for al-Takht. He is the Captain of Police who reported the incident. Al-Takht is not a dull thug, like most of his profession; he can read the streets like a sailor reads the weather.”
Abu Nuwas turned to leave. I looked around desperately, wondering what I was meant to do. Yahya noticed my confusion.
“Ah yes, boy, I had forgotten about you. Ja’far commands you to assist and accompany Abu Ali al-Hasan ibn Hani’ al-Hakami, known as the Father of Locks, until the successful conclusion of this matter. You are to regard yourself as his apprentice, and he as your master. You will comply with any instructions he gives you which are consistent with the law and with conventional morality.”
The Barmakid stared pointedly at Abu Nuwas as he said this latter part, then turned back to me.
“If you obey these instructions, Ja’far graciously permits you to remain alive and free.”
He returned to his scroll, but I did not move. He looked up again irritably.
“Yes?”
“With respect, ibn Khalid, if I am to be of help, I must eat and sleep.”
He paused. I had the distinct impression that he was about to order me to go with Abu Nuwas, then thought better of it.
“You may use the Hall of the Barid. Congratulations, boy; you have just become a postman.”
***
Abu Nuwas stumbled away muttering that he would meet me at the Watch House. I wandered through the palace of the Barmakids, marvelling that nobody challenged me. However it was a public building as much as it was a private residence. Dawn was breaking, and already petitioners had begun to gather outside, seeking the patronage of the mighty Barmakid clan, hoping to be favoured financially, legally or politically. Everywhere servants rushed around, carrying dishes or parchments.
The Father of Locks Page 7
