Aqasi calls for tea. “Ours is a tiresome business,” he mutters inconclusively. “Particularly in dealing with this imposter, the Rasul. So tiresome.”
Ali sees his opening. “Tiresome yes, but the number of his followers grows daily. Even the mullas seem uncertain of what to do. Since he was arrested and released in Isfahan, the public seems confused as to where we stand on this issue.”
Aqasi paces. “Perhaps we should kill him and be done with it.”
“That is always an alternative, but a risky one. Do we want a martyr?”
“Your suggestion, then, would be—?”
“He is obviously giving orders to his disciples. Without coordination, how could his teachings spread so quickly? I also fear that this movement could become armed and militant. I think we need to isolate this troublemaker so he can’t communicate with his followers. I suggest we move him to Mah-Ku.”
Aqasi stops pacing. He looks at Ali. Mah-Ku is a dreaded and desolate fortress in the rugged mountains of Azerbaijan. In other words, the perfect place for solitary confinement.
“I agree. I will send an order immediately to seize the imposter and remove him to Mah-Ku. There he’ll be as good as dead.”
“For our purposes, better than dead,” Ali adds. “Azerbaijan would also seem like a good place for Nasir al-Din. A remote corner of the nation.” Ali is dangling this casual suggestion as bait for the old man.
Aqasi considers this statement. “Yes, yes, a very good place. After all, the young man needs practical grooming in the affairs of state.” He smiles conspiratorially at Ali. “Perhaps I could arrange for Nasir al-Din to assume the governorship of Azerbaijan. I understand there is a vacancy.”
The plan unfolds at lightning speed. Within days, young Nasir al-Din is on the road to Tabriz.
Ishaq arrives one morning to find his eccentric friend, Nasir al-Din, suddenly gone. For the past month, Ishaq and Ali have been living in very different worlds. Ishaq has been allowed complete access to the palace harem, in which Nasir al-Din lives, a protected territory that not even Ali is permitted to enter. Ali, on the other hand, is often huddled in secret talks in the quarters of the despised Aqasi, or traveling about the country on some official business. The ripe grapevine of the harem has buzzed with speculation that Aqasi has lost his mental faculties and the machinery of the government is increasingly being guided by Ali. Knowing his father well, Ishaq has concluded that Ali is maneuvering the apparatus of the Qajars to further his own agenda, a senseless and single-minded vendetta against the Rasul.
After a week of boredom, Ishaq approaches Jonathon, who has been busy making photographs of the ruling Qajars and documenting their opulent lives, about taking an unannounced journey of their own.
“I need to leave Tehran for a while,” Ishaq confides. “Would you come with me? I’m sure there will be many wonderful pictures to take.”
“I think I would rather take pictures of dead men hanging from nooses than one more portrait of a Qajar prince,” Jonathon replies.
By mid-March, 1848, Ishaq and Jonathon have made their way slowly on horseback to the town of Zanjan, halfway to Tabriz. A cold wind forces them to seek shelter at a drafty caravanserai. They enter the frosty courtyard, followed by a hired guide and two other strangers on mules fifty yards behind. Only a handful of other travelers are present, all huddled around small fires and wrapped in woolen blankets. Ishaq sees a vacant stall and dismounts, intending to unload the pack mule that carries their supplies. As he and Jonathon unfasten the unwieldy collection of boxes and bags from the mule’s back with no help from their guide, two strangers approach.
“You are not Persian?” the oldest stranger says in Farsi.
“We are not,” Ishaq replies. “We are from England.”
“But you speak Farsi.”
“Yes, a little.”
“Are you merchants?”
“No, simply travelers. We are looking for pictures.”
This comment confuses the oldest stranger. “Pictures?” he says.
Jonathon finds a small daguerreotype of Golestan Palace in a satchel and walks it to the older man, gently handing it to him.
The man takes it and smiles. “I see. It is very good. Did you paint this?”
Jonathon turns to Ishaq for help. His Farsi is not good enough to explain.
“It is not a painting, and not an etching,” Ishaq explains. “It is the actual image. My friend captures the light from the thing itself and places that light onto a metal plate.”
The man is now very confused.
“Jonathon, show him other pictures,” Ishaq instructs.
Jonathon finds pictures of various Qajar princes and shows them to the oldest stranger. “These are the men themselves, not paintings.”
The stranger recoils, hands back the plate that he is inspecting. “This man is in this picture?” he asks. “It is not possible.”
“No, no,” Ishaq says. “it is the light that reflects from their faces that makes these pictures.”
Jonathon scrambles to the mule again, opens a wooden box and takes out the camera. “I point this box at a person, and their image appears on a little metal plate,” he explains.
The stranger dismounts and walks to the camera, cocks his head, touches the camera’s exterior. “You could make a picture of me?”
Jonathon smiles, nods. “It would be my honor.”
“This place is cold. You must come home with me.” The stranger smiles, revealing crooked teeth. “I will give you warm rooms and hot food. This is no place for civilized men. Besides, Naw-Ruz is almost here. You must celebrate with us.”
Naw-Ruz, the Persian New Year, is but two days away. Ishaq considers the man’s offer and nods appreciatively. “And in return, we will make pictures of you and your family. The men, at least.”
The man’s home is spacious. Over dinner with the man, his two sons, and the lazy guide, Ishaq and Jonathon learn that their host, who is called Hamid, is a merchant in Zanjan. His wife and daughter are in the anderun. Occasionally, Ishaq can hear them moving about. After so many days in the shah’s harem, where the wives and daughters of the shah freely showed their faces to Nasir al-Din and Ishaq, it seems odd to confront the customary segregation of men and women.
After much conversation, Hamid reclines on one elbow, smiling, and bluntly asks Ishaq, “Are you Christians?”
The question is unexpected. At first Ishaq does not know how to respond, but finally says, “We were born Christians.”
“You have not converted to Islam?”
“We have not.”
“Please forgive my curiosity, but what brought you to my country? Surely it was not just to make pictures of princes and palaces.”
Ishaq looks at Jonathon, who merely shrugs his shoulders. Ishaq decides to be honest.
“My father heard of a new prophet who is called the Rasul and we came here to find him.”
The man’s eyes brighten.
“So—” Hamid exclaims. “You are Rasulis! That is wonderful. Rasulis from another land!”
Before Ishaq can clarify that his father came to hunt the Rasul, not serve him, Hamid has called in his wife and daughter. The two women enter unveiled.
The taciturn guide howls with indignation and runs from the room.
Hamid arches his eyebrows. “Perhaps he did not like my wife’s food.”
Jonathon does not catch the sarcasm. “I think he was astonished at seeing a woman’s face.”
“Yes,” Hamid agrees. “Even most Rasulis would react in such a manner. But you are from England. Christian ladies can show their faces, can they not?”
“Of course,” Jonathon says.
“Over the years, Islam—at least in my country—has corrupted the teachings of the Prophet Muhammad, I think to justify the hunger for power of the male clergy and to dominate our women. Fortunately, as you know, the Promised One has appeared to correct these wrong-headed interpretations and return us all to the true Religion of God, in which me
n and women truly are equal. I confess that until my daughter became a Rasuli and was tutored by a woman named Tara, I also remained ignorant. But when Zarrin returned home to us, the light shone from her face and her words caused my wife and me to recognize the truth of the Rasul.”
Until now, Zarrin’s face has been turned away from Ishaq so he could only see its profile. But now, as she gently turns to face him, Ishaq can see her face, and he is paralyzed by her bright eyes. She smiles at him, and he grows deaf to the words that Hamid utters.
“Zarrin helped us understand that in this new dispensation, women no longer need to hide their faces. Although, at the present time, this would be an unsafe practice outside our home. I am sorry about your guide… I assumed he was also a Rasuli.”
Ishaq cannot take his eyes off Zarrin. He has heard nothing, and even if he had, could not speak right now.
But Zarrin can speak. She lowers her eyes and says to Ishaq, “Welcome to our house.”
Hamid looks at the two youths and smiles. At least this young man is a Rasuli, he thinks. “Have you heard that the Rasul has been imprisoned in the fortress at Mah-Ku? Such evil in the world!”
These words shake Ishaq from his trance. “Yes, I heard that.” He is embarrassed that this kind, trusting man has jumped to conclusions, and that Ishaq’s father is in fact the source of the evil that has caused the Rasul to be sent to that awful place. Overcome with guilt, Ishaq prepares to confess his true station as the Christian son of the master persecutor of the Rasul.
Suddenly, however, the hired guide, shivering and mumbling, re-enters the room. Apparently the promise of a warm room and clean sleeping mat can override certain religious convictions. Trying desperately not to glance at the women’s faces, the guide gestures submission, asks forgiveness for his rude behavior, and asks that he be allowed to sleep indoors.
Out of courtesy, Hamid’s wife and daughter cover their faces and the guide audibly sighs, relieved that temptation has been removed and order restored to the world.
For Ishaq, however, the sight of Zarrin’s dark, sparkling eyes above the black veil is even more tantalizing.
Chapter 11
After five weeks, Ishaq still lingers in the town of Zanjan, unable to separate himself from the intoxicating Zarrin. Tired of the “preening and love-sick cooing” of Ishaq, and having exhausted the meager photographic potential of the town, Jonathon Fury has left with the hired guide for Tabriz. For the first time since arriving in Persia, Ishaq is truly on his own, though he is not lonely.
He is, however, amazed at the efficiency of the Rasuli grapevine. News of the Rasul and his followers travels with nearly impossible speed across vast distances, yet Ishaq has never seen the fleet-footed bearers of these messages; for all he knows, God Himself transports this news from one remote place to another on the spiky backs of thunderbolts.
On one dazzling April morning, while sipping sweet tea in Zarrin’s home, the unveiled young lady suddenly purses her lips and glances heavenward, as if she has just received a telepathic message from the mountains of Azerbaijan.
She says, “On Naw-Ruz, Jalal arrived at the prison-fortress in Mah-Ku to visit the Rasul.”
This means little to Ishaq. He knows that the Rasul has been imprisoned in the remote prison, but he has never heard of Jalal. “Who is this person you speak of?” Ishaq asks.
“Jalal. A very great man. He was the first to recognize the Promised One, and he now travels the country spreading the Rasul’s message. He traveled a thousand miles on foot, from Mashhad to Mah-Ku, to demonstrate his great devotion to the Rasul. Some day perhaps I will have the opportunity to show my love and devotion, too, just as Jalal and Tara have done so many times.”
Ishaq performs a quick calculation in his head. “It must have taken this man eight or nine months for such a journey. A colossal waste of time, I’d say, since he could have traveled that same distance in a fraction of the time by horseback.”
Zarrin’s sharp, accusing gaze makes Ishaq immediately wish he had not said this.
“Of course, I’m sure he used this time wisely,” he suggests defensively, “perhaps spreading the word among the many villages he passed through.”
Zarrin smiles as if agreeing with his epiphany and forgiving its tardiness. Her smile brightens the room and causes Ishaq to tremble with its force. He is completely under her spell and finds himself wondering about Persian weddings.
“There is a meeting of Rasulis this evening,” Zarrin says. “A secret meeting, of course. Would you like to attend?”
That evening, after dark, Zarrin and her family lead Ishaq to a small house on the far side of the village. They are all warmly greeted at the door. Inside are about thirty people. The women, including Zarrin, are all veiled. Customs change slowly, Ishaq thinks.
Many eyes furtively glance at Ishaq. He certainly does not look like a Persian, after all, and he probably has earned some kind of celebrity status through the Rasuli grapevine—an Englishman who believes in the Rasul. Suddenly Ishaq thinks that he comprehends what it must have been like for the early Christians, that small cult of believers who had met secretly in homes and caves to share news, deepen their faith, encourage each other, and plot strategy to survive and spread the gospel.
Without prompting now, the room grows quiet and an elderly man begins to chant a prayer in a thick, quavering voice. Ishaq recognizes it as one of the Rasul’s revealed prayers, though he has not heard it chanted before, only recited.
After the chant, Zarrin—the youngest woman in the room—boldly stands and greets the assembly. “My friends,” she says, “I have more news from Mah-Ku.”
The room swells with anticipation. “
The warden at Mah-Ku has asked the Rasul to marry his daughter.”
Heads nod excitedly. Voices buzz.
“The Rasul kindly refused this invitation,” Zarrin continues.
“I’ve heard of this warden. His name is Ali Khan, and he is known for his cruelty. It is unimaginable that this scorpion would invite a prisoner to join his family.”
“Unimaginable no longer,” Zarrin replies. “The shah—or more likely his evil enforcer, Aqasi—has spies within the Mah-Ku fortress, just as we do. News of the warden’s transformation inflamed the Qajar court, which also learned that many of the once-hostile villagers had become Rasulis. A few days after Jalal left Mah-Ku, Aqasi ordered the Rasul moved to the castle at Chiriq, which is the cruelest and most remote prison in the land. Aqasi’s next move will probably be to order a trial for the Rasul in Tabriz.”
This last remark lights a fuse. There are calls for militant insurrection, for an armed attempt to rescue the Rasul.
Ishaq is left wondering at the role that his father has played in these provocative decisions to punish the Rasul. He suspects that Ali has become the architect and Aqasi the feeble-minded sponsor. During the shouting, he finds himself reciting the Rasul’s prayer for removal of difficulties. Perhaps, without recognizing it, he has become a Rasuli. He prays that he will find the strength to reject vengeance.
Zarrin calms the crowd with a solemn chant of another prayer, and then addresses the gathering from behind her veil. “My friends,” she says, “followers of the Rasul are a people of love and forgiveness. God will guide us. If we are called to bear arms, to fight, to give up our lives, I believe it will be only to defend our faith. But I will defend to the death my loyalty to this new revelation, and my right to hold these beliefs.”
Ishaq listens to this young woman and quivers with excitement. He has made his decision—two of them, in fact. He can no longer deny that he has become a disciple of the Rasul; and he has recognized at last that he is hopelessly in love with Zarrin.
Chapter 12
Despite Ali’s best efforts, his foe is gathering strength. As he marches with false confidence across the great hall toward Aqasi’s elegant chambers, Ali knows that he is about to be rebuked by the grand vizier. A young man of twenty-eight is quietly defying the harshest restraints that
Ali has imposed. Not just defying them, but turning them against his persecutors.
In his opulent sitting room, Aqasi greets Ali coolly. The old man has adorned his richest and most regal attire for this occasion, a transparent attempt to intimidate the younger and quicker-witted Ali. Instead, the younger man inwardly sneers at the garish layers of feathered fabric and sparkling jewels. He remembers the clownish costumes that draped the counterfeit Persians in the Surrey’s London production of Midnight March to Freedom; those foppish actors were less comical than the human peacock standing before him now.
“Be seated,” Aqasi insists.
Ali sits down while Aqasi struts imperiously, fanning his feathers.
“I’m certain that you know the developments in Chiriq,” Aqasi says, meaning it as a question.
“Of course I do,” Ali replies. “The imposter possesses an uncanny ability to transform adversity into advantage.”
“The warden at Chiriq is the shah’s brother-in-law. But like that fool Ali Khan in Mah-Ku, this idiot has also succumbed to the imposter’s spell.”
“He is a fool, yes, but as he is the husband of the shah’s sister I find it most difficult to chastise—”
“I am not interested in excuses!” Aqasi shouts. “Half the population of this country is related to the shah. Our bigger problem, though, is in the neighboring town of Khuy. I believe you went there to stir up the populace.”
Ali knows what is coming. “Yes,” he says, looking down at the blue and burgundy carpet on which he sits.
“And I suppose you’ve heard just how well that little mission turned out.”
“On the surface, not well.”
Aqasi snorts, then laughs. “Not well did you say? Let me tell you just how not well it has gone. The most prominent clergy in Khuy, along with a legion of the most eminent Siyyids and government officials, have declared their allegiance to this imposter.”
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