“They carry the Black Standard,” the grand vizier continues. “The prophesied three hundred thirteen now occupy the shrine of Shaykh Hujjat, the preserver of the Traditions. These are most ominous signs.”
Ali returns to speaking Farsi. “These are myths! But you can see how cleverly these fanatics have hijacked the symbols of Islam to influence the weak-minded and the superstitious. If a great intellectual mind like yours can even momentarily flinch at the mention of such things, imagine the profound effect on the simple minds of the villagers. We must take no chances in destroying these fanatics at once. I’m sure that I don’t have to point out that this will be the first military campaign under Nasir-al Din Shah’s regime.”
The shah rises. With boyish enthusiasm he says, “If five thousand men is a good number, then ten thousand is better. Let all of Persia see the might of the new shah. Ali, you will personally recruit the men. But see to it that these infidels are killed quickly.”
Ali bows to the boy before him and says, “I will need ammunition and supplies.”
The shah nods.
“Once the army has surrounded the shrine,” Ali says, “we will quickly exterminate these vermin.”
Bearing the shah’s royal badge, Ali leaves the palace for Mazandaran the next morning. With the cooperation of Abdu’llah Khan, a powerful general in the army of Mazandaran, he is able to recruit over 12,000 men. Within a month, ‘Abdu’llah has moved the troops to the small village of Afra near the shrine of Hujjat.
On the first evening of the army’s encampment at Afra, ‘Abdu’llah sits with Ali in a majestic tent that had taken thirty men the better part of the day to erect and then adorn with lush carpets, animal furs, and countless ornaments of battle and plunder.
Sipping tea, ‘Abdu’llah looks up at Ali and says, “Do you believe he is the Qa’im?”
“I believe he threatens the kingdom. I leave religious conjecture to the mullas.”
“The army we have assembled makes for wonderful pageantry, but is unnecessary to accomplish the mission. I propose that a smaller detachment—perhaps two thousand men—be stationed just outside the Rasuli fortress. We will sever the supply line to the shrine, depriving them of food and water. Trust me, before long they will surrender without a battle.”
“You speak of a siege. I had envisioned an attack.”
“These Rasulis have fortified themselves well. Even with our overwhelming numbers, I cannot guarantee success on a first attack. How would it appear if twelve thousand Persian troops were repulsed even once by a small band of farm boys and mullas?”
Ali laughs. “I’m impressed by your shrewdness. Your approach is more prudent.”
The plan begins to unfold by the following afternoon.
Inside “Fort” Hujjat, as the inhabitants have been calling the reinforced shrine, the Rasulis watch apprehensively as hundreds of Persian troops circumambulate the shrine and imperiously set up camp barely a hundred yards from the fortified gate. The army wagons leave deep ruts in the soft Mazandaran soil as huge barricades are built up. The army detachment has even brought its own flock of sheep and goats to provide meat and milk for the troops.
Ten days after the start of the siege, Abbas the physician approaches Jalal and says, “We can endure the lack of food for a time, but there is no more water. We cannot last even another two days.”
Jalal stares out at the grassy field on which the government troops are camped. In the front of the camp, seated at a table visible to the Rasulis, a captain eats lunch and hoists a glass as if toasting the Rasulis. The officer drinks deeply, and then tauntingly flings the remainder of the liquid onto the ground.
“God willing,” Jalal replies to Abbas, “a downpour of rain will overtake our opponents this very evening, followed by a heavy snowfall. The rain will fill our cisterns and assist us in repelling our opponents.”
Abbas looks up at the cloudless sky and sighs. God willing, he thinks. And then he prays for the strength to understand and obey God’s will. His lips are parched and his skin withered and scaly from lack of water. Some of the men have already become disoriented. Even the animals have grown weak from dehydration.
At three o’clock that morning, a thunderclap, sounding like cannon fire, stirs the slumbering Rasulis. Within minutes rain begins to spatter on the roof of the shrine and the packed floor of the courtyard. The rain is cold and slushy, but the men begin to sing joyfully as the rain pelts them. They hold open their mouths, snatching the life-giving water out of the air.
The rain becomes a downpour, and then a violent waterfall, sending them for cover. The courtyard is becoming a shallow sea.
In their enemy encampment, the deluge seeps into the soft Mazandaran soil, turning it into a mushy bog. Tents blow over, a flash flood destroys the camp’s munitions, and wagons sink into the mud. Frightened horses tear free from their restraints and race frantically through the camp. The sheep and goats flee in terror, many of them making their way toward the slightly higher ground of the fort.
The following morning dawns gray and colder. The exhausted, shivering troops, stuck in the mud without shelter, spend the day digging out while the Rasulis gather the sheep and goats that miraculously have strayed near the front gate. Cold but rejoicing nevertheless, the Rasulis eat and drink, dry out near warm fires, and huddle prayerfully inside the shelters.
That evening, a heavy snowstorm—unusual for this province on the shores of the Caspian Sea—blankets the entire region. The cold slush virtually immobilizes the army. Just after sunrise the next day, as the shah’s army is rising stiffly from a cold and miserable night in the muck, the gate of Fort Hujjat flies open and two hundred Rasulis explode from it like a cannon ball with shouts of “Ya Sahibu’z-Zaman!” The Lord of the Age!
Jalal and Danush lead the charge on horseback, with Zarrin close behind on her roan. The remainder of the Rasulis charge on foot. Jalal holds his gleaming sword overhead.
The attack is so unexpected, and the cries of the Rasulis so fierce, that the shaken soldiers scatter like ants, most of them running through the sticky mud toward the much larger detachment in Afra.
The commanding officer, Mohit, stands to face the onslaught. With sword drawn, he stares down Zarrin who gallops toward him. As she nears, readying her sword, he ducks and slices his blade through the roan’s front leg. The horse falls and Zarrin pitches face-first into the mud, still clutching her sword. She sits up and sees Mohit only several steps away. His face is spattered with snow and mud, and he is raising his sword, but as he tries to move forward he finds his feet trapped in the sucking mud. Cursing his luck, he watches Zarrin stand. Angrily he prepares to hurl his sword at her, but from behind Abbas spears him in the back.
Within minutes, all two thousand troops have abandoned their encampment. The Rasulis continue to charge, following the soldiers to nearby Afra. Believing themselves to be in no danger, the officers of the Afra camp had made no defensive preparations. As the bloody remnant of the forward detachment races into the camp, the Afra detachment erupts in panic and the men begin to scatter. Confused and afraid, many of them run to the River Talar and drown trying to escape an invading force that they are certain must be far larger than their own.
‘Abdu’llah, who is only partially dressed, calls upon his officers to stand and fight, but they flee instead. All the officers are killed, and ‘Abdu’llah dies alone with a club to the head.
Jalal finds one man neither running nor facing him with a weapon. The man stands on the edge of the forest staring fearlessly at Jalal, who approaches him on horseback. The man is dressed neither as a soldier or an officer.
Jalal urges his horse up to the stranger until the man is standing next to his thigh. It is not right to kill a man who is not armed, and who may not be part of the opposition.
“Who are you?” Jalal demands.
The man remains silent.
Jalal has no time for this. He raises his sword high and brings the hilt of it down on the man’s head. Quickly
, he hoists the unconscious fellow onto the back of his horse and ties him down.
In less than an hour, twelve thousand government troops have vanished from the encampment. Not a single Rasuli has been killed.
Some of the Rasulis want to continue the chase, but Danush instructs them to cease the attack and return to the fort. “Our purpose is to protect ourselves, not cause unnecessary harm,” Danush explains.
Suddenly weary, the Rasulis return to their cheering companions who had been left to guard the fort.
Inside Fort Hujjat, Jalal lowers his captive from the back of the horse and carries the man into the shrine. He tends to the man’s head wound, chastising himself for such preventable violence. When the man regains consciousness, Jalal offers him tea. The man sips it silently. Finally, the man looks at Jalal and speaks for the first time.
“What will you do with me?”
“It depends. Who are you?”
“I am a villager from Afra.”
Jalal studies the man, whose robes are not those of a villager.
“And I am the shah,” Jalal replies, smiling. “Now tell me the truth.”
“All right, I am a representative of the shah.”
“What is your name?”
“In England I am known as Oliver Chadwick. In Persia my name is Ali Qasim of Bushruyih.”
These words stun Jalal. He stands and faces away from his captive. Ali Qasim! Yes, he had known that Ali had returned. Still facing the wall, Jalal says, “Let me introduce myself. I am Jalal.”
This time Ali is stunned. He has been captured by the man he both despises and admires.
“The name my parents gave me is Jalal.”
Ali searches his memory. He had known a boy named Jalal—his best friend, in fact, whom Ali had tearfully left behind and who still haunts his dreams.
Jalal turns. “Jalal of Bushruyih,” he adds.
Two twelve-year-old friends face each other at last from across the great gulf of time.
Chapter 21
Alí stares at his boyhood friend. The legendary Rasuli warrior before him is the spiritually gifted boy who had been the envy of all the young men in Bushruyih. He is the intellectually precocious child who had vanquished the mujtahids in debate and had saved the life of an old Shaykhi. He is the dreamer who had longed to be the first to discover the Promised One. He is, had been, Ali’s dearest friend, but now is Ali’s adversary. And yet this bearded captor in the soiled white robes does not strike fear in Ali’s heart. The clear eyes, the affable smile, the gentle touch—these are not the expressions of a fanatic or a savage.
Ali is calm and relaxed. Two other individuals enter the shrine and light candles to illuminate the gathering darkness. Jalal introduces the first as Danush. The second one, who appears to be a young man, is introduced with the name of a woman, Zarrin.
Zarrin! This must be the young woman whom Ishaq loves. Surely no other woman by that name has joined the pursuit of Jalal’s death wish.
Jalal introduces his captive to the others, saying, “This is my friend, Ali Qasim of Bushruyih, who is known in England as Oliver Chadwick.”
Zarrin easily makes the connection with Ishaq, but she, too, remains silent.
Jalal continues speaking to Danush and Zarrin. “When we were boys of twelve, we both hoped to become mullas. Religion was at the center of our lives, and the Prophet dominated our thoughts. The years since have been very difficult for my friend, I assume, or he would not have abandoned his desire for nearness to God and cast his lot with our persecutors.”
Zarrin casts a ferocious look at Ali and says, “You are in a position of great authority in the Qajar government.”
Ali nods and replies, “I see that Ishaq has told you about me.”
“He said that you might help us,” Zarrin says, her voice brittle with tension, “but apparently you have decided to kill us instead. Why, then, should we not kill you?”
She moves her hand to the hilt of her sword but Danush calms her with the touch of his hand.
“Perhaps you should,” Ali replies.
“Did Ishaq tell you about me, and that I was with Jalal?” she asks.
Ali nods again.
Zarrin bites her lip. She feels betrayed and masks her pain with sarcasm. “I’m sure you will understand if you are not invited to our wedding,” she says.
“You will never be married,” Ali replies. “When you chose to follow Jalal, you chose the path of certain death. I’m afraid that you will never leave this fort alive.”
“Maybe you’ve forgotten how we crushed your proud army!” Zarrin snaps back.
“You have extended your lives by mere days. Very soon, news of your feat will be reaching Tehran. The child who is now shah will be infuriated because his precious pride has been injured. He will order a fresh army to descend upon your fort with such royal vengeance that buzzards will be picking your bones within a month. In a year, no one will remember you or your cause, except in ridicule. What you do with me doesn’t matter because the wheels of your destruction have already been set in motion.”
Zarrin is enraged at this man’s defiance. “We hold your life! Do you not fear death?”
“I have already died many deaths,” Ali says. “I died the day that God unjustly took my beloved. I died again when he drowned my mother—and yet again when he killed my wife and unborn daughter. Do you think one more death frightens me? No more than death frightens you. Is it difficult to understand that we both seek martyrdom? You in the service of your God, and I in my struggle to punish Him.”
Danush sees that Jalal has been deeply touched by Ali’s pain. “Zarrin, we must leave now. These two old friends have things to talk about.”
The two men are alone again.
“The day you disappeared,” Jalal says quietly, “I thought that angels had descended and plucked you from earth to serve God in some other realm. You had such goodness in you, such purity of heart. I envied you.”
“Don’t be foolish,” Ali says, smiling for the first time. “It was I who envied you.”
“I’m sorry that you blame God for your difficulties.”
“Difficulties? Such a mild term for betrayal and murder.”
“If you believe that God betrayed you, then you must still believe in God.”
“In His existence, yes. But I’ve discovered His true nature.
“Yes, and so have I. But it seems our conclusions are probably irreconcilable.”
“Definitely irreconcilable. Even your celebrated powers of debate will not persuade me that God is anything but cruel and unjust.”
“Then I will not try. You may leave now.”
“You’re letting me go?”
Jalal nods. “But I wish you’d stay the night so we can talk.”
“And so you can soften me up, change my mind? It won’t happen.”
Jalal sighs, looks at his muddy boots, and smiles softly. “I’ve missed you, Ali. For many years you came to me in my dreams, but then one day you stopped. Now that I’ve found you again, can you blame me for wanting to reminisce about our happy times together?”
Ali turns away. “I’ll stay,” he says.
They talk into the night, about flying horses and the sparse shade of mulberry trees and the buried plunder of Turkoman raiders, but not religion. About the excitement of caravans entering town and the feel of maust on the tongue and the delicate fragrances of the kelauntar’s gardens, but not God. They recall the fleeting glimpses of female eyes that thrilled them, and the hilarious lunacy of old mullas, and the lively games of youth. On this frigid winter evening, they lie again on a blanket of warm Bushruyih sand, two twelve-year old boys, heads nearly touching, eyes on the clouds. And finally, as they sleep, Ali fleetingly comes to Jalal again in his dreams.
At dawn, Ali mounts a tired mule and turns to Jalal. “It would be so much easier if you and Zarrin would leave the fort. I can protect you. Come with me.”
Jalal smiles and says, “On the other hand, we could use anot
her able body here. I fear that we’ll be outnumbered soon.”
Ali and Jalal stare at each other through an impassable chasm.
Jalal says, “Remember when we both claimed that we would be the first to discover the Promised One?”
“Apparently you won.”
“Don’t give up,” Jalal replies. He slaps the mule. It trudges toward the gate, which slowly yawns open.
From a small bundle wrapped tightly around his waist, Ali takes out two daguerreotypes and a folded dust cover, the beacons of his obsession. The faces shine in the early morning light. After an evening of remembrance, these are the memories that matter.
He must never forget that.
Chapter 22
After trading the mule and a handful of coins for a sturdy horse, Ali rides for Tehran and arrives at his airy apartment to find that Jonathon Fury has returned from his travels. Jonathon is cleaning his equipment as he dines on rice, stewed eggplant, and skewered beef.
Jonathon looks up, shocked to see Ali.
“My God,” he says in English, “we all thought you had been killed in Afra.” He leaps to his feet and wraps his arms around his grimy friend. “You look exhausted. Are you hungry? Eat before you faint!”
Ali sits and begins to eat.
Jonathon, too agitated to sit, remains standing.
“The new shah thinks you are dead, too,” Jonathon says. “To be honest, he seems quite angry. Apparently the campaign in Afra didn’t go as expected, but I suppose you know that. By now, everyone in Persia seems to know that a handful of Rasuli peasants vanquished a massive royal army. This fellow, Jalal, has captured the attention of the people. Depending on their outlook, he’s either a saint or a devil—either way, something quite supernatural.”
Ali swallows a mouthful of rice and says, “He’s neither—I can attest to that.”
“You’ve met him?”
“He captured me after the battle at Afra.”
Jonathon sits down close to Ali. “And you escaped?”
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