“He let me go.”
Jonathon considers this.
Ali continues to eat.
“Maybe you can follow his example and let Ishaq go,” Jonathon says.
Ali closes his eyes. “If I release him, he will go to Fort Hujjat and die there. I heard news on the way back that the shah has called for Prince Mihdi to muster troops for an all-out assault on the Rasulis. This time they will not fail.”
“That must make you very happy,” Jonathon says, his voice tinged with sarcasm.
Ali doesn’t know if the annihilation of the Rasulis makes him happy or not. Since his evening with Jalal and Zarrin, he has lost his zeal to punish these unfortunate misfits. Should they die because they were misled?
“Have you seen Ishaq?” Ali asks.
“He’s well, but concerned for Zarrin. He doesn’t know if she survived the battle at Afra. He’s convinced that you did not.”
“And how has he responded to my ‘death’?” As soon as Ali asks this question, he realizes that he may not want to know the answer.
“He simply called your death an act of God’s justice.”
Ali steels himself against this revelation. “One day he will understand,” he says.
“Understand what? That his father engineered the massacre of his fellow believers? This he already understands.”
“They haven’t been killed yet. In fact, they’ve inflicted more harm on our troops than they have suffered.”
“Makes you wonder whose side God is on, doesn’t it?”
“The God I know is on neither side. He is simply amused by the carnage.”
“I think you should go to see Isaac.”
“No.”
“Then I’ll go and tell him you’re alive.”
“You do what you have to do,” Ali says. “I’m going to see the new shah. Attacking the Rasulis again is a strategic mistake that plays right into their hands.”
“Yes, I’m sure he’ll be eager to hear your opinion after that humiliating defeat in Afra.”
This last dart stings. Ali stands up, glowers at Jonathon and flings a dart of his own: “So good to have you back from your travels.”
Ali grunts his passage through the arched doorway and struts down the corridor to the outside door. He pushes aside the mute guard and marches to the palace, where he gains easy entrance. He finds Nasir-al-Din Shah and the grand vizier seated. They are conferring confidentially in the shah’s chambers. Both men look up in surprise as Ali enters.
“I see you survived the debacle in Afra,” the grand vizier says snidely. “As I recall, you promised us a quick end to the affair. You were so right.”
“The general was an incompetent imbecile.”
“Abdu’llah Khan was a cousin of the shah,” the grand vizier states, glancing at the boy-king, “and was appointed to lead this mission by the shah. Are you saying that the shah made a mistake? Or could it be that your strategy was flawed?”
Ali sees the trap in these words. “I admit that it was wrong to insist that we attack Fort Hujjat with such a large force.”
“They’re calling it Fort Hujjat now?” the shah asks.
“Yes,” Ali replies. “And based on the lessons of my previously flawed thinking, I now recommend a different strategy.”
“No longer the warmonger?” the grand vizier asks. “What now? Maybe we should give the Rasulis medals for valor in the face of overwhelming odds.”
Ali ignores the unveiled mockery. It is clear that the grand vizier is attempting to elevate his own position by derisively magnifying Ali’s missteps.
“As I said.” Ali continues, speaking directly to the shah, “the strategy of directly attacking the Rasulis has failed. Their fortifications are strong, and they are not afraid to attack fiercely as a method of defense. There is no reason to believe that attacking them again will produce a more satisfactory result. And if a new army should be defeated—or even merely fail to crush the fanatics on the first assault—the Rasulis’ stature would grow to heroic proportions.”
“If this is so,” the shah asks, “what do you suggest?”
“Exactly the opposite of my previous recommendation. I now suggest that we try the Rasul for heresy and execute him. His death may deflate the Rasulis.”
“You told us that making a martyr of the Rasul would rally these fanatics,” the shah says, confused. “Now you say we should martyr him?”
“How can we take advice from a man of such contradictions?” the grand vizier says. “I wonder if your change of heart, Ali, comes from your son’s embracing of this heresy. I understand that the woman he intends to marry is with the Rasulis at Hujjat.”
Ali is stunned that the grand vizier knows so much.
“You’ve talked to my son?” Ali asks.
The shah interrupts. “I spoke with Ishaq, yes. He was quite candid in admitting his convictions. Too bad—I rather liked him.”
To Ali, this sounds like a threat.
“My recommendation stands,” Ali boldly says, sidestepping the issue of his son. “Do you approve?”
“Unfortunately, no,” the grand vizier replies flatly. “It’s too late. Within a day or two Prince Mihdi-Quli will have an army of five thousand on the doorstep of thisFort Hujjat, and this time we will be ready for the enemy’s tactics. They’ve tipped their hand. The prince, I might add, is a much more astute leader than ‘Abdu’llah Khan.”
“I see,” Ali says. “I trust you will have no complaint if I go to observe the magnificent victory.”
“If you get there in time,” the shah says, “you might pick up a sword and help out.”
“As you wish,” Ali replies, and then bows graciously. “Now, then, I will go to release my son from custody.”
The grand vizier dramatically raises a large hand and says, “Ahh—but no. Ishaq will remain in our custody.”
“But it was I who ordered him held!” Ali protests. “Surely I have the authority to release him. He has committed no offense.”
The shah stands in a rustle of silk robes. “He is an admitted Rasuli. We are at war with these fanatics. I consider him to be an enemy.”
Ali is shaken by this turn of events. “When can I expect him to be released?”
The shah and the grand vizier look at each other. They look back at Ali.
And then the grand vizier replies, “Released?”
Chapter 23
Once the tutor of the crown prince, Ishaq is now his hostage, and Ali is responsible. Another blunder in a tragic series of miscalculations. Ali fears that the opportunistic grand vizier will send Ishaq to the feared Black Pit, a cesspool dungeon in which the worst criminals and unrepentant heretics are sent to rot in filth and chains. This had been the grand vizier’s implied threat.
Ali’s confidence is shattered. He sees now that his perfect pitch for politics has dissolved, leaving him as tone deaf as Aqasi in his waning years. Ali’s epic plan for punishing God has miscarried, and the misshapen mess lies at his feet. God, it seems, has decided to fight back.
Ali cannot bear to face Ishaq with such a burden of guilt. He must do something to win back his son’s love and trust. Though he still despises God, Ali decides in a flash of inspiration that his atonement will be the rescue of his old friend Jalal and Ishaq’s beloved Zarrin. If he has to save the entire legion of Rasulis at Fort Hujjat to accomplish this, he will.
Animated by his new purpose, and suddenly shivering with loneliness, Ali races to the apartment and asks Jonathon to accompanying him back to Afra. Jonathon is easily convinced. Before dawn the two men set out on fast horses, changing them at post stations on the way. They carry few possessions, although Jonathon has strapped a canvas bag, which contains his camera and a few other accessories, to his horse. He would rather go without food.
After four frigid days of travel through the mountains, they finally arrive at noon in the village of Malik-Kala, which lies about two miles east of Fort Hujjat. They hire an introverted old blacksmith to make repairs to a
broken horseshoe and inquire about the location of the army of Prince Mihdi-Quli, but the blacksmith remains tight-lipped until Ali produces a letter bearing the seal of the shah. The forged document grants Ali unlimited powers in managing the government’s campaign against the Rasulis.
The blacksmith sighs and unburdens himself of the dramatic events that he has recently observed. “This morning the army was surprised by the Rasulis,” the blacksmith reports.
“This morning—are you sure?” Ali asks.
“I heard them about three hours before dawn,” the blacksmith replies. “They must have crossed the river between here and the shrine. I looked out and saw them coming into the village. Must have been two hundred of them, led by a man in white robes on a white horse that glowed in the moonlight. I knew at once they were Rasulis, and I thought they might be attacking our town, but they passed through on the way to Vas-Kas, where the prince and his army were camped.”
“So the army was not in Afra?”
“Not after the previous army was beaten there. This time they camped further away—out of reach. I’m a damned fool, but I followed the Rasulis—at a distance. It’s not every day that a fellow from Malik-Kalá gets to see the shah’s mighty army demolish a renowned band of heretics. And so I followed the Rasulis to the encampment of the prince, and what I saw and heard will give me nightmares for the rest of my life.”
“The Rasulis were defeated?” Ali asks nervously.
“There was a defeat, true,” the blacksmith says, “but it was the prince’s army that was crushed. I hope you will tell the shah that there was nothing I could do to help.”
“Yes, yes,” Ali says, “but how could this happen? Surely the army must have been prepared for an attack by the Rasulis.”
“They must have believed they were too far away from the Rasulis’ lair to be attacked. Four miles, you must admit, is quite a distance to venture from a safe harbor! Suddenly I heard the cry ‘Ya Sahibu’z-Zaman!’ It rang out on all sides, like spirits shrieking. I fled to my village to hide.”
Ali wonders at the strange events that have led him to silently cheer for his enemy, the Rasulis.
Chapter 24
Over the next three weeks, the armies of three renowned military leaders—‘Abbas, Mihdi, and Sulayman—merge into a massive army that converges on Fort Hujjat. The young shah and his new grand vizier have taken matters out of Ali’s hands and ordered a massive build-up. The army is commanded by forty-five of Persia’s most experienced officers. The army immediately severs supply lines to the fort, begins constructing barricades and war machines, aims cannons at each of the fort’s eight sides, and conducts exercises designed to impress and frighten the Rasulis.
Despite the army’s imposing display of strength, the soldiers are less than confident. Stories of a mythic Jalal, wielding a magic sword and calling upon the forces of the universe with the cry of Ya Sahibu’z-Zaman, terrify the superstitious troops. They know that other powerful armies have been defeated by this fearsome foe, and so the soldiers sleep fitfully and work nervously as the final preparations for war continue.
Jonathon photographs the army and its officers. Ali broods over his lack of options; he is now mostly an observer.
It is too much to hope that the Rasulis can overcome the awesome fighting force that has been assembled here.
On the first day of February, Jalal peers over the north wall at the main enemy encampment. He suspects that the army’s assault will begin in a day or two. He performs his ablutions late in the afternoon, clothes himself in fresh white garments, and places the Rasul’s green turban on his head. He calls the Rasulis around him.
“This evening we will attack the enemy,” he says to them, “but this battle will be unlike any we have fought before. Who will join me?”
Zarrin is the first to raise her hand, and then hundreds of others solemnly raise their fists into the air.
Shortly after midnight, as the morning-star rises, Jalal mounts his white stallion. Behind him are three hundred and thirteen volunteers. Another hundred will remain to defend the fort.
Danush and Zarrin are already mounted. Their horses stomp the ground and snort plumes of fog in the icy air. Except for the sounds of the eager animals, silence envelopes the fort.
Jalal takes a deep breath. He looks up at the morning-star, a reminder of the spiritual dawn that he believes is about to break. He motions for the heavy gate to be opened.
Slowly he urges his horse to the portal and looks out. Small fires burn in the enemy encampment. Tents glow in the moonlight. Everything is quiet. He can hear the faint rustle of his companions closing ranks behind him.
Jalal lifts his sword overhead.
The heavens suddenly cry with shouts of Ya Sahibu’z-Zaman!
Roaring like a lion, Jalal charges the first barricade, followed by Zarrin and another hundred Rasulis. The sleepy guards glimpse a fleeting white phantom charging through the moonlight with the cry “The Lord of the Age!”
The terrified soldiers scatter as Jalal smashes through the first barricade, and then the second. At the third barricade, bullets begin to fly past Jalal from every side. Staccato claps of musket fire mix with the shouts of the Rasulis and cries of panic from the soldiers. In the confusing cross-fire, some army bullets strike other soldiers, and many fleeing troops are accidentally cut down by those trying to stand their ground, but Jalal remains untouched.
While Jalal is launching his frontal attack, the other two hundred Rasulis circle around the army and now begin an assault from the other sides. Their shouts terrify the stunned troops.
Prince ‘Abbas flees from his tent, musket in hand. He dodges two Rasulis but is knocked down by a fleeing soldier who ignores his orders to stand and fight. The prince finds a tree and climbs into its branches to hide and observe the maelstrom that is sweeping through his camp.
Suddenly the munitions tent catches fire and the heavens explode in dazzling flames, illuminating the battlefield. The soldiers can now see their attackers, and army bullets begin to find their targets.
Still the Rasulis rush the soldiers from every side.
Jalal slashes the ropes of a tent. It collapses, exposing two frightened men. Jalal raises his sword to attack, but in the flickering light of the flames he recognizes one of these men—Ali!
Ali looks up at Jalal with a flash of recognition. He now sees that his death will come at the hand of his childhood friend. His mind flickers with the pale image of twelve-year-old Jalal’s playful face above him after dropping a handful of sand in Ali’s hair.
How did we end up here? he wonders. When did we become enemies?
Ali wants to call out to Jalal, call upon their friendship, beg for mercy, but he cannot.
I loved you, Ali remembers. I still love you, Jalal.
A sudden peace sweeps over him. If he is to die, let it be here, now, with his best friend. Let his tormented life end, and the pain with it. Let him sacrifice his life for their friendship.
Ali bows his head, accepting his fate.
Jalal calls to the nearest Rasuli fighter, a young man of Ishaq’s age, and says, “Stay here. See that no harm comes to these men by our hands.” And then he gallops off.
Ali drops to his knees and begins to sob. He cannot tell if his tears come from relief or sorrow.
Fifty yards from Ali, Zarrin finds herself surrounded by four men. Still mounted, she charges one of them and cuts him down with a slash of her sword. Suddenly her horse rears up. Its hooves crash down on another soldier.
Seeing her still in danger, Danush races to assist, but another soldier has cut off Zarrin’s left hand with a swing of his harquebus. Hearing shouts as Danush draws near, the two soldiers turn and flee.
“You’re wounded!” Danush says to Zarrin. “I’ll take you back to the fort.”
“Never!” she shouts as she tries to apply a strip of clothing as a tourniquet to her forearm. Danush dismounts and ties it for her. And then he sees the man killed by Zarrin’s sword.
“It’s Prince Mihdi!” he says.
Zarrin looks at Danush and says, “He should have known better than to pick on a woman.”
As Jalal chases a group of terrified soldiers near the tent of Prince ‘Abbas, his horse becomes tangled in the ropes of the tent. In a desperate attempt to free itself, the horse becomes further ensnared.
Seeing Jalal in peril, Zarrin gallops over to him and leaps from her saddle, trying to sever the web of ropes with her sword.
From his tree, Prince ‘Abbas sees the white figure on his tangled mount just thirty yards away. He raises his musket and fires.
The bullet blasts a hole in Jalal’s neck. Blood spurts from the gaping wound, splattering Zarrin below.
Prince ‘Abbas jumps to the ground and flees. Looking up in horror, Zarrin sees Jalal falling slowly from his horse. With her one good hand, she helps him to the ground as Prince ‘Abbas jumps from the tree and flees.
Three other Rasulis approach them. Zarrin puts Jalal’s head in her lap and presses another torn strip of her garment against the gushing wound.
From a distance, Ali watches as the Rasulis lift up Jalal and begin to carry their unconscious leader toward the fort.
Within another ten minutes, the army has been routed. Of the enemy, only Ali and Jonathon remain on the battlefield. They are still guarded by the young Rasuli.
“I’m not sure what to do,” the Rasuli says to Ali. “Will you come with us to the fort?”
“You go,” Ali says. “We’ll stay here for a while.”
As the Rasuli walks toward the fort, the flames begin to die and darkness descends upon Ali and Jonathon. Ali is sure that his old friend will die. He is surprised at the depth of his sadness. But Zarrin—surely that was her with the bloody stump of an arm—Zarrin is alive! There is hope.
In the shrine, Jalal is lain on a mat and treated by Abbas the physician. After an hour, Jalal regains consciousness, finding Danush seated next to him behind closed doors.
“You have hastened the hour of your departure,” Danush says, smiling sadly. “Please God, I will soon join you.”
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