The Jealous

by Laury Silvers

  “But Ammar told me no one had access to the cabinet where the medicine was kept but the housekeeper.”

  “She admitted that she didn’t always have her keys on her. She found Hanan in there after she found out Mu’mina was pregnant. She was looking for herbs to abort the baby.”

  “Ammar will need to know all of this.”

  “There’s more. The housekeeper said that Isam had taken too much once and had the very same symptoms. His dead father spoke to him and nearly scared him to death. He was fine in the end, though. She believes Hanan only wanted to scare her husband, make him finally see the ifrit that she believed was tormenting him and rid himself of Mu’mina.” She paused, “She thinks the wife killed him by mistake.”

  “How does this implicate Isam?”

  “Isam loves Hanan, always has.”

  “Saliha saw that.” He let out a long breath. “Well, all that makes sense. Why do you think she might be lying?”

  “It’s hard to explain. Maybe not lying, but not telling the truth, either. She’s a woman who likes to make trouble.”

  “And the housekeeper is sure the cookies Hanan fed the Imam were Isam’s?”

  “Uff!” She grabbed him, “Of course!” She wanted to slap herself for not realizing, “The housekeeper just assumed the cookies were Isam’s! She only saw Hanan feeding him cookies from just inside the room. She couldn’t have seen different patterns from there, only that there were patterns. She was just assuming.” She huffed, “That’s it. It’s not that she lies. This woman likes to think the worst in people and make trouble. So she assumed they were the same cookies. But we just don’t know.” She paused, irritated by the realization, “We’re back to where we started.”

  Tein barked a short laugh.

  She pinched him, “Laughing at your sister?”

  He took her hand, “I don’t know how much Saliha told you about when we went to the nahariyya.”

  “A bit. Yulduz was taking care of her, then she went right to sleep.”

  “The man who runs the kitchen mentioned always having to have on hand a certain kind of cookie for him. It could have been them, Zay. The prostitute who fought with Saliha, she hated the Imam enough to do it.”

  Zaytuna grew excited. “Saliha told me the prostitute was forced to have sex with him while her friend was lying dead below. Saliha washed the poor woman’s friend, too. She said her tumour was like a child within her.”

  “More the harm. The prostitute, Chandi, she didn’t believe the police or the Amir who runs the nahariyya would do anything about it. Her friend’s death would go unavenged. She had reason to kill him.” He looked down the road, shaking his head to dismiss the idea, “But she wasn’t with him right before he died. The poison acts immediately. It had to come from the house. It’s more likely that the housekeeper was right.”

  “But Tein, why couldn’t Chandi have sent him home with the cookies?”

  “She could have, I suppose. It was either Hanan or Chandi. I’ll tell Ammar. He can question the family and I’ll follow it up at the nahariyya.”

  She suddenly realized what this would mean to Chandi and that she hadn’t cared what it would mean to the wife. As awful as the woman was, if his wife did it purposefully, she had every reason. Walla, wouldn’t justice be better served by letting it go? She tried to put him off, “But the case was closed...”

  He ignored her, interrupting, “I don’t look forward to going back there after what happened to Saliha.” He dropped his head, “I shouldn’t have brought her.”

  “True, but there’s no telling her anything.”

  He shook his head. “And Zay, she was good.”

  Zaytuna raised her eyebrows, “I don’t doubt it. But Tein, the women...”

  “I don’t know what to do.”

  “What did Uncle say? Examine your conscience. Find your compass.”

  “Uncle Nuri told me that being a man is not owning anything or anyone.”

  She nodded gravely. “That’s what he meant about acting for another’s sake without wanting recompense. Ithar. If you believe that, then don’t follow the case up with either woman. Let it go. He deserved it. His wife may not even have intended to do it. And God knows Chandi has been through enough.”

  “I feel for Chandi but if she killed him, as bad as he was, she planned it. It wasn’t a crime of passion.”

  She felt a swirling anger rise up in her. How could he not see? How could she explain? She felt Junayd’s eyes on her. The image of Ali on the battlefield pushed through her anger until she retreated, finding her ground, a place within her where she could, at least, speak from what she knew, not her rage. She explained, “When a woman kills like this she is not just killing the man before her, but also every man who committed every horror before him. It’s passionate self-defence against every man. We bear up under the thousands of horrors that have come before until we can’t anymore. Planned or unplanned, these murders are the same.”

  He didn’t say anything. She saw it hit him, because he knew. They had lived through too much by their mother’s side and knew how deeply it had hurt him. He knew, too, from working in Grave Crimes. But then he said, “Not every woman kills.”

  “Tein, women’s bodies are simmering pots heated by the fire of men’s transgressions. Not every woman is as skilled a cook as Mother.”

  He raised his eyebrows, conceding, but said, “Her case won’t go to Ibn Marwan. It’s closed. I just want Ammar to know.”

  “Why?”

  “He has to know that Mu’mina didn’t do it. He did what was right in the end, but not because Mu’mina was deserving of justice.”

  She drew her head back. “I don’t understand.”

  “I haven’t had the chance to tell you. His mother told him about a dream she had of Fatima in which she instructed him to protect Mu’mina.”

  “Subhanallah! That’s why he changed his mind?”

  Tein said, “That’s not the half of it.”

  “What?”

  “He had been hearing a voice telling him to be like Hurr.”

  “Hurr?” She furrowed her brow. “The one who changed sides to support Husayn at Karbala?”

  “Yes, him. Hurr went to Husayn with his hands out begging for forgiveness. Husayn put him into battle and he was martyred. So Ammar declared that he’d go to Ibn Marwan with his hands out and then go to battle for Mu’mina.” His voice became thick with emotion, “He went to Ibn Marwan for forgiveness, not me. He should have been asking for my forgiveness. And to battle? He fought for Mu’mina for Fatima’s sake, not her own.”

  She suddenly understood, remembering their late-night conversation the first day this began. “Tein, this isn’t about Mu’mina. It’s about what Ammar did to you when he denied her justice. He denied her because she is African and he feared her. But he didn’t see you and she are the same. You’ll be risking these women’s lives to make him see you as you are, an African man, not the Arab he says you are in order to put himself at ease with your black skin.”

  He looked away from her.

  “This is not ithar, Tein. You cannot act on anyone’s behalf, if the action is to serve yourself, your own needs. I know he hurt you, but this is not the way. You’ll be using their lives to teach Ammar a lesson, just as men have always used them.”

  “I just want him to know Mu’mina didn’t do it.”

  “Proving her innocence doesn’t prove she deserved justice. She deserves justice either way.” She begged, “Please, Tein, don’t.”

  He smiled. “Don’t worry.” But his smile did not reassure her.

  “You will be no better than Ammar. You will have harmed a woman because you are giving in to your emotions.”

  He ignored her. “He’ll have to go question Isam and Hanan. I’ll see if I can go back to the nahariyya.” He looked up at the sun, “The midday call to prayer is soon. There’s plenty of day left.”

  “Tein, don’t.”

  He took her in his arms. “You did good, my sist
er.” He held her tight, “Zaytuna, Uncle Nuri won’t make it through tonight. The funeral prayer will be tomorrow. Be ready.”

  She pulled back, searching his eyes, “How do you know?”

  “Uncle’s fingers, they were already blackened at the tips. It won’t be long. I saw it on the frontier.”

  Only after he was long over the bridge and she was nearly home, did she realize she had forgotten to tell him to warn Ammar that it wouldn’t just be Ibn Marwan calling him to account for what he’d done wrong. She felt some relief at that. If censure were coming from high places, then certainly there’d be no further investigation. Certainly nothing would happen to the wife, and Chandi would be safe. She shook her head. He feared Mu’mina and look at the harm he’s done. God forgive him.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Ammar sat on the low couch against the back wall of the office. His cuirass and sword were beside him. His head was in his hands. Tein knew the posture, the particular slump in his shoulders. He had seen him like this after he’d killed a baby on the battlefield. A young Byzantine water carrier had a baby strapped to his back. The fighting burst out over the edge of the field and the water carrier got in the way. Ammar swung in the confusion and killed both him and the baby in one stroke. He said that he stood over them for only a moment then had to keep killing. Ammar nearly ran away from the camp that night. Tein kept him there. He stayed, but he was like this, slumped in pain, for a long time afterwards.

  Part of Tein wanted to sit beside him and put off the conversation until he was on a more solid footing, but the other part told him that Ammar didn’t deserve to wait to hear what he had to say. So Tein stood over him asking with all the pain he felt at his friend’s betrayal, “Have you put out your Hurr-like hands begging for forgiveness from Ibn Marwan yet?”

  Looking up, Ammar’s eyes were pained. “I deserve that.”

  “I don’t know that you understand why you deserve it.”

  His face contorted into an expression of painful confusion.

  Tein continued, “Do you know why all this happened?”

  Ammar straightened his back and looked up, straining to face Tein. “Because I betrayed my own principles. I didn’t investigate her case. I didn’t fight for the truth.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I feared her.”

  “Why?”

  “Jinn. I was afraid of the jinn.”

  “There’s more to that. Why else did you fear her?”

  Ammar didn’t answer immediately.

  Tein demanded, “Why?”

  “I know what you want me to say. She’s African.” He furrowed his brow. “But everyone knows they worship the jinn like gods. I was just afraid of the jinn. I didn’t know she was truly a believer, that she was under Sayyida Fatima’s care.”

  Tein shook his head. “Am I African?”

  Ammar nearly moaned, “Tein, where is all this going?”

  “Am I African?”

  “Your mother was noble. Your father was an Arab. Your culture is Arab. You are a Muslim. You are not African like that.”

  “So if you didn’t know me. If you had no way to tell yourself that I was not African ‘like that’, I would deserve no more justice than you offered her?”

  Ammar looked up at Tein with eyes full of pain. He managed, “I don’t know.”

  Tein laughed bitterly. “At least you admit that much.”

  Ammar slumped over again, and put his head in his hands, breathing heavily. Then said, “I’ve wronged you.” He looked up, tears in his eyes, holding out his hands, “I’ve wronged you, my friend. I wronged Mu’mina. I thought I already knew the extent of what I’d done. My God, Tein!”

  “Don’t grovel. I don’t want it.”

  “Forgive me.”

  Tein felt a rush of sorrowful relief wash through him, so heavy it pushed him down. He knelt before his friend who still sat, hands out waiting to be bound for what he’d done. He took Ammar’s hands in his own. “Look at my skin. Would Husayn or Ali put any of us beyond the reach of justice? If you would fight for me, fight for all of us.”

  Ammar straightened up. “I will. If I make it out of Ibn Marwan’s alive, by God, I will.”

  Tein let go of his hands and looked him in the eye. “I’ll be watching.” He stood again and sighed, then took a seat beside Ammar.

  Ammar wiped his eyes with his sleeve.

  Tein asked, “When do you go before Ibn Marwan?”

  “Now.”

  “Listen to me, I saw Zaytuna. She spoke to the Imam’s housekeeper. The woman insisted that Hanan paid to have Mu’mina poisoned to abort the baby.”

  “That confirms it. The poisoning case is with Grave Crimes in Rusafa. I’ll bring what you’ve said to Ibn Marwan. They’ll need to interview the housekeeper.”

  “There is more.”

  Ammar leaned forward, exhausted.

  “The housekeeper insists, too, that Hanan had access to the poisons. She said Hanan took her key. The housekeeper said that she makes medicinal cookies for Isam and that she saw Hanan feeding them to him the morning he died.”

  Ammar sat up. “My God!”

  “Wait. It may have been her. But there’s also the possibility it was one of the prostitutes. The cook at the nahariyya told me that the Imam demanded the same type of cookies be delivered to him there. There is one woman who hated him enough to kill him. She could have had poisoned cookies prepared for him and sent him home with them that morning. Those could have been the cookies that killed him.”

  “If I’d listened to you, we could have had this information long ago.”

  Tein broke in, “Stop it. I know there’s nothing that can be done about it, the case is closed.” He touched Ammar so he would look at him. “But we can go ask, still. We can make sure for ourselves if it was Hanan or the prostitute. I want you to know Mu’mina didn’t do it.”

  Ammar stood, putting on his cuirass and strapping his sword around his waist. “Mu’mina didn’t do it. I believe you. I’m going to tell Ibn Marwan. Maybe he’ll agree to open the case.”

  Tein thought of his promise to Zaytuna and realized in the moment, now he had what he wanted from Ammar, that she was right. He felt sick with guilt for putting the women’s lives at risk. What have I done? How can I call myself a man? He had used them, not protected them. Ithar, he said to himself, ithar. Then, to Ammar, “No, don’t tell him.”

  “Why not?”

  He scrambled. “There’s been enough harm. What good can come of it?”

  Ammar looked concerned. “Is this what you want?”

  Tein stood. “Yes. But don’t do it for me. Do it because it’s right.”

  Ammar acquiesced and walked to the door. He stood half in and half out, his hand on the frame. He looked down the arcade. “My friend, I don’t know what is right.”

  “Then it’s what I want.” Tein said, “Do it for me.”

  Ammar nodded. “I better go to face him now.”

  Tein stopped him. “What do you think is going to happen to you?”

  “I don’t know,” he said and walked out the door.

  Ammar told Tein he didn’t know, but he knew the options. Maybe he’d lose his position. He’d get thrown back into the lowest rung of the military. He’d be mucking out stables. More likely, he’d be executed for it. He deserved death. Either way, he’d fight for Tein to take his place in Grave Crimes. But there was nothing he could do to protect his own family from the shame of it. His mother would grieve to the last. How could he be like Hurr when the sacrifice of his life for what he’d done would be nothing but a humiliation for them?

  Every step to Ibn Marwan’s office took more energy than the last. It was as if he were marching through mud. His head began spinning and he began to feel faint. He stopped. Breathe. He took several long and slow deep breaths. When he had steadied himself, he kept on, one step at a time.

  Ammar stood in front of Nuruddin who was scratching away at the paper on the desk before him. He looked up br
iefly, acknowledging Ammar’s presence but said nothing. Men sat on low benches along the wall waiting to see Ibn Marwan. Ammar finally knelt before Nuruddin. “Ibn Marwan has asked for me.”

  He looked at Ammar, one eyebrow raised. “Why are you asking me, then? Go in, like you always do.” And he tipped his head toward the doorway leading between the two rooms, Ibn Marwan’s office just beyond.

  Ammar stood. He was surprised how he could feel everything. Where he had felt sluggish in the arcade, now every sight and sound was acute. He stood beside Ibn Marwan’s door, hand on its frame, and looked in. He did not walk in as he usually did, hail him, and sit easily on his couch.

  Ibn Marwan did not like him, but he was the best investigator of grave crimes in Baghdad. No one cleared cases as he did, and he treated this place like he owned it, demanding justice no matter the risk. He had stood resolutely in here one day when Ibn Marwan insisted on dismissing an investigation as unsolvable because the suspect was influential. He announced he would rather die than play politics with a case. Now look at him, all his pride in his righteousness shown to be nothing but lies.

  Ibn Marwan lifted his head, saw him. “Stay standing, but you may approach.”

  Ammar took a few steps into the room but went no further.

  “You should pray to your imams, or whatever you people do.”

  Ammar’s chest tightened.

  He eyed Ammar. “Don’t you want to know why?”

  Ammar stood stock still, but managed to say, “Yes.”

  “You’ve been forgiven. Imam Hashim’s family complained of you, but it landed on the desk of one of the Banu al-Furat. One of yours. You Shia watch out for each other. So it never reached the vizier, al-JarJara’i. Although, I imagine he would have done as Abu al-Hasan advised.” He looked at Ammar from under his eyebrows. “You are also lucky that word came to me directly and not through the Police Chief’s office. To require the Chief to think of you again? You would have been punished in a way you and your future children would have felt.” He paused. “Then I find out, without you telling me, that you testified in defence of the slave. Would you like to go down to the cells and find another prisoner to defend in court?”