Chapter I
Swords and Tears
The Prince That Was Promised
Abu Ahmad Talha of Banu al-Abbas, Emir of Basra
20th Muharram 253 A.H. / 3rd February A.D. 867
The air was thick. There were no servants in sight or within earshot, but that is not out of character. These corridors have been abandoned only for a few years but it felt like an ancient ruin. There was a permanent layer of dust on the red flagstone floor. But I remember how it was, when life breathed still within the Palace of al-Hassan, like all the abandoned palaces of Baghdad. Now, its gracelessness was that of an exhumed coffin, and I presumed it will feel as such for a while more.
It took a great deal of ambling from room to room before I was met with what would be the right doors. Upon entering, I was greeted by a chamber of minimal comforts. On one width of the rectangular room to the left was a great, heavy desk. Papers and books were strewn across it. Stacks of documents could also be seen on smaller tables throughout the room, forming a trail to the other side where a modest library was situated in a corner.
Here, I finally found him. He was prostrating in solitude, his being draped by the comfortable warmth of the late morning shining through solid arches dividing the interior and exterior. It was interrupted every so often by palm fronds swaying in the garden. This vivid interplay of light and dark was common within. Sunlight cuts like razor through bold openings as shadow corrupts that which dissipates through lattice windows.
I waited nearby in a shaded corner. At this distance, I could overhear his melodic recitation halfway. Modest in execution but surprisingly masterful.
He recited his final verse. “What can Allah gain by your punishment, if ye are grateful and ye believe? Nay, it is Allah that recogniseth all good, and knoweth all things”
He paused, muttered a final prayer to himself, before calling me from his gleaming place. “
Assalamualaikum. I take the winding halls did not confuse you?”
“Of course not”, I denied, still standing beyond the searing gaze of the sun. “I simply had other matters at hand, clearly.
Wa’alaikumussalam”
“I see. I myself was lost for a while, before a servant saw me idling by in the western gardens. She asked me who I was and I told her I was a guest, merely in search of a place to pray. She guided me through this forsaken maze. The woman had worked here for years, and was recalled when “the new lord decided to move in again”. She took pity of my wandering and brought me here, a quiet corner in an otherwise incessant construction”
In truth, I too was taken for a ride around this place. Something about it, either by function or reality, led me astray. Something I was not keen on admitting.
He took his place at the desk, continuing his study of the plentiful material before him. Spending time with him before, he did not seem the studious type, although I did hear of his apprenticeship when he was in his youth. We fell into discussions of this and that, haphazard subjects pertaining to whatever it was in his notice at the moment.
But I knew why I was there, and he seemed to broach subjects closer to the point.
“I’ll appoint Emir Isa to the treasury”, he said laconically, his eyes riding across the letter he was reading.
Emir Isa of Banu Madin is a mainstay of the caliphal court, supportive of any establishment. A moderate unaligned with any interest. I said, “Surely a steady, older hand such as his would be of great benefit to the administration of the public coffers than an overzealous crony”
He did not raise his head nor did he object. This was the kind of response he would give back throughout our conversations for the day.
“I also wish to retain the service of Sheikh Zafir”, he said, this time choosing his words a little more carefully.
Zafir ibn Ja’far hails from Tha’labiya, an obscure place somewhere in the Levant. That much is known about him, and not much else. He was first of service to me before I introduced him to Asr. Since then, he was always there when we needed him most, with information crucial to the times. A well-mannered, soft-spoken young man that have acquired such a wide and frightening reach.
“I think it would be wise to embrace him in your enterprise. I am certain he would be enthusiastic to serve”, I mused.
I was a little restless. Will he ever arrive to the point of my being here? Or was I being led around this maze once again?
“On the issue of command, over the army in Samarra”, I pushed then. “I presume theirs will be in good hands. I can assure you of their utmost loyalty to the defence and security of the realm”
“I’m sure you can. Emir Malik will oversee them”, he stated.
“Malik? Why?”, I questioned, in the firmly terse manner he had treated me so far.
“Because
Emir Malik had proven more than capable in martial pursuits when he rallied alongside us, organizing his bannermen as well as ours. Thus, I believe he is most suitable in leading the soldiery in these times”, Asr explained.
Every word offended my ears. It was as if he lacked any consideration or understanding of the matters of court. But how could he? Asr is not naïve. He knew full well of my arrangement, how the army sees me as their advocate. This knowledge allowed him to gain their trust and have landed him here, now, in a position to slight them as they have been slighted by those unfortunates who came before him.
The caliph stopped and looked straight into me, no more attending to his unending business. He articulated simply, “I sense objection”
“You are aware of the path you are taking?”, I asked him, trying to guide him to an understanding of the situation, and keeping my mood close to my chest.
“
Insya Allah”, he proclaimed, the light of high noon obscured behind his unassailable stature.
Seeing that I have shrunken into myself, he left the desk and stood by the archway behind him, before motioning me to join him.
“Look there. See him?”, he said, pointing to the dense crowd of people on the street immediately outside the palace walls. I could not possibly see anyone, or anything, he was pointing at in that torrent of people.
“No, I do not”, I admitted.
“Tending to his garden of earthly affairs yet he may never know which way he will go next”, he mused. He pointed to one end of the road, leading into a serene mosque, and said, “He may go that way…”, and then pointed to the opposite end, forking through the chaotic bazaar to the wharf, and said, “Or that way over there”
I jumped to the conclusion he was likely arriving at. “We may never know which way, but one may never be stationary, yes, yes”. He smiled at my rushed understanding, which irked me somewhat.
Enjoying the air still, he dispensed, proving to me then how he has grown into his power. “I granted Emir Malik the honour of leading in Samarra in my stead because I rather that you were here instead of there. Befitting your rank and right, I wish to name you my vizier. There are few that I could trust, fewer still who deserve it”
He held me by my arms, as if anchoring me in place, and addressed me more tenderly. “I also wish to give my daughter to your son. Bind my clan to your clan. Certainly, this is an honour you would bestow me, prince of Banu Abbas?”
I was stunned without words, and my face was surely flushed from embarrassment. After my dynasty have been sorely rejected, he wished to enjoin us together? I care not for petty titles, they are but more burdens I will stand witness for before the Almighty, but how could I have been so blind? Truly, Allah’s mercy is boundless, and al-Furqan, His witness, mete it freely in His name.
With one command, the dignity of a clan was restored. A caliph’s word was law.
As is tradition, I was to adopt an honorific that befitted my tenure as his most trusted administrator. What better name than “al-Muwaffaq Billah”, or “Blessed by Allah”?
20th Muharram 253 A.H. / 3rd February A.D. 867
Philosophers, Poets, and Cynics
Thabit ibn Qurra, famed master of medicine as well as the study of numbers and heavenly bodies, was appointed by al-Furqan to be his personal physician and court tutor. He made his name in Baghdad amongst other natural philosophers such as himself and caught the caliph’s attention. He was encouraged to use the palace as his base for scholarship and learning.
Ibn Hasmuddin al-Basri, like most religious scholars, tend to carry a distrust of philosophers, but nevertheless acknowledged his unrivalled intellect. Perhaps this was why the caliph’s own children were not educated by Thabit ibn Qurra. Al-Furqan’s two daughters, Khandan and Nasiba, were taught by al-Basri in matters of statecraft while his son and heir, Muhsin, were assigned with poet-administrator Abu Ishaq Muhammadzade. Perhaps more so than the Sabian philosopher, al-Basri loathed such people as him.
While the romantic Abu Ishaq may plea lyrical of man’s nobility, the old man knows better.
Son of Tulun: Part I
Malik ibn Tawf of Banu Tawf, Emir of Palmyra
22nd Muharram 253 A.H. / 5th February A.D. 867
When I caught wind that Asr al-Jasri, now al-Furqan, will be ruling from Baghdad, I was skeptical from afar. When I was told I was made martial of his army, I hastened myself and my family to the city. While I would be of better service in Samarra, from my understanding of things, I was told I would be needed at the palace in these first days. I graciously complied.
Emirs and their entourages, big and small, fill the council chambers and libraries while their womenfolk, and their handmaidens, litter the countless boudoirs, banquet halls, and private gardens. A burgeoning flight of bureaucrats crowding their latest felled carrion. An entirely outlandish environment to me, whose family occupied but a petite apartment in the sprawling castle.
When I arrived, I feared that I would be impeded by Emir Abu Ahmad Talha, now al-Muwaffaq. He is a good and gracious man but I knew of his strange friendship with the Turks and how he was ironically impassioned to lead their cause under the Abbasid banner. Yet, when we met, he received me well. Perhaps, he was even more joyous than before. Then was the opportunity to ease my way into this position. I admit, inching closer to that pit of villainy was never my intention but if I had to do it, I rather not do so alone.
As the business of the court was underway, a small procession was spotted entering the city. It greeted the people in the city festively, showering upon them gifts. It was reportedly heading towards the palace.
The court waited the arrival of our mysterious guests. Once the procession arrived at the gates, they dismounted, awaiting to be seen by the its masters.
Fellow emirs of the realm needed no summoning when the caliph himself arrived at the great hall, already waiting for the events to unfold. The guests were invited in.
The heavy doors creaked open and a man strode into the hall. He was the opposite of the well-worn caliph; a lord of opulent plumage. As he stepped foot into the lion’s den, he was hailed by a scribe. “You are in the presence of Khalifah al-Furqan of Banu Jasra, Commander of the Faithful, Great Pacifier, Warden of the Armenian Principalities, Steward of Jerusalem, Shield of Mecca and Medina, and Sword of Allah”
When prompted to announce himself by the overbearing servant, he proclaimed plainly, hiding a prideful smirk. “Ahmad. Son of Tulun”
Ahmad ibn Tulun was governor of Egypt on behalf of the Abbasid, placed there by one of the Turkic benefactors within the army elite. He managed to overwhelmingly secure his position in Fustat when we were at our weakest. Since then, there was little news, until now.
“I had come to pay tribute to the caliph in Egypt’s name, befitting his right as occupier of his responsibilities”, he said. “I had also come to announce that it would be the last time. The people of Egypt have willed that they be governed by a man amongst themselves and they will no longer suffer at the whims of disorder in the north”
We were not aware how to react to the promptness of Ibn Tulun and his address. The man certainly had no fear coming here making such a claim, when he could have cowered in Fustat and the caliph would be far too preoccupied to take any action. While al-Furqan remained as stoic as he always was, one could imagine him being slightly impressed by Ibn Tulun’s principled gallantry.
The vizier was less amused, beckoning the former governor with no small amount of disdain. “You dare insinuate fracturing the ummah on purpose?”
“For the sake of the people? Absolutely”, Ibn Tulun answered. Beads of sweat forming on his brow betrayed the fear underneath his courageous defiance.
Al-Muwaffaq glanced at me irately but I remained silent, my hand playing with the pommel of my sword. Violence is the tool of the foolish, or the desperate.
The other emirs broke out into murmurs, before silencing themselves when the caliph asked Ibn Tulun, “You guarantee their well-being?”
“By Allah’s name, I swear to you”, he said.
Al-Furqan spent no more time to easily proclaim then, astonishing us all. “I respect your wish. Egypt may remain under your care, so long as their welfare and the welfare of the state is your utmost priority”
There was genuine gladness on Ibn Tulun’s face, as the court was left speechless. However, before long, the caliph spoke again, this time with a hardness in his tone. “But one day, when you see green banners cresting your eastern dunes, you will receive me with grace as I have received you. And by His name, I shall not be denied”
Embers of Apocalypse: Part I
Al-Muwaffaq of Banu al-Abbas, Emir of Basra
22nd Muharram 253 A.H. / 16th February A.D. 867
"Have you seen this?", I said to Emir Malik. I spotted him when I arrived in Samarra, after I was informed to accompany the caliph on a mass inspection of the army. I handed him some stray pieces of parchment. It was obvious that they had swapped hands many times before.
Emir Malik squinted, trying to read the calligraphy in the sun. "Religious literature?"
"Yes but what about?", I said, trying to guide him.
"About the end times?", he said, glancing at the pamphlets again.
"Exactly!", I hailed, stomping my foot. "These were found circulating in Baghdad. They are talking about how the anarchy is a sign".
Emir Malik did not seem perturbed. "It is. What of it? The end times are near. Signs are plenty, and they are not just war"
"Surely such messages do not inspire confidence in the caliph's rule?", I asked, before we arrived at the garrison, located within the grounds of a fortress ruins. By its gates, he quoted the prophet, saying, "Even if the Final Hour is near, yet we carry a seed in our hands, plant it"
In the last week, the army in its entirety congregated in Samarra. The army's
faris were more than happy to boast themselves. There were some who wondered if the caliph ordered said inspection to "pay tribute" to the those who "installed" him. They alleged that the military has been focusing their influence in the center, leading to the rise of rampant crime in the borderland, such as Turuberan in the north.
In truth, the inspection was due to his concern for regions previously under caliphate control. While Ibn Tulun had made himself comfortable in the safety of Fustat, the Persian regions are still in hostility and chaos. Most recently, news arrived of Ya'qub, the powerful Safirid warlord, which has taken the weak Tahirid ruler by surprise, forcing a claim for half of all their territories. This is just the beginning.
Al-Furqan travelled the entire width of the army on foot rather than horse. The frontline consisted of the
mubarizun, cut of a completely different cloth than levy. While not entrusted yet with command like the
faris, they are knights in all but name.
A typical mubarizun or faris.
"The
mubarizun under your command as caliph may not be many but more than enough to turn the tide of any battle and the
faris at their helm are warriors unsurpassed in all the realms", Emir Malik told al-Furqan. I may have seniority here amongst the army but I was content with him taking the lead, appropriate with his new rank.
"How fast do they sally out?", the caliph asked.
"Very", the marshal said.
"Good. Make sure they continue to respond to Emir Isa on the frontier", the caliph stated. The Madinah Emirate have been facing raids recently. These parties are small but they are nimble enough to do damage. Recently, they have come as close as the holy cities. These bedouins in between the An-Nafud and the Rub al-Khali deserts, such as Ta'if and Yamama, used to pledge allegiance to the caliph but even then, control was tenuous.
As al-Furqan continued on to inspect the
faris, I noticed a stranger amongst his party. I knew him, remembering his name as Taimur or some such, a
faris himself. I realized why he was there, acting as the caliph’s bodyguard. He was there on behalf of the Turks.
Addressing the army at large, al-Furqan pointed to the ruins we were all in that day. According to him, the fortress was built by a mad king, of a kingdom whose name is long lost by now. He was a king of immeasurable cruelty. Some locals believe that the ruins were still haunted by his ghost. The caliph, even here, provided some wisdom and said, “These stories are of course shirk, a bad omen at most, but there is much to learn and remind ourselves by its existence. Thus is the fate of all tyrants”
6th Rabi' al-Awwal 253 A.H. / 20th March A.D. 867
Lords of the Future
Princess Khandan's betrothed, Muhammad Shaybanid, was granted the Sheikhdom of Balqa' by his father, Emir Ahmad, at the young age of 8. Princess Nasiba's betrohed, al-Mu'tadid Abbasid, was granted the Sheikhdom of Kufa, by his father, Prince al-Muwaffaq, at the young age of 10. Both talented, seemingly good heirs.
Immaculate Garden
Al-Muazzama Najela
6th Jumada al-Awwal 253 A.H. / 18th May A.D. 867
There is an immaculate garden here, hidden from view.
When I arrived in Baghdad, I didn’t know of its existence, let alone its purpose. The secret was first revealed to me by a young servant named Fatima. She is a small girl, smaller than her age would be. She maintained her well hygiene enough, like most of them here, but she did not possess a likeable figure. Her teeth jutted out over her lower lips and her brows grew unevenly. Because of this, she was originally tasked with menial labour than serving in the rooms. She herself would confess of her physical flaws, and later would approach boastfulness, when comparing herself to the servants of the inner room. Her unkind, unpolished words for them, if I were to remember correctly, were “white-washed faces and powdered pits”
The palaces of Baghdad had many still working within by the time we arrived. The last caliph who inhabited these apartments was al-Mutawakkil. He must have been a good man, for they spoke highly of him even when not prompted to, including Fatima. We were made at home in a place that felt all so foreign to us. The Hassani Palace is a citadel of treasures few will ever dare to imagine and we were expected to delight in all its intoxicating pleasures. If it was not for accidental fate, then, my path and the path of Fatima would have unfurled separately as it always had.
I was lounging in the new sun in a flower garden hemmed within one of the eastern wings of the palace. There, I was visited by the physician, likely to inquire me of my pregnancy. I was left more uneased than anything by the eccentric Baghdadi, seeing me here without escort. This was becoming a common nuisance, as strangers, likely important in some way unknown or unimportant to me, pass through and fro what is supposed to be a harem restricted from men. While the garden was closed off for me, Ibn Qurra gained entrance likely at Asr’s orders.
The middle-aged, slightly rotund physician standing in the middle of the marble square between rows of flower bushes, seemed to bask in the sunshine, enjoying the air more so than conducting any particular study or treatment. He even took a loud, sharp breath, as if he was alone on the balcony of his city dwelling clearing his humours and not in the company of a woman.
I calmly reckoned from my cushioned nook, a thin veil separating us. “My lord, if you would be so kind to help me relieve you of my harrowed condition?”
Disturbed by my question, he flipped his head over. “Ah, it’s alright”
I was restless, feeling the heat building within my shroud. “Alright? What do you mean-“
Before I finished, he walked over to the budding spring blossoms sprouting tenderly from their bushes. They were fragile, their scent barely present. Ibn Qurra held one in his darkened hands and it burst apart, the paper-thin petals almost melting to the touch.
Clearing my throat, I hollered to him from my place. “My lord, please. If there is no other advice, I will be retiring-“
“The ritual”, he suddenly said, bringing the broken petals in his palm to his nose.
“I’m sorry?”, I asked, becoming more and more annoyed at this behaviour.
“Surely it has plagued your mind? Burdened it? I can hear it in the anxiety of your impatience”, he spat out, increasingly enthusiastic by every word. Seeing my lack of response, he cut himself short. “Ah, never mind. My sincerest apologies”
As he did, a servant girl carrying a pitcher of water, decided to pass through the courtyard rather than behind as was usual. Our household was always small. As such, all manner of extreme protocol, especially behind closed doors, are unnatural anyways. Since the servant was barely a child, I paid no attention. As the child circled the edge of the marble square towards my dais, and behind the physician, I noticed she snuck something from his waistbelt and into her dress. The motion was so quick and effortless, I would not have seen it if my eyes were looking elsewhere than in that direction. Before it even registered in my mind, she already slipped past my curtains and was replacing my drink.
She bowed unevenly when I looked at her, barely glancing at me as she poured the hot chamomile tea into my empty cup. As quick as she appeared, she left the scene.
“Your grace?”, the physician’s voice interrupted my thought. Stroking his beard, he seemed so sure of himself now. “Hm, keep drinking the tea. I will also prescribe you lavender to bathe in, seven times a day. More rest, more air, more, um, flowers. Yes”
Seemingly proud of himself, he strutted out without another word. As he did, I wondered. Who was that girl?
After Ibn Qurra departed, I hastily recused myself towards my bed chamber. Not followed by the rest of the servants, I was free to find her. But why should I? It could’ve been nothing but a trick of the light, a mirage of boredom that I suffered at the hands of that lousy physician. If it was anything, it could’ve been nothing but petty thievery too small to punish. However, small deeds tend to lead to bigger ones. I just had to be certain.
My heart raced as I made my way down flights of stairs, through confusing passageways, and past unknown doors. What mortal danger lies to those allured to it? Curiosity is cruel and demand much, even from those with child.
To my surprise, perhaps because no one would have imagined me there, I went mostly unnoticed. Near the stables of the palace’s
shurta, men of the law dedicated to keeping the peace, I spotted the servant. She briskly weaved about as stable boys were cleaning the pens and feeding the horses, to the point I almost lost her. Behind a corner, she finally stopped. Here, she passed what she took to a man with deep-set eyes and dark, deep wrinkles underneath. He had a full head of curly hair, just as unkempt as his wild-growing beard. The robed figure eyed his surroundings as he received what seemed to be a letter, still tied and sealed, which he hid inside his belt.
When the man departed, the servant was stunned to see me behind her.
“What were you up to? Who was that? Tell me the truth”, I demanded, raising my voice. The excitement of this pursuit got the better of me. “Speak. Now!”
She did not know what to say, freezing in my grasp. Then, she managed to string a series of words together. I did not know then how succinctly it described everything that will transpire. “I take, I deliver”
I dragged her through the palace and to my boudoir, where I sat her down and realized that my nerves had gotten the better of me. Sheltered from the harshness of the sun, I knelt and slid off her muddied, beaten shoes. She tried to stop me but to no avail, exposing her little, dirty feet padded by callouses. Her toenails were crooked, some of them missing. I let them rest in a bucket of cool water.
I carefully explained then to her, whose name I learned was Fatima, that she was in no trouble. She remained mummed on what it was she took and whom she spoke to near the barn. I asked her if it was money. She instantly said no. I asked if it was
for money. She did not answer this one.
“Is your mother here, Fatima?”, I asked. She shook her head. I asked her if she was still alive, which she said she was. Finally, more words were let out through that meek yet ragged mouth. “She works in a bakery. In the city”
I asked of his father as well, if he too was working in the city or if he was in the fields. She retreated back to her guarded state. I was afraid I have broached a subject too heavy on her heart, until the child finally said with a cruel, almost comically dark, finality. “Bastard left”
I stroke her cheek to stop her any further, before offering her some citrus sweets on the dresser. Khandan had asked for it when the cook was going into town. She had her share and wouldn’t have missed it.
Fatima on the other hand, holding the pebbles of powdered candy in her hands, treated them like jewels. She deeply relished each one and as I sat beside her and stroked her hair. I wondered aloud. “What secrets does this garden hold?”
“Secrets?”, she piped, perking up at the word. “I take, I deliver. All very, very secret”
It was then an opportunity arisen. A pinhole to unravel the veils of mystery surrounding this centre of our Earth, bought by sugary sweets and chance. From that day on, I spent a lot more of my time with Fatima than I did with the others, to their general dismay. In private, she taught me of her “techniques”. How she remained unseen and unheard as she did her supposed work in between powerful men.
Over time, to my great surprise, she began to discretely point out those men. Whom had wanted what, and from whom it was to be taken. One such occasion was the “ritual” that Ibn Qurra had apparently misspoke of. In the palace courtyard, my husband was to lead his curious cabinet of ministers to meet with his old teacher, Ibn Hasmuddin al-Basri. He often spoke of him before, how he “taught him to see clearly with his heart, carefully with his mind, and doubtfully with his eyes, but altogether better”
Here, they were to beseech this man to bless them and their endeavours, through a covenant with the divine. “Rule justly”, the teacher’s words generally declared. “And your rule will be guaranteed”
Fatima said that al-Basri was the only man amongst them who held no secrets, bar those so personal and hidden it would be known by no one but Allah. I hesitated to ask of Asr. I hesitated to know what that heart that loved me confined from my view.
Fatima had little realization of the uniqueness of her talents, born gifted while ignorant of its value. I became wary of this, as I grew increasingly fond of this servant girl and her delightful company. She revealed to me a constellation of power held together by vile darkness, made palatable by the petty sundries of wealth. When others look upon these stars, Fatima taught me to pay attention to the void.
Within this palace, there is an immaculate garden, hidden from view. Flowers bud and bloom at different times, each for a different purpose. I may not be gifted in knowing them deeply like some but I may delight in knowing of them at all.
4th Ramadhan 253 A.H. / 11th September A.D. 867
Gifts of God: Part I
Al-Furqan's first work was to discuss with Emir Isa on the issue of the treasury. According to the emir, the treasury was safe. The number one most important thing was the army payroll and there was enough revenue for it. Taxation was underway and it will only increase as the days go by. The caliph was pleased, as many believed that a funding crisis may plague the new caliphate. If the tax revenue is steady, al-Furqan wants the steward to look into development. Rejuvenation to the valley at large will be a boon not only to the people but to any other interests as well, such as the military.
During the discussion, a hurried knock was on the door. At first, they ignored it but then it happened again. "What?", the caliph question, pulling the servant at the door. "Forgive me, my lord. But the lady. Her water broke"
Al-Furqan waited outside of their bedchamber, her wife's screams taking hold of every crevice of the palace. Even his emirs waited on, gathering in the audience chamber. There was uninvited hushed talk about why the caliph only have one wife, and whether the future of the caliphate is at risk because of it.
Then, there was a small voice crying. The palace was graced with a blessing. Dhuha was born.
However, all was not well. Dhuha cried and cried into the night. She ate very little. Al-Furqan held her in his arms as he hummed her songs through the night.
22nd Rabi' al-Akhir 255 A.H. / 13th April A.D. 869
Chivalric Dominance
Al-Furqan spends more time with his
faris, gouging their effectiveness, pushing their abilities, and forging their trust. While with them, the Turks spoke of al-Muwaffaq and praised him as a good man and reliable ally. While he was not Turkish himself, he used his influence to "defend them" from opposing interests. The caliph agreed and told them of a recent letter he received from one Prince Ashot.
Prince Ashot is the ruler of what is called the Armenian Principalities. He swears fealty to the caliph but as he is not Arab, let alone Muslim, there is little love between them. Thus, he was surprised to receive an enthusiastic letter commending al-Furqan and his rule. This was all thanks to none other than al-Muwaffaq.
According to the prince, the vizier was touring the north when he was invited as his guest. While there, al-Muwaffaq had been able to convince him of al-Furqan's qualities by regaling him of stories during the anarchy.
Al-Furqan was flattered, both by the prince and al-Muwaffaq, who had been an effective vizier so far.
29th Rajab 256 A.H. / 6th July A.D. 870
Embers of Apocalypse: Part II
From Tiblisi north of the Armenian Principalities to Al-Hasa at the edge of the Ad-Dahna desert, reports of unrest is beginning to boil all over the caliphate. This was expected, as the anarchy rippled from its epicenter in Samarra. However, Sheikh Zaffir's spies report that unrest is taking hold again in Samarra.
While it is the stronghold of our military, it is also incredibly different than the those around it. It and nearby Wasit's Syriac culture is unique to the region, squashed between the Mashriqis in the plains and the Kurds in the mountains. While Syrians are known for their loyalty to those who lead them, they are also known for their unwavering Nestorian faith. Whatever it may be, the Samarrans are unhappy, and it may lead to a reoccurence of conflict.
28th Sha'ban 257 A.H. / 25th July A.D. 871
Gifts of God: Part II
Al-Furqan, and the rest of the caliphal court, was saddened to hear of the passing of the steward, Isa of the Madin Emirate. The reserved elder statesman was a symbol of stability in these trying times and are a lost to Banu Madin, as well as the realm at large. To replace him in his post, Prince Ashot of the Armenian Principalities was chosen. A reliable man for the job, the caliph was reminded of him due to his appreciative correspondence.
Around the same time, Dhuha's sickness departed. At the age of three, she was now a healthy young girl.
4th Dhu al-Qa'dah 257 A.H. / 27th September A.D. 871
Embers of Apocalypse: Part III
Unrest is continuing, with the most troubling development in Diyarbakr in the north. The region, already plagued by crime, was not happy to live under, what they perceived to be chafing control under Emir Abu'l-Maghra of Banu Zuray. This was surprising, considering al-Furqan knew he was a good man who was generous of his wealth and forgiving of sleights. In fact, his suspicions was right when the complaining communities were almost immediately granted more autonomy to administer his lands.
Al-Furqan respect his compassion but this is detrimental to the peace in the region. Emir Malik dispatched caliphal forces to bring order back while listening to the local complaints.
While chaos is still at large, many has been able to see beyond it and recognize some semblance of fairness returning to the realm. Not only al-Furqan was admired but all members of Banu Jasrid are also seen as good examples.
21st Rabi' al-Akhir 258 A.H. / 10th March A.D. 872
Gifts of God: Part III
Another daughter, Aisha, was born. A month later, she too became ill.
16th Jumada al-Akhir 258 A.H. / 3rd May A.D. 872
Son of Tulun: Part II
Ahmad Ibn Tulun was taken prisoner by Emir Isa of Palestine in the Aswan Conquest waged by the al-Umari Emirate. Emir Isa, sworn to the caliph, was apparently aiding the al-Umari in their successful war in the Upper Nile.
27th Shawwal 258 A.H. / 9th September A.D. 872
Genesis 34:21
Ibn Hasmuddin al-Basri had been using his position as Grand Allamah quite fruitfully, impressively debating religious philosophy with Patriarch Sargis, the head of the Nestorian faith. Rigorous discourse is often the secret weapon to building bridges for al-Basri. Perhaps this will lead to peace in Samarra?
3rd Rabi' al-Awwal 259 A.H. / 11th January A.D. 873
The New Order
Princess Nasiba comes of age and was wedded with Sheikh al-Mu'tadid Abbasid. The ceremony was festive, and signified the historic alliance of the Jasrid and Abbasid dynasties.
24th Rajab 259 A.H. / 30th May A.D. 873
Carrot and Stick
Ishaq Muhammadzade and Emir Malik has worked together well on the mitigation of unrest and enforcement of law and order in the realm. Their ideas and effectiveness are commended and supported wholly. With that, the caliph gradually shifted his focus from war to governance.
5th Shawwal 259 A.H. / 8th August A.D. 873
The Peasant Knight
After 5 years of ensuring all is in order, Caliph al-Furqan will be holding court for the first time.
A brave smallfolk has been making a name in the Madin Emirate defending locals from Bedouin raiders. He has now arrived in Baghdad to seek an audience with the caliph. He carried himself humbly but al-Furqan recognized those ambitious eyes anywhere. The elites within the
faris are adamant on disallowing this lowborn from their ranks. But the caliph too was a lowborn. He too, by merit, rose to the occasion. The caliph thought, "If they respect me, they will have to respect Majid Yaminid."
It surprisingly went by uneventful, solving minor disputes between the lesser nobles. The ceremony marked the beginning of al-Furqan's reign.
Kingdom of Joy
Akin ibn Amir of Banu Abd al-Qays, Sheikh of Dhafra
5th Rabi’ al-Awwal 363 A.H. / 9th December A.D. 873
We waited in the spring sun, the sea breeze blanketing the cool, rocky coast in humid warmth. The whole lot of us, our servants, and even throngs of clansfolk, lined up from the edge of the wooden pier all the way up to the gates of our hill-top home. My wife, sitting behind us on a blanket in the shade of our outer walls, was actually thrilled. I couldn’t believe it, but then we all saw him. In between the glittering ripples of the sky-blue waves, sailing down the Persian Gulf.
The caliph was visiting us.
The people certainly had their good time receiving him in port, fawning over the grandeur of his ships and the majesty of his retainers. They showered the guests with their trivial peasant crafts, as there is not much that these lands provide. Clearly, coming from all over the desert to see him, they were appreciative of the man, who did seem as young as they said he was. His algae-green cowl and cloak made him look more like
us than like
them. This was the so-called al-Furqan.
Overjoyed by what’s happening down below, my wife clapped and giggled at the festivities.
“That excited over a Sunni, Layla?”, I whispered indignantly.
“Oh, hush now, husband. The clansfolk need some amusement, and this here caliph is the most interesting thing to have shown up in years!”
I’m sure he is. How many caliphs have they had now? How many did they murder? Doesn’t matter. Once and a while, they do send over their tax collector to grovel on his behalf. For him to wish to visit us here, where nothing grows but dates and boredom, at the edge of their known world? That
is something. That could be trouble.
“As long as he doesn’t mind your mother’s drapes”, I said, languishing in the sweat pooling under my turban. Layla stared and blinked at me playfully annoyed, as she always does.
The entire household greeted the procession in the courtyard. Lining up the walls, my kinsfolk was a little wary of them. Especially the young ones, their hearts are true but it beats fast. Their curdled faces turned into wide smiles and brazen laughter however when the caliph shook hands and embraced them one by one, to the irritation of his guards, before he arrived at me. I was mystified, before Layla elbowed me from behind to receive him.
He stepped aside and trotted before me an exquisite horse. Its fur was a deep, pure brown, like the pristine bed of an oasis in drought. Its black eyes illuminated with profound intensity, reflecting my own image back at me.
“A strong breed, grown and grazed on wild oats and alfalfa in the plains of Jazira. My father rode its father in war”, he said while his hand was ruffling its mane, before passing me the reins. With the leash in my hand, I stumbled a bow in thanks.
The caliph was lodged in our biggest tents, hoisted up outside the compound’s eastern gate, while the household moved ourselves into the cold hall of the house. They might find the opposite to be more welcoming but the mud-brick fortification only exists for the purpose of war. Truly however, we feel safest with sand beneath our feet.
In the caliph’s tent, which was my own, we put together a feast. A fire pit was dug and a whole camel, stuffed with lamb, rice, and spices, was cooked within. We brought out onions, garlic, and turnips, as well as dried lentils, chickpeas, and broad beans, all luxurious to us for any ordinary meal. The whole clan came together and did their part for the occasion, which was as much a celebration of the occasion as it was the guests we were honouring.
Animated melodies fill the cold void as servant girls twirled in the centre area. Clansfolk spoke and laughed voraciously with the courtiers, downing cups of date wine in between and shedding aside any ill will that was ever left between them. The caliph meanwhile, situated across the tent, remained reserved. Without question, he carried with himself a great deal of pride, especially for a young man. He continued to say very little and his expression was seemingly stern, but his kind gestures also spoke a valley of difference between himself and his fellow Mashriqi, at least the odd few that I have ever met.
In the midst of relishing in a story told by a sheikh of the tribe, I felt a tug by my sleeve. It was my son, Akin, grinning ear to ear. He was hiding something behind him.
“I carry you a gift, from the fine lady of Clan Numayrid”, he sung, emulating the poets as best as a child could, before lunging into my arms. Asin took out a silk handkerchief and gently wiped crumbs off my beard. As he did, his mother appeared by the moon lit entrance.
Layla was a woman who often carried the same weight as any man, even more as she mothers my children. Yet, in as rare of an occasion as finding a lonesome, black crow above a stark, white desert, she could take the appearance of an angel.
When she took a step inside, the room fell into a silence. The embroidered veil draped over her did little to obscure her reverent beauty, a breathtaking wonder to delight and to behold. An ice-cold spring for a man without water.
In that moment, I saw the caliph glancing at her for but a moment, before turning away. A gentleman he was!
I took the handkerchief and strutted across the tent. All eyes were on myself but I did not care then.
Within her light, I carefully folded the delicate fabric before offering it back to her. Shyly, she accepted. When she did, I grasped her hand and guided her over to al-Furqan. While they have seen each other before, I was proud then to introduce her formally this man of honour.
“Your grace”, I bowed and hailed. “This is Shaykhah Layla bint Misfar of Banu Numayrid. The lady of the clan, the inheritor of all my earthly wealth, the mother of my two dear children. My companion, in this life as it is in all of our lives”
I smiled as the caliph’s eyes remained low. He uttered with a low and timid voice. “It is a pleasure and a blessing to be introduced to you, shaykhah of Akin”
We continued to enjoy the feast together before retreating for the night prayer.
Against the advice of his courtiers, al-Furqan wished to lead us. The guards built this elaborate wooden palisade surrounding the caliph in front of us for him to do so. A makeshift fort to protect him from us while we prayed?
As we stood shoulder to shoulder out in the open sands, the quiet murmurs of our own jumbled recitation were boldly interrupted by a powerful voice. Was that him? It was almost unearthly, bouncing off the faraway dunes into the infinite.
Never in my life have I ever heard His words proclaimed with so much beauty, yet it oozed with raw pain. It was almost unbearable to the soul.
When al-Furqan arrived at the verse and pronounced, “ “Peace!”, a word of salutation from a Lord Most Merciful!”, it would not be excessive to say that some of us caught a glimpse of paradise that night. We were blessed by unexpected tears.
By morning, the clan escorted the caliph to nearby Liwa Oasis, Layla’s birthplace. We crossed the desert in the early morning and arrived long before noon. Here, we were all guests of her tribe’s chief clan, Banu Yas.
The oasis was surrounded by acres of date farms that stretched at least a day’s journey, as Banu Yas and their branches have chosen to settle the land. Merchants from Persia drifting across the wastes all pass through here first, drinking from its water. One of Allah’s true miracles on Earth.
I took Layla for a walk under the haphazard shade of the palm trees, our bare feet brushing against the grass that crept up to the edge of the clear pools.
Another feast, another night of eating and drinking. Before then however, we noticed a messenger sneaking into the tent. He must have ridden here in in the afternoon. Passing through a courtier after another, he passed on a scroll to the caliph’s guards, whom in turn passed in on to him.
The caliph slipped it into his coat and continued to dine. After a cut of lamb, a handful of stuffed dates, and a few cups of herbal tea, he excused himself halfway through. Storming out with the sealed scroll in his grip, he never returned.
Riding back to our fort, we were told the caliph will be sailing home at daybreak. One last night of feasting yet, with only a leg of pheasant, a single fig, and an unfinished cup of water, he departed. So soon he left, the clan had no motivation to resume without dishonouring him.
As the clansfolk cleaned up after themselves, I decided to find him. Going through the house, I finally spotted one of his guards standing by the door to the courtyard. Out there, over the guard’s shoulder, I saw him, lounging on a rug, draped with luscious furs. The man seemed sure in keeping me away but before I could ask, Layla came from the corridor.
“What is he doing out there in the cold? If he gets sick, we would be in trouble”, she rambled. Akin ran and wrapped his arms around her from behind. I saw little Shokouh at the end of the hallway as well, yawning, holding the hand of her nurse.
“My love, take the children to sleep. I will join you in a moment”, I whispered, tucking a stray hair behind her ear. The guard’s eyes darted away.
Layla held my hand and rubbed it. “Don’t be long”
After they departed, I saw that the caliph was watching. The guard stepped aside and I walked out to him, the flagstone ground cold to the touch.
I sat beside him as he gazed vacantly at into the starry night. He was quiet at first, his eyes still transfixed to the heavens, before finally being able to articulate a distant thought. “I feel like an intruder in your kingdom of joy…”
That broke the tension and I sighed, expressing a smile.
“The Treasure”, I recalled. “That’s what they called her. The Treasure of Liwa Oasis. Caravaners who simply caught sight of the treasure were said to have walked away ‘wealthy without coin’. Yet another strange, tall tale, I thought. Like that desert city ruled by a white elephant. Allah, I could not be happier to be wrong”
The caliph smiled and we chuckled, like two children innocent of woes. It was then it crossed my mind how outlandishly ordinary he was. We were around the same age yet his face bore the peaks and valleys of a lifetime of hardship.
Emboldened by my surprising admiration of this outsider, I broached the subject as delicately as I could. “I noticed the mood in the air changed when you received the message in Liwa Oasis”
That emptiness in his face returned and he lied on his back. He asked, again quite intimately, “What was the greatest mistake in your life?”
This surprised me, as surprised I could be at this point. The way he worded it made the question seemed unfamiliar to him to be said out loud. But out here, when it is only us, the desert, and the open sky, we, such small folk in the middle of nowhere, often ponder of our place in Allah’s grand plans.
“The former sheikh of Dhafra was Amir ibn Alawi”, I began narrating. “He was a good man, looked after his kin, took care of my mother, and was kind and just in equal measure. One day, he had a son. He was also a good man. Eager, at least. Perhaps more kind-hearted than his father. A second son was born. It was difficult to raise that one. Quick to anger, quicker to prejudice. Never trusted. Then, as always in these stories, tragedy struck”
Al-Furqan responded, “Of course”
“One day, when the caravan was on the move in the deep desert, our supplies were destroyed by blight. Worse still, in the night, a storm came about and turned us around. We knew our heading fair enough but the landscape could lead us astray for days if we weren’t careful. In desperation, kin fought against kin. Blinded by passion, he rallied a hopeless party and sallied out to find their own way…”
“From Him we came and to Him we return. I’m sorry for your lost”, he offered. “Your younger brother lived by his own code, a fiery soul demanding better in this world”
Lost in my own contemplation, I corrected him. “He didn’t die.
He was me. My ill-fated party wandered and wandered, a man withering by the day. Until we saw it, a shimmering beacon in the blinding dark. Liwa Oasis. My father, my older brother, and the rest was never seen again”
He interjected with sentimental wisdom, as if in a bid to challenge. “And yet you moved forward. This way, or that way. You didn’t know where, or maybe even how, but you knew you couldn’t stay”
I shook my head and offered sincerely, “Poetry or divine message didn’t prepare me. What’s left of the clan turned to me to lead it. To make sense of everything. At the end, I got what I always wanted. My mother never spoke to me again. Not even on her deathbed”
I could see it in his eyes that he tried to gather words together but nothing. Nothing was produced, until he simply muttered from his half-gaping lips, “My daughter died”
I offered no words. No sweet reprieve exists for such bitter darkness. I just asked, “What was she like?”
Tired but eager, a proud father crooned, “An earth-fallen star, so small in my hands…”
Then, as if it finally caught up to him, he shut his eyes and clenched his fists. He sighed coarsely, his warm breath rolling into a fog. “I’ve granted my beloved a momentary escape from me. If I could peer into her guarded heart, I wonder if I could fulfil her true happiness”
I thought long of what he said, gazing down the gate he walked through when he first arrived. My eyes trailed down the dirt path to the green-blue shallows and clear white beaches. The horizon of my faraway childhood, where I sat and sifted my hands through the flowing, fine sand. Ghosts accompanied me, three in total. Their black apparitions holding on to this particular memory. Unlike most nights, there was no malice. Only serenity.
“Love does not afford us the right to affection”, he spoke. “An epiphany borne by the prickling of tears, not swords”
As the air settled, I retired from the biting cold and left the man on his night’s journey.
When the sun peeked through the sea, the caliph’s procession was ready to depart us. Today, he resumed to be that edifice of strength and security. But I knew those eyes. I have them too.
With drumbeat and singing, the clan sent them off. But before he returned, I offered him a gift. A small box the size of one’s palm, made of olive wood from faraway Jerusalem. He flipped open the lid and inside was a pearl. He picked it up in between his forefinger and thumb, the flawless milk-washed orb catching the light and basking in it with shameless poise.
“Liwa men dive into the gulf, when the dates are too young to be picked, in search of these”, I said. “Your voyage is long, your grace. But you will make it home”
