The Hakawati (55 page)

“Punished?” Layla asked, aghast. “You think marrying me is punishment?
Keep thinking that and I will show you what actual punishment is. If you ever consider that I am not your ideal partner, even if the thought only crosses your mind, I will turn your life into a nightmare. You will think you are in the seventh circle of hell, married to Afreet-Jehanam. Punishment, bah. I am Layla, your ideal wife, your perfect love. Practice saying it every moment of your life. Lady Zainab offered you to me. She is never wrong. You are the perfect man for me.”

“But you are not what I asked for,” Othman objected.

“What you asked for? Has it occurred to you that the Lady was answering my prayers, not yours? I did not ask for a husband. I prayed for a companion, a partner, someone to share my joy. I had given up my profession, and I was bored. I asked Lady Zainab to point out a friend who could make me laugh, who could tell me stories, who could take me on an adventure. And she appeared before me. ‘Listen to me, my daughter,’ she said. ‘You have served me well and brought me joy. I will reward you with your ideal husband. He is God’s servant, and was one long before his vows to me. He is a trickster and serves to bring a smile to His face. If your future husband can polish the dust off God’s heart, surely yours will glimmer for eternity.’ ”

“She said that?”

“And your mother approached me as the Lady ended her speech. You are the answer to my prayers. I do not know whether I am the answer to yours, but you had better believe that I am, for my prayers require that you love me and make me happy, and it shall be so.”

Othman’s smile appeared slowly, and then the frown returned.

“How can I face the morning with a clean sheet?” he asked.

She closed her cinnamon eyes and shook her head. “You are childish and have much to learn.” She took his left hand. She kissed it, drew her dagger, and held it before him. “They want to witness the blood of a virgin. We can give it to them.” He nodded, gave her permission. She made a shallow cut in his wrist. She kissed him. “Bleed for me, my husband.” She kissed him again. “I mark you as you have marked me.”

The emir’s wife threw a tantrum. She threw every glass item in the chamber at the wall. The emir tried to mollify her. Whiz went a perfume bottle flying across the room.

“Calm down, my dear,” the emir said. “You are not being rational.”

Splash, as another perfume bottle shattered against the scented wall. “Rational?” his wife shrieked. “You expect me to be rational when my son is involved?”

“Well, break something besides perfume bottles. It is suffocating in here. You are overreacting, my dear.”

“He called that woman mama. His first words, and he directed them not to me but to her. My son thinks the servant is his mother. I will not have it.”

“Trouble yourself not, my dear. It is only temporary. Do you think our boy—or anyone, for that matter—could believe that he, a divine creature, sprang forth from a slave? She spends more time with him. Do you want to be the one changing his diaper? Be patient. It will not be long before he begins to understand the way of the world and a servant’s place in it.”

“Even his sisters cannot play with him. He howls whenever one of them approaches. He prefers to play with those infernal parrots. I am going to pluck each one of those birds feather by feather—pluck, pluck, pluck, pluck, pluck.”

“Not yet, darling. You tried to keep them apart for a while, and what happened?”

“He crawled right back to that woman and her baby, shrieking his lungs out until he reached them.”

“And no one could hold the little devil back,” the emir said. “My son takes after me, so strong and powerful.”

“I am going to poison that ungrateful wench and watch her die. A lingering, deliberate poison I shall use, until suffering seeps out of her pores.”

“No, my dear. Wait another year, until Shams is more independent, and then poison her.”

“Pluck me?” screeched Job. “I will pluck her eyes out.”

Shams crawled behind Layl on the carpet, his head almost attached to his twin’s behind.

“Pluck,” said Jacob. “Pluck, pluck. That is what she said.”

Fatima rested. She lounged on the divan, her head settled on three fluffy pillows of ostrich feathers.

“Listen, listen,” said Ishmael. “That was not the best part of the tantrum.”

“She means to poison Fatima,” said Isaac.

Fatima laughed into her pillows. All eight parrots cackled, Job so hard he fell off the backrest onto the floor, his two feet sticking up in the air and his feathers shaking in mirth. The cacophony of merriment surprised and amused the twin boys. They looked around them and joined the laughter.

“I will get rid of her,” said Ezra. “I will transport her to another domain.”

“No need,” said Adam. “An asp will pay her fornicating whoriness a visit tonight. She boasts about poison, and it will be delivered.”

“We will have none of that,” commanded Fatima. “This woman is the mother of my son.”

King Saleh was sitting on his throne in the diwan when a messenger approached, carrying a letter from the mayor of Aleppo to the leader of the Muslim world: “Rescue us, Your Majesty. The evil King Halawoon has raised an army, which at the time of this writing is laying siege a spear’s throw away from the walls of our city. Halawoon and his fire-worshipping army must be defeated. Call your armies, and let the true faith raise its banners in victory once more.”

And Arbusto said, “Send Prince Baybars. Give him an army of fifty slaves. With God to guide his swords, he will vanquish Halawoon in no time and return to Cairo within a fortnight.”

“Fifty?” the king asked. “To fight Halawoon’s army? Is that not unwise?”

“Well, then, make it one hundred. Surely a warrior of Baybars’s caliber could destroy Halawoon by breathing on him. Let us try out the new slaves. They have been trained well and will easily dispatch an army of unbelievers.”

“True. But how big is Halawoon’s army?”

“The letter does not say. Personally, I doubt it can be more than a few hundred or they would have walked through Aleppo. Our slave army will massacre them, and we can keep our main forces in Egypt.”

The king considered this and said, “One hundred slaves will not be enough. Give our Prince Baybars two hundred men.”

“One hundred and fifty.”

“Done,” said the king. “One hundred and fifty. Prince Baybars and his slave army will liberate Aleppo and report back to us.”

Othman’s wife kept repeating, “Are you sure?” Othman kept nodding his head. “The king wants to send one hundred and fifty men to fight an army?” she asked. “Has he gone mad?”

“Who can tell?” Othman replied. “When Prince Baybars asked for more men, the king said they were not needed. The prince thinks we will do just fine. I am calling on my old gang, and so is Harhash. We should be able to raise seventy more men or so.”

“I will call on the doves,” Layla said.

“Absolutely not. I will have enough trouble when I tell the men that my insane wife wants to experience the adventure of war. We do not need more women.”

Baybars, the Uzbeks, and the three African warriors rode to inspect the slave troops on the day they were set to march. Harhash stood with his men, and Othman with his. The ex-brigands were well armed but looked less like an army than a ragtag group of dangerous lunatics. The slaves, on the other hand, were impeccable in manner and appearance. Baybars was pleased.

He decided to divide the leadership of the slaves among the Africans and Uzbeks, but one of the slave warriors interjected, “I beg an audience, my lord,” and Baybars permitted him to speak. “We are two cadres of slaves, my lord,” he said. “Each cadre has trained together for years. Dividing them haphazardly might not be best.”

Prince Baybars stared at the regal slave warrior and said, “We meet again, friend.”

“Yes, my lord,” Aydmur replied. “Our destinies cross once more. This is the cadre I have trained with. We are twenty-five Circassians, twenty-five Georgians, and twenty-five Azeris. We were brought here to be the king’s guard, but we have been forgotten.”

“I, my dear Aydmur, have never forgotten you or your kindness at the baths in Bursa. Without your help, I might still be the Persian’s slave. At one point, I was meant to be a member of your group.”

“In our hearts, my lord, you will always be one of us.”

“Are you fit to lead both cadres?”

“I would be honored, my lord,” replied Aydmur the Azeri.

“This is a most fortunate sign,” the prince announced. “Aydmur, my brother, I ask you to lead the slave army. Let us ride.”

“Who is this man?” Othman whispered to Harhash. “He seems arrogant and pompous.”

“Ask your wife,” said Harhash, trying to stifle a laugh. “She knows everyone.”

Othman attacked Harhash. Layla could not help smiling.

Behold. The reign of the slave kings approaches.

On the day of his second birthday, naked Shams walked up to Fatima, extended his hand, and said, “Look, Mama.” The imps exploded in laughter at the sight. Layl joined in. Proud and beaming, Shams held a turd in his hand.

“Ah,” said Fatima. “I am happy that you are able to do that on your own. However, we do not hold such things on our birthday. The world is here to celebrate. We must be as clean as we can be.” And, as swiftly as a hummingbird’s wing fluttering, Fatima extended her finger, her fingernail elongated into a sharp sword, and she cut her son’s hand off. She bade his arm to replace the hand with a new one. “Now, that is better. Let us get you ready for the feast.”

“I will do their hair,” cried Elijah.

“I do the shoes,” said Ishmael.

Noah conjured a fountain of warm water in the middle of the chamber, and the imps bathed the twins of light and dark. Adam garlanded them with scents. Jacob and Job dressed them in silk and satins. Ezra studded their outfits with jewels, and Isaac crowned them with gold.

Fatima led the glorious twins into the grand hall. The royalty of the land oohed at Shams’s exquisite beauty and aahed at the sight of the colorful parrots circling above him. The emir’s wife snatched Shams and carried him to the center of the room. She held him up for admiration. “Behold my son.” The notables lined up to pay their respects. One by one, they bowed before the baby emir and kissed his hand. And on this day of his second birthday, Shams performed his first miracle. The turban of the seventh person in the receiving line, a prince from a far-off land, intrigued Shams. As the man bowed, Shams removed his turban. Embarrassed, the prince tried to cover his bald head, but Shams was even more intrigued with the scalp. The boy touched it, and the prince jumped back in pain. The emir’s wife began to apologize,
though suddenly the prince was no longer listening. He brought his hands before his eyes. Surely he had felt something tickling them. He felt his head, and there it was. The entire room saw a full head of hair growing on the once-bald prince.

A man ran to the front of the line, pointing to his bald spot. “Touch me,” he called. “Touch me.” Another bald man joined him, and then there were three and four. The line was no more. A woman shoved through. “Can you do moles?” she yelled. Another held her infant son and shouted, “Cleft lip.”