Equal of the Sun A Novel - By Anita Amirrezvani Page 0,19
and their allies were still on guard, unopposed. I knew one of the captains, and when I told him I had been out on errands all day, I received permission to enter after being checked for weapons. When I finally arrived at Pari’s house, she was waiting for me.
“May you not be tired!” she said.
I wiped the sweat off my forearms.
“What did my uncle say?”
“He promised to do your bidding,” I said, reciting the lines of poetry he had improvised.
She smiled. “Good work.”
“Princess,” I said with agitation, “the soldiers have probably started fighting. Anything could happen.”
“Make haste. Go to the birooni and find out what you can.”
First, I decided to go to the harem kitchens because the cooks always knew the latest news. The large building, which usually bustled with ladies, maids, and slaves, was deserted. Flour and water had been mixed and left in large bowls. Mint had been washed but not hung to dry, and onions and garlic had been chopped and abandoned. Their sharpness stung my eyes.
I walked through the building, feeling something strange I could not name. As I passed an oven for bread, my tread made a deeper sound than elsewhere. I turned back and opened the oven. It was full of charcoal and ash, but in the far corner I spotted a patch of bright blue silk. I thought about the robes of everyone I knew until finally I remembered: It belonged to one of the Shah’s physicians, who must have been shown into the harem during the Shah’s final illness.
“Physician Amin Khan Halaki, your robe is showing!” I hissed. The cloth disappeared as quickly as a mouse pulls its tail into a hole.
“Who are you?”
“Javaher Agha, servant of Pari Khan Khanoom.”
“Can I leave?”
“Not if you wish to remain alive.”
“Then throw me some food, at least.”
Grabbing some cucumbers and grapes, I thrust them in the oven and wished him luck. I proceeded to the checkpoint to the birooni and saluted Zav Agha, whose brow looked permanently creased with worry.
“Is there any news?” I asked.
“Not yet-t-t,” he said, his few remaining teeth knocking together in fear. He opened the door and allowed me to pass through.
I walked swiftly to Forty Columns Hall and glanced around, but it was empty. I kept walking until I approached the northern wall of the palace, where I was alarmed by the sound of deep, dull thuds. I suspected that a group of soldiers had grabbed a cannon and were smashing it against the wooden gate, which groaned as if being tortured.
“Haydar Shah, open up and let us in!” a man yelled from outside. “We are your friends.”
Ignoring the usual palace decorum, I ran through the courtyard and all the checkpoints until I was back in the harem. Just as I reached a large plane tree, the ground trembled so sharply I suspected an earthquake, but then I realized it was the pounding of horse’s hooves. I halted abruptly, feeling like an ant caught between a man’s thumb and forefinger.
My heart beat faster as the tall wooden door that led from the harem to the Promenade of the Royal Stallions creaked open. Soldiers streamed into the gardens, brandishing their swords while shouting Isma‘il’s name and trampling the red rosebushes near the walkways. The unprecedented sight of men in the women’s space, which had never been violated by outsiders, shook me to my core.
Shamkhal rode toward me on a black Arabian steed and pulled on the reins.
“Where is Haydar?” he shouted.
“Probably in his mother’s quarters. It is the building with the two cypress trees in front.”
I pointed the way.
Shamkhal directed his men to ride toward the gate to the birooni and hold off Haydar’s supporters if they tried to enter the harem. Then he spurred his horse in the direction of Sultan-Zadeh’s home. One of his captains, Kholafa Rumlu, whose costly helmet inscribed with protective verses from the Qur’an gave away his high rank, spotted something in the distance and shouted, “Who are you?”
I caught a glimpse of three women in chadors, their faces hidden by pichehs, concealed among tall flowering bushes. The tallest among them was wearing pink silk shoes.
“Calm down; we’re just going to buy bread,” one of them called to him in a lilting voice. “The kitchens are empty, and our children have nothing to eat.”
“Shamkhal Cherkes, come back!” Kholafa yelled. Shamkhal turned his horse around and rode with Kholafa and a few soldiers toward the women. The women clung to one another, looking like frightened gazelles trapped