Equal of the Sun A Novel - By Anita Amirrezvani Page 0,33

list of accountants, scribes, and historians. My hands grew warm as I perused the list. I didn’t know if my father would merit an entry. Often, the historians ended their lists by writing, “None of the others are important enough to mention,” or words to that effect.

But then my heart seemed to stop in my chest:

Mohammad Amir Shirazi: Born in Qazveen, he served the Shah for twenty years, becoming one of his chief accountants. Many colleagues praised the accuracy of his accounts and his swift dispatch of court business. He seemed destined to rise up through the ranks of the men of the pen, until one day he was accused of crimes against the Shah and executed. Later, doubts were raised about the truth of the accusations. In his world-illumining mercy, the Shah did not execute his accuser, but it is also possible that his decision was influenced by the fact that the man had powerful allies whom the Shah didn’t wish to offend. Only God knows all things with certainty.

Why, oh why, had the historian not mentioned the courtier’s name? What rank was he that the Shah hadn’t punished him?

I decided to take a risk and ask Abteen. After I beckoned to him, he approached with an exasperated sigh.

“See this entry?”

He peered at it and then looked up. I have never seen a man read so fast. “What about it?”

“What is the name of the courtier?”

“How should I know?”

“Aren’t you a historian, for God’s sake?”

“If it is not written down, it means we don’t know. Who has time to run around verifying details about minor officials? Nobody is going to give a damn about this Mohammad Amir in the future.”

I stood up abruptly, bumping into the table and upsetting the manuscript page, which floated to the floor.

“I give a damn!”

The historian stooped to pick up the page, then tripped on his long robe as he stood up. “You have bent it, you donkey! I told you to be careful.”

“As careful as you are with your facts?”

He cursed me and I walked out, surprised to see that my fingers were lightly stained, as if I had dipped them in my father’s blood.

Isma‘il wrote to Pari that he had received her letter and would depart from Qahqaheh shortly to resume his rightful role in the capital. When he had first heard of his father’s and Haydar’s deaths, he had barred the gates to the prison, certain that it was a trick, and waited until a crowd of trusted noblemen had appeared outside the gates. After they had confirmed the news, he allowed them to be opened again. He wrote that he looked forward to seeing his sister after an absence of so many years, and he thanked Pari for her service on his behalf. He signed the letter, “your loving brother.”

Pari was elated by his kind salutation. “He sounds just like the lion-man I remember!” she said, her eyes moistening with relief.

But that was all we heard from Isma‘il for days, until Sultanam told us that he had decided to stay on at Qahqaheh to allow nobles to visit him. When still he failed to arrive, we discovered that he had voyaged to Ardabil, the home of his ancestors, to visit the shrine there, and lingered for longer than expected, sending no word as to when he would appear.

Pari had no choice but to take full charge of administering the palace. Because of her orders, the kitchens were reopened and the denizens of the palace filled their bellies gratefully. The hospital on the palace grounds resumed operation, the sick received consolation from men of religion, and the dead were properly buried. The Takkalu left town to visit Isma‘il, and the murders in the city ceased.

Even though the palace began to function again, we were not calm, because the palace was teeming with rumors. Haydar’s mother, Sultan-Zadeh, infuriated by the murder of her only child, had been making efforts through her allies to find a worthy opponent to Isma‘il, if for no other reason than to thwart Sultanam’s ambitions. And a group of nobles was weighing the possibility of rallying behind Mustafa Mirza, the late shah’s fifth son, in a bid for the throne.

When I passed people in the gardens they averted their eyes, not knowing who would be their next master or whether any confidence would result in future betrayal. One morning, I surprised Anwar at the baths before it was light. He leapt out of the water, ebony knees bent