necessary. Then she began firing one arrow after the other at targets placed near and far. The arrows thwacked into the middle of the targets with so much regularity that they mimicked the beat of a drum, and a thin veil of sweat shimmered on her forehead.
Pari stood aside to relinquish the targets to Isma‘il. The bowmen cleared her arrows from the targets and stepped away. Isma‘il reached out tentatively for his bow. He pulled back the bowstring with great effort, his arm trembling, and shot a few arrows, which missed their mark. Sweating profusely, he tried a few more. I shifted anxiously from foot to foot until, finally, one of his arrows struck the edge of a target. The ladies ululated so loudly, led by Sultanam, that the birds flying overhead veered away from us.
Isma‘il ceded the range to Pari. Instead of politely pleading fatigue, she turned her attention to an empty target and struck it with arrows marking north, south, east, and west. Her ladies couldn’t help themselves; they ululated again, their tongues moving faster than the eye could see, but I was beginning to feel uncomfortable.
Pari placed another arrow against the bowstring and concentrated so hard and for so long that the whole crowd seemed to hold its breath. Not a single silk sash fluttered while we waited to see what the princess would do. Finally, when the suspense was almost too great to bear, she loosed the arrow. It flew straight and true, striking the middle of the target to mark Mecca, the center of all things. All of us gaped in amazement at her prowess.
Isma‘il’s lips drew down at the corners. “Let’s hear your voices for my talented sister,” he choked out.
Pari beamed with pride. Isma‘il approached his mother and conferred with her for a moment.
“My mother says it is time to eat,” he announced and walked away without firing another shot. Balamani gave me a knowing look.
Servants began bringing out platters of barbecued meat. Balamani and I walked toward a blanket near the water and sat down.
“Pari is the better marksman,” I said. “Why should she conceal it?”
“The greatest skill, for those close to the Shah, is making him look good.”
“You believe he is quite so fragile?”
“He is a man, isn’t he?” He crooked his index finger obscenely, and I snorted with laughter.
Massoud Ali came running to us, his eyes shining with excitement. “I won a game! I won!” he said with a grin that seemed as huge as his face. “I beat Ardalan.”
“Of course you did, my little radish,” I replied. “Mash’Allah!”
Out of the corner of my eye, I could see the errand boy scowling in our direction. Ardalan was known for getting into scraps. I fixed a stare on him until he looked away.
Anwar and a few of the other eunuchs joined us for the meal. A platter of lamb kabob arrived, its juices soaking the bread underneath it. We waited for Anwar to begin. Wrapping a piece of lamb in lavash, he began telling a story about how his father, who had been a chief in Sudan, had decided a dispute over a sheep. In the end, all the parties felt that they had gotten the better deal.
“Now that is good diplomacy!” he concluded, and we all laughed.
“I wish I remembered my father better,” Balamani said wistfully. “I was younger than Massoud Ali when I was brought here.”
Several of the other eunuchs murmured that they had also arrived as children.
Massoud Ali looked puzzled. “Your parents brought you to court?”
“No, my child. My father was very ill, and I spent my time at the seashore trying to fish or find a little work. One day, a dhow sailed in, and a sailor asked me if I wanted to train as a captain’s boy. I got my family’s blessing and joined the crew, surprised to find eight or nine boys already on board. Before we arrived at the next port, the sailors strapped us down and chopped off our parts. One of the boys, Vijayan, got an infection and died. He was my only friend on board.”
Balamani brushed at his eyes. “A few weeks later, we arrived at a port. After we were fully healed, an agent of the court bought us and brought us here.”
Massoud Ali stared at Balamani, his eyes round, as if he couldn’t believe that the robust man in shining silk robes whose orders were law had once been a child slave.
“What about you?” Massoud Ali asked me innocently.