Rabih Alameddine - The Hakawati

“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.”

The emir’s wife tried to retreat, but she had no place to go. The mob of notables surrounded her on all sides. Shams began to wail.

“Everyone will have his turn,” pleaded the emir’s wife.

“No, they will not.” Fatima held her hand up, and the green parrot, Job, flew above the melee. She raised her hand again, to stop the violet parrot, Adam, from joining his brother. Suddenly, the royalty of the land were frantically scratching their skins. Fleas gorged themselves on noble blood. Elijah descended from above and lifted Shams. As soon as Shams joined Layl in Fatima’s arms, the fleas disappeared.

“Be not afraid,” the emir’s wife said, still scratching her arms. “Please stay. The fleas are gone, and we will burn sage to make sure they remain away.” Her arms turned redder and redder. “Do not leave. My son will heal you all. He will perform the great miracles. He is the chosen one. I am his mother.”

“I think we have had enough excitement for the day.” Fatima led her sons and her parrots out of the hall.