Kader Abdolah - The King

It was the room in which the most important decisions in the wars of the past decades had been made. The globe had been a gift of Napoleon. Shah Naser stood beside an oil painting depicting his father in uniform, riding a silver horse. He was wearing his tall cylindrical hat, a red sash and a cloak over his shoulders, which fluttered in the wind. The painting was a copy of the famous painting of Napoleon shown seated on a rearing horse, holding the reins with one hand and pointing to some distant spot with the other as the horse prepares to jump. Behind him is a group of threatening clouds. The shah’s father loved that painting, so he asked the court painter to depict him in the same pose.

In the palace library there was a book containing a series of paintings of Napoleon. The shah often took the book from the bookcase and leafed through it. In his youth he had been taught by the vizier that he must always emulate history’s greatest examples.

The vizier reported on the negotiations he had conducted with the British and on the guarantee that the rebels would not be punished.

‘So they are calling the shots,’ responded the shah sullenly.

‘The British are doing everything they can to secure their position in India. We’ve got to learn to live with that reality. We are trying to give the country a modern face, so there’s no room for turmoil. The seven rebellious brothers will be brought to Your Majesty. They will kneel before you and ask your forgiveness, and Your Majesty may pardon them in the name of brotherhood. Thus peace will be restored — for the time being.’

‘Brotherhood? These are no brothers of ours. What our father did not beget with my mother is not a brother,’ said the shah angrily.

‘This is the best solution to the problem. It would be good if you were to talk to the brothers and put the interests of the country above family matters. Your mother will not be amenable to a pardon, but in granting it you know you will have made a wise decision.’

The words of the vizier tempered the shah’s rage. The brothers would kneel before him and beg for mercy.

Mirza Kabir then went on to explain the reforms in the army, for which the shah had already studied the contracts. The French did good work, but the costs were high.

‘Yes, that has always been my concern,’ said the shah. ‘How are we going to cover the costs? The vizier keeps telling us the treasury is empty.’

‘Your Majesty,’ said the vizier with a smile, ‘God loves our country. The empire has been truly blessed. We have immense riches: rough gems, gold and silver lying about everywhere. The French know that. We are now involved in talks with them, and when the time is right I will provide Your Majesty with detailed information concerning the proposals.’

The shah was satisfied with the vizier’s course of action.

Now that the shah was in a good mood the vizier seized the opportunity and continued speaking: ‘We have a beautiful country, a rich country, but there has not been a stable government here in centuries. The fate of the country is in the shah’s hands. The wealthy families think only of themselves. They frustrate all our plans. If we want to build a factory, they refuse to part with even a metre of their property. Why do they need so much land, so many houses, so many villages? They bring in teachers from abroad to instruct their children in French and the new sciences, while the peasants are kept in ignorance.’

The vizier paused. ‘I have invested all my hope for change in Your Majesty,’ he said. ‘All I desire is your active contribution.’

The shah had listened in silence. ‘The vizier has poured the same words into our ears over and over again,’ he replied crossly. ‘We have heard you. You may go.’

Upon his return to the palace at the end of the afternoon the shah was told by the chamberlain that his mother, the queen, was waiting for him in the hall of mirrors.

‘Mother, what brings you here so unexpectedly?’

He embraced his mother and kissed her on the head. Dispensing with civilities Mahdolia took aim.

‘I have heard that your rebellious half-brothers will be appearing before the shah tomorrow to beg for mercy. So I rode here in great haste.’

‘They are my brothers,’ said the king, trying to defend himself.

‘Apparently the shah does not know the history of his own family. They are not your full brothers. Your father was ruthless in pushing his brothers aside, and your grandfather had his brothers butchered because they made a claim for power. Everyone is aghast that the king wants to receive these vicious men. The tale of the brothers is well known in Persian history. Kings have always had their brothers eliminated without mercy. Now it’s your turn, and if you so much as hesitate they will destroy you. How often must I tell you that you cannot trust the vizier? You are the king, the representative of God on earth. This is all about the throne, and the throne is not yours alone. It also belongs to those who succeed us. You must show your brothers no mercy. For mercy they must appeal to God.’

There was nothing the shah could say. His mother’s argument was unassailable. But so was the vizier’s.

‘Listen,’ his mother went on, ‘your half-brothers have received money and weapons from the British, and the vizier is secretly representing British interests. That is why he’s trying to solve the problem this way. Your brothers should be hung, each and every one of them. That is the advice of Sheikh Aqasi. You are the king. I have said all I need to say.’ And with that she left.

The shah stood in the middle of the hall of mirrors. He picked up the cat, who was pressing herself against his legs. ‘Did you hear what she said? She wants to see blood. Woman is the mother of all misery. What should I do, Sharmin?’

The cat turned her head towards the library.

‘Shall we consult Hafez?’ asked the shah, and he let Sharmin jump down from his arms. The collection of poetry by the great medieval poet was a source of counsel for all Persians, poor and rich, if they had no one else to turn to. As tradition dictated the shah kissed the cover of the book, shut his eyes and opened it to a random page.

Mi-barad baran-e raham-at khoda-ye man

Pour over me, O Lord,

From the clouds of thy bounteous mercy

The rain of forgiveness

That falls ever faster on my grave,

Before I, like dust on the wind, from corn to chaff,

Rise up and fly away, past the knowledge of men …

Incredulous the shah read the poem through once more. Hafez was speaking in no uncertain terms to the shah himself. He was talking frankly about forgiveness — a rain of forgiveness, in fact — and about the principle of mercy.

He paced the room to and fro with the book in his hand. Should he try once more, just to be sure? If Hafez were to speak of mercy again, then he would choose the rain of mercy. He repeated the ritual.

Never have I laid my eyes on

More sweet-voiced verses than yours, O Hafez!

This I dare to swear on the Quran

That you carry in your bosom …

Hafez had not changed his mind, but now he advised the shah to consult the Quran. He mentioned the Quran by name; that was clear. The shah kissed the book of poetry, put it back on the shelf and turned his gaze to the Quran that was lying on a separate table in a green cloth slipcase. He went to the dining room and washed his hands under the small gold tap, dried them, went back to the library and picked up the holy book. He removed it from its slipcase with great care, kissed it, closed his eyes, opened the book reverently and studied the surah word for word.

Tabbat yada Abi Lahaben wa tabba

Destroyed will be

the hands of Abu Lahab,