Equal of the Sun by Anita Amirrezvani Read Free Book Online

arose every day to pray in his garden before it was light. He was the lord of thousands of sheep and goats, and he shared their milk, cheese, and meat so that no man in his kingdom ever went hungry. His one weakness was that he was too indulgent with his only son, Zahhak. One day, Zahhak was approached by the devil, who expressed surprise at how patiently he waited for his father’s throne. Since his succession was ordained, surely there could be no harm in hastening it. Why should an old man be in charge rather than someone as vigorous and fresh as he?
That night, the devil dug a deep hole on the path that Mirdas took every morning to the fire temple where he said his prayers, and covered it with leaves and branches. The next morning, when Mirdas walked forth into his garden, he fell into the hole and his spine snapped. The poor man howled and groaned, but none heard him, and finally, in great agony, he expired. So justice was supplanted by injustice, and a cycle of terror began.

     

 
     
    M assoud Ali and I left the walled quarters of the women, which lay deep inside the palace, through a thick wooden door embedded with metal in the middle of a tall wall. We saluted Zav Agha, the old eunuch on duty at the checkpoint leading to the birooni—the outside.
    “Not long until retirement?” I asked.
    “Only a few months, God willing, if I survive this latest upheaval!”
    He and Balamani often talked about the fierce ocean and the fresh fish of their childhood on the Malabar coast of Hindustan, before they had been cut and sold as slaves. Now, as free men, they longed to return there.
    Massoud Ali and I wound our way through twisting corridors studded with armed guards until we reached the large courtyard near the Ali Qapu gate. We traversed the courtyard, passing through a second gated and guarded checkpoint that led to the treasury, library, hospital, pharmacy, and morgue. Massoud Ali’s forehead was so pinched that I wanted to cheer him. I asked him if there were any games he liked to play with the other errand boys, but he shrugged. He was thin and small, and I surmised that even younger boys would be able to pummel him.
    “How about backgammon?”
    “I don’t know how.”
    “I will teach you. It is the game of shrewd statesmen.”
    His smile flashed so briefly it was as if he hadn’t learned how to use it yet.
    Shortly after the intersection of the two main avenues that crossed the palace grounds, we arrived at Forty Columns Hall, the palace’s most important meeting place. It was one of my favorite buildings because its large entrance portal was left open during the warmer months to a view of the fruit orchards and flower gardens.A court poet had once written more than a hundred lines about the exquisiteness of the melons grown on the palace grounds, and with good reason.
    Inside the hall, its high ceiling was arched, sectioned, and painted in pale shades of orange, turquoise, and green, overlaid with a pattern of gold flowers much like the design on a fine silk robe. Thick carpets and plush cushions covered the floors.
    Massoud Ali stood against the back wall with the other errand boys; I sat beside Balamani among the palace eunuchs. Balamani and I frowned at each other; we hadn’t learned anything new. Today the normally sober hall was alive with speculation about who would be the next shah. Members of the Ostajlu and Mowsellu tribes sat nearest to the platform where the late shah used to emerge and speak; this was their privilege as men of the sword who had helped the Safavi dynasty to the throne. Several Georgian and Circassian leaders who had married into the royal family claimed seats of honor, too. These groups had begun to vie for power against the more established tribes and against the most powerful men of the pen, who were in charge of keeping accounts and writing royal letters, orders, and histories. My father had been one such man, and for a moment I imagined the two of us sitting together near