every day, however, sometimes with Malik, other times with Kazimain. She was often hovering nearby, and it was Kazimain who brought my food each day; occasionally, she stayed and waited while I ate. I found her quiet company entirely agreeable.
Some days were better for me than others, but on the whole I felt my strength returning. I also felt the hard place inside me, gnarled and tight, clenched like a fist full of walnuts, deep down inside where nothing could reach it ever again. Two things I kept there: my will to vengeance, and the determination to free my friends.
My recovery proceeded apace, especially after Farouk succeeded in getting me on my feet: that was another ordeal, far more miserable than the bath, and far more painful-so much so that I fainted the first time and Malik had to carry me back to bed. Nevertheless, under Farouk's keen and compassionate eye, I grew strong once more. My appetite returned and I began to eat with vigour. Kazimain continued to come to my room each day-it was like the sunrise to see her each morning-and Faysal looked in on me from time to time.
Gradually, with much slow and painful exercise, the stiffness in my limbs and the ache in my joints diminished. I was able to shuffle around the bare confines of my room without collapsing or fainting. My shoulder still pained me, but I could tell that it was healing. The winding cloth was changed every few days, allowing Farouk the opportunity to examine my shoulder and arm. He assured me that no bones had been broken, and that without Faysal's crude-but-effective treatment I would not be so well off. 'You were very fortunate,' he insisted. 'It could have been much worse.'
One day, after I had expressed mild discontent at remaining in my room all the time, Farouk told me he thought it was time I saw more of the palace. The next evening, Kazimain brought a bundle of green and blue cloth tied with a wide band of red silk. This she placed on the bed beside me, departing again at once. Using my good hand, I worried loose the red silk band and unfolded the cloth. There were two garments, both thin and lightweight; the first was a long, loose blue robe, and the second a billowy green cloak like those Farouk and Faysal wore.
As no one was about, I shrugged off my mantle and, with some difficulty, pulled on the robe. I was still trying to adjust the voluminous garment when Farouk arrived. He crossed the room to me in quick steps, picked up the band of red silk and put it around my waist, tied it expertly, and suddenly the robe felt right on me. He stepped back, raised his hands and proclaimed: 'As the light hidden beneath a bowl shines out when the covering is taken away, I see a new man revealed.'
'I feel like a very old man,' I remarked. 'I can hardly move.'
'The heat of the day has passed,' he declared. 'I have come to take you for a walk.' Putting a hand to my elbow, he led me to the door and out into a low corridor that seemed to stretch on and on into the distance; doorways opened off the corridor to the right, and large, pointed windholes to the left. The walls and floors were coloured marble, and the lintels polished wood. I saw that my room was the last one at the furthest end of the corridor.
'This is the amir's principal residence,' Farouk informed me. 'Lord Sadiq has a summer palace in the mountains, and a house in Baghdat. I am told they are both fine houses. Perhaps you will see them one day.'
His comment awakened my latent curiosity. 'Why am I here, Farouk?'
'You have been brought here to recover your health,' he said simply.
'So you have said. Is there no other reason?'
'You remain here at the pleasure of Amir Sadiq,' the physician said, adjusting his answer slightly. 'I am not privy to my lord's purposes.'
'I see. Am I a slave?'
'We are all of us slaves, my friend,' said Farouk lightly. 'We merely serve different masters. That is all.'
We walked on-my own gait a laboured, hobbling shuffle. My legs felt as if I were dragging blocks of marble from my ankles. Eventually, we reached the end of the corridor and I saw a wide stairway leading down to rooms below, and another stairway leading up. A gentle breeze, fragrant with the scent of roses, was drifting down into the corridor from above. 'What is up there?' I asked.
'It is the roof garden of the amir's wives,' answered Farouk.
'I would like to see it. May we go there?'
'Most certainly,' he said. 'It is allowed.'
Taking the steps one at a time, very slowly, we ascended to a softly warm summer evening. The sun had just set and the sky was tinted an exquisite golden hue with fiery purples and dusky pinks over hills of slate blue. The sky itself was immense, and stars were already glinting overhead. There were other large dwellings nearby, but the amir's was the largest, and overlooked them all.
The palace roof was a flat expanse onto which hundreds upon hundreds of plants had been arranged in clay pots of all shapes and sizes, and placed around a raised central pavilion made of slender wooden slats woven in open latticework, and overdraped with red-and-blue striped cloth. There were small palm trees, and fronded shrubs large and small, and flowers, many of which had closed their petals for the night. It was the roses, however, that caught my attention, for the air was heavy with their fragrance, and everywhere I looked, I saw whole thickets of tiny, sweet-scented white roses, which seemed to breathe their luxurious perfume upon the evening air in silent sighs.
While we were yet standing at the top of the stairs, there came a strange, chanting wail from across the city. It seemed to emanate from one of the slender towers I had seen from my bed. This sound waxed and waned eerily, and was quickly fortified by other chants and wails.
Upon listening for a moment, it occurred to me that I had heard this very sound before, though I could not remember where or when. 'What is that?' I asked, turning to Farouk.
'Ah!' he said, reading the expression on my face. 'It is the muezzin,' he explained, 'calling the faithful man to his prayers. Come.' He turned and led me towards the pavilion where he sat me down upon a cushion. When I was thus settled, he said, 'If you will please excuse me, I will return momentarily.'
Farouk took himself a few paces away, turned his face to the east, bowed low three times, then knelt, placing hands flat before him and touching his nose to the ground. I watched him perform this curious ritual, rising now and then to bob his head up and down once or twice, before lowering his face again.
Though I did not doubt my physician's sincerity, his actions put me in mind of the gyrations some of the monks at the abbey would perform, with their genuflecting and kneeling and prostrating themselves, up and down, down and up, repeating the same words over and over again in a high reedy voice until they formed a meaningless gabble.
Farouk continued for a short while, then he rose, bowed to the east, and returned to where I was sitting. 'The night is growing cool,' he announced, 'and I do not think it wise for you to become chilled. I shall return you to your room now.'
He helped me to rise from the cushion, and we began shuffling back to the stairs, and had just reached them when the chanting began again. This time, however, the cry did not come from the finger-thin towers, but from the streets below, and it was not one person only, but many voices. I looked to Farouk for an explanation. He simply smiled, and lifted a hand to the raised edge of the roof.
I turned and we made our way to look down into the street where a huge crowd, a veritable multitude, thronged the narrow streets, and they were all chanting and crying out in attitudes of imprecation, as if beseeching the amir for recognition or a favour. I watched them, but could form no opinion of their actions. 'What do they want Farouk?'
'They want your health, my friend,' he answered.
He chuckled at the expression of incredulity that appeared on my face. 'Who are they?' I wondered. 'What can they know of my health?'
'It has become known in the city that the amir's new slave is ill,' Farouk said, spreading his hands wide. 'The people have come to pray for your recovery.'
'Why tonight?'
'This night is no different from any other since you came,' he told me.
'They come every night to pray?' I wondered. 'For me?'
The physician nodded and cupped a hand to his ear. After a moment he said, 'They ask God to raise up the amir's servant. They entreat Allah, All Wise and Compassionate, to restore your health, and bring you once more to happiness and prosperity. They ask the Holy Angels to stand over you and protect you so that the Evil One may no longer ravage your body and spirit. They ask God's peace and blessing on you this night.'
The chanting prayers continued for a time, weaving a curious, ululating music in an unknown tongue. A sharp
