While I drank—finding myself almost faint with the relief the shock of cold brought my parched throat—Ghazanfer turned to the hot water. The rising steam spun silver comfort up through the damp grey air, lightening the weight of those monstrous hands.
“The flax is here,” I said between swallows, gesturing towards the plump little jar.
But my guest—or was he now my host?—reached into his own bosom where I could not help but see how femininely the mutilation laid the fat on him. Ghazanfer pulled a kerchief out and opened it flat on the table. I saw and smelled a grey dried jumble of herbs.
“What is that?” I asked.
“A mixture. I have it of the Quince.”
He must have seen me stiffen at the name, even spill a little pomegranate juice on my coverlet.
“Yes, I know there is ill ease between your household and the old midwife.”
“I don’t know why,” I admitted. “I mean, besides the opium. It must be something besides just opium, to be so violent.”
“Do not mind it now,” Ghazanfer calmed me. “Her drug sends her no ill dreams against me, and this is what she makes for me—when I am afflicted like you. She does not even know I am here, and need never know. And it works wonders.”
“What is the concoction?” I asked, still uneasy.
“Certainly I will tell you, so you may make your own next time, and I will leave you the lot in the meanwhile. Dog’s grass mostly, six parts of that.”
Now that he gave it a name, I could smell the clean, meadow smell. “But dog’s grass?”
“‘Note where the dogs go when they are sick.’ That’s what the Quince told me.”
“That tough-rooted bane of farmers?” Perhaps it was a hopeful sign that I was considerate of somebody else’s bane besides my own. But I did not think it so, being still desirous of death myself.
“‘Personally, I’d rather have an acre of dog’s grass than of carrots for my herbery,’ the Quince once said to me.”
“Yes, that does sound like the tough, skilled woman I remember from—from before.”
“Three parts of ground root of butterbur, three of onion, two of rhubarb, two of horsetail.” Ghazanfer concluded the recipe. “I thought you might not be in a condition to remember it all, so I’ve written the directions here.” A slip of paper joined the kerchief on the table after a pinch of the mixture had gone into the water to steep.
“Thank you,” I said, dumbfounded beyond that.
I drank the tea, made palatable with honey.
Then, to divert the great khadim’s attention and already feeling somewhat revived, I said, “Thank Allah, the departure of the pilgrims went well for vou.”
The green in his squinty eyes brightened. “Yes, thank Allah.”
I couldn’t stifle my surprise at the true joy in his voice and tried to imagine what might cause it. “Took in a lot of baksheesh, did you?”
“Baksheesh? You speak that wav? It is an honor to serve as custodian of the sanctuaries. Do you take baksheesh from those who wish access to your harem?”
The idea shocked me. “No. No, of course not.”
“Then why should I accept it from those hoping for access to the greatest harem in the world? Our divine Master decides who may enter that sanctuary, whether we consider them worthy or not. True, some people did confuse the mundane with the spiritual and press a gift upon me. Such is the way of the world. But in each case, for the fear of Allah, I gave that gift away at once, as alms.”
“Of course.” But I wondered when the empire had known such a kapu aghasi before.
“It has been...” I saw him struggle to find words to express what, up until then, he had kept carefully locked in the harem of his heart. “It has been a great blessing to serve. As Allah wills, I hope I may always be found worthy of such service. I have particularly enjoyed my correspondence with the head agha over the shrine in Medina.”
“The head guardian is a eunuch?” I guess I had known that, but, especially in my present fevered state, it was difficult to fathom.
“Of course. Brotherhoods of our kind serve at all the greatest shrines—at al-Aksa in Jerusalem, the tomb of Ibrahim in Hebron, in Cairo, at the tomb of Ali, fallen for the moment into the hands of the Persian heretics. In Mecca. But the greatest of all—for us—is in Medina, al-Medinat an-Nebi, the very City of the Prophet.”
“I guess I see why it should be. Female pilgrims journey to all those sites in numbers equal to the male. There must be guardians who can deal with both sexes in honor.”
“But it is more than that,” Ghazanfer insisted. “In Medina particularly. You see, when the Angel of Death, in fear and trembling, came to ask the Messenger of Allah—blessings on him—if he might take his soul, Muhammed, with a perfect knowledge of the will of Allah, agreed. He died in the room of his favorite wife, Aysha.”
“I wonder if Safiye was aware of all this history when she named her little daughter.”
“Safiye was at a loss for feminine names,” Ghazanfer replied, forgiving my diversion. “I suggested Aysha myself, having always had particular reverence in my heart for the well-guarded one Muhammed likewise chose to honor.”
That a eunuch should name a princess of the blood seemed amazing to me. I even wondered, although everyone knew it was the great Suleiman who had given the heir apparent the ancient name, whether a suggestion hadn’t come, somehow, from Ghazanfer in the case of Prince Muhammed as well. Both Safiye’s children had been given names heavy with piety, lacking the flowery inspiration of more popular appellations. Simpler, more straightforward names were, of course, more appropriate for men, particularly men who would rule the realm of Islam. But such possibilities occupied my mind for a while so I let my guest speak uninterrupted.
“The Prophet, blessed be he, was buried right where he died,
