“From what we’ve been told, all of this imposter’s speeches are preceded by people like this. They go on about what they claim they’ve seen al-Jahiz do.”
“Bearers of Witness,” Hadia added.
Fatma was familiar with the title. It was said when the real al-Jahiz walked the streets of Cairo, he often had men and women who preceded him—bearing witness to his teachings and wonders. This imposter had studied well.
The crowd’s roaring grew louder. Along the rooftops, people stood in expectation. The man atop the mausoleum was yelling now, though only bits of his speech traveled through the din. “… The Traveler of Worlds! The Father of Mysteries! The Knower of the Mystic…!”
Aasim said something that was impossible to hear. But Fatma’s attention was fixed atop the mausoleum. The speaker finished, stepping to the side. She felt herself tense as the man in the gold mask made his entrance.
He looked just as before—tall and draped in flowing black robes. Even from here, she could see the etchings on his mask, moving as if alive. To his right was another familiar figure, a slender man in black billowy breeches and a shirt of heavy cloth. As the imposter took his place, the crowd chanted: “Al-Jahiz! Al-Jahiz! Al-Jahiz!” He stood, hands clasped behind his back—while his companion stood on his right, an immobile statue. The praise only died down when the imposter held up his hands—which Fatma only now noticed were covered in dark chain mail. In the quiet that descended, he spoke.
“You have come here tonight, seeking wonders.”
Gasps went up, and Fatma knew why. Unlike the last man, this imposter didn’t need to shout. His words came in a perfect pitch that made it seem as if he were speaking right beside her. This was a new trick he hadn’t used the other night.
“You have come tonight, seeking great wisdom. To hear me tell of what sights I glimpsed as I walked between worlds. You have come because your eyes and minds ache with hunger, the same one in your bellies, and those of your children. You have come because your souls are thirsty, dry as the dust at your feet. You have come because even in this age where wonders are so abundant”—he gestured into the distance, toward greater Cairo—“there is yet emptiness, a hole at your center. This new world has failed you. This claimed ‘modernity’ has left you unfulfilled—like a man adrift in an ocean without a drop of water to drink.”
He took in a deep breath, as if drawing in life—then let his voice explode.
“I have returned to you, my people lost!” he thundered. “I have returned to you, my people abandoned! I have returned to you! Not to the powerful, the wealthy, not those who misuse my teachings to live in decadence! To raise up a great city for the high while so many yet live so low! Who dare proclaim an age of wonders, on the backs of those who build and work their factories! Who must bake their bread as they gorge on the sweat and toil of your hands! Who must live in squalor while they build, and build, and build as if wishing to listen in on the heavens! Masr has strayed far from the path I set! Together, we must set it right! Even if that means bringing down all they have built upon them so that we may start anew!”
The shouts in response became almost earsplitting. Fatma shared a look with Aasim. It was time. What she was about to do was genius, or the worst idea in the history of worst ideas. She mouthed a silent Bismillah. Then, before the imposter could start up again, she shouted.
“Is al-Jahiz a murderer?”
Fatma didn’t have one of those voice transmitters, like singers used. No nice tricks either, to be heard inside everyone’s ears. What she did have was a smooth intonation that didn’t tremble. And a quiet lull that made her words echo. Every head turned, followed fast by a buzzing murmur. For once, she doubted it had much to do with her suit. More likely, it was the armada of police who stood behind her. From atop the mausoleum, the man in the gold mask looked down—that burning gaze latching onto her. Steeling herself, she spoke again, and walked forward—her retinue following.
“I asked, is al-Jahiz a murderer?”
The crowd parted at their approach. Some with children began leaving the gathering entirely, likely fearful of a coming conflict. But that wasn’t going to happen, because she was going to end this imposter here and now. She never let her eyes stray from him long, where he glared from his perch.
They reached the front of the gathering. Those here, mostly younger men with heated gazes, had to be pushed to gain passage. One—with a chin that grew sparse hair—planted his feet in challenge. She put her shoulder down and casually bodychecked him, sending him stumbling back. Regaining his footing, he lunged but ran up against Aasim, who returned a glare over a moustache that twitched. “Try me.” Fatma ignored them, fixed now on the figure above.
“You haven’t answered my question,” she shouted again. “Is al-Jahiz a murderer?”
The imposter remained quiet, and she thought she might have to repeat herself again. But then he spoke. “You ask riddles. Speak plain so that all can understand.” There were murmurs of assent from the crowd.
“The al-Jahiz I’ve learned about was a teacher,” Fatma called out. “A thinker. An inventor. A man of righteousness, of truth, and of justice. A man who spoke of freedom. God as my witness, in nothing I have read, has he ever been named a murderer.”
“Then why do you name me so now?” the imposter asked.
That’s it, Fatma thought. Take all the rope you need.
“Last week over twenty people were killed, murdered,” she shouted. “Burned alive. Their bodies reduced to ashes. One man was seen fleeing the crime, like a common thief, a coward attempting to cover up his deeds. A man wearing a
