The Serpent's Veil

The Gift

From the gates of the palace to the furthest points of the kingdom the name of Prince Rehan al-Mahdi was ripe in people's mouths. Alms flowed out of the inner city like a golden river, while commoners poured in, eager to taste the forbidden luxury hidden in the districts of the upper class. Those few hundred citizens who had been granted access to the south courtyard of the palace had even more to be excited about. Their searching eyes turned to the south balcony, hungry for a glimpse of the Prophet's corporeal vessel. The voices of the crowd became a single chorus which rose and fell, like waves crashing against the shore.

Behind the doors to the balcony the Prince of Arabia stood immobile as seven attendants prepared him for presentation. The sound of the people was driving him mad with excitement, but until his mother was satisfied he could not go out to see them.

"Is the gold better or the silver?" the Calipha asked one of her ladies. After a moment she answered her own question. "Let's go with the gold so he matches Rayta."

As swift as the rain two attendants unclasped the silver mantle and belt, and replaced them with gold ones. They weighed almost thrice that of the silver, but Rehan did not complain. The gold was the only bit of colour in his ensemble, the rest being all black. The qamis was an exquisite silk interwoven with silver threads to create the illusion of a shimmer, while the sirwals were light cotton. The fabrics were fine and the tailoring was meticulous, flattering his athletic shape from all angles, but it was still black. Rehan couldn't stand the monotony of it. His mother had not even permitted red, one of the official colours of the royal family.

"Black is tradition, so black you will wear." And that was all.

Another attendant came forward with a black kufiya and a handful of pins, while two others began strapping gold braces onto his forearms. Once the agal was secured, Rehan jerked his chin towards the Calipha.

"Are we done, mother?"

The door to the antechamber suddenly opened. Yahya al-Barmaki stepped through, accompanied by Princess Rayta. Rehan's expression immediately lit up and he crossed the room in all of two strides.

"Happy birthday, Sayyidi," Yahya said, and tilted his chin down. Rehan laughed and grabbed his best friend's arm, pulling him in for a hug.

"You insult me with your formalities, brother." He grinned and turned to Rayta. "I see you've brought my lovely wife."

He stepped forward and planted a quick kiss on Rayta's cheek before she had the chance to roll her kohl lined eyes at him.

"Happy birthday, Prince Rehan," she said. "Many blessings on this auspicious day."

She wore a long sleeved black blouse, a heavy red skirt embroidered with dense flowery patterns, a gold belt and mantle, along with a garish gold nose-ring. There must have been at least a dozen pins holding her headscarf in place.

"Let's leave the blessings to the imam, Princess." Rehan laughed at his own joke as he twined his fingers with hers. They walked to the threshold where two attendants waited to open the balcony doors. The Calipha allowed herself a broad smile and waved a hand for the doors to be opened.

"Happy birthday, my son."

The sound of a thousand shouting voices rattled Rehan's bones, but when the crowd saw him out on the balcony their incoherent cheering began merging into a single, powerful chant:

"Al-Mahdi, al-Mahdi, Long live al-Mahdi!"

He who is guided by God.

Rehan's heart swelled with pride. He let go of Rayta's hand to goad the crowd, make them scream till it was the only sound he could hear. He leaned over the rail as far as he dared and stared down at the people's faces. There were men old and young, dressed in the most pristine silks and the cheapest rags. Some women wore veils with mesh covering their eyes, but their arms were raised with the same enthusiasm and power. Girls and boys of all ages stared up at him, dazzled and wide-eyed in awe.