Empire of Dreams

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Fog shrouded the great city, obscuring the towering minarets of sandblasted glass and hammered metal, veiling its golden domes. A chilly breeze swept through the winding streets, past intricately tiled bathhouses, and the thick doors protecting the altars, bringing the smell of damp earth and salt from the sea.

My hands reached up to adjust my veil, making sure that only my eyes were visible. The Bazaar was filling up rapidly; fajr had already been called and worshippers could be seen exiting the small mosque at the end of the street. One of the oldest in the city, the mosque consisted of four covered halls enclosing a courtyard open to the gray sky. Worn down by the feet and bows of centuries of worshippers, its red and gold carpet was covered by a crowd of refugees waiting for some sort of sign of hope from the men exiting the building. Large, hazy glass lanterns filled with orange-red flames hung from the ceiling, illuminating the desperation in their eyes.

I was not one for early morning Bazaar visits, but this was the only time I could escape the watchful eyes of my father who thought I was snuggled up and asleep in my chambers. This was the only time I could actually do something substantial.

Smiling behind my veil, I watched the two men bicker as they approached Uncle Yaqoob's shop, adjacent to the mosque. I studied the men as they mumbled in low voices, noting their light features and the cut of their expensive coats.

Turks, Sanaa mouthed.

The younger one glanced anxiously at us while the older man—seemingly a relative—ran a hand through his unruly beard.

Sanaa fought a yawn, the keys jingling in her hands, watching the two men shift on their feet nervously. It wasn't unusual for clients to chose the early hours of the morning to turn up at Uncle Yaqub's shop but they seemed to be in a hurry.

Uncle Yaqoob detached himself from the crowd, raising his arms in greeting and embracing the two men. Despite the graying hairs in his beard—ill hidden by henna—and the plumpness in his belly, Uncle Yaqoob was still fit and nimble, ready and energetic at the crack of dawn.

Sanaa pushed open the door and they stepped inside. Crowded with supplies and impossibly chaotic, Uncle Yaqub's shop was my favorite place in the world. Mismatched wooden shelves crammed with dusty glass vials, tiny reed baskets, and crumbling ceramic jars covered the walls. Lengths of dried herbs, animal parts, and objects I couldn't identify hung from the ceiling while clay amphorae competed for the small amount of floor space. Uncle Yaqub knew his inventory like the lines of his palms.

I crossed my arms over my black abaya, growing intrigued. Uncle Yaqoob didn't have many Turkish clients since they were notoriously hesitant to be seen in the Abbassid territory. Who were these men?

A few minutes later, they lowered their heads, gave a brief nod, and left the shop.

Uncle Yaqoob yelled for Sanna. "Go to Yousaf and get me a mixture of one part ambergris to two parts cedar oil. He has the best stuff."

I went around the wooden counter, grabbing an ointment, and pounding the mixture."What do I add to this?"

"Some powdered lime rind and walnut oil."

I measured the contents and swiped the mixture onto some pieces of linen. Some children had infected wounds and the ointment was essential in speeding the healing process.

Sanaa returned back from her run, quickly putting the items in their place.

"Remember the salve for the pregnant woman," she called over her shoulder. I picked up a vial of peppermint oil, swatting away a spider that crawled over the top.

"Pregnant? Hmm, let me find something." Uncle Yaqoob shuffled around the shop trying to navigate in the chaos.

I pushed the vial in his direction and adding a gnarled root of ginger. "This should work"