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.
Rehan looked over his shoulder at Rayta, standing with her hands folded. When she took a step forward the crowd roared their approval. They loved seeing the fairytale unfold before them; a Prince and Princess happy in love.
Rehan seized her by the waist and pulled her towards him, their gold belts clanging together. It was not awkward when she gazed up into his eyes and wrapped her arms around his neck. After three years of practice, kissing him came as naturally as drawing a sword. The approving cheers only encouraged them. She tangled her fingers in his kufiya, he lifted her off the ground and shoved his tongue down her throat.
It was not difficult for him to enjoy it. After all, Rayta was a beautiful woman, and she was his and his alone. He did not know if she felt the same, nor did he care. It was all part of the performance.
When they separated Rayta drew a deep breath but did not try to pull out of his embrace. The spectators were practically drooling at the sight of them, so open with their affection. The poor mothers must have been scrambling to cover their daughters' eyes.
Rehan scanned the crowd then looked down at Rayta. Her expression was blank when she met his gaze.
"Should I throw my mantle to them?" he asked, grinning in excitement.
Rayta's eyes narrowed in surprised horror. "Do you want to kill someone?" She carefully unclasped her nose ring and handed it to him. "Here."
Rehan released his grip on her waist and twirled the nose ring between his fingers before pulling his arm back for a powerful throw. The pure gold thing glinted as it flew over the frenzied crowd in a huge arc. The Prince did not even wait to see who caught it before he turned on his heel and went back through the doors.
It was going to be a long day.
â
Khaya cried out as a girl ripped the dried wax from her leg. Seven girls had her arms, legs, and stomach under their rule, meticulously removing each and every hair from her body using honeyed wax and strips of thick fabric. The gentlest breeze sent gooseflesh crawling across her skin, making the job even more difficult. An old woman had her head in her lap, swiftly eliminating the thin fur on her upper lip using a thread. The shock of pain was so sudden Khaya barely had time to wince before the thread was back on her skin, ripping out another section of hair. The thread moved to her chin, then the edges of her jaw. Another girl helped hold her skin taut when the woman began to shape her eyebrows. Eventually her whole body was blooming red and painful.
She lay there, immobile and naked for a good hour before they flipped her over to wax her backside. None of the girls spoke except to ask Khaya to turn her leg or angle her arm so they could reach all the hair. Another hour later and they flipped her again.
The feeling of another's fingers on her intimate area was surreal. The girl rubbed oil into the hair before attending to it with a different type of wax, thicker and hotter. At first that sensation was all Khaya could concentrate on, but other girls soon began clipping her nails, and then there were too many hands to think about.
Meia was sitting close by with water and a bowl of fruit at hand, and though Khaya was grateful for a familiar face all she wanted to do now was put on some clothes and finish the story the Calipha had given her.
When all the hair had finally been removed and her head was soaked in oil she was taken to bathed in cool water, but that was not enough to soothe the red bumps that had begun to appear all over her. They used raw honey and rose water and goats milk to wash her from head to toe, purifying and softening her skin till she felt supple as a newborn.
When they brought in a plate of proper food Khaya's shoulders sagged in relief. She put on a shift after they wrapped her hair tightly in a towel, then sat down with Meia to eat.
Meia fed her bites of this and that as she pried opened the Calipha's book and continued reading where she left off. It was the love story of a young noblewoman and a foreign diplomat. Theirs was a pure and passionate love free of the daily trials and tribulations of Khaya's old, familiar life.
Khaya placed her finger under another unfamiliar word and mumbled it out loud. "What does 'fastidious' mean?"
But she knew Meia couldn't answer.
Khaya continued reading. Time flew by as she drank in the story, pausing to ask for the meaning of unfamiliar words now and then, and all at once it was time to give herself back to the girls again.
They returned with clay pots of shimmering body oil. Again they stripped her to skin and began kneading her flesh with the warm oil. Khaya knew without a doubt that the shine was from real gold, ground to powder and generously mixed in.
Just a spoonful's worth would have carried her household for months.
After the oiling she was allowed to wear a robe. They dusted her face with a smoothing powder and outlined her lips in a deep magenta hue, then dusted her eyes with gold and lined them in kohl. By then her hair had dried enough to be brushed out and set with warmed tongs.
An hour later it was finally time for her to be dressed â though 'dressed' was not the word that came to Khaya's mind.
In place of a blouse they had pasted gold leaf all over her breasts up to her throat. From afar it resembled a garish breastplate. There was more gold leaf going down from her navel, leading to the hidden treasure between her legs. Her sirwals were a bright emerald green, simple in comparison to the intricate gold belt around her hips. Gold stripes wound around her ankles and wrists in place of anklets and bangles.
Nothing was to get in the Prince's way.
Finally, the girls set her veil. It was a light chiffon, matching the green of her sirwals perfectly, and embroidered with small gold flowers.
Khaya laughed in disbelief.
What is the point of a veil when you can see everything beneath it?
But when she looked in the mirror all thought left her at once.
Every surface of her was art; a breathing statue depicting the perfect mating of delicate feminine modesty and nubile eroticism.
She looked away, as if ashamed of laying eyes on herself, as if unworthy to behold such art. The other girls on the other hand stared in awe and stunned silence at what they had helped create, labouring artisans finally stepping back to look at the fruit of their effort.
They finally guided her out of the hammam, forming a protective circle around her though she was already covered by a long black cloak and hood. Kalan was waiting for them at the harem gate.
"Greetings, Mahaziya Al-Khayzuran," he said with genuine reverence, and bowed. He waved a hand and the gates were pushed open. "It is time."
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YEEEEEEEEEEEEEE this was a fun chapter to write