Hasan, who had been here in his youth, described to Sana the manner in which the city was constructed, with triple brick walls rising almost a hundred feet above the plain and surrounded by the deepest moat. Four ponderous gates opened on highways that spoked the length and breadth of the empire. In the center of the city was the green dome of the Caliph’s palace, the tallest structure in the city.

  Sana said nothing, but Hasan fancied he saw a glint of respect in her expression. At any rate, she was looking intently at the palace.

  They docked, and instantly had to fend off the throng of petty merchants, beggars, retainers, jugglers, fortune-tellers, moneylenders and thieves—though the last term could be applied comprehensively. Horses stamped nervously in the street, camels cried, and famished dogs prowled everywhere, looking for tidbits.

  Hasan wasted no time in hiring a storehouse. He transported his goods there and left them under guard, then found lodging for his wife and mother in the khan—a place where shelter was available, but no food or service. Both women objected strenuously, but he turned a deaf ear. Next morning he changed his clothes and went into the city to inquire for a reputable broker.

  Judicious disposition of coin soon brought him the man he wanted. “O my master, what is it that you lack?” the broker asked.

  “I want a house—the most handsome and spacious one you have available for immediate occupancy.”

  The man appraised him unobtrusively, noting the quality and fit of his dress and the impartial certainty of his manner. Then he showed the way to a high-class merchant’s domicile. Hasan took one tour through its halls and frowned. “If this is your best, I am dealing with the wrong broker.”

  Without a word the man brought him to the mansion of a former wazir, the ranking minister to the Caliph preceding Harun al-Rashid. It was fashioned of quality brick and rare stone, with handsome pillars beside the massive front entrance, and pointed arches showing the way to a fine central court with palms and flowers and a clear flowing fountain. It hardly rivaled the palace of the seven princesses, but Hasan was satisfied that it was the best he could expect in Baghdad. He purchased it immediately for a hundred thousand golden dinars.

  He proceeded next to the storehouse and had his goods moved into the residence while he went to the market and bought carpets and household vessels and a complete staff of servant-girls and eunuchs, and one little Negro boy for the house. Then he brought Sana and his mother and let them exclaim as they might.

  They were settled in Baghdad.

  Three years passed in peace and happiness. Sana bore Hasan two graceful sons, one of whom he named Nasir and the other Mansur, and he could not have asked for a more sanguine existence. The old lady was as delighted with her grandchildren as with her daughter-in-law, and ran the household with taste and dispatch.

  One day Hasan brought himself up short and realized that he was bored. He possessed everything he had dreamed of as am immature youth—but he missed the adventure he had known. He had sadly neglected his dear sisters, the princesses of Serendip, and had broken his promise to visit them regularly.

  The memory brought irrisistible nostalgia. He had to visit his dear sisters without delay! Obsessed with longing, he went to the market and bought trinkets and costly material and delicious confections and all things calculated to delight girls who could not go shopping for themselves.

  “What are you up to, Hasan,” his mother wanted to know. “We don’t need those things.”

  “I propose to visit my sisters, who showed me every sort of kindness and gave me all the wealth we presently enjoy. I owe them far more than this.”

  His mother looked uneasy, but could not deny his logic. “O my son, go if you must, but do not stay away from Baghdad too long.”

  Hasan was relieved that she offered no more protest than this. “Where’s Sana?”

  “I left her sleeping on a couch. I’ll fetch her for you.”

  “No,” Hasan said quickly. “There is something I must tell you about her privately.” She leaned close, eager to receive the confidence. “You know, O my mother, that my wife is the daughter of a King who rules over the jinn, and who has more troops and treasure than any monarch we know of except the Caliph himself. She is the dearest of her father’s children. She is high spirited, and I’m afraid of what she might do if she went out into the city alone, for she was not born to the True Faith and only wears the veil because I command it. Yet I love her with all my heart, and I would quickly die if anything happened to her. I’m afraid for her safety even when the wind blows.”

  “I understand, my son.”

  “But more than this, I must tell you a secret I have revealed to no one. When I captured her I threw her feather-suit into the bottom of a trunk and told her I had burned it, so that she could never escape. I don’t think she would have married me, if she had known that her feather cloak still existed. I didn’t burn it; it was too beautiful, and it would have been like burning part of her—a thing I could never do. I buried that chest in a storage closet in the back of the house. Watch over it, in case she should happen upon it. If she recovered that feather-suit she might fly away and take her children with her, and we would never see them again. Make sure you never say a word about this to her.”

  “Allah forbid that I do such a thing!”

  Neither of them saw Sana retreat from the curtained doorway, or heard her quiet return to her couch. When Hasan came to bid her farewell, he mistook her subdued smile for a pleasant dream.

  There was no premonition in his mind of the disaster he had wrought by his carelessness. He went outside the city a reasonable distance, beat the magic kettle-drum, loaded the dromedaries, mounted, and rode for Serendip at a great rate, never pausing longer than he had to.

  The princesses were overjoyed to see him. Rose threw her arms about him once more and wept, this time for happiness, then proceeded to berate him soundly for neglecting them so long. They set up a mighty feast, and everything was as it had been before, with hunting and sporting and kissing and merrymaking and endless delight from one day to the next.

  Three months went by, and Hasan could no longer extend his visit. He missed his wife and two sons, one two years old and the other one year. He took his leave of each of the sisters, as he had before, and Rose wept and fainted from the agony of separation as she had before, and it was all highly satisfactory. They gave him five more camel-loads of gold and five more of silver and one of food for the trip and let him go, making him promise not to forget them so long next time. It was a promise he would keep.

  Saddened but eager, he impelled his mount toward Baghdad. In due course he arrived, entered his house, and called for his family.

  No one answered him. Alarmed, he searched from room to room, finding them all deserted. Finally he came upon his mother in the courtyard, kneeling before three graves and crying bitterly. Her body was worn and her bones were wasted; she was so miserable that she fainted when she saw him.

  Hasan knew disaster was upon him. Mechanically he unloaded the camels and dismissed them, trying to calm his emotion. He went to the storagecloset and found the door open, the chest broken, and the feather-dress missing, and understood what his wife and children were gone. He tore his clothes and buffeted his face and threw himself to the floor like a madman; his head struck a tile and he knew no more.

  When he woke his mother was tending him. Rage overcame him; he bounded to his feet, lifted the giant scymitar he still wore from his journey, and advanced upon her. “Tell me the truth!” he roared. “What happened? How did my wife get hold of the feather-dress? Confess at once, or I’ll strike off your head and then kill myself.”

  She recoiled in terror, knowing him mad enough to do what he threatened. “O my son, do not do such a horrible deed! Put away your sword and sit down, and I will tell you everything that passed while you were gone.”

  Hasan was suddenly shamed by his violence, knowing that his mother would never have betrayed him. He sheathed the blade and sat down beside her, listening to the story she told.

  Sana stayed quietly with Hasan’s mother for two days after he left for Serendip, tending her sons and saying nothing. On the third day her manner changed.

  “Glory be to God!” she exclaimed, and the expression of her mouth had little element of worship. “Have I lived with this man for three years and never had a bath?”

  “O my daughter—I cannot take you to the Hammam, the public bath, for Hasan made me promise not to take you out in the city or expose you to any danger. But I will gladly draw water and heat it for you and wash your head in the bath we have here in the house.”

  Sana’s eyes flared. If Hasan’s mother had ever doubted the girl was of royal blood, she would have been instantly convinced by the queenly wrath that now appeared. “If you had spoken this way to one of the slavegirls, she would have pleaded ill-treatment before the magistrate and demanded to be sold on the open market!”

  “But your husband said—”

  “Men are foolishly jealous, especially husbands. You have to allow for their ignorance, because they are afraid that any woman who leaves the house will get into trouble. But women are not all alike and you, as a woman, know it. If a woman has a mind for trouble, no man has the power to keep her from her desire. She will do what she wants, and nothing restrains her except her reason and her religion.” Then Sana wept and bemoaned her isolation and cursed her fate, until Hasan’s mother was sorry for her and became convinced that there was nothing for it but to let her have her way.

  She committed the affair to Allah and made ready perfumes, clean linen, and everything else they would need for the bath. Then she took Sana and her two little boys to the Hammam, since it was ladies’ day there.

  The Hammam comprised several apartments with mosaic pavements of black and white marble and fine red tile. The inner apartments were covered by domes, with small round windows to let in the light.

  They entered the disrobing room and stripped off their clothes. No one looked at the lank old limbs of Hasan’s mother, but all the women were amazed at Sana’s beauty, and they gathered around and exclaimed in delight.

  They left the little boys playing on the cushions of the benches and went on into the main baths. The chief room was an extensive oblong, with a central pool-area the shape of a cross. In its center was a robust fountain of hot water rising steamily from a marble base.

  The heat was oppressive at first, but their bodies soon adapted to the pervasive atmosphere, and the hot vapor was very pleasant. Attendants massaged the women and brought them sweets to eat. Sana looked about with interest at the taps and boilers in the corners, while a maid carefully plaited her unbound hair.

  Other women admired Sana’s symmetry and grace. “Surely there is none like her in all the city!” they whispered. “And she has two children, too!” The women of Baghdad seldom retained their sprightly figures after childbearing; to be a mother was generally to be soon ugly.

  Word of her loveliness spread beyond the Hammam, and before long more women were coming in to see for themselves. The bath became so crowded they could hardly get around.

  “We’d better go,” Hasan’s mother whispered anxiously. “We’re creating an unwholesome distraction.”

  Sana pretended not to hear her.

  A slave-girl approached and studied Sana with particular attention. “Glory be to Allah for the fair forms He creates!” she said. Sana smiled complacently and ignored her.

  At length they left the bath and returned to the outer chamber to dress. When the women saw the fine apparel Sana donned they were amazed all over again, for she became even more beautiful. The slave-girl followed.

  Sana gathered in her sons and accompanied the old woman back to their house, much pleased with herself. But the slave-girl continued to follow them until she saw where they lived.

  Then that slave-girl, who belonged to the palace of the Caliph (explained Hasan’s mother angrily) returned to her mistress, the Lady Zubaydah, and kissed the ground between her hands. “O Tohfah,” said the mistress, “why did you tarry so long in the Hammam?”

  “O my lady, I have seen a marvel! Never have I witnessed anything like it before, and so I had to learn more about it because I knew you would be interested.”

  Zubaydah was the chief wife of Caliph Harun al-Rashid, and his cousin. This double relationship to him gave her enormous power. She was famed for her beauty, munificence, and cleverness. She wore the costliest fabrics in the empire and refused to eat from any platter which was not gold or at least fine silver. She was devious: only last year she had presented the Caliph a gift of ten exceedingly fair and pliant slave maidens, in order to distract him from a rival favorite in the court, and it was said that several of these were already anticipating royal offspring.

  Everything that happened in Baghdad was Zubaydah’s concern, particularly the influx of attractive women. Splendid palaces had been built in her name, and she was constantly heaped with honor—but she did not rely on beauty alone to maintain her favor with Harun and her power over him.

  “And just what did you see, Tohfah?” Zubaydah asked her slave, interested.

  “O my lady, I saw a damsel in the bath who had with her two little boys like moons, yet never eyes beheld the like of this woman! She is without peer in all the realm. By Allah, O my lady, if the Commander of the Faithful were to learn of her, he would surely slay her husband and take her for his own, for her like is not to be found among women!”

  “Indeed?” Zubaydah’s eyes narrowed. “What else did you learn?”

  “I inquired who was her husband, and they told me he was called Hasan of Bassorah, a man of much wealth. I followed her and discovered that she lives in the house of the wazir that retired some years ago, the house that has a gate opening on the city and another on the river. Indeed, I fear lest the Prince of True Believers hear of her and break the law and slay her husband and make a laison of love with her!”

  “You are repeating yourself,” Zubaydah snapped, hardly pleased. “Now let me understand you clearly: you say this damsel is so beautiful that one look at her would captivate the Caliph himself?”

  “Yes, O my lady.”

  “Then I shall have to take a look at her. And if she is not as you describe, I’ll have my eunuch strike off your head.”

  The girl gazed at her appalled.

  “O strumpet!” Zubaydah said. “There are three hundred and threescore slave-girls in the Caliph’s harem, one for every day of the year, each a jewel unpriced and a filly unridden save by the Caliph—but not one of them would distract his attention from me for a moment, did I choose to claim his interest. Now you tell me this merchant I never heard of has a wife, not even a virgin, that—”

  The girl groveled. “O my mistress, she is lovelier than any of them, than any woman in the world!”

  “Than any woman?” Zubaydah repeated ominously. “Woe to you if that isn’t true. You have just staked your life upon it, girl. Now get out of here and fetch me Masrur.”

  The slave scrambled away, terrified.

  Masrur was the Caliph’s eunuch, the most important and trusted slave in the dominion. He performed the most personal tasks for Harun, and was especially favored for executions.

  Masrur kissed the ground before her. Zubaydah, despite her pretentions, was well aware that this was purely a matter of courtesy. The eunuch owed allegiance to no one but the Caliph—and if the Caliph were to order him to behead the leading lady of the realm, the slave would surely do it.

  “Go to the old wazir’s house, the one with the two gates, and bring me the damsel who resides there, as well as her two children and the old woman who lives with her. Waste no time.”

  “I hear and obey, my lady.” Masrur didn’t mind running errands for pretty women, when he wasn’t otherwise occupied. Eunuchs were not sexless, and were capable of a good deal more than the ignorant supposed.

  Masrur proceeded to Hasan’s house and knocked on the door. “Who is there?” the old woman demanded before opening.

  “Masrur, sword-bearer to the Commander of the Faithful.”

  At these words she was afraid to deny him admittance, and opened the door. He saluted her with a handsome salaam. “The Lady Zubaydah, daughter of Ja’afar bin Mansur and queen-spouse of the Caliph Harun al-Rashid, the fifth of the sons of Al-Abbas, paternal uncle of the Prophet—whom Allah bless and keep!—summons you to her presence, you and your son’s wife and her children; for word has reached her of the damsel’s beauty.”

  Hasan’s mother was alarmed. “O my lord Masrur, we are foreign to this city, and the girl’s husband, my son, is abroad and far from home, and he has strictly charged me not to let her go out during his absence or let anyone see her.” She took a breath. “I’m afraid if anything happened to her he would kill himself. I beseech you, O Masrur, do not ask us to do what we are forbidden.”

  “O my lady, if I knew there were anything to be afraid of, I would never make this demand. But the Lady Zubaydah only wants to see the damsel, to assure herself that she is as lovely as is claimed; after that you will be free to return. So do not protest and do not worry; I will bring you back safely myself.”

  “You are taking the lamb to the crocodile, who only wants to look at her!” the old woman muttered, but saw that she could not disobey this order. She resigned herself and hoped for some intervention from Allah while she made Sana ready.

  They followed Masrur to the palace of the caliphate, where they were duly escorted into the presence of Zubaydah.

  The Caliph’s wife sat on a couch of ebony inlaid with gold and silver. To her right and left hung multiple necklaces of jewels, turning in the breeze from fans her slaves beat, and shining brilliantly. Ornate tapestries covered the walls, set with gems, and her own robe was so copiously worked with precious stones that it was impossible to single any one of them out.