Some of the Rodam had fled with their horses after reclaiming their queen, with Amer leading them. But at the great gate, the swift steeds of the Bushal, ridden by fierce warriors, caught up with them and nearly seized the queen and her rescuers. At the very last moment, Amer and his men passed through the gate, which was lowered with thunderous weight, cutting off their pursuers. One Bushal knight almost forced his way in, but the heavy door fell before him. The Bushal gathered outside, striving in vain to raise it, unaware of the doom awaiting them.
From above the gate, Amer and a band of Rodam warriors showered them with a torrent of spears and massive stones. In but a moment, the enemy was crushed, their cries silenced beneath the deadly hail. All this unfolded before the eyes of the King of the Bushal, who had arrived with a vast host of his soldiers. He stopped in shock, fury blazing in his heart at Amer's cunning, raging like a beast robbed of its prey. He ran madly here and there, shouting in wrath, as his prey — the queen — had slipped from his grasp like a fawn from the hunter's snare.
The surviving Bushal rallied behind their king. When their swords grew weary of striking and their steeds returned from the futile chase of those lucky enough to escape, the king's herald shouted from before the gate:
"O people of the Bushal! We have no power to fight you. If you grant us safety and swear not to slay us, we shall open the gates and give you what you desire."
At his command, the king answered, drunk with triumph and blinded by haste:
"We grant you our word and our protection — you shall not be slain!"
Amer gave the signal. The first gate was opened. Seeing fortune at last within his grasp, the king ordered his knights and warriors to storm inside with all speed. The Bushal surged forward, crushing one another in their frenzy to enter. Hundreds pressed into the passage, heedless of what awaited them.
Suddenly, the gate dropped behind them, and a rain of arrows, stones, and spears poured down upon the multitude trapped outside. Many fell wounded or slain, while those beyond drew back in terror. Even the king himself was struck with bewilderment and dread at the sudden turn.
Inside the fortress, those who had entered found themselves trapped in a narrow corridor, hemmed in between two mighty gates and towering walls. They were crammed so tightly their breath was nearly pressed out of their bodies. Above them, on both sides, the Rodam watched silently from the roofs. Their cries rose in terror, while outside, the king, blinded by distance, thought his men were fighting bravely within.
But their cries were not the battle's song — they were the shrieks of drowning men. For Amer had given the command: the wooden planks that covered the floor of the corridor were drawn aside, revealing beneath a vast moat filled with water. One by one, the Rodam hauled the timbers into hidden chambers, while peering through narrow slits to watch the Bushal fall by the scores. Into the deep they plunged, thrashing upon one another in desperate struggle for air, seizing and dragging each other down. Their cries filled the night until the water itself smothered them, and all was silence.
Then the inner gate was opened. The Rodam hauled the sodden corpses up to the battlements, dragging also the drowned horses of their foes. With grim resolve, they hurled the bodies down before the horrified eyes of the Bushal king, until a mountain of the slain rose outside the walls. Still, the Rodam climbed higher, pouring oil upon the heap and setting it aflame, lest pestilence fester among the dead.
The flames leapt skyward, guarded by spears and arrows from the ramparts. None of the Bushal dared to approach. Terror seized their hearts, for before them burned their comrades — the victims of their own king's rashness. Then the deceitful king knew at last that he had been ensnared in a stratagem no less treacherous than his own. Maddened with rage, he withdrew with his soldiers, gathering the corpses of the Rodam slain earlier, and in fury ordered them burned. Yet for all his brooding, no counsel nor cunning could he find to breach the Rodam fortress.
Within, the Queen of the Rodam lay ill from the horror she had witnessed, confined to her bed, muttering in fevered delirium. Amer meanwhile guided his people, strengthening their defenses, and swore to bring the treacherous king to account. With a handpicked band — the same who had once struck fear into the king's court — he rode by night, fell upon a camp of the Bushal, and in a whirlwind of steel scattered them in terror, slaying many before returning swiftly to the fortress.
At dawn, the Bushal king beheld his host in chaos, his warriors turning their swords upon one another in the confusion. His mind broke with rage. He tore his hair, raved like a madman, and cursed his fate, for he found himself matched against a foe both cunning and relentless. His counselors, too, were stricken with fear, for never had they faced such stratagems. Broken in spirit, the king resolved to return to his realm, to gather strength anew. With heavy heart, he retreated, dragging the tatters of his army, a defeated monarch shamed before his people.
But before he reached his borders, a band of Rodam harried him from behind, loosing flaming arrows, taunting, and luring him back. Inflamed with wrath, he gave chase, only for them to slip away like foxes, drawing him once more toward the fortress. There, they vanished within, slamming shut the gates, while the warriors upon the battlements jeered and mocked him. In his fury, the king swore to remain, to besiege the fortress until victory was his. But the Rodam knew his every desire, and Amer rejoiced, for to hold the king before their walls was all he had ever sought.
And while the king fumed, pacing in counsel yet deaf to his advisors, there came a messenger, breathless and trembling, crying out with his last strength:
"The Rodam, my lord! The Rodam, my lord!"
"What… what has happened?"
"The Rodam, my lord! They are attacking our kingdom and burning our homes!"
The king roared in the man's face: "What are you saying? Speak—what has happened?"
"I escaped by a miracle, my lord. I left them behind, plundering and burning everything."
At once, the king cried out to the Bushal to follow him and save their land, to seize the Rodam and avenge themselves. Like a madman, he hastened back toward his kingdom, riding half a day without rest. Meanwhile, the gates of the fortress were opened for Amer, who had devised this ruse to lure the treacherous king away from his land, that he might descend upon the Bushal realm, burn their homes, and return laden with prisoners. Among them was Kuder, the king's own brother, and his wife. The gates shut once more, and the Rodam at last drew breath, resting from their long labors, repairing what had been broken, and gathering around their queen upon her sickbed to console her with news of their triumphs and the cunning stratagems of Amer, who had humbled the treacherous king.
The news spread swiftly across the land. The scattered Rodam, who had escaped the massacre, gathered their kin and returned home. Their people greeted them with joy, their victories soothing the wounds of memory left by betrayal and bloodshed.
When they entered the fortress, they could scarce believe their eyes: the Queen of the Bushal imprisoned in chains, Kuder the king's brother bound in a dark cell, and countless Bushal captives filling chamber after chamber. Each morning they were driven out to labor, hauling stones for rebuilding, drawing water from the wells, repairing what war had broken—only to be herded back to their cells at night beneath the watch of whips and swords.
Amer entered to visit the queen, who had grown stronger in health. When she saw him, she looked upon him with eyes heavy with regret for not heeding his counsel. Before he could greet her, she summoned him. He bowed, entered, and stood before her.
"God has written for you deliverance," he said. "The treacherous king has been struck down with defeat after defeat. Your people now are seasoned in the arts of war. The exiles have returned. And here, in your own hand, you have the Queen of the Bushal—the woman who sought to bind you in marriage and waged war to keep her hold on you—now a prisoner in your dungeons. And Kuder, the Bushal king's brother, shackled hand and foot in darkness. I have come to bid you farewell, for I intend to depart. I believe my duty toward you is fulfilled."
Amer bowed, and made to leave. The queen gazed at him, unable to believe her eyes, her voice trembling with the pangs of parting.
"Amer!" she cried.
He turned, meeting her eyes with his own, and said nothing.
"Do you mean to leave us?"
"It is necessity that calls me," he answered.
"Perhaps our company has not pleased you?"
"Such is life—we depart from what we love, chasing the unknown whose nature we cannot see."
"Or perhaps our presence has not brought you comfort?"
"My lady queen, we have long forsaken comfort for hardship, and there is no remedy for it."
"Amer—do you truly mean to depart? Or is this but the delirium of weakness that clouds us?"
"Were it not for such turns of fate, I would never have come to you, nor enjoyed even for a moment the blessing of your nearness."
"Perhaps the difference of race draws you away, back to your own kin?"
"It is the law of creation, ruling our conduct, binding our desires to its measure."
Tears welled in her eyes. "Or is it because of loved ones elsewhere?"
"Restrain yourself, my queen. It is love of good for all mankind that compels me."
"How can I restrain my heart?" she said, sobbing. "Shall we soar into the heavens of imagination, begging the impossible from those bound to earth? Shall we force our hearts to carry what lies beyond their nature? Even water splits stone with its gentleness, shatters rock with its persistence. Shall our hearts be harder than rock?"
"Calm yourself, noble queen. Every living soul is fated for parting."
"It was not we who stirred our hearts—but a visitor, a fleeting vision that stirred them, and now with your departure has torn them from their place, leaving them suspended between earth and sky. Amer, woe upon me! You among brothers and kin—" Her voice broke into sobs, her hands covering her face as she wept aloud. "Woe upon me, Amer! Where are you going? Woe upon you!"
"Gracious queen, war has overtaken us. We have lost many, and our hearts are heavy with grief. My departure is no greater loss than theirs in death."
"Yet do the living not console one another in their grief?"
"They do, and my heart consoles yours."
"With parting, Amer, do you console me? When has a wound ever healed another wound?"
"My queen, my sole desire was to free you from the Bushal king, to bear the burden of thought that weighed upon you. That was my purpose in coming. Nothing more."
"Could we have known the unseen? The unseen speaks only in its hour. Could we master the heart, hold its seal beyond the reach of our own hands? Far, far away it lies."
"Such is destiny, my queen. We visit, and we part. Fate brings joy, and it brings sorrow."
"Would that you had left me with the dead, instead of rescuing me to grieve anew…"
"Your people need you. Their strength is gathered in you, their unity bound to you. They cannot spare you."
"And our hearts, Amer? Who shall dwell in them?"
"Let them be filled with love for those you shepherd, those entrusted to your care."
Grief overflowed. Her lips trembled, unable to form words. Her tears spoke in their place, more eloquent than any tongue. With shaking hand she pulled a ring from her finger, offering it to him.
"Keep it," she whispered.
He received it with thanks, wished her well, and turned to depart. She followed him out, walking beside him among her people as he bid them farewell. Their sorrow was greater than ever before, their love for him deeper than all love.
It was a scene to move the hardest hearts. The Rodam, men and women, thronged to bid him farewell, their eyes fixed on him, their hands raised in parting, as he rode away upon his noble ash-gray steed. They waved until he was lost from sight, and returned to their homes heavy with grief, their tongues and hearts filled with prayers for him.
Amer traveled for many days, not knowing where the road would take him, his thoughts bound to his two companions. One evening, exhausted, he tethered his horse to a tree, leaned against its trunk, and fell into deep sleep. He awoke to find himself surrounded by Bushal warriors on every side.
Here we leave Amer, and turn to Al-Amin, who had departed when the mysterious Raqraq left him without revealing how he had known him. The Raqraq had urged him onward with the Tutan he carried, for he sensed a dire need would soon compel Al-Amin to draw the Sword of Judgment.
Al-Amin spurred the Tutan, riding swifter than the wind, hoping to reach the weak one the Raqraq had foretold, though he knew not who it was, nor where they dwelt, for their land was far away. Across deserts and plains, through forests and rivers he pressed on, weary yet unyielding. No sign of one in need appeared before him, no trace of the weak to whom he might bring aid.
At last, faint with exhaustion, he dismounted to rest. The loyal Arqab, who had borne him faithfully, showed signs of great fatigue, and Al-Amin pitied him.
"My companion," said Al-Amin, "I have wearied you sorely, though I did not know the journey would be so long, nor the goal so distant and hidden. Return now to your kin, for I have taken from you more than I should. Your people need you, and mercy toward them bids me release you. Accept my gratitude, greater than words."
But the Arqab replied: "I shall remain with you, for you may yet have need of me."
"You have done more than I could ask," said Al-Amin gently. "Do not burden me with the pain of seeing you suffer. This grieves me more than it comforts me."
At last, by persuasion, he convinced the Arqab to return to his people.
Then his gaze fell upon the Grasshopper, who tilted his head, turning one eye and then the other toward him.
"And you, little Grasshopper," said Al-Amin, "carry my message to the king of the Dushim, to reassure him of our cause."
He bound a note to its leg, and the Grasshopper leapt into the sky, while Al-Amin remained alone with the Tutan.
The winds were gentle, and the only sound that could be heard was the rustling of trees and tall grasses that covered most of the land. Al-Ameen remained absorbed, gazing at the swaying of the lofty trees and the scattered, dazzlingly white clouds drifting across a sky of deepened blue. He did not turn his eyes away from the wondrous forms and strange figures the clouds kept shaping: at times they seemed to depict a knight upon his horse, at others, laughing faces, or weeping ones. Then the winds would disperse them, only to gather them again into new shapes—enormous beasts with massive heads and bodies, and countless other figures, all born of the fertile imagination that played upon the veils of the sky. This granted him a strange delight, a solace easing the weariness of his long journey.
Thus he remained through the day, until the winds subsided, and with them all sounds grew still. Silence reigned over the world around him, broken only by the melodious trills of nightingales whose distant songs reached him in scattered notes, as if boasting of their own beauty in these precious moments.
Then came a sound that drew his attention—labored, gasping breaths very near. Startled, Al-Ameen leapt to his feet; in the blink of an eye he was astride the Tutan, his sword al-Battar gleaming in his hand. He spurred the steed into the thick grasses, piercing through until he stood over the source of the sound.
It was a gazelle, lying helpless, unable to move.
Al-Ameen approached in quiet gentleness, stretching out a compassionate hand to soothe her neck and stroke her head with tender mercy. When he bent to lift her, he realized she trembled in silent pain—wounded. Soon he discovered a deep gash across her thigh. He brought her water, and she drank, parched with thirst.
Al-Ameen began to tend her. He kindled a fire and boiled water in a small cup he carried, then washed the wound once the heat had subsided. With no medicine at hand save honey, he poured it over the gash, binding it with his own shirt. Thereafter, he cared for her: feeding her fresh green herbs, tending her wound, and watching over her day by day until she recovered.
At last, the gazelle was whole again, leaping here and there, running to the right and to the left. Al-Ameen watched her with joy and gratitude, until he mounted the Tutan once more and set forth. The gazelle followed him, circling him with graceful bounds when he paused, racing him when he rode, unwilling to part from him.
But when they came upon a stream, the water blocked her path. She tried again and again to cross but could not, and stood on the far side, tilting her head as she watched him ride away. Al-Ameen left her to her home and freedom, while he pressed on, resolute despite the rough road.
By nightfall he stood upon a high ridge overlooking a vast town.
The town seemed desolate, its buildings partly ruined, as though fire had consumed them. Yet here and there lanterns flickered at the entrances of dwellings. Al-Ameen urged the Tutan forward, approaching slowly until he entered the town through its wide main road, which led directly to the king's palace. At once, he knew it must be the residence of a prince or king—its size immense, its great entrance adorned with many torches. Along the walls flanking the gateway, trees rose behind the outer fence.
He rode toward the palace gate. As he neared, the horses of the two guards shied violently at the sight of the Tutan, seized by terror. The guards themselves were shaken, unable to steady their mounts. Neither had ever seen such a creature; the awe it inspired in men was no less than in beasts.
As Al-Ameen drew nearer, the guards' steeds stiffened like statues. Realizing that the visitor was of great stature, the guards dismounted. Al-Ameen offered them a greeting, which they returned, before one hurried inside to seek permission for his entry.
Before the king he bowed:"My lord, at the gate stands a visitor who asks leave to see you. I have never beheld such majesty in a man, nor such awe in the horse he rides. Even the guard-horses froze in fear at its sight, unable to move."
"Let him enter," the king replied.
At that time, the king sat among his court in a corner of the garden, its trees and paths illumined by lanterns whose light filled the place. He and his company looked on in wonder at the report they had just heard.
Moments later, they saw with their own eyes: Al-Ameen upon the Tutan, approaching. And indeed, a great awe fell upon them, no less than the guard had described. They could not help but rise to their feet, the king himself standing with them, forgetting the custom of monarchs never to rise for another.
Silence reigned as Al-Ameen drew closer. When he reached them, he gave his greeting before dismounting. They answered him, and with keen instinct he discerned the king among them. He went forward, shook his hand, and the king welcomed him warmly, words of hospitality flowing from his lips. He seated him by his side, though his gaze could not help but wander—now to Al-Ameen himself, now to the wondrous steed, the Tutan.
The king said, "Welcome, O guest. Welcome, O noble one." Then he motioned to his servants, who served the drink, beginning with Al-Ameen. It was the custom of the people to offer hot lemon juice lightly spiced with cardamom, which the servants passed around three times, always beginning with the guest. Afterward, the king himself would drink from the same cup, followed by the others, each repeating the king's act, though the cup and the servant bearing it were changed with each round.
The king then introduced those present to the guest, and they greeted him with reverent glances. All remained silent, eager to hear the visitor, yet the king was intent upon showing the fullest courtesy to his guest. The tables were spread, food and drink were brought forth, and they ate together. Al-Ameen answered only with a gentle smile or words fitting such occasions. When the banquet was ended, the king dismissed the gathering, and the assembly dispersed. Al-Ameen retired for the night, resting from the fatigue of his journey.
On the following day, the king met with Al-Ameen in private and said:
"Your visit has brought us joy and good fortune. With your coming, our hearts have found rest. We had been in perplexity, but with your arrival, that perplexity is gone."
Al-Ameen replied:"It gladdens me to be at your service. Your hospitality binds me to you with a debt of gratitude, and I shall not be free of that bond until I have fulfilled whatever you ask of me, until your hearts are fully content."
The king asked:"From where have you come, and what is the purpose of your visit?"
Al-Ameen answered:"I come from the land of the Dushim, far from here. I am but a traveler passing through, seeking good and hoping for kindness."
The king said:"Then we are blessed to have you."
And Al-Ameen replied:"And I am blessed to have found you."
The king continued:"Perhaps we may have the chance to benefit from your presence while you are here?"
"If time does not suffice," Al-Ameen said, "then take all my time—it is yours."
At that moment, the chamberlain sought permission to admit the commander of the army. Entering, the commander saluted the king and said:
"My lord, we have captured him. He is in our hands."
"Truly?" the king exclaimed.
"Yes, my lord. We have brought him and cast him into the prison."
The king rose and departed with his commander, remaining away for some time. When he returned, he was filled with joy and delight.
He said to Al-Ameen:"Never before has news gladdened me as the tidings that have come with your arrival today."
Al-Ameen asked:"What good news is this?"
"It is victory—the sweetest hope of every soul!"
"Are you at war with your enemies?"
"Indeed. It is a struggle between us and them—one day in our favor, another day in theirs."
"And the burned and ruined houses I saw—are they the work of this war?"
"Yes."
"Why did you not prevent them from reaching your homes?"
"And how could we, when they cloaked themselves in the night, unseen by anyone?"
Al-Ameen said:"You could protect yourselves by raising a great wall around the city, so that neither night nor day would aid them in striking your homes."
The king marveled:"What a great idea indeed! Our enemies have such a wall around their own city. What prevents us from building one is our lack of knowledge in its design and our inexperience in its construction."
"I shall guide you as best I can," said Al-Ameen, "for the protection of one's kin and dwellings is worth every sacrifice."
The king asked eagerly:"Can you truly do this?"
"I shall give all my effort, and my success is only by the grace of God."
The king rejoiced greatly, grasping Al-Ameen's hand with fervent gratitude, then invited him to accompany him through the town. They set out together, Al-Ameen riding the Tutan, while the king's horse could not bear to approach it. The king suggested they continue on foot, and Al-Ameen agreed. Thus they walked side by side, Al-Ameen holding the reins of the Tutan, circling the town and surveying the ground about it. When they returned, it was with the resolve to begin work on the morrow.
From that day, all the townspeople—men and women, old and young, even the children—labored in raising a mighty wall that encircled the town like a bracelet upon a wrist. Through trial and effort, they gained knowledge and skill, and months passed before the great work was completed.
Then the hand of reconstruction spread through the town—houses were repaired, gardens arranged, markets ordered, and streets cleaned. Al-Ameen guided them, and as he taught them, he too learned much. In this time, bonds grew between him and the townsfolk; they saluted him when he passed, honored him when he dwelt among them. Within months, the city blossomed like a bride on her wedding day: its houses fair, its streets clean, its gardens in order, its markets alive, its borders secure.
The king's love for Al-Ameen grew, for his kindness and deeds had transformed their lives. And with this transformation came a change in the people themselves: they grew accustomed to laboring each day, and a spirit of competition spread among them—each seeking to improve, to beautify, to take pride in their homes and spend their leisure in fellowship.
At last, Al-Ameen wished to take his leave, to continue on his way. Yet he saw a shadow of sorrow upon the king's face. Concerned, he asked if anything troubled him. The king replied:
"Truly, by your efforts our town has reached great beauty—but it is not complete."
"If there is some lack you see," said Al-Ameen, "we shall overcome it until perfection is attained."
"The lack is not in what we have built anew," said the king.
"Then in what?"
"In those of our people who cannot see this beauty."
"Do you mean those of your folk who are far away, borne off by long journeys?"
"Not journeys… war!"
"It is the law of life. The dead cannot behold what later generations achieve. Every soul has its appointed time—neither delayed nor advanced."
"They are not dead, those of whom I speak."
"Then where are they?"
"They are in captivity. Our people taken, and we have no means to ransom or rescue them."
At this, the king lowered his head, sorrow and deep thought written upon his features. Al-Ameen too pondered, then asked:
"Is there truly no way to free them?"
"If there had been, I would have done it already—or asked it of you."
"Then let us try."
"Try? How?"
"By seizing them back."
"Seizing them? How could that be?"
"Give me a hundred strong men, and command them to obey me."
"But how will you be able to—"
Before the king could finish, Al-Ameen interrupted:"We shall try with all our might… and leave the rest to God."
At dawn the following day, al-Ameen set forth at the head of one hundred stalwart horsemen, bearing with them provisions enough for the journey and arms fit for battle, as they made their way toward the land of their enemies. They marched in perfect obedience to their leader, al-Ameen, until they encamped a day's ride away from their foes. That evening, al-Ameen went ahead alone, accompanied by but one horseman, until—an hour past sunset—he looked down upon the enemy's town.
He circled the settlement in its entirety, studying the walls with keen eyes. Then he circled once more, and chose a spot upon which he laid a marker of heaped stones. A faint smile touched his lips as he said to his companion:"Here."His comrade stood at a distance, for the steeds never drew close when the mighty Tootan was near. Then they turned back to rejoin the horsemen, and there began, with vigor and great resolve, the work from the spot al-Ameen had marked.
Their labors always took place by night, vanishing with the first light of dawn so as not to be seen. For a full month they toiled, until a tunnel, deep beneath the earth, reached the town's central square. From there al-Ameen could watch all that transpired within the walls. He found the prison, marked its doors and its barred chambers. Their efforts pressed onward with greater zeal, and at last the tunnel stretched beneath every chamber of the dungeon.
Two days later, all the captives were led out through the tunnel shortly after sunset. Mounted behind the horsemen, they rode swiftly into the night, and together they hastened back toward their homeland.
Each day, the king would climb the ramparts, gazing far into the horizon where al-Ameen and his men had vanished. A dreadful anxiety consumed him as their absence grew long. For weeks he became prey to dark suspicions and gloomy imaginings. Two weeks passed with no news, and as the third drew to a close, his words and gestures grew strange and restless. By the beginning of the fourth week, certainty gripped him—that al-Ameen and his companions had perished. In vain he struggled to drive away such thoughts, but he could not.
His mind, trapped in its own storm, turned in wrath against his foes. Only one captive remained in his grasp, a man of high rank among them. Upon this wretch the king poured out his fury. Each day he was dragged into the great square before the eyes of all the townsfolk, there to be scourged with whips until he collapsed senseless, only to be revived with water and beaten again. His flesh clung bloodied to his garments, rent by the lash. At night they cast him back into his cell, that he might gather strength for the next day's torment. The people, mourning the possible loss of al-Ameen and their horsemen, struck him all the harder, venting upon him a vengeance they could not lay upon their true enemies.
Then one night, the town was shaken by a roar of voices, so mighty that it reached to the heavens. The king, startled from his rest, ran forth. The clamor filled his ears until he could scarcely discern whether it was wrath or rejoicing. He ignored the guards who spoke to him as he crossed the palace court and hastened toward the great gate. There, before him, was gathered a vast throng of his people, and at their head—behold!—al-Ameen upon the back of Tootan, and behind him the horsemen, every one of them safe, with the freed captives mounted behind them!
The king flung himself upon al-Ameen, embracing him again and again, drawing back to look upon his face only to clasp him once more. He did the same with the returned captives, his joy overflowing. The celebrations lasted through the night. Sleep deserted the people as they listened to the tale of their deliverance, told and retold in every gathering throughout the town.
The rescued prisoners, beholding their city, thought at first they had entered another place altogether, so greatly had it changed with new buildings, brightened streets, ordered gardens, and fortified walls. Their kinsmen led them through the town to marvel at all that had been accomplished.
The king, overwhelmed with gratitude for al-Ameen's countless deeds, resolved to honor him. For three days he spread banquets, his palace doors thrown wide open for all his people. Whoever came by day or night was not denied: if one asked for wealth, the king gave freely; if one sought pardon, it was granted; if one desired a house, he was granted a dwelling, or a cloak to wear, or food from the ever-laden tables. Never had the town seen such days of joy and bounty.
On the third day of these festivities, the king remembered a vow he had sworn, and commanded preparations be made to fulfill it. He invited al-Ameen to join him. Together they went to the great square, where the whole town, young and old, was gathered. Al-Ameen sat at the king's right hand, but when his eyes fell upon the gallows that stood in the square, he was struck with wonder and said:
"Strange indeed! Do you mix sorrow with your joy?"The king replied: "Not so. These are joys upon joys.""Death, a joy?""At times death is the highest joy.""And how, when it is you who take life with your own hands?""When we slay evil, it is joy indeed."
Al-Ameen pondered, then said: "I thought you meant to slay a man, not a meaning. The sight of this rope deceived me."The king answered: "There is no error. We slay evil, and a man in whom it dwells.""Would not pardon be a sharper death to vice than this rope?""What this man has done cannot be repaid by a hundred ropes.""So great were his crimes?""Indeed. And I vowed a vow, and today I fulfill it with just retribution for my people."
Al-Ameen fell silent. The guards then dragged forth a man, his feet unable to support him, stumbling beneath their grip. His head was covered with a black veil that hung to his shoulders. They pulled him to the scaffold, placed the rope about his neck, and waited for the king's signal.
Then a man seated at the king's left rose and said: "Let me see his eyes. I would look into them before he dies, and he into mine." The king granted leave. The man stood before the veiled prisoner, blocking him from al-Ameen's sight.
Long had al-Ameen dwelt among these people, bestowing upon them his aid, reshaping their ways, learning much of them—yet not all. Hidden from him was the truth: that this condemned man was none other than his friend, 'Āmir, who had languished for months in their dungeon. Al-Ameen knew not that his friend's body had been torn by scourges for ten days while he himself was away rescuing captives from the fortress of the Rudām. He knew not that he had freed Koodar, the king's brother, and his wife—whom he had thought no different from the others. He knew not that the king was Dabura, of whom Queen Maysā' of the bees had once cried, "Woe unto Dabura!" He knew not that Queen Sārnā of the Rudām had once sought to ensnare those who came to rescue. And he knew not that the man seated at the king's left was Koodar, who now stood before 'Āmir, drinking with vengeful delight from his friend's despair, killing him first with the look in his eyes before the rope could finish its work.
Al-Ameen asked leave to depart, excusing himself from witnessing what was to follow. The king consented, and he withdrew. Then Koodar, his eyes glutted with spiteful joy, gave the signal. And the king gave the order for the execution…