Legends Never Die: Understanding One's Value (ch. 82) (Patreon)

Hadi vowed to himself that he would never underestimate just how stupid the average person was ever again. It was a vow he made only in the confines of his own mind as he was seated upon a palanquin, waving at the crowd that cheered and chanted, celebrating their return. Prince Harun took his place at the front of the procession, and to Hadi's horror, he was placed directly behind him along with Yahya.

The people of Baghdad weren't capable of nuance. Or rational thought. They also seemed to have rather short memories. They were greeted as conquering heroes simply because the people of Baghdad only seemed to have it in them to remember one thing at a time -- the promises of sweeping over Anatolia were forgotten. Their horrific losses on Crete? Similarly forgotten about.

The only thing they knew was that Prince Harun had defeated the Romans on the field of battle, rescuing his father and snatching victory from the jaws of defeat. Because victories washed away the stains of defeat. It didn't matter in their eyes how many battles you lost, so long as you won the last one.

It was an important thing to remember, Hadi decided. A person could be smart. People, though? People would always be dumb.

“How did I end up like this?” Hadi asked himself, waving at the crowd, as was expected of him. He was, somehow, one of the valiant leaders that had run off a Roman army. As if. The men had been half dead from a week of hard marching into Anatolia, and they didn't do much more than messily collide into the Roman's flank. If the Romans had called their bluff and not reacted so severely to their sudden presence, then the Romans would have won that battle.

But they hadn't. And here he was, riding to the palace in Baghdad alongside the prince. Madness. Madness of the highest order. But, it wasn't all bad, Hadi tried to convince himself as the domed roofs, colored gold came ever closer. He would receive an accommodation, and then he could retire. A nice cushy job where he sent poor bastards to fight battles for him while he stayed far behind the frontlines. Maybe never even leaving the city if he was lucky.

Though, in hindsight, relying on luck was a poor idea considering how astronomically unlucky he had been this far.

“Now that we have peace, we can discuss the hostage exchange, yes?” Zafir questioned behind Hadi. Hadi had to fight to keep the smile on his face as he continued to wave at the crowd -- the hostage exchange. To say that Prince Harun was less than pleased that his sister had been captured was… something of an understatement. He had been desperate to get her back, and that was something that the Romans had been able to smell on him.

Interestingly, Zafir was no less desperate to ransom Alim.

“It's possible,” Hadi allowed. “The Pagan has released a number of people taken during the war. I had hoped that Alim would be among them.” That was the truth and Hadi wanted to avoid paying a ransom that he couldn't afford when he might not need to. “But we can send a message asking to ransom him now.” They couldn't back channel during the official peace talks. Alim went unmentioned as he wasn't a noble hostage and he also wasn't included in the peasants released.

Hadi wondered if that meant Siegfried was suspicious of Alim as well.

Zafir worked his jaw, “I… appreciate your aid in this, Sheikh Hadi. If anything ever happened to Khalid-” Zafir cut himself off and Hadi didn't react. He didn't move a muscle.

No. No. He didn't want to know. He didn't want to know why Alim was apparently a false identity. What he did know was this.

“Zafir, I swear, if Alim is some lost prince, I'm going to strangle you,” Hadi said just under his breath, his smile affixed to his face even as he screamed internally. Then, louder, he said, “Alim was captured once before by the Pagan, and he reported no mistreatment. We'll send a message as soon as we are able,” He said and out of the corner of his eye, Zafir relaxed. Either because they would be reunited or because he thought Hadi hadn't heard the slip.

He nodded his gratitude as they passed under the gate that led to the palace in the heart of the capital. It was an impressive building -- tall walls, large sweeping architecture, carefully maintained gardens with flowing pools of water. However, Hadi found the questions he was trying to ignore prickled at his attention.

Was Alim an Umayyad prince? The Abbasid dynasty only quite recently rose to prominence. It had barely been more than twenty years. The rebellion had been fast and sloppy, and some of the royal family had gotten away to flee towards Spain. Caliph Abd al-Rahman currently ruled the territory and he had for about a decade. So, it made little sense that Alim was an Umayyad prince. There would be no need for hiding.

No. He was almost certainly nobility. Disgraced nobility, perhaps? Khalid was a fairly common name, second only to Muhammad. Muhammad was the prophet while Khalid ibn al-Walid was his greatest general, the Sword of Allah.

No- wait, what was he doing? He didn't want to think about that. He did not want to think about Alim or Zafir and their strange relationship and what it might mean for him because they were… vassals? Hired help? Well, he hadn't exactly paid either of them so…

Thankfully, the festivities saved him. They were lowered off the palanquins and ushered into the palace by a veritable army of servants. The celebration was half because of their ‘victory’, but also to mark Prince Harun's ascension to the status of crowned prince. He was now the Heir to the Caliphate. And, given what he had seen, it would not be too long until he became Caliph.

Hadi found himself swept off to seating of importance. The halls of the palace were richly decorated, with carved stone gilded with gold and silver, precious jewels embedded in them or woven into the tapestries. And, it was in the throne room that Hadi met someone he never wanted to.

“Father,” Yahya greeted a man wearing layers of silks and a feathered turban.

Jafar Barmakid. The Vizier of the Caliphate. The second most important man in the entire empire. He was a tall, thin man with a long face and a neatly trimmed beard. He was graying at the temples, which made him seem more distinguished than old. He was likely in his mid forties to early fifties. He had to be, given his role in the Abbasid’s rise to power.

Vizier Jafar smiled lightly at Yahya, “My son.” He acknowledged before he bowed to Hadi, “My Prince.” Hadi went ignored, just how he liked it. “It is no small relief to see you unharmed. When we received news of your father… your brother…”

Prince Harun acknowledged the words with a nod of his head. “I was fortunate to have reliable allies at my side on the battlefield,” Prince Harun replied and that…

That sounded like a rebuke to Hadi's ears. It was wrapped in praise, to be certain. And humbleness. A true diplomatic answer, but underneath that was a statement -- ‘the people that were supposed to protect my father and brother failed in that duty.’

The Vizier couldn't reply to that message, so he had to respond to what was on the surface. “It is a relief to hear that my son performed to my expectations,” Vizir Jafar replied, his tone smooth and unruffled. Then his dark eyes flickered to Hadi, “And, of course, our newest Sheikh has performed admirably as well. I've spoken with your father a few times in recent days. I'm sure he would like to inform you himself, but your bride has been selected.”

There was so much to unpack there that Hadi didn't even know where to start. Maybe top down by order of what terrified him the most?

His father apparently was talking to the Vizier. That couldn't mean anything good. Especially for him.

The Vizier apparently knew who he was. Also not good, but something that Hadi had prepared himself for. To a degree. His name would be a hot topic in coming days, but everyone would be quick to forget him. Especially since Hadi was paying the minstrels and troubadour troops to highlight the Prince's achievements and to leave himself out of the songs and performances entirely.

Thirdly, he was getting married. He sent a silent prayer that his father had listened and his bride was a homely woman. Or an ugly one. He needed a silver lining.

Prince Harun smiled at him, "Congratulations, my friend!” He said, and Hadi wanted to weep. The Vizier's gaze honed in on Hadi much like a horse merchant would a horse -- he looked Hadi over with his eyes and did everything short of checking his teeth. “A celebration is in order. In these trying times, it is good to remember that life continues on.”

“Ah, yes. That is quite true, my prince,” Vizier Jafar replied before Hadi could speak. “Such trying times. Please, rest assured that I am doing all that I can to recover Princess Jasmine.” He said and Hadi fought a frown. Probing. That's what the remark felt like to Hadi. Not entirely cruel or self-serving, but much like how a healer would poke at a wound to see how much it hurt.

Prince Harun looked away, sweeping his gaze over the throne room. “Sheikh Hadi claims that she is in little danger,” he said and the Vizier's gaze shifted to Hadi.

He was forced to repeat the same reassurance that he had to give the Prince when he first learned that Siegfried had captured his sister. “The Pagan is a heathen, but his stance on rape and pillaging has made itself known. There was an incident when he sacked Athens -- two of his men forced themselves upon women, so he allowed the women to flog those men to death.” At that, Vizier Jafar's eyebrows climbed high. “Siegfried himself has no taste for wanton violence either. I have not found any evidence of him taking an unwilling woman into his bed. Or, in truth, of him straying from his three wives.”

“He is honorable,” Prince Harun voiced, sounding quite annoyed about it too. “It would be easier to hate him if he was not, but he has given me no reason to doubt his honor. My sister is being treated as his guest -- he will respect that.” Prince Harun said before shaking his head, annoyed with the topic. It was still a sore point for him. “The negotiations for her return shall continue while I shall reach out to Lord Siegfried myself. Until then… let us discuss lighter topics.”

Vizier Jafar bowed his head, “Of course, my prince.” He said, glancing at the throne room. “But it shall have to wait until after the ceremony, it would seem.” He noted, and he was right. The small window for idle chatter had come to a close as the throneroom opened the doors to allow the firsts guests of honor in.

To Hadi's knowledge, the Abbasid Caliphate had twelve Emirs. Emir Muhammad was still recovering from his wounds, as far as Hadi was aware. They had left him behind in Acre because he wouldn't have survived the march. So, with his absence, three of the Emirs were absent. And that… was worrying, Hadi decided.

A big part of nobility was attending social gatherings, no matter how little interest you actually had in them. Some events were so important that anything short of death was not an excuse to miss them. The crowning of the prince on the eve of victory wasn't one of them, per say, but it was a poor look to be absent.

Of the Emirs that were in attendance, Hadi only recognized one.

And Emir Ismail certainly recognized him based on the cold, cutting look he leveled at Hadi, despite being seated at a place of honor. Emir Ismail was an elderly man in his eighties, and he had seen five generations of his family raised underneath him. So, it was little surprise that his vast family turned out to be wastrels considering none of them had any hopes of ever inheriting his title or lands. Those lands, as it so happened, encompassed the city that Hadi had grown up in.

Hadi pretended to not notice the Emir, idly considering what should be done. He had managed to survive his ire by staying out of sight and out of mind, but being honored like this…

Thankfully, the attention didn't remain on Hadi. Each of the Emirs gave their greetings, taking their seats, before the rest of the nobility were allowed to enter. Slowly, the hall began to fill up. Yet, the ceremony itself could not begin until the Caliph arrived. When he did arrive, it came in the signs of servants informing the nobility, who then silenced themselves. Despite no less than three hundred people being in the throne room, it was silent.

Which was why the sound of a wooden cane hitting the stone steps echoed out. The silk shift that the Caliph hid behind did little to muffle the noise, and Hadi sat so close to the screen that he could hear the Caliph let out a shuddering groan when he took his throne. An image flashed in Hadi's mind of the Caliph, the ruler of the Caliphate.

Hadi had always wondered what he looked like, but there was little opportunity to see him. All official courtly meetings transpired with him behind the silk sheet, and Hadi heard rumors that anyone outside of his inner circle found the sheet between them even in personal meetings. Yet, Hadi had seen the Caliph, however briefly, in their travels back to Baghdad.

The man had been dying well before he took a spear to the stomach. And, underneath the heavy perfumes and incense, Hadi could smell rot coming from the wound. An infection had set in, and it was killing the Caliph slowly. A finishing touch, because the man appeared to have been ill well before that point.

“Prince Harun. Stand and step forward,” The Caliph's voice spoke, but it did not come from the Caliph himself. A slave boy, Hadi knew, stood next to the Caliph and echoed the Caliph's words in his own voice. A rare talent, but a useful one for deception.

As instructed, Prince Harun stepped forward, bowing before the silk screen. The ‘Caliph’ continued, “Before Allah and the lords gathered here today, I, Al-Mahdi, Third Caliph of the Abbasid Caliphate, confirm your status as my lawful heir -- my titles, lands, royal incomes, and worldly possessions shall be conferred to you upon my death. Now, kneel, Prince Harun.” The Prince knelt and, as a shadow cast upon the silk screen, his father reached out as if to touch his head despite the distance between them.

“I confer unto you a royal name. Al-Rashid -- ‘To Guide to the Right Path.’ Now, stand once more, Harun al-Rashid.” The Caliph ordered and Harun al-Rashid stood to the applause and cheering of the nobility. Hadi watched them and he saw cold cynical eyes. The nobility, it would seem, were not so easily fooled by a victory. The loss in Crete, by all rights, should have tarnished Prince Harun's reputation beyond hope of repair.

However, Hadi had spent no small amount of effort confusing the story. Facts were quickly muddled so that what people knew was this -- Prince Harun had been defeated on Crete, yet he still arrived in Anatolia to defeat the Romans. The severity of the defeat was played down, and Prince Harun was still seen winning the day, saving his father in the process.

It was a necessary effort. The Abbasid Dynasty was still too new on the throne. Barely twenty years had passed since it's ascension, and al-Mahdi was the longest lived Abbasid Caliph who had ruled for a decade. If the nobles smelled too much weakness, they would pounce. Rebellions. Hostile politics because everyone thought they could use the opportunity to rise above their station.

And if there was a civil war, then Hadi would be expected to fight in it. Knowing his rancid luck, some mad bastard would try to make him Caliph.

The rest of the ceremony was a social affair. Everyone wanted to congratulate the Prince, who all had previously ignored as the spare, to ingratiate themselves in his favor. As Hadi was seated in a place of honor, he wasn't spared their attention as some of the nobility with a lesser presence saw him as an avenue to reach the Prince's ear. It was horrible, but it was something he was prepared for.

He gave tepid answers, he avoided offense, and above all else, he refused any promises or deals. His father would likely try to murder him when he found out that he didn't use the moment to his advantage. Maybe his father would succeed and he would finally be put out of his misery. Though, to that end, Naeem was doing quite well for himself and the nobility saw his little brother as an easier man to approach.

Hadi worried for his brother, but it was a distant worry. Naeem was a fool on the battlefield, but he did have a good head on his shoulders. He wouldn't make any ironclad promises, only agreeing to vague deals that could be kept or broken with little issue. A handful of hours passed and Hadi started to sense that attention on him was waning, offloaded onto Naeem, and it was as he started to slip away that he was ambushed.

Yahya caught his eye as Hadi made to slip through a servants door, approaching Hadi before offering a small bow of his head. “Sheikh Hadi. The first wife and royal mother has requested your presence in her solar.”

Shit.

Hadi's mind raced for a reasonable excuse to refuse the invitation but he was coming up short. He glanced in the direction of Prince Harun, who met his gaze. And, to his horror, the Prince nodded at him. Meaning that he was aware of the invitation.

The First Wife of the Caliph and the Royal Mother of the heir was not someone that Hadi ever wanted to meet. Mostly because she was reputed to be a beautiful woman. Men often acted foolish when it came to their wives, especially when their wives were beautiful. Meeting her felt like sticking your hand in a jackals den -- maybe you would be fine, but maybe you wouldn't. In either case, it was stupid and dangerous.

Sucking in a slow breath, he nodded, “It would be my honor.” He lied through his teeth, and he idly wondered if this was what it felt like to walk to one's own execution. It certainly felt like it. Especially when Hadi noticed the subtle shift in Yahya.

The two of them were hardly close, but they could easily hold a conversation with one another. Polite, friendly, but not friends. But something had changed in Yahya's posture and Hadi knew exactly what it was.

Hadi was now a peer to Yahya. And that changed everything when it came to their dynamic. So, it was with a heavy tense silence that Yahya led him through the halls of the palace, into a different wing entirely, before they came to a stop in front of an ornate yet heavy looking wood door. Yahya knocked twice before stepping back and a moment later, the doors swung open by two servants.

It was then that Hadi laid eyes on the First Wife of the Caliph.

She rested upon a mountain of silk pillows and sheets, dressed every bit as lavishly as her daughter was -- a king's ransom in silks, jewels, and golden jewelry. A woman, either a slave or a concubine, fanned the First Wife, while another held a pitcher of what Hadi hoped was wine. Yet, what drew his attention was the room itself. A long low table would separate them once Hadi was seated, but he noticed an abacus along with a neat pile of scrolls. And as much as Hadi smelled perfumes and incense, he smelled ink and parchment.

“Leave us, Yahya,” The First Wife ordered with a dismissive wave of her hand. A purposeful dismissal considering Yahya was the son of the second most powerful man in the Caliphate. In response, Yahya bowed his head, his expression betraying nothing, before he left the room and the doors were closed after him. Which was how Hadi found himself standing alone in what felt like hostile territory.

Al-Khayzuran looked at him, her dark eyes peeking out above a veil. “You are quite a skittish thing in comparison to how my son has described you,” she voiced, sounding amused as she gestured to the smaller mountain of pillows across from her, “Sit. I command it.”

Honestly, Hadi would have sat by the door if it wasn't for her pointing at the pillows. He walked over, taking a seat and he noticed that they were filled with soft feathers while each pillow was embroidered. Al-Khayzuran watched him the entire time, saying nothing for a long painful minute before she chuckled. It was then that Hadi distantly recalled that he should probably say something. “It is an honor to meet you. Though, I will admit, I am curious why you would wish to meet me of all people.”

He saw a ghost of a smile behind the veil, “Why would it be strange for me to wish to meet one of my son's friends?” She asked, tilting her head. The veil distorted her appearance but it was clear that she was quite beautiful. “He has spoken quite highly of you.”

Hadi bowed his head, “The Prince honors me.” Even if he wished that he didn't.

“I was quite concerned you see,” Al-Khayzuran continued, her tone light. “My dear Harun has the same flaw that my husband did -- trusting men who cannot be trusted.” Hadi went still as with every word, her voice sounded colder. "It is a relief to see that is not the case for you, Sheikh Hadi. Even if you are not who you appear to be.”

Something was wrong, Hadi decided, every muscle slowly going tense as he met Al-Khayzuran's gaze. His heart lurched in his chest, and he had to swallow it back down. “I'm afraid… I… I beg your pardon?” He tried, not entirely sure what to say.

Al-Khayzuran chuckled warmly at that, “My son is aware of your efforts to bolster his reputation, even at the expense of your own. He thinks this is because you are a loyal vassal and a fine friend. But, we both know that is not your true motivation, Sheikh Hadi.” She said, a cup of chilled wine being placed before her and before Hadi. Hadi caught a glimpse of his reflection on its surface, and it was something of a relief that even now, his expression was calm and collected. “Lazy. Content. Cynical.”

Hadi's lips parted to say something, but he was struggling to find the words. If he ever had to describe himself, who he truly was, in three words…

He would have chosen those three. He was content with what he had. He was lazy. And he wasn't foolish enough to believe anything blindly.

“A far cry from the brave, ambitious warrior that others paint you to be,” Al-Khayzuran laughed lightly, and to Hadi's ears, it didn't sound mocking. It was like they were sharing a joke that only they understood. “Oh, I don't disapprove. It's only natural to have a public and a private face. If anything, I applaud yours -- though, I'm certain it has caused you no end of trouble.”

He managed to smile ever so slightly at that, but it was a feeble thing. Exposed. If he had to describe how he felt in a word, then he felt exposed.

“I see the rumors of your insight were not only deserved, but understated,” Hadi replied. The affairs of the royal family were so far above him that he had never paid them any notice, but he had heard certain tales about Al-Khayzuran, the First Wife. Nothing untoward or slanderous -- simply that she was a capable woman who was suspected in having a far greater hand in matters of governance than most thought.

“Your flattery is appreciated,” Al-Khayzuran returned. “But, I did not summon you here to trade compliments. You now have a place by my son's side, and I intend to make use of you.” She informed, and Hadi expected something along those lines. “Tell me, what do you know of the Barmakids?”

That wasn't where he thought the conversation was going, but he answered all the same. “They're a powerful family. Jafar was instrumental in the rebellion, and he has served as Vizier for all three of the Abbasid Caliphs. Yahya strikes me as a competent, if overly serious man. I cannot speak for others, as I have not met any.”

“The Barmakids were raised up alongside the Abbasid Dynasty. A family of stewards is what they have been for generations. Yet, now that the Abbasids are royalty, they have enjoyed far greater power and influence. They are the administrative backbone of the Caliphate.” Al-Khayzuran informed him, and that sounded more expansive than what he generally heard about them. “For the past twenty years, they have made themselves the natural choice for positions of influence. They have no lands. Their incomes are bequeathed to them by the royal family. In theory, they have no influence.”

He saw where this was going, “But in reality, they have a great deal.” Nobility had a poor habit of looking down on those that lacked noble blood. It was because, in theory, the common people existed at the sufferance of the nobility. But, Hadi knew the truth.

The common people had an influence of their own, and with it, they could topple kingdoms.

“Vizier Jafar has groomed his son to take his position once Harun ascends the throne. Yahya does not have his father's appetite for ambition, but he still has a taste for power and influence. Under normal circumstances, I would be content to let things run their course until the Barmakids, inevitably, overstep.” Al-Khayzuran paused before a ghost of a grimace passed over her veiled features, “But this… unpleasantness with the Romans, the Pagan, and Emir Muhammad have made things unstable.”

“Emir Muhammad?” Hadi echoed, uncertain about the man.

“His lands are dangerously weakened by the massacre in Crete. He himself will die soon, leaving behind a toddler that shall require a long regency.” She informed him, and that was bad news all around. “He is aware of the dangers of regents. Especially those that will have the position for a decade, if not more.” It was then that she picked up her wine and one of the servants lifted her veil so she could take a sip.

“That is where you come in,” Al-Khayzuran uttered the words like a death sentence. Then she listed out the charges, “Emir Muhammad has come to respect you, it would seem. At my suggestion, he agreed that you would become regent for his son until he comes of age. By doing so, you shall act as a counter balance to the Barmakids at court. It shall prevent them from eying more power than their stomachs can handle.”

Regent. Of a domain belonging to an Emir. One of the most powerful men in the country. Dozens of Sheikh would answer to him.

“I- does he not have relatives to oversee the regency?” Hadi tried, grabbing hold of the cup of wine like it was a lifeline.

“None that he would trust to not slit his child's throat in the name of ambition,” Al-Khayzuran replied, her tone matter of fact. That was the danger of long regencies, as history had proven. Yet, even before he accepted his fate, she continued. “As regent, your concern shall be to rebuild the Emir’s lands. To that end, I will have you in connection with the Pagan -- he is disliked in the Roman court, and I wish for more friendly relations with him. If not for the sake of my daughter, then to seduce him away from the Romans when we next go to war.”

It would be simple enough to manage, Hadi thought. Siegfried and the Prince both shared a love for knowledge. If they gave him what he wanted in greater quantity than the Romans, and treated him with respect… it was possible to bring him to the Abbasid’s side.

But Hadi hadn't forgotten one glaring issue with the whole plan. “I am a Sheikh, your highness. A newly arisen one. I have not even seen the lands I own. I do not have the power, prestige, or wealth necessary to act as regent to an Emir.” He would be shocked if there wasn't a rebellion the moment that they heard the news.

To that, Al-Khayzuran smiled, “That has already been taken care of. Allow me to introduce you to your wife.” On cue, the servants opened a door off to the side and a woman stepped into the room. She was tall for a woman, and she made no effort to hide it, dresses in silks and velvet, adorned with gold and jewels, her skin was a warm brown while her eyes were as green as emeralds that glittered like gold.

“My lord husband, I am Sheba,” she introduced herself, a sly grin that promised everything but peace tugging at her lips.

She was without a shadow of a doubt in his mind the most beautiful woman that he had ever seen.

Hadi wanted to weep.

Could his life get any worse?