Abd-al-Mamat said to them," We have no sheikh, no leader. We must disband the tribe and seek out other tribes with true leaders to follow."
And the people said: We have a leader, and his name is abd-al-Mamat. And abd-al-Mamat said," I cannot be sheikh. I am not noble."
And the people said: You are wise and just and stern and have chosen well when our sheikhs had failed. You have chosen the law over your own loyalties. You may not be a sheikh, but you are our leader.
And so it was that abd-al-Mamat became the leader of his tribe. He kept the title of vizier, serving only to counsel his people, but was sheikh in all but name. He sat at the head of the feast, and his advice was considered as law.
And if he was glad in his heart for the events of Fate, or felt guilt for his own role in those events, he never revealed it to his people. He kept his heart shrouded by duty and his secret face shielded by a stern and fair visage. It would be an easy matter to say that when the people left abd-al-Mamat alone in the pavilion of the sheikh, now his own, that a smile would crack the vizier's stony demeanor, that he would begin to laugh. But none could have witnessed this, and more remains to the tale.
The tribesmen became wealthier still under abd-alMamat's firm hand. The encampment at the base of the last spire of the Lost Mountains became first a village of tents, then a walled town of mud brick, then at last a city of stone. The pavilion of the sheikh became a beautiful granite Hall of Judgment, and in its central court the vizier sat on a throne of tortoise shell and agate and chalcedony, and advised and counseled, and decided for his people.
And the tribe did prosper in matters of wealth and prestige, for the robes of their lowest castes were sumptuous and bedecked in rare gems and rarer pearls. Yet inwardly, they grew cold and remote from one another, always choosing to follow the wise advice of their vizier, careful not to violate his commandments.
And there were many commandments, for the vizier still paced his quarters, though they now be bound by finished stone instead of cloth and their floor covered with rich rugs instead of dirt. Again he cursed his Fate. He had made himself the servant of the people, as he had earlier made himself the servant of the sheikh, and as before, he found those he served to be unworthy. They had come to rely on him too much, such that they could not decide anything without his direct order. They were petty and quarrelsome and greedy and spiteful, and deserved nothing less than a stern hand of judgment to keep them from destroying all he had built for them.
One morning a man and two women appeared before him for his advice. The man had told each woman that he would make that woman his wife and take no other. The man could not choose between the two, for both were fair of face and heart, and each woman demanded he make good his proposal. The vizier listened with a stony glare, and wondered how it came to be that he, who had loved nothing but judgment, was called upon to settle such matters of the heart.
The vizier shook his head and said," If the man cannot decide, then he will be split between the two women, hoping that such a sentence would force the man to decide, or one of the women to save the man's life by abandoning her claim. Instead, all three nodded at the wisdom of the vizier, and when the man could still not decide, he was split down the middle, vertically, and each half stuffed and presented to each woman. And each woman spoke of the wisdom of abd-al-Mamat.
For his part, the vizier cursed the stupidity of his people, and his Fate that put him at the forefront of such fools. He wondered if the old sheikh, in the last moments of his life at the head of the deadly charge, realized he was among such fools, and could do nothing to change their direction. He, abd-al-Mamat, was no fool, and if his people called upon him to judge them, and approved of his iron-hard rulings, he would do so. He would counsel no longer, only order and demand. And judge.
And so he judged, and judged harshly, as harshly as the desert he once called his home, as commanded by tradition and his ancient tomes. A thief would lose a hand for her crime. A gossip would sacrifice his tongue as payment, and a snoop his eye or ear. And those who lost these organs would live still as symbols of the vizier's wisdom and the nature of the law. And the people would nod at his judgment and watch his ordered punishments, and then, cold-eyed and cautious, return to their homes. They became wealthy, but it was a cold wealth built on cold law, harshly enforced. Brothers shrank from warm greetings and strangers in the coffee houses eyed each other suspiciously, for none knew who would next fall victim to the judgment of abd-al-Mamat.
Now this would make a suitable ending for this tale, to simply say it has been such from that day to this. You have heard of a youth who remained unhappy even after becoming the head of the feast, and of a people who sacrificed their freedom for the leadership of one man. All gained what they desired, and all were punished for it. It makes it a suitable tale, but I fear it is not to be. There is more, and it deals with matters of the heart.
On the day after midsummer's eve, two mule-bound riders swayed into the city, leading a caravan of twenty camels heavily laden with carpets and casks of sweetsmelling oil. The man was tall and noble and had the look of one who had been touched by genie's blood, for his glance was penetrating and his smile (yes, he smiled, even at those he did not know!)was brilliant and sharp.
Yet his comely appearance was outshone by the appearance of his companion, a maiden whose face glowed with the beauty of the moon and whose eyes swirled and eddied with azure storms. She was bedecked in simple white robes and kept her face behind a demure veil, yet she wore her garb with the stature of a queen.
Abd-al-Mamat saw the maiden from his window and was immediately smitten with her beauty. His heart (which some would think had hardened to a dull, inert lump by this time)leapt to his throat and pulsed there, sending a warmth through his entire being. He judged the maiden to be the most lovely creature he had ever seen, and vowed to win her as his bride.
Abd-al-Mamat sent a messenger to the merchant, bringing honeyed words of welcome and promises of great reward and trade. The messenger also inquired, discreetly, very discreetly, as to the maiden's relationship to the merchant. And the messenger carried out his mission and returned with a long face and a heavy heart: the maiden was to be the merchant's bride, and the two were very close. The merchant laughed at the suggestion that it might be otherwise.
And so Abd-al-Mamat sent a second messenger, this one bearing a chest filled with the finest gems and rarest pearls, to be laid at the merchant's feet in exchange for the maiden. This messenger too returned with a long face and a heavy heart. The merchant would not consider such a trade, and laughed at the suggestion that it might be otherwise.
And so Abd-al-Mamat sent a third messenger to the merchant, this one bearing a metal box. And in this box were the heavy hearts of the two earlier messengers. This third messenger was told to make no demand, but to merely show the box's contents to the merchant and wait for his response. This merchant too returned with a long face and a heavy heart, for the merchant looked into the box, and shook his head. He did not laugh and neither did he offer the maiden.
There was no fourth messenger. Instead, abd-al-Mamat's guards arrested the merchant and dragged him before the vizier for judgment. An old man, toothless and blind, accused the merchant of stealing an apple from his stand. The merchant laughed, though it was a wary laugh, and denied knowing of the apple, the old man, or the theft. Abd-al-Mamat listened and then made his judgment, quickly. He found the merchant guilty of theft and dictated that he must be punished according to the harsh rules of the desert. The merchant did not laugh at all now, but merely said," If this is to be my Fate, so be it."