The Gardens Of Light

by Amin Maalouf

Genres: Fairy Tales, Folk Tales, Legends & Mythology; General Fiction; Historical Fiction; Ancient; Religious & Inspirational; Literary Fiction

Synopsis

Born in a Mesopotamian village in the third century, the son of a Parthian warrior, Mani grows up in a volatile and dangerous world. As battle rages for control over the Middle East between the great Roman and Persian empires, as Jews and Christians, Buddhists and Zoroastrians fight for ascendency, Mani- painter, mystic, physician and prophet- makes his way through the battlefields to preach to his incandescent doctrine of humility, tolerance and love, a doctrine that comes to be known as Manicheanism. A vivid glimpse of the ancient world in all its perfumed splendour and cruelty, an elegantly philosophical discourse on the fall of man, THE GARDENS OF LIGHT is a story of great beauty and resonance, exquisitely told.

Release date: April 19, 2012

Publisher: Abacus

Print pages: 256

Sample

Chronology of the Two Great Persian Dynasties


Summary of the Achaemenid Dynasty, 668-330 BC

668 BC: Dynasty founded by Achaemenes, who delivered Persia from the yoke of the Medes and became first King of Persia.


521-486 BC: Reign of Darius I, King of Persia, who conquered India, Thrace and Macedonia, but was vanquished by the Greeks under the
Athenian General Miltiades at the battle of Marathon in


490 BC.

465-425 BC: Artaxerxes I, King of Persia. He was succeeded by his son Darius.


424-406 BC: Darius II.


405-359 BC: Artaxerxes II.


359-338 BC: ARTAXERXES III, conqueror of Egypt.


336-330 BC: Darius III. His defeat by Alexander the Great brought the Achaemenid dynasty to an end.


After the break-up of Alexander’s empire, Iran became part of the Seleucid kingdom, as it remained, apart from the emergence
of a local dynasty in the region of Persis, until 247 BC, when Ptolemy III of Egypt invaded Syria and claimed sovereignty as far east as Bactria.


Kingdoms of Parthia and Armenia and Establishment of the Sassanian Dynasty

In the first century of the Christian era, nomad Parthians overran Armenia and took the territory of Parthia and Hyrcania
away from allegiance to the Seleucid kingdom.


AD 114: Roman Emperor Trajan took Armenia from the Parthians and annexed it as a Roman province. Trajan advanced down the Euphrates
and Tigris to take Seleucia and reach the Persian Gulf.


AD 165: Roman Emperor Avidius Cassius sacked Seleucia and Ctesiphon (capital of Parthia), but was then forced to retreat.


AD 209-26: Reign of Artabanus, King of Parthia. c. AD 216: Birth of Mani in Mardinu, a village in Parthia.


AD 216: Roman Emperor Caracalla invaded Parthia, using the ruse of a proposed marriage to the Parthian princess.


AD 217: Last battle between Rome and Parthia ended in victory for the Parthians, whose mail-clad lancers, mounted on camels,
inflicted a decisive defeat on the Roman army.


AD 226: King Artabanus was at the height of his power, but the end of the Parthian dynasty came when Ardashir (also known as
Artaxerxes), Prince of Persia and founder of the. Sassanian dynasty, rebelled and defeated his Parthian overlord at the battle
of Hormizdagan.


Sassanian Dynasty, AD 224–652

AD 224-44: Ardashir, King of Kings, restored the privileges of the Median priestly tribe known as the magi, which had fallen
into abeyance under the Parthians. He had the fire altars rekindled and replaced Parthian feudalism by a highly centralized
administration with reorganized vassal kingdoms, each governed by a Sassanian prince. His son Shapur pushed the Asiatic frontiers
as far as Tashkent and Peshawar.


AD 244: Accession of Shapur I. He repelled the invasion by the Roman Emperor Gordian III near Meshik on the Euphrates.

AD 253: Shapur smashed a second Roman army higher up the Euphrates.

AD 259: Shapur defeated the Romans at Edessa and took the Emperor Valerian prisoner.

Sassanian Iran was now established as the strongest power of late antiquity. Shapur’s public works included the construction of a dam at Shuster on the River Karun (using Roman prisoners) which became known as Band-i-Kaiser (‘The Emperor’s Dam’), and the founding of the city called Bi-Shapur (‘Shapur’s Good Deeds’).

Shapur I was succeeded by his son Hormisdas, who was murdered by his brother Bahram I.

c. AD 274: Bahram had Mani imprisoned in Gundeshapur (Beth-Lapat) and tortured to death.

In contrast to the Nile, on which boats can drift downstream, borne by the current, or be carried upstream by the wind in
their sails, the Tigris is a one-way river. In Mesopotamia the winds, like the waters, flow down from the mountains to the
sea, never blowing inshore, with the result that, on their journeys downstream, boats have to be loaded with donkeys and mules
which, on the return journey, will haul the chastened craft precariously along dry land back to their moorings in their home
town.


In the far north, where it has its source, the untamed Tigris hurtles down between the rocks, and only a few Armenian boatmen
venture to navigate it, never taking their eyes off the seething, treacherous waters. A strange thoroughfare on which wayfarers
never meet, never overtake each other, never exchange greetings or directives. Whence the exhilarating impression of sailing
all alone, with no protective genie, no escort other than the date palms on the banks.


Then, on reaching the city of Ctesiphon, the metropolis of the land of Babel, the home of the Parthian kings, the Tigris calms
down. It can be approached without any special care; it is now nothing more than a vast expanse of water that can be crossed
from bank to bank in round, flat-bottomed baskets, in which men and goods are piled, so that they sink in up to the brim,
and sometimes spin around, without ever foundering – just common or garden baskets of plaited reeds which strip all dignity
from the River of the Deluge. It is then so meek and mild that couples, entwined in a macabre embrace, can be seen splashing
about in its waters: skins of decapitated animals, gutted, sewn up and inflated, to which swimmers cling desperately, as if
dancing for their very life.


*

The story of Mani (or Manes) begins at the dawn of the Christian era, less than two centuries after the death of Jesus Christ.
A host of deities still linger on the banks of the Tigris. Some of these emerged after the Flood and with the first Scriptures;
others came with the conquerors, or were brought by merchants. At Ctesiphon, few believers reserve their prayers for one idol
alone; they drift from temple to temple according to the celebrations. They flock to the sacrifice to Mithras to have a share
of the feast; at the siesta hour, they seek a shady corner in the gardens of Ishtar; and, at the end of the day, they loiter
around the sanctuary of Nanaï, to watch for the arrival of the caravans, for it is close by the Great Goddess that travellers
break their journey for the night. The priests welcome them, offer them perfumed water, then invite them to bow down before
the statue of their benefactress. Those who come from afar may give Nanaï the name of a familiar divinity: the Greeks sometimes
call her Aphrodite, the Persians Anahita, the Egyptians Isis, the Romans Venus, the Arabs Allat; for each of them she is the
mother who nourishes them, and her generous breasts give off the aroma of the warm red earth, watered by the eternal river.


Not far off, on the hill which overlooks the Seleucia bridge, stands the temple of Nabu: the god of knowledge, the god of
all things written, the protector of all science, both occult and patent. His emblem is the surgeon’s probe, his priests are
doctors and astrologers, his worshippers place tablets, books or parchments at his feet, which are more welcome to him than
any other offerings. At the height of the glory of Babylon, the name of this god was prefixed to that of the kings, who were
thus known as Nabunassar, Nabupolassar, Nabuchadrezzar. Today, only scholars haunt the temple of Nabu, the populace preferring
to worship him from a distance; when passing his portico on the way to other divinities, they quicken their steps, only risking
hesitant glances towards the sanctuary. For Nabu, the god of scribes, is also the scribe of gods, who alone is responsible
for inscribing past and future deeds in the book of eternity. Some old men cover their faces as they skirt the ochre wall of the temple. Nabu may perhaps have forgotten that they are still in this world; why, then, remind him about it?


The scholars mock at the fears of the multitude. Cherishing knowledge more than power or wealth, even more than happiness,
they flatter themselves that they venerate Nabu more than any other god. On Wednesdays, the day devoted to their idol, they
gather within the walls of the temple. Copiers, merchants and palace officials form animated, eloquent little groups, strolling
up and down, following their own accustomed path. Some take the central alley, skirting round the sanctuary, to reach the
oval basin in which the sacred fish swim. Others prefer the shadier side path which leads to the enclosure where the sacrificial
animals are penned. Normally, gazelles, lambs, peacocks and kids are left free to roam around in the gardens; only some bulls
and two captive wolves remain in the enclosure. But on the evening before the ceremonies, the slaves attached to the temple
round up all the animals, to clear the pathways and prevent poaching.


*

It is easy to recognize Patek among the Wednesday strollers. He wears tapered trousers of green silk, pleated in the Persian
style; he waves his skinny arms around under a brocade cape; and the head that tops this puny, richly clad frame seems to
have been plundered from the statue of a giant. His full brown beard is curled like a cluster of grapes; thick wavy hair is
held in place by a serge bandeau, embroidered with the insignia of his caste, that of the warriors. This is, however, only
a relic of past times, for Patek no longer goes to war, nor to the hunt. In his eyes all violence has been extinguished and
his lips tremble constantly, as if a question long held back is about to burst forth.


Although he is barely eighteen years old, this scion of the highest Parthian nobility would be afforded the utmost respect
by everyone, were it not for the look of childish simplicity in his eyes which strips him of all majesty. How can one refrain
from smiling condescendingly at this man, as he pounces on a stranger and introduces himself in these terms: ‘I am a seeker after truth!’


It is with these exact words that, on the Wednesday in question, Patek has addressed a person clad all in white who is standing
a little to one side, bending over the oval basin. He carries in his hand a long knotted staff, surmounted by a crossbar,
which he taps protectively.


‘A seeker after truth,’ repeats the man, with no apparent mockery. ‘How should one not be such an individual in this century,
when so much religious fervour exists side by side with so much disbelief!’


The young Parthian feels himself to be on friendly soil.

‘My name is Patek. I come from Ecbatana.’

‘And I am Sittaï, from Palmyra.’

‘Your garments are not those of the people of your city.’

‘Your words are not those of the people of your caste.’

The man has accompanied his retort with a gesture of annoyance. Patek, who has noticed nothing, continues: ‘Palmyra! Is it
true that a sanctuary has been erected there without a statue, dedicated to “the unknown god”?’


The other lets a long moment pass before replying, with laboured weariness, ‘So they say.’

‘So, it would seem you never visited that place! No doubt you left your native city some time ago.’

But the Palmyrene simply clears his throat. His features have hardened; he gazes into the distance as if to make out a friend
who is late in arriving, and Patek does not labour the point. He murmurs farewell and rejoins the nearest group, while continuing
to watch the man out of the corner of his eye.


The man who said his name was Sittaï is still in the same place, alone, toying with his staff. When he is offered a cup of
wine, he takes it, sniffs its bouquet and makes a pretence of putting it to his lips, but Patek notices that, as soon as the
servant has turned his back, he spills the drink out at the foot of a tree, down to the very last drop. When he is offered
a skewer of grilled locusts, he behaves in the same way: he first refuses, then, since they insist, he takes one and soon
drops it behind him; then he digs it into the earth with his heel before stooping over the basin to rinse his fingers.


Patek is so absorbed in this sight that he is no longer listening to his informants, who grow impatient and move away from
him. His attention is caught only by the voice of a young priest coming to proclaim that the ceremony is about to begin and
inviting the worshippers to hurry towards the grand staircase which leads to the sanctuary. Some still hold a cup of wine
or a rhyton; they gossip as they walk, but soon quicken their steps, none wishing to miss the first moments of the celebration.


Especially not today. A rumour has in fact spread that the preceding day Nabu had stirred on his pedestal, a clear sign that
he wished to be on the move. It even seems that drops of perspiration had been seen to appear on his temples, his brow, his
beard, and the High Priest is said to have knelt down and promised to organize a procession this Wednesday at sunset. According
to an ancient tradition, Nabu himself guides his processions; the priests simply bear him in their arms, high above their
heads, and the god, by imperceptible pressure, indicates to them the direction they must take. Sometimes he makes then execute
a dance, sometimes they have to proceed in a long straight line which leads them to a spot where he demands to be set down.
His slightest movements are so many oracles which the tonsured soothsayers are confident of interpreting: for the idol speaks
of crops, wars, epidemics, sometimes addressing signs of joy or death to a certain individual.


While the groups of faithful enter the sanctuary and the officiants’ chanting swells, Sittaï, left alone outside, paces up
and down the portico between the great staircase and the east gateway.


The sun is now only a burning brick-red crest, far above the Tigris. The torchbearers form a semicircle around the altar;
the priests burn incense before the statue of Nabu; the chorus intones an incantation, accompanied by the monotonous beat
of a kettle drum.


Nabu, son of Marduk, we await thy words!


We have come from all lands to gaze on thee!

When we ask, it is thou who dost reply!

When we seek refuge, it is thou who dost offer protection!

Thou art the one who knows, thou art the one who speaks!

Who, more than thou, deserves to be followed?

Who, more than thou, deserves our offerings?

Nabu, son of Marduk, resplendent planet,

Thy place is great among the gods.

Nabu smiles in the flickering light of the torches; his eyes seem to gaze lovingly on the multitude of the faithful. He stands
in the place of honour, his long beard reaching half-way down his chest, which is encased in a tight-fitting corset. His tunic
of venuled wood widens to form a plinth. Six priests approach, lift the statue and place it on a wooden litter which they
hoist on to their shoulders, then high above their heads. While the procession is forming, the god rises higher at each step,
until he is floating in the air. His bearers find him quite light; their outstretched hands barely touch him and he seems
to hover above the crowd, which presses forward with cries of ecstasy. The bearers turn around, then walk in an ever-widening
circle before heading for the exit. The worshippers make way for them.


Now the procession is outside the sanctuary, in the portico at the top of the steps. The god executes a short dance around
the well of lustral waters and springs forward towards the stairs. At that moment one of the leading priests stumbles; he
attempts to regain his balance, before the next one spins round in his turn and sinks to the ground. They let go of the statue,
which seems to bound towards the monumental staircase, down which it bounces, watched by the petrified crowd.


Parthian warrier though he be, Patek cannot hold back his tears. It is not so much that he is overcome by the fatal portent.
What concerns him is another matter: the affront to his religious fervour. He wanted to believe in Nabu, he felt the need
to gaze, week after week, on the massive statue enthroned, infallible, ageless, smiling at the decline of empires, making light of calamities. And now, suddenly, this fall!


However, an idea occurs to him which prevents him giving way to lamentations. Kneeling down on the site of the drama, he has
no difficulty in locating the tip of a staff, planted between two marble slabs. He withdraws it. Examines it. There can be
no doubt about it, it has been sawn off at the top. ‘Accursed Palmyrene!’ Patek mutters, as he remembers seeing Sittaï walking
across the portico, coming to a halt and planting his staff in the ground, then twisting it and dragging it out, as one would
a weed. Patek stands up, looks around for the man in the white garments. In vain. ‘Accursed Palmyrene!’ he mutters again,
tempted to cry out, ‘Assassin! Deicide!’ and to set the crowd hot on the scent of the perpetrator of the sacrilegious action.


But the priests are now climbing back up the stairs, carrying with ineffective precautions the broken fragments of the statue,
part of an arm still joined to the shoulder, a tuft of beard hanging from an earlobe. Patek’s anger has turned to melancholy
resignation. He almost blames Nabu for presenting such a spectacle. And he moves away, prepared to wander until dawn along
the temple paths. Instinctively, his steps lead him in the direction of the oval basin. His eyes are still misty as he looks
towards the spot where the accursed man had stood.


Sittaï is still there. On the same slab. In the same posture. Still all in white, from his headdress to his sandals. He beats
a tattoo on the knob of a strangely shortened staff. Patek plants himself in front of the man, grabs hold of his tunic and
shakes him.


‘Curses upon you, man of Palmyra! Why did you do that?’

The man shows no sign of surprise or anxiety, nor does he attempt to free himself. He speaks calmly and with certainty.

‘If Nabu were really guiding the steps of his priests, then it was he who caused them to stumble. Or was he unaware, in spite
of his omniscience, that I had broken my staff at that spot?’


‘What grudge do you bear against the god Nabu? Has he punished you in some way? Did he refuse to save a sick child of yours?’


‘Why should I bear a grudge against a carved beam? It can neither afflict nor heal. What might Nabu do for you or me, if he
can do naught for himself?’


‘And now you blaspheme. Do you not respect the deity?’

‘The god whom I adore does not fall, is not shattered and fears neither my staff nor my sarcasm. He alone deserves fervour
such as yours.’


‘What name does he bear?’

‘He it is who gives all creatures and things their names.’

‘Is it for him that you broke the statue?’

‘No, it is you, man of Ecbatana. You who seek after truth, do you still expect to hear it from the mouth of Nabu?’

Patek lets go of Sittaï and wanders over to sit idly on the rim of the basin. Already defeated. Sittaï approaches him and
places the palm of his hand flat on his head. A gesture of possession, accompanied by these words: ‘Truth is an exacting mistress,
Patek, tolerating no disloyalty. You owe her all your adoration; every moment of your life must be devoted to her. Is it indeed
truth that you seek?’


‘None other!’

‘Do you desire truth to the point of abandoning everything for her?’

‘Everything.’

‘And if tomorrow you were asked to break an idol, would you do it?’

Patek starts, then has second thoughts.

‘Why should I attack Nabu? I have been welcomed like a brother in this temple. I have shared their wine and their meat. And
sometimes, around this basin, women have opened their arms to me.’


‘From this day forward, you will drink no more wine, you will eat no more meat, you will never again approach a woman!’

‘No woman? I have left a wife in my village of Mardinu!’

It is a plea. Patek’s ideas are all in disarray, but Sittaï gives him no respite.

‘You will have to leave her.’


‘She is to give birth in a few weeks. I am impatient to gaze on my first child! What sort of a father should I be if I abandoned
them?’


‘If it is indeed truth that you seek, Patek, you will not find it in a woman’s embrace, nor in the wailings of a new-born
infant. I have told you, truth is exacting. Do you still desire her or have you already given up your search?’


*

* *

When Mariam ran to the upper road and, panting, threw her arms round her husband’s neck and when he thrust her aside coldly
with both hands, she thought to herself that he did not wish any stranger to witness their demonstrations of love, out of
a sense of decency.


All the same, she was somewhat hurt. But she was careful not to show it, and sent tubs of water and towels to the two men
so that they could wash off the dust of their journey. She herself slipped away behind a hanging. When she reappeared an hour
later, she was accompanied by a veritable banquet being carried on to the terrace. As she advanced, bearing the prelibations,
two goblets of the finest wine from the soil of Mardinu, she was followed by a servant weighed down by an enormous copper
tray on which were piled dishes and stew pots. Patek was so absorbed listening to the words of the man in white, who was speaking
to him in an undertone, that he did not hear them approach.


Mariam indicated to the servant that he must make no noise as he laid out the food on the low table. If two dishes clinked
against each other, she winced slightly; but the next moment she was reassured by the sight of Patek’s favourite delicacies:
yolks of hard-boiled eggs crowned with a drop of honey, slices of pheasant with date puree. On the days when her husband went
to Ctesiphon, she filled her time by contriving to prepare the tastiest dishes for him, so that he would always be in a hurry
to return home, and if he were with friends, rather than going to some tavern where he might lose all sense of time, he would bring them proudly home with him, certain that they would be
better treated than a king’s table companions.


After a last glance to make sure everything was in place, Mariam went to sit on a cushion at the other end of the room. When
her husband was alone, she sometimes dined with him; never when he had visitors. But she always remained nearby, anxious to
check at every moment that the guests lacked for nothing.


Several long minutes passed. Completely absorbed in their conversation, Patek and Sittaï had not yet reached out a hand to
the table. Had they even noticed the feast before their eyes? Had they smelt the aroma which filled the terrace? Mariam was
upset, but said not a word. Even if they had stopped on the way to take some refreshment, they should at least, out of politeness,
. . .