And it is told that it was a calm, windless day when the governor al-Mamun decided to bring the many books he had bought from Byzantium to the town of his choosing, Nishapur. The goal of this odyssey was finally about to bring fruit, or so he believed, up until his caravan was stopped by one scar-covered man, who raised his staff toward the group.
“Halt!” The man exclaimed, and two of the guards of al-Mamun’s caravan approached the man, short swords in hand. “I am here to speak with the book-buying man.”
“What do you think you are doing, old fool? Have you lost your mind?” One of the guards asked, but the man ignored him, walking towards the caravan. They raised their swords, but al-Mamun raised his in turn, stopping their attack.
“How did you know I am carrying books, old man?” The governor asked as the scarred man approached.
“I saw it in the stars of Leo, and in the constellations further north.” And at the answer, al-Mamun laughed heartily. “Oh yeah? Pray tell then, old man: What else have the stars said?”
“They say that you are to translate these old Hellenic texts at Nishapur, and that is a mistake that you are making. You must instead go to the Great City of Peace, and pass them to the scholars of the House of All Wisdom. No other place must receive them.”
At that, the governor laughed even harder. “Oh, is that so? I admire your spirit, old man, and it is undeniable that the best translators of texts both byzantine and hellenic are all gathered at the House of All Wisdom. Yet I must tell you that they will never be received there, for my half-brother, the Most Rightly of Caliphs al-Amin has forbidden me from stepping into the city.” He explained, and there was venom in his words, a trait unbecoming of a man trained in both the fiqh and the hadith. “He promises to see me decapitated, my body spat upon and hung by its entrails at the center of town were I enter his domain. And you know what, old man? I believe in his threats.”
With that, the governor signaled for the caravan to keep moving towards the city, but the scarred man did not budge. “Care to move, before I am to shove you myself?”
“Your brother will not touch a single hair of your beard, Adballah, of that I am sure of.” The old man spoke, and a chill ran down al-Mamun’s back, for the scar-covered idiot knew his true name, and while not uncommon to hear, this man speaking it as assuredly as he did made him terrified.
“… Who are you really, old fool? An enemy of my father? Of my brother?” He demanded, almost jumping off the caravan, right hand on the hilt of his dagger.
“I am not an enemy, but an ally of the history that awaits you, O Great al-Mamun. Yet, if you don’t make the leap, your story will never be told. No one will hear of you. And even worse, Abdallah: The story of all the great men you wish to grant the world will fade into obscurity. Euclids and Ptolemies lost to the inevitable erosion of the sands.”
The staff was slammed into the ground, kicking up the sand towards the unbearably hot sky. “Is that really what you want, O True Most Rightly of Caliphs?” And this was the message that got through to al-Mamun, for his greatest fear was not that of holding no power, or being forgotten, but that of not being able to contribute to the betterment of the world. For he had been born with one single understanding in his mind: That knowledge was meant to be shared, in the same manner food and water was shared amongst travelers, and everything the men and women to the North knew was wisdom that needed to be read and understood by the people of the Caliph too.
The governor considered the man’s words, but his body had already chosen for him: The hand moved away from the blade, back towards the beard, and the foot had returned to the caravan. “There is no proof that your words hold true, and yet, the manner in which you speak has resonated deep within me… So I ask again: Who are you?”
“I go by the name of Musa, son of Shakir, a mechanic from lands further east. I am but a man that speaks truths, or what he earnestly believes to be the truth. And I am also a man like you, Abdahllah: One who deeply cares for the teachings we will leave to those who will come after we’re long gone.”
And with those words out his mouth, Musa began the journey to the City of Peace, expecting the caravan to follow after him. One of the members of the caravan, a soldier whose name has been lost to time, chose to speak: “Are we to follow him, governor?”
“I am afraid so.” The governor replied almost thoughtlessly, a resolution already made in mind, and the caravan turned back towards the west. “This might be the trap of a Djinn, or a distraction from the Great Deceiver, but even then… I must see it through. A deep feeling tells me we have encountered great bliss.”
And he could not know it, but the True Most Rightly of Caliphs was O most right. And the True Most Rightly of Caliphs was O most wrong.
The journey back to the capital of the Greatest Caliphate to ever be felt uneventful. And yet, al-Mamun was impressed by the changes the strange Musa brought to him. Often, during caravans, al-Mamun would idly look towards the horizon, sleep, or if in reach of one, peruse a book rewritten in the traditional Arabic, the fruit of the efforts he and his peers had been pushing for generations. This time, however, he didn’t remain idle, for Musa was there with him, and the old scarred man turned out to be a scholar in all matters known to man. Through his mouth flowed the most beautiful and enchanting verses, and through his words the most enlightening recitations of each and every ayah. And when there was a herb or a tree by the side of the well-traveled path, Musa would stop to collect them, and explain the hundred and one manners to use the herb for medicine and nourishment.
And at night, he would remain awake at any and all times, looking towards the star-blessed sky, and he would speak to himself in these moments. al-Mamun asked him only once what he would do at night, and the response he got was that Musa was ‘consulting with the constellation of Cancer for guidance.’
At last, the caravan reached the City of Peace, albeit its name could not represent it, for as the group approached, they saw fire and siege damage on its walls, and on its roads, and on its stores, and on its people.
“What happened here?” The governor asked, but upon his voice reverberating through the stalls, the citizens began cheering and praying, and the governor of the city was called, a man who had but one eye —but fought as if he had ten— and he approached al-Mamun, and embraced him with the strength yet kindness of a sibling embracing the one who leaves for war and finally returns home.
“A miracle is what has happened, O Most Saintly al-Mamun!” He laughed, and the one-eyed man presented to al-Mamun the clothes his brother had worn, and he understood that Musa calling him the True Caliph had become the truth. “Your rightful place as the Caliph has been restored! Rejoice, Abdallah, son of Harun, rejoice!”
Soon he would come to find the body of his brother, al-Amin: His head removed from his body, his entrails spread about by rope and pulleys, flesh displayed at the center of town, amid seven other members of the high council he used to preside.
“Bastards, thieves and bastards, all of them.” The one-eyed governor explained, a slap on the back for al-Mamun. “But you were already aware of the incompetence of your brother— Of how he managed to run your father’s legacy into the ground. So many emissaries slain, so many dinari plundered, spent in drink and harlots. That is soon to change, my brother in passion, that is soon to change. All thanks to you.” And he turned towards the people, the men and women who dragged al-Amin into the streets and beat him to death, and cheered as loudly as he could, joy reaching the heavens, heard by the entire firmament. “All thanks to al-Mamun! The Most Rightly of All Caliphs, He Who Will Forever Be!”
And the people cheered, from the slums to the universities, reaching the center of the House of All Wisdom. Every man, woman and child cheered for the new Caliph. Al-Mamun, the most just of them all.
Thus began the story we all know. And yet, the most vital of conversations is seldom told: The one that followed, between Musa and al-Mamun. The one where the man who could read the future explains all to the man who was to pave it.
“Explain yourself to me, Musa. And explain yourself in a manner I will be able to understand.” The Caliph al-Mamun asked —Nay, begged the scarred man to make himself earthly, for even the most relevant of ayahs had no answer to the soothsaying taking place.
“I cannot explain myself in a manner that will satisfy you, al-Mamun, and you are more than aware of that fact.” Were the first words Musa pronounced since they all saw the body of al-Amin at the center of town. “I read the messages the Most Patient leaves us all in the shapes of the stars, and in the grains of sand that gather at the corners of the streets. I say that which I know is true, because The Guide can see all that is and isn’t, and my eyes and my mouth serve as mirrors for the Master of which I am the Servant.”
“You speak such beautiful words, yet they contain very little, if anything at all.”
“And you know that to be false.” Musa sighed, and sat down at the bed of the royal bedroom of al-Mamun; once the bedroom of al-Amin; once the bedroom of al-Rashid. “Else you wouldn’t have come here, and you wouldn’t have ascended to the position of Caliph, and you wouldn’t be in the process of bringing the best minds from all over the globe over to this place. You know what I’ve said is true, because it aligns magnificently with the goals you’ve had since you were given birth. Since thought came naturally to your mind.”
“Yes!” al-Mamun raised his voice again, taking one, then two, then three steps towards the old man. “And that is what scares me, Musa. You only whisper honey-covered words in my ear. The same words a Djinn would dare whisper in order to derail me, and drag me into the abyss.”
“A Djinn would never be as blunt as to speak to you like this… Yet I understand your fears. Who would trust in a man such as me? And yet, that is what you must do, for that is your lot in life, Abdallah-”
“Do not call me Abdallah.” The caliph growled, and before he realized, he was face to face with the scarred old fool, and there he saw it all: He saw stories of sieges and rebellions in the flesh of the man, and even harsher stories in the spots that had no wounds. He saw a sadness in his eyes, a sort of milky blindness that conveyed so much, yet said so little. The same sadness in every other saint and prophet before him. And yet, what al-Mamun saw in his eyes was neither Deceiver nor Prophet: He saw a man just as lost as he was.
Thus, instead of anger or a snarky remark, al-Mamun said but one thing. “So, friend, what comes next?”
“There is a man by the name of Muhammad who comes from Khwarazm. He studies the numerals at the House of All Wisdom. He will be instrumental in the translation of your books. He is to become the head of the House first, however. In the same manner Tahir, he who you call The One-Eyed is to become the new governor of Khorasan, and I the governor of the City of Peace.”
“Oh, really now?” The Caliph laughed, and the image of the Djinn came back to him for but an instant. “You, the governor? Is that the truth?”
“Only for a few short years, but yes. Only by doing so will all the pieces fall into place.”
“And then?”
“Then three men will come to visit you, each bearing my name but only in passing, and each will ask a question when you least expect it. You will know the answers to them. Once you give all three of them the answer, victory will be achieved: The world you seek will become the truth.”
And with that, Musa fell back into the bed, as if he was the Caliph instead of al-Mamun. “That is all the knowledge I have read in the constellations. No more aid will come your way, at least not in such a direct manner. My position on the board has been played. It’s your turn to shine now, O Most Rightly of All Caliphs.”
And it is told that many other words were exchanged between the two, but none survive past the ones described above.
And as it was told, al-Mamun spoke with he who came from Khwarazm —who would be known to many others as Al-Khwarizmi— about the books he wished to see translated, and the mathematician and logician was overjoyed with the trove of treasures provided by the Caliph, and was even more overjoyed by the position that was granted to him in exchange for the translation efforts: That of the Head of the House of All Wisdom. The first book he put his hands onto was that of the Megale Syntaxis, known to the byzantines as Magna Syntaxis, a treatise on the stars written by the Greatest of all Men, Ptolemy, who was so great the translation of this first book was known as Al Majisti —the Most Majestic— and was the basis for the name of the movement al-Mamun spearheaded: That of the Most Majestic Translation Initiative, after one of the Best Names of He who holds an Odd Number of them.
And as it was told, al-Mamun allowed for Tahir to take control over the great land of Khorasan, where all cloth was woven and all precious stones were unearthed, and Tahir was so overjoyed by this, he swore loyalty of the highest caliber, and this was the birth of the Tahirid dynasty. And on the same night Tahir turned his back on al-Mamun and betrayed his trust, and was discovered dead by morning, drowned in a pool of his own blood, and no man was ever tried for the death. Soon his son took on the throne as the governor of a doomed dynasty, strong in arms yet weak in all else.
And as it was told, Musa was named governor of the City of Peace, and under his rule, the city saw great growth and prosperity, but also saw strong religious opposition, for zealotry ran rampant, and opposed the logical approach that al-Mamun preached everyday. Musa attempted to do work that did not befit him, and died three years after meeting the Caliph for the first time. It is said that a meteor shower passed high above on the day he passed, a certain show of the benevolence he possessed, the kindness only al-Mamun could become aware of, as everyone else saw him as a weak puppet of the Caliph.
It was during his funeral that the first man appeared. al-Mamun could tell, for no other person showed up to the funeral: Only the imam in charge, the mysterious man, and himself. Following the end of the funeral, the latter approached the unknown man, and asked for his name.
“My name, O Most Rightly of Caliphs, is Mohammad, son of Musa, and I am the first of three Brothers.” He explained himself, and in his words was the cadence of Musa, and al-Mamun embraced Mohammad in the same manner a brother embraces another, for the truth was that he valued Musa far more than he allowed himself to show, and with him gone, no one but himself was there to know the pain of loss, and the even greater pain of regret.
“I am the Brother with the question that represents Birth, and so the question is the following: Who is the one who brought you to the place you occupy, O Great Caliph?”
And the question was simple, but he could not answer it. Had it been his father, upon his birth? Had it been the He who the Best Names are attributed to, from the beginning? Had it been Musa, son of Shakir, close to the end?
Finally, he arrived at an answer that satisfied him. “I brought myself to this place, Muhammad. I have been birthed, and guided, and for that I am most grateful, but my goal is mine and mine alone, and without this goal, and without the drive to see it true, and without the man that had both a dream and the means, we would not be standing in the Most Majestic City to ever be Built.”
At this, the Brother Birth saluted al-Mamun. “If that is your answer, then it is true. You are the most important to all that you are and all that you do, both blessing and curse. Without father and brother, and without Musa by your side, and without faith to call your own, you walk this path of victory alone. Where will it lead, O Most Rightly of All Caliphs? Will the translated books and measured meridians and star charts help you find the next answer, Abdallah?”
“Do not call me Abdallah, insolent child. You are not your father, you don’t have the right-”
“And neither are you yours, Caliph.” A small smirk showed on Mohammad’s face, but he quickly dropped it. “Forgive me. You have answered the first of three questions. There is no reason for me to remain here, when there is work to be done.”
Soon Mohammad left, disappearing into the market. Yet not for long, for al-Mamun would find him working as an astronomer and translator at the House of All Wisdom. Only once did al-Mamun question him, to which Mohammad answered: “My role as Brother Birth may be over, but a man of wisdom must still work for the betterment of the City of Peace. Even Saints pay tribute, son of Harun.”
Never again did the two talk.
The second brother met al-Mamun five years later in Merv, during a book collecting mission. That day, he was accompanied by nearly fifty Turkish slave-warriors, all acquired by his half-brother Muhammad, who had become his most trusted companion, as he too had met Musa long ago, during a different caravan run. This, of course, wasn’t enough for the two to befriend one another: The true trust came in the shape of the promise that if Muhammad were to lend his armies to the Caliph, upon al-Mamun’s death, he would acquire the throne. Neither truly trusted the other, and this is what made them the most powerful allies.
And yet, during two minutes in which all Turkish guards were distracted, a man approached al-Mamun, a man who had the same eyes as Musa, the same as Mohammad, and al-Mamun understood the time to act had come.
“What is your name, son of Musa?” The Caliph asked, and the second brother answered.
“My name, O Most Rightly of Caliphs, is Ahmad, and I am the second of three brothers. My question represents Life, the in-between Birth and Death.”
“Is the third brother Death, then?” al-Mamun asked confidently, mockingly even. He had amassed great power the past few years, and had battled ally and foe with equal ferocity, poisoning and threatening all who opposed him, and forming great allies with all that benefited him. He did not fear the brothers, for he had followed the first truth: He could only fight for himself, owe it all to himself, and blame it all on himself. The path continued lonesomely.
“The third brother is always Death. As the second is always Life.” Ahmad responded. “May I ask my question now?”
“Go ahead.”
“The question is the following: Is the Life you have lived the one that brings you the closest to your goal?” Ahmad asked. “And before you respond, Caliph, I need you to think well about your accomplishments.”
“Oh?” A flash of doubt crossed al-Mamun’s sight. “Could I possibly answer this question wrong?”
“Only you know that. It is your answer, after all.”
And with that, Ahmad left the premises. “Wait, why are you leaving?” The Caliph asked, confused.
“I don’t need to hear the answer for you have it, O Most Rightly of Caliphs.” Ahmad replied. “Besides, were you not to enjoy my response to yours, you would not doubt to have me killed by your brother’s guards. I have things to accomplish in life that would not happen were I to die here. Now, if you excuse me, sir.” And then he left, Turkish guards soon approached al-Mamun, and asked him if that strange man had done or said anything wrong. al-Mamun gave no answer, for he wasn’t sure.
He soon returned to the City of Peace, and saw its streets covered in pestilence, both physical and of the mind, and saw pain and poverty as the men under him became more and more engorged, full of both food and money, and he saw that the answer to the second question would not satisfy him.
A clean up mission was in order, al-Mamun understood, and so the cleaning was carried out.
Ahman and al-Mamun never met again, for the caliph never set another foot inside the House of All Wisdom. He had no need to now.
It is told that the third brother came to al-Mamun’s side twelve years later, in a most precious moment, for he had finally fixed all the issues that plagued the City of Peace. No longer would the Sunni and the Shia pester him, for he had chosen a path neither one or the other, a path of logic, proposed to him by members of the House of All Wisdom and other men of science, and whoever chose not to follow this path was sent to the great prisons far to the East, never to be seen again.
And no longer would the ruling class be a bother, oppressor and master, for they were exterminated by al-Mamun, and replaced by those who held no disgust in their hearts: The same scientists and mathematicians that helped him make the old city flourish and be praised by the entire world, forever. They would never betray him, for they understood that he, the Most Rightly of Caliphs, stood by their side.
And no longer would the poor and desperate be a bother, for the leprous and the vagrant and all those with nothing to their name were sent to the frontlines of the war against Byzantium, against Theophilus the Just, and those who proved their loyalty would be granted anything they so desired. Once they returned, that is.
A new Golden Age approached, and al-Mamun could see it O so clearly, as clear as the Tigris in front of him, where he gathered many of his trusted friends and companions, inviting them to the opening of a new canal, river water and dates provided to all members. A simple private party, party at which an extra member assisted.
“You seem to be lost, old man. Move along.” A guard raised his voice, but was stopped by al-Mamun, who recognized the eyes of the intruder.
“Let him in, Umar! He’s a special guest! Oh, but you must tell me your name first, third brother, else your question cannot be answered!” al-Mamun laughed as rambunctiously as one could, and all his companions did the same. The last brother looked with disdain at the group behind the Caliph, but emitted no comment.
“My name is Hasan, O Most Rightly of Caliphs, and as you know, I represent Death. Have you ever thought of your own demise?”
“Well, that’s an easy one! Of course I have. Who amongst us hasn’t thought of it?” He asked the group, and all agreed.
“That was not the third question. Merely a thought of mine. But I see you are eager for the question, so I will proceed as my brothers have done before. The third question, which represents Death, is the following: Once you are gone from this world, O Most Rightly of Caliphs, what will you leave behind?”
“What will I leave behind? Why, this entire Kingdom of mine! Happiness, joy, enormous fortune, both literal and in the countless books translated and to be translated by those I have deemed worthy. I have created the most prosperous Caliphate of them all. Each day countless men with all types of knowledge arrive and are greeted by Al-Khwarizmi, and are invited to work for him at the House of All Wisdom. And each day a hundred thousand troops leave for the Northern territories and come back with treasure beyond comparison! Each day the streets are filled with smiles, and the children play and grow into adults with broad shoulders and skin without scars, without blemishes, and the animals are the healthiest they’ve ever been, and the birds return to the skies, and the deposits are filled to the brim with grain, ready for the harshest of months that never seem to arrive.”
And the Caliph of Caliphs walked up to Hasan, and put a cup of water in one of his hands and a cup with dates on the others, and began finishing his answer. “So what will I leave behind? I will leave behind countless amounts of knowledge, gathered throughout countless years, as written by countless men. No greatest achievement will ever occur, and if it does, I know it will be because they saw my work and were inspired by it.”
And with the answer out of the way, the Caliph turned to the masses, and they all cheered and saluted him, and prayer circles were held in his honor, and children named after him. “How is that for an answer, Brother Death?”
“Big words from a big man.” Hasan let out a short smirk, similar to one the first brother had given him nearly twenty years back. “I could not imagine a more appropriate answer, O Most Rightly of Caliphs.”
“I knew you would understand, third brother!” al-Mamun was ecstatic, for now finally everything had fallen into place; the last piece, as it had been said to him by… The first brother? The second? He couldn’t remember, and to be quite honest, it barely mattered. What mattered is that the questions were well answered, which meant his goal had been accomplished, or was soon to be. All that he had wished for and more was true. “Of Birth, Life, and Death, many say they fear the last the most, and yet I welcome it, for death is naught but new beginnings! So let us celebrate!” He cheered, and everyone cheered with him.
“Now come on, Brother Death, drink with us! Eat with us! Cheer as if you were one of us, because from this day onward, you truly are!”
Hasan looked down at the water and dates he’d been given, and returned them to the Caliph. “I apologize, al-Mamun, but I must be on my way. You’ve answered the final question, which means my services are required elsewhere.”
“Are you sure? We have cured meats and-” But the last brother interrupted the ruler before he could continue. “I am more than sure, Caliph. Do enjoy the rest of your life. You’ve earned it, al-Mamun, son of Harun.”
With that, Hasan parted ways, allowing al-Mamun to return to his guests, who he attended to marvelously. He promised them all a seat by his side at the opening of yet another canal the following week, albeit this wouldn’t come to pass, for they all fell violently ill the next day. His followers believed him to have been poisoned, and all date vendors were questioned, but the truth turned out to be much simpler: A simple error in the canal that allowed toxic detritus to pass by from nearby plantations.
Most people recovered within a few days, but the Most Rightly of Caliphs never seemed to better himself, his condition only worsening. Again, many believed this to be the intervention of bad actors, but the truth was that, during his entire stay, he flailed and screamed at the top of his lungs, begging for forgiveness, begging for redemption. To whom did he beg? No one knows, but his prayers must have never reached Paradise, for he passed after fifteen days: He grew quieter one moment, then the next he was dead.
His half-brother Muhammad would be named the next Caliph within the week, and his name would come to be known as al-Mutasim, and while he would continue many of the works his brother had left behind, he would focus much harder on the military power of the Caliphate, and the book initiative would be pushed to the side.
“A real shame, for we’ve lost many people who used to help us translate wisdom, both to the budget adjustments and to the unfair jailings our ruler has conducted.” The Head of the House of All Wisdom, al-Khwarzimi, complained to the few members of the initiative still left under his care.
“Maybe al-Mamun’s rule wasn’t as bad as I once thought.” An engineer by the name of Sanad scoffed.
“I would rather be jailed here than be sent to Nusaybin to fight, personally.” A translator laughed, making a few of his peers laugh as well. The silence that followed, however, was no matter for joy, and so a different logician stepped in to assuage the group.
“I believe there is still manners in which we can put pressure regarding this issue.” Brother Life spoke up, hand on his beard. “We all held important posts in the previous government, and still hold power here. The man must understand that the Initiative is one of the most important weapons we possess.”
“Even more powerful than blade and siege machine?” Sanad, the designer of the latter, laughed.
“If I may.” Brother Death spoke up. “A smart yet misguided man once told me that death is but a new beginning, and I believe in that truth. The end of al-Mamun does not mean we must end as well. I’ll go speak with him. I believe I can manage to strike up a deal.”
“I shall accompany you then.” Brother Birth spoke up, putting down a gas lamp he’d been working on.
“So will I, then.” Brother Life crossed his arms.
“I don’t believe this is the right course of action. You might have spoken with al-Mamun, but al-Mutasim is a completely different individual. A much crueler man.” The head of the House heeded.
“Yes, this will not end well for you, which in turn will not end well for us.” The translator spoke up again, but the three brothers only smiled.
“We thank you for the worry, but there is no need. Did you know? Our father, may he rest eternally by the Majestic’s side, knew the man. Was a good friend of his. I’m sure he will heed our words.” Brother Life explained.
“These days, no much difference between friend and foe.” A different translator raised his voice.
“A potent truth, yet a falsehood this time. We know it well.” Brother Birth nodded along. “For only good truths have been written in the stars today.”
And thus the three brothers left, Birth first, then Life, then Death, and each met the Caliph at a different point, at a different time. By the time they reunited and began translating again, the Caliph had died, in his place his son, a lover of the sciences and the arts.
Not much is known of the brothers past this point, except that they lived well into their eighties, outliving five Caliphs in total, and working for the House of All Wisdom until their death, of which is said occurred within a minute each. It is also told they wrote countless books during their lifetime, both translations and originals, of which a single book survives; a book on inventious devices who many say serve as inspiration for some of the most ingenious automata a simple European man by the name of Da Vinci sketched almost a millennium later.
It might be presumptuous of the interpreter to say, but I do believe the dream Musa and his children saw in the stars —The same dream al-Mamun and all the others saw— came true, even without needing their presence. After all, would we know of them otherwise?