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the scarecrow
donkey also belongs to your
master!” The wily strategist
prostrated himself till
his turban touched the
naked land’s dirt and asked
reverentially, “Does a mamluk
in our desert own anything
besides his dreams, master?”
So the fools chuckled together
for a long time. Then the
advocate of hatred remarked,
“You’re right, wretch. We’re
sure a slave doesn’t even
possess his tongue, because
his master can rip it out by
the roots the moment he
feels angry.” They guffawed
together again. Then the
emissary announced,
“My master provided me with
the gold bridle as a sign for
you.” Doubts dissipated in
hearts that had never known
anythingbut doubts, and these
master sorcerers raced each
other to attend the leader’s
banquet on the neighboring
plain. The wily strategist
seated them on a carpet of
incomparable beauty, served
them dishes more delicious
than any people had ever
tasted, and poured them
a beverage so ambrosial
they sang ecstatical ly.
They became excited with
desire and embraced each
other according to banquet
etiquette. When the wily
strategist determined that
the Day of Retribution had
arrived, he rose to address
them with a vengeful tongue
for which these fools were
totally unprepared.
“Does the advocate of anger
recall the day he approached
my tent as a traveler and I
gave him shelter, fed him, and
supplied him generously from
my stocks? Does the advocate
of blamewor thy anger
remember how he returned
the favor before leaving my