“Oh my children,” he roared when all was quiet, and the people sat submissively. “Oh my children. I take my text tonight from the five-hundredth chapter of the Song of Angkhdt, which has been translated for us, by permission of the emperor, in this way.” He paused for emphasis, then continued: “ ‘My beloved. My beloved, when I feel you under me, slippery with hunger, when you have sucked me dry, when you have sucked the sugar of my loins, then am I happy. Beloved, you have taken everything I have. If this is poverty, I am content. I would not trade it for the palace of a prince. I would not trade it for a bishop’s throne.’ ”

The parson was a fat man. He recited according to an ancient tradition, whereby the words of the text were run together without spacing, in a deep monotone. At one time it had been heresy to suggest, by giving it emphasis, that one word might be holier than another. The resulting spew of syllables was hard to understand, but the text was a common one, especially in poorer neighborhoods, and Abu guessed the people knew it by heart.

The parson had recited without pausing for breath, and all through the compulsory minute of meditation, Abu could hear him wheezing. He was much mutilated. One of his eyes had been torn from its socket, not long ago, it seemed; the left side of his face was still sunken and discolored, and his cheekbones seemed to have healed improperly. It gave him a disjointed look, for though one half of his face was collapsed and hideous, the other glowed pink and fresh, the cheek fat, the eye gleaming and benign. It was as if he had made his face into an illustration of the twofold nature of his calling, and at times he would give emphasis to one side or the other as he spoke, simply by turning his head, and his audience would know whether to cringe or to be comforted.