Ramadan Kareem to all Egyptian Chronicles readers.
After the road of safety comes the road of regret, but before taking that road, we will have a little chit-chat.
*Spoiler alert*
Tonight, we travel to the City of Brass—a recurring location of the One Thousand and One Nights radio show by Taher Abu Fasha.
Unlike the "giants of old" whose legends span every continent, the City of Brass is a uniquely Islamic-Arabian product of the imagination.
The earliest recorded mention of this city dates back to the Umayyad Caliphate (late 7th or early 8th century CE). The legend centers on Musa ibn Nusayr, the legendary governor of North Africa and arguably the "Original Conquistador" of Iberia and Southern France.
Musa was reportedly sent by Caliph Abd al-Malik ibn Marwan to find the lost "Bottles of Solomon"—the legendary vessels used to imprison djinns. (And you're right to wonder while Aladdin was a later addition to the Nights, genies in a bottle have very old roots in Middle Eastern lore.)
The city was believed to be hidden deep within the deserts of the Maghreb or the rugged terrain of Andalusia—a myth that I personally believe grew from the awe-inspiring reality of Ibn Nusayr’s sweeping conquests.
Two centuries later, the story resurfaced in the Abbasid era within the monumental History of the Prophets and Kings (Tarikh al-Rusul wa al-Muluk) by the legendary Al-Tabari.
Sheikh Al-Tabari did not treat this as a mere fairy tale, but as a documented expedition. He described a city forged entirely of brass, windowless and doorless, surrounded by towering walls. Those who attempted to climb them were said to fall inside laughing—a chilling form of magical madness or enchantment.
Through the One Thousand and One Nights, this tale achieved world-myth status.
Yet it remains one of the most philosophical stories in the collection. Unlike typical "adventure" tales, the City of Brass is a Memento Mori—a stark reminder of mortality.
When the travelers finally breach the walls, they don’t find treasure; they find a city of skeletons and inscriptions, a testament to how the "giants" and "kings" who built it were ultimately conquered by time and death.
Now, while this is the myth, history tells us that the actual peak of the conquest of Iberia took place under Caliph Al-Walid. However, Al-Tabari records that the quest for the City of Brass was commissioned by his father, Abd al-Malik ibn Marwan.
Between myth and history, we cannot ignore the role of the terrain itself. The rugged, cloud-shrouded peaks of the Atlas Mountains—which once inspired the Ancient Greeks—and the jagged, misty sierras of Iberia provided the perfect stage for such a myth. Unlike the ancient, well-trodden mountains of the Levant, this Western frontier felt like the 'End of the World.'
Its verticality and hidden valleys suggested that a massive, doorless city could actually exist just out of sight. In these lands, the geography didn’t just host the myth—it fueled it.
Finding the Iberian roots of this story led me to a startling conclusion: this is "La Madre del Mito de El Dorado."
It is the mother-myth of the City of Gold hidden in the heart of the Andes, sought by Spanish Conquistadors like Cortés and Pizarro in South America centuries later. This is why I call Musa ibn Nusayr the "Original Conquistador." He established the blueprint for the frontier explorer chasing a metallic mirage. For me, the parallels are impossible to ignore.
Now, enough of chit-chat without further delay, I present the fifth episode of our story—The Tale of Sajur and his sons, or the 199th night of One Thousand and One Nights, as broadcast by the Egyptian State Radio.
Ep.5 “The road of Regret to the city of brass”
And when it was the One Hundred and Ninety-Ninth Night, and the night that followed, King Shahryar took his seat as on the evening before. Shahrazad came at her appointed hour, saluted him with the fairest greeting, and resumed her tale.
Shahrazad : It has reached me, O fortunate King, wise in counsel and steadfast in judgment, that when Prince Firuz had recounted to his brothers the marvels of his journey — how he entered the City of Giants, how he befriended its Sultan, and how he received the wondrous spectacles that bring the distant near — and when he had finished speaking of his gift, the second brother stepped forward.
His brothers leaned toward him in wonder and curiosity, and he began to relate what had befallen him from the hour of parting until the hour of reunion.
“If the tale of my brother Firuz be strange,” said Nairuz, “then mine is stranger still.
“I journeyed alone, believing that however far I went I would return upon my own footsteps. I travelled days whose number none but God could reckon.
“One night darkness overtook me. I pitched my tent, tethered my horse, and resolved to depart at dawn.
“But when morning rose and I opened my eyes, I beheld before me a city blazing beneath the sun as though it were aflame.
‘I saw no such city yesterday,’ I said. ‘How does it gleam so? Is it fire?’
“I drew nearer.
“And lo — its walls were of yellow brass, its domes of brass, its towers of brass. The whole city shone like molten gold.”
He found a gate with a great ring and struck upon it.
From within came voices — hollow and echoing.
“Lord… Lord… Lord…”
“To whom do you speak?” he asked.
“To you,” they answered. “Why have you delayed your coming? We have awaited you two years.”
“Awaited me?” said Nairuz in astonishment.
“You are our king.”
“Your king? Since when?”
“Since two years past, when our former sovereign died. We were commanded to accept the first stranger who entered our city.”
Nairuz protested, but the spirits replied:
“If you will not be our king, then you are our enemy — and we shall slay you.”
Thus between kingship and death he chose the crown.
They led him through the gates of the City of Brass, and he marveled at its desolation and splendor.
The vizier of the spirits addressed him:
“It remains only to proclaim your betrothal to Princess Nargis, daughter of the late king.”
“I do not love her,” said Nairuz. “My heart belongs to my cousin.”
“Love is not required,” replied the vizier. “Such is our ancient law: the new king weds the daughter of the former.”
Nairuz argued and pleaded until at last he secured a delay of two months — for that was the appointed time of reunion with his brothers.
On the night before the forced marriage, a young man came secretly to him.
“I am Kaykawus,” he whispered, “cousin to Princess Nargis.”
“And what seek you?” asked Nairuz.
“I seek to free you — and myself. For I love her.”
“And I love another,” replied Nairuz. “Let us each keep to his own beloved.”
Thus they discovered their hearts were not rivals but allies.
“I know your meeting with your brothers was set for this very day,” said Kaykawus.
“Alas,” replied Nairuz, “two months lie between us.”
Kaykawus smiled.
“I can deliver you in the blink of an eye.”
“How?” said Nairuz.
“Come.”
They ascended to the roof of the palace.
There lay a carpet woven in strange design.
“What is this?” asked Nairuz.
“The Wind-Carpet,” said Kaykawus. “Sit upon it, and command it to go where you will.”
Nairuz hesitated.
“Try it.”
They seated themselves upon the carpet.
“Fly with the wind!” cried Kaykawus.
And the carpet rose into the air.
It bore them above domes and towers, over deserts and valleys, swifter than thought itself.
“Return!” cried Nairuz.
And it descended again to the palace roof.
Now convinced, Nairuz said:
“With this I shall reach my brothers and claim my gift.”
“Take it,” said Kaykawus. “Better you win your cousin than lose her for want of wonder.”
So Nairuz mounted alone upon the Wind-Carpet and cried:
“Fly!”
It soared upon the currents of air, cleaving space and folding distance, until he reached the khan at the appointed hour and rejoined his brothers.
He embraced them and prepared to speak—
And before her tale was complete, the dawn overtook Shahrazad, and she fell silent until another night.
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