“My name is Sinbad,” he told her, “and I come from a city called Baghdad … ”
“Sinbad, Baghdad.” Elisa repeated the names, rolling them off her tongue. “I have heard of the city,” she said proudly. “They say it is a beautiful city of the East.”
“Perhaps the most beautiful in the world. The rival of Damascus. The center of culture and art, of trade, of philosophy. Where there has been no war since before my father’s lifetime, where the rivers flow in serenity and the lands bloom in fertility. All the nations of the world converge at Baghdad’s door. Our caravans travel daily to India, to Persia, to the deserts of Arabia. Our ships are laden with cargo for Abyssinia and the Dark Continent, for Tripoli and Alexandria. Even for Tangier, Valencia … ”
“You sound very proud of your home,” she interrupted.
Sinbad nodded. “Forgive me, Elisa, if I’ve become carried away but once you have seen Baghdad, she is never to be forgotten. She burns like a candle forever in your soul.”
“Then going home will certainly be a joyous occasion,” said the girl with admiration.
But Sinbad frowned when she said that. “I think not, Elisa.”
“But why? If Baghdad is all you say — ”
“She is. Indeed she is! But I have reasons of my own, you see. Reasons that make my journey home perilous to myself and my friends.”
This all seemed very puzzling and mysterious to this daughter of Pansa who had never traveled more than a few kilometers beyond her village. Yet there are some things in the world that are universal, as much a fact in tiny Pansa as they were in mighty Baghdad. Elisa forced him to gaze at her and nodded knowingly. “It is the one you left behind,” she said.
“You are very wise for one so young.”
Elisa laughed. “No, not really. But I recognize the look of love in your eyes even as I recognize it in my own. Can’t you tell me your tale?”
“Is it not enough to know that I was forced to flee Baghdad a virtual criminal?”
His words were meant to shock her, but Elisa remained unperturbed. “Sometimes it is good to bare one’s heart,” she said contemplatively. “They say it cleanses the soul … ”
Sinbad’s eyes danced and he grinned. “So you are something of a poet yourself?”
Elisa shared his brief moment of laughter. “I want to hear,” she insisted. “I want to hear it all.”
“All?” He glanced from the window at the moon, hazy and low, hanging above the treetops. “It’s a long story,” he said with a chuckle. “It could take me all night.”
The girl leaned back, staring up at the needles of light fading across the shadowed ceiling. “We have all night,” she replied. “Please, Sinbad! What matter to you now? Tomorrow by this time you shall be gone from Pansa, a memory in my heart and nothing more. But tonight — her face glowed with excitement — “ah, tonight we share together, the two of us, alone with only our thoughts and dreams.” Sinbad hesitated, and she took his hand, locking her dark eyes with his own. “Tell me, Sinbad,” she implored. “Speak to me of this city called Baghdad, of your adventures, of all the strange and wondrous things you’ve seen. Tell me, Sinbad, of friends and foes, of honesty and deceit, of glories and defeats, of riches and nobles, of beggars and thieves. Tell me all this and more, entrust to.me everything, and I can gaze into your life the way a Gypsy gazes into her crystal of magic. The very secrets of your being, Sinbad. I shall settle for no less.”
Sinbad listened to her, enchanted by her charms and wiles. Her eagerness reminded him in some ways of himself and his own thirst to know the world’s mysteries. The matters that Elisa had asked about were often painful for him, though, and never before had he shared them with anyone. Yet here he was, beside this Castilian beauty, so distant from home and about to bare his soul. He never would have thought it possible.
“All right,” he said with a sigh. “I’ll tell you all. Some will seem strange, I know, much even unbelievable. But I ask that you listen and trust that all spoken tonight is truth. I would have it no other way.”
Elisa readily nodded, thrilled at the prospect.
Sinbad sat back comfortably, his eyes now closed, ready to start the story. But where was he to begin? Should it be in those early days when adventure was new and his exploits sung in ballads by pretty handmaidens at the caliph’s court? Should he recount to Elisa each of his fabled world voyages, telling the incredible perils he surmounted to achieve fame and fortune?
These tales were all but meaningless now, he decided. His real story began only later — much later, in fact. Perhaps on the same day that he returned home from the voyage that was to be his final one. His ship had sailed from the port of Basra, up the Tigris River to Baghdad itself, beneath purple skies and a golden sun. How bright the future had seemed! How wonderful the world and life! And how invincible he had thought to himself. There was nothing not his for the asking, and his life was about to bloom.
Yes, that was the place to begin. But was it merely a year ago that all this happened, or countless lifetimes? Perhaps both, perhaps neither. Perhaps existence itself was only a dream …
PART TWO
Why Sinbad was forced to flee his beloved Baghdad and how he met Don Giovanni, and how they both decided to share the future.
A serene quiet lay over the ancient city of Baghdad that early dawn. It was summer, and the heat waves had already begun to dance from roof to roof and shimmer in the pale light of polished marble walls. Dozens of spires and minarets cast the purple shadows of morning, while the domes of mosques and public buildings were softened by the lingering haze of the night before. Few citizens had yet roused from their slumber on this holiday, and only the occasional clatter of hooves against flagstone broke the tranquil silence.
Rubbing the sleep from his eyes, Schahriar, caliph of all Baghdad, drew aside the embroidered curtains of his resplendent bedchamber and peered over the balcony wall, beyond the courtyard and park below, beyond the gardens and well-tended hedges, past the palace grounds with its fine statues and spouting fountains, and out toward the city itself. His beloved city.
Each morning, throughout all the twenty-seven years since he had taken the throne, his routine rarely varied. He enjoyed gazing upon the city when he awoke, just as he did at night, before he retired. He loved his city, and guarded her interests with jealousy, even as his soldiers alertly guarded her from harm. Justice for every man had been his guiding principle since the beginning — justice for all, not merely for those of wealth and powerful position within the court. And because of this, his people loved him dearly.
Yet Schahriar was unhappy. Nearing the twilight of his years, he now wished only two wishes: first, that his memory remain strong; second, that before he died Allah might grant him an heir. A son. For although his wives had borne him sixty-three beautiful and clever daughters, he had no male to carry on in his place. And so it was that the mighty caliph, despite his abundance, grew tense and bitter in the short time left to him.
As he gazed somberly at the sun, rising majestically over the turquoise waters of the Tigris River, he was hardly aware when the doors to his bedroom opened and a dark-faced, turbaned man came to his side. Although his dress was that of the court, his very stance readily told that he once had been a soldier. Now in his middle years, it was only the deep lines in his face that betrayed his advancing age. He held himself proudly, chin always high, wide shoulders thrown back, chest expansive, and bowed respectfully before his liege.
“Good morning, sire,” he said in a husky voice.
Schahriar turned to him in greeting. “Ah, good minister, you startled me.”
“Forgive me, my liege, but your thoughts must have been most intent not to have heard me knock.”
The caliph put his palms to his rounded belly and smiled. “Old age does many strange things to men,” he observed.
The minister frowned, seemingly offended. “You are as trim as your palace captains,” he snorted. “Let no man tell you otherwise.” He had served his caliph
for every one of the twenty-seven years of his reign, shared with Schahriar both fortune and misfortune, fought as a brother at his side, stood by him through times of peril and luck. And now it saddened him greatly to see his liege so despondent, lost in morbid thought about his death, and his sorrow for the lack of an heir.
Still smiling, the caliph grasped him by the shoulders. “Thank you, dear friend and lifetime companion. Of all my flock, you are without question the most faithful.”
The minister shook his head firmly. “No, sire. You are wrong. All your people love you and admire you. They always have, and they always shall.”
Schahriar nodded sadly and turned his gaze back to his panoramic view. By now the sun was full and blazing; he could hear the call to prayer issued by the holy men quite plainly, and sleepy-eyed citizens were already leaving their homes and taking to the busy thoroughfares. “’Tis true they may love me now,” he said. “Yet, without the heir I seek, I will soon be forgotten. Lost to the pages of history, a brief chapter in Baghdad’s glorious past.”
Beneath heavy black brows, the minister’s gray eyes grew cold. “Never, sire! With my own hand I would strangle the man who dared utter such untruths before me. I could name for you a hundred men — nay, a thousand! — who would take their very lives gladly if you so required it!”
The weary caliph drummed his fingers against his thighs, knowing that in his heart this was so. Yet …
“You mean me well, Dormo. You are the best friend I have ever had. My cousin chose well in taking you for a husband … ”
“Sire — ” The minister flushed in humility, and the caliph raised an imperial hand for him to hold his tongue. “But alas,” Schahriar continued, “my people have memories shorter than your own. As long as their bellies are filled and our troops protect their land and homes, they care not the name of the man who rules them.”
Dormo the Greek responded angrily. “It’s not so, my liege! I recall the day we fought the Assyrian barbarians; the people kissed your feet, throngs lined the streets to greet your triumphant homecoming, throwing flowers and kisses, reciting ballads, praising your name as though you were the Prophet of Islam himself!”
The caliph sighed. “Yes, minister,” he murmured, recalling that day of glory. “But that was long, long ago. We were both young men then.”
“And what of the years since? See for yourself, sire!” Dormo’s arm gestured grandly, sweeping across the city, encompassing the mountain lands in the distance and the nearby river. “Baghdad can sleep peacefully because of your reign, my lord. Is this not true? Strike out my tongue if I lie! We have no famine, our storage houses are bulging with produce, and no man, save for the lowest of beggars, knows the meaning of hunger. And look to our ships! Even as we speak, they ply the river from the coast, laden with goods and trade, each cargo furnishing Baghdad with greater variety than even Damascus can boast.” He bowed stiffly. “All this is because of you, sire. No man can claim to replace you.”
Schahriar eyed him skeptically. “No man, loyal soldier and friend?” He glanced again at the calm waters, singling out a ship larger than the others. The ship flew golden banners from its highest mast as it cut sharply through the water toward the city. Already small crowds of people were lining the banks of the Tigris, cheering and applauding while the sleek, fast vessel sailed toward its berth.
“There be one man who might take my place,” he said.
The caliph’s First Minister also recognized the ship at once — he knew there were few men in all of Baghdad who could not. The return of this ship had become a cause of great festivity.
“Captain Sinbad,” mumbled Dormo.
Schahriar nodded dourly. “Aye. Captain Sinbad.”
The minister shook his head. “I still say you are wrong, sire. Sinbad is counted among your most worthy and loving subjects. Never once has he begrudged your coffers their share of his fortunes. Gladly he has given, and does give. There is no malice in his heart, I assure you. He seeks naught for himself, not even the riches he acquires. Why, all men know that of each gold piece of profit, fully one third he gives to the poor.”
“And my people adore him for it,” grumbled the caliph. “Be not misled, my friend. I, too, love Sinbad. In many ways I regard him as of my own family.” He shook his head ruefully. “Yet I fear his name shall one day overshadow my own.”
“Never!” flared the minister with indignation. “As much as I regard the man, I would see him exiled or dead before letting that happen.”
Schahriar eyed his companion keenly. Cheers were resounding more loudly now from all quarters of the city; criers joyously ran through the streets issuing the tidings: “Sinbad is back! Captain Sinbad has returned!”
“Do you see?” said the caliph.
Dormo, who had once been a slave, freed by Schahriar thirty years before, nodded gloomily. “What is to be done?” he asked in a whisper.
The caliph stood thoughtful and silent for a time, and then he said: “I must have an heir. I must find for myself a new wife, one who can surely bear me a son while there is yet time.”
Dormo sighed with relief that the request was only this. “I shall scour the kingdom for a woman to please you, sire.”
Schahriar waved a hand. “That will not be necessary, minister. I have given the matter careful consideration.” He leaned in closer to his friend. “And I have already chosen.”
The First Minister’s eyebrows rose. “My lord?”
The caliph chuckled. “I have chosen a girl, perhaps the fairest in the land. The daughter of a man dear to me, whom I know shall respect my wishes to the letter and see to it his child comes to me willingly.”
A thin smile crossed the First Minister’s lips. As long as he had known the caliph, Schahriar had never failed to surprise him.
“I have stood by you all my life, sire,” Dormo said. “First as palace captain, then as general of your army. Now as minister and trusted vizier, keeper of your state. Let me wonder no longer; my curiosity cannot be contained. Whose daughter have you chosen to be your bride?”
The Caliph of Baghdad grinned. “Your own.”
At first Dormo laughed, but the caliph’s stony expression indicated that humor had definitely not been intended, and as this realization dawned, Dormo visibly paled. “You … you cannot be serious, sire … “
“Ah, but I am. Scheherazade must wed me before the week is done.”
“But — but — “ sputtered Dormo, “she is already betrothed! Since childhood! Surely you know that!”
The caliph looked at him callously. “That vow is voided by imperial edict. It no longer exists. Both parties shall be so informed today.”
Dormo swallowed hard. He loved the caliph, he truly did. If Schahriar were to demand his head, he would chop it off himself if necessary. But to do this? To tear his beloved daughter away from the man she adored … It was a higher price than he could ever have imagined.
“I beg you, sire,” he pleaded, falling to his knees and kissing both of the caliph’s bejeweled hands. “Do not ask this of me. Do not force my child to be wrenched from the man who has sworn to wed her. The man who — ”
But Schahriar was unrelenting. He had made up his mind and no power on earth could alter it. “Speak not to me of this man!” he barked in anger, veins popping from his thick throat. “This man must keep forever silent! And he must bless this wedding even as I know you shall.”
“But sire!”
The caliph’s face darkened with contempt. “Don’t grovel like a dog, Dormo. You should be pleased. Your daughter shall bear the future caliph of all Baghdad!”
“I am pleased,” he stammered, seeking words not to offend. “But I am also concerned. Sire, both my daughter and her betrothed are deeply in love Would you rob the young of happiness?”
“For an heir, yes!” boomed the caliph, his voice thundering through the hallways of the grand palace. ‘‘You shall depart for your home at once — and tell Scheherazade of my decision.”
&
nbsp; Dormo nodded, his face broken out in a cold sweat. “And what shall I tell her betrothed?”
The caliph s eyes flickered. He would have his bride and his heir, and be rid of a thorn in his side forever. “Tell our daring Captain Sinbad whatever you will — but inform him that should he argue the point, my executioners shall gladly finish the debate for him. Now go!”
Dormo, the Greek vizier, First Minister of the caliph’s court, bowed low. Then, as he hurried from the chamber to carry the shattering tidings, he realized, for perhaps the first time in his life, just how evilly fate could deal with those who greeted it with innocent smiles.
*
From where Scheherazade stood in the cool shadows of the roofless gallery, she could see against the evening sky the hills leading away toward the desert. She closed her eyes, aware of the tears, and drew a deep breath of fragrant air rising from the lush gardens below. She was not only weary, but sick in spirit as well. Her entire world had come crashing in on her, violently, terrifyingly. This wasn’t really happening, she told herself over and over, hoping somehow to convince her broken heart that the news her father had brought this afternoon had only been an illusion. It couldn’t be otherwise. It couldn’t!
A servant quietly entered the open chamber, lighting the lamps on the pedestals, opening the curtains more fully so that sunset could be observed in all its glorious splendor. Scheherazade loved to watch the sun go down and the stars rise. As a child she had spent countless hours in this very room, gazing and musing, listening to the birds sing and observing the breathtaking beauty of the day’s end. This evening, though, her thoughts were far from the glitter of stars and the shine of the moon. Rubbing nervously at her arms, biting hard on trembling lips, she bowed her head and cried softly to herself. For her, life had come to an end; the future was past and she was doomed.
Dormo entered the room without a sound and beckoned for the servant to leave. His heart ached as he looked at his daughter, feeling her pain and sympathizing with her misery. But what was there for him to do? None of this had been his own idea, in front of almighty Allah he had fallen before the caliph and begged him to change his mind. All his efforts had been futile, though; the caliph was resolute. To try and deceive Schahriar would only make matters worse, and heads would roll for it.
The Thief of Kalimar; Captain Sinbad; Cinnabar Page 49