Would it be today? Would Aziza meet me in the Court of Oranges?
Would love await me there? Or adventure and death?
Chapter 12
*
AT NOON IN the Court of Oranges the sun was hot. The air was heavy with the scent of flowers and lazy with the sound of running water. At noon in the Court of Oranges there was a shuffling of feet as the white-robed thousands moved slowly into the mosque. Above them the palms cast slender shadows over the orange trees, and golden fruit shone through the glossy leaves like the Golden Apples of legend.
There were four great basins in the Court of Oranges and water tumbled into them with a pleasant, sleepy sound. The air hung still and hot, thick with the scent of jasmine and rose, and along the walls were hibiscus, great soft red flowers beside others of pale gold or white.
On the north side of the Court was a minaret, one hundred and eight feet tall, so beautiful it might have been dreamed rather than constructed by the hands of men. Stately, beautiful, and created of stone intricately woven with threads of gold in fantastic tracery. At noon in the Court of Oranges I moved along with the shuffling throng, one of them but not of them, for my mind was not on things devout, nor my eyes upon the ground.
Here and there people stood about in groups or waited alone, muttering prayers or soaking up the hot, sultry beauty of the place. And among them might be Aziza.
Also among them might be the spies or the soldiers of ibn-Haram, for I knew what might be expected of that cold-faced soldier.
During my weeks of listening to the idle talk of the bazaars, I had overheard a good bit of gossip about ibn-Haram. Skilled in intrigue, merciless to his enemies, he was utterly without scruple, a strong, dangerous, intelligent man, inordinately ambitious and a supporter of the caliph. It was whispered that he aspired to the caliphate himself.
Against him and against Yusuf was arrayed an army of quiet but determined people, some of whom were supporters of the Umayyad dynasty, long out of power, and others linked to the Almoravids. In addition to these were those who belonged to no party: the poets, philosophers, and men of intellect who feared the ignorance, the bigotry, and destructive policies of Yusuf. So far the caliph had interfered little with such groups, but many believed their time was short.
Of these Count Redwan was one. He had long been an antagonist of the Almohads, and it was his plan to bring the daughter of ibn-Sharaz to Córdoba and unite her in marriage to a descendant of the Umayyads. Then, with the power of William of Sicily behind them, they would seek the caliphate once more.
It was a bold plan and might well succeed, for William had strong friends in Africa, and even more friends among the pirates of Almería with their great wealth and many ships.
Ibn-Haram no doubt intended to hold Aziza as hostage to keep ibn-Sharaz and William II out of the picture.
Feet shuffled softly in the Court of Oranges, and easing from the crowd, I stood in the shade of the orange trees, inhaling the perfume of the blossoms and watching the crowd from under my brows, my head lowered.
Aziza was no fool. In all of Spain, perhaps in all of Europe, there was no place so easy to lose oneself as here, at this hour.
A gentle hand touched my sleeve, and it was she.
Her dark eyes looked into mine, and I wanted to take her in my arms, to forget the place, the time, the danger.
“Do not look at me like that!” she protested, in a whisper. “You frighten me!” But if the look in her eyes was fear, I could wish that all women would be so frightened.
“How else could I look at you? You are beautiful!”
“We cannot stay here.”
“Where is Redwan?”
“I do not know. He is a prisoner. I know not where.”
Soldiers appeared at the outer gate. There were four…six…eight.
Not seeming to hurry, I took Aziza’s arm and stepped into the shuffling throng. Within the temple was a long vista of arches and columns, shadowed and still but for the rustling of garments.
Across the mosque was a door, a very small door not often used, but one I had located before this, recognizing its possibilities. Escaping the crowd, we slipped through the door to the small garden beyond. Across it, then out in a public park.
We moved sedately then, yet I was thinking as we walked. It was unlikely my connection with ibn-Tuwais was known. Mahmoud knew of it, and Haroun, but if I could get there, horses would be available, and I had scouted several escape routes through the alleys of the city.
Past the stalls of sellers of incense, past the merchants of silk, past the astrologers and seers, we turned a corner into an empty, high-walled street where nothing moved but the wind, nothing loitered but the shadows.
Ibn-Tuwais greeted us and led us into the house. “You need explain nothing. This house was built in a time of trouble.”
We followed to an inner chamber. He turned sharply in an alcove and leaned hard against the wall. The wall swung soundlessly inward, revealing a dark, narrow stair. “It has been used before this.” He handed me a candle. “You will find food and wine.”
When Aziza had taken the candle and gone down the stairs, the old man whispered, “It was near here where she disappeared, and they have begun a search of the entire quarter. You must remain until the search is completed.
“But”—he had started to walk away—“if anything happens to me there is a passage behind the wall. It opens in the same way and leads beyond the walls. When you leave the passage ride to the Castle of Othman. It is a ruin inhabited only by owls. You may hide there until you can escape.”
“How can we ride?”
“The passage is for horses. It was made for sorties by cavalry. There is an entrance from within our stable, and your horses have already been taken below. There is food for them and for you, and a spring flows through a channel there. If necessary, you could remain hidden for weeks, but I would not advise it.”
He paused, then his eyes hardened. “You are not a Moslem, but you have a lady in your care, a very important lady. If it should chance that she is harmed in any way, it would mean both your lives.”
“Hers too?”
“Hers most of all. She would be killed, without question. Guard yourself, and her as well.”
He hesitated again. “If circumstances permit you to return, my house is yours, always.”
“At the Castle of Othman? There is a place to hide?”
His detail of the ruin was quick, explicit, and with military efficiency. “Quickly now! You must go!”
The door closed behind me, and I descended the steep stairs in darkness. Aziza had removed her veil and was placing food and wine upon the low table.
Above us there was a dull sound like the slam of a heavy door, only louder. I drew my sword and turned to face the stair.
Nothing.
Had I brought trouble to ibn-Tuwais? What had happened?
Aziza pointed to the table. “Eat,” she said. “We must be ready when night comes.”
We ate in silence. Of what she thought I know not, but I was brooding about the old man up there. Had I brought torture and death to one I so admired and loved? Yet I could not return to help. To reveal myself now would prove what might be only suspected.
Packs lay upon the floor, for it seems ibn-Tuwais had considered everything. He knew what I was about, and where his sympathies lay. After all, he too was an enemy of Yusuf.
Upon a low table were piles of books. Ibn-Tuwais had expected trouble and had moved his precious library here. In Paris such books might buy a province, or a bishopric. The packs themselves contained food and four books. Obviously, he wished me to have them.
“Sleep,” I told Aziza, “for with night we must go.”
When she lay down I covered her with a robe. It had been early afternoon when we reached the house of ibn-Tuwais. Say four hours of waiting, another hour to travel the passage to a place beyond the wall, and we could emerge in darkness.
From the stack of books I chose one,
a translation from far-off Cathay, Essays of the Dream Pool by Shen Kua.
A long time later when the candle’s length indicated the time had passed, I replaced the book among the others. Someday, perhaps, I would complete it.
Aziza awakened at my touch and, rising, took up a fresh candle and lighted it. Shouldering the packs, I followed her along the passage.
The horses stood waiting, saddled and ready in their underground stable. Mounting, we rode through the passage toward the outer walls of the city.
The top cleared my head by only a few inches, some of it carved from solid rock. Several times we rode through small pools of water, and once for several hundred yards we rode along a stream of clear, cold water.
The passage ended abruptly. We faced a slab of rock; beside it was a lever of bronze. The work here looked like no work of Moor, Goth, or Phoenician, nor had I seen its like before. I thought of the Idol of Cádiz…by the same hands, perhaps?
Dismounting, I lay hold of the lever. An instant I paused, and then I pulled down.
Nothing happened.
Our eyes met in the candlelight. Suppose it would not open? Were we trapped, then?
Waiting an instant, I mustered all my strength, swinging my weight on the lever. Slowly, sluggishly, it yielded. The great slab of rock swung slowly inward, stiff with age and untold years of disuse.
There was a rush of cool night air, of damp vegetation, a sound of trickling water.
Stepping outside, sword in hand, I found myself in a narrow gorge, above me the stars. Only a few feet further along, our trickle of water flowed into a larger stream.
Searching, I found the other lever, artfully concealed in a crack of the rock. Aziza emerged, and I swung the lever down and the door closed, more easily this time, merging perfectly with natural cracks in the rock. Marking the place in my mind, I concealed the lever and all signs of the movement of the door.
Mounting, we walked our horses down the rocky bed of the stream, and after riding for some distance we left the water for an ancient trail, then rode along a lane used by workers going to and from the fields. Far off, we believed we could already see the tower of the Castle of Othman.
Built long ago, already a relic when the first Visigoths came to Spain, it may have dated from the Romans or even the ancient Iberians. Destroyed and rebuilt several times, it had become a place of ill omen, and few cared to risk the dangers that seemed a part of it.
We rode in silence, depressed by our fears for ibn-Tuwais. He might be put to torture or slain. To have returned would only prove that he had aided us, leading to his certain death, and what he had done for us would be wasted.
How long could we maintain ourselves at the Castle of Othman? How long before some passerby stumbled upon us or glimpsed some movement among the ruins?
Yet when we fled the castle, where could we go? For me alone it would be simple enough, yet one did not wander the countryside with a beautiful girl without causing talk, and in no case without a guard of horsemen.
Dawn still lingered beyond the horizon when we rode up the slope to the tower, and a huge old tower it was. There was little else, a ragged battlement, moonlight falling over the broken walls. A lonely, haunted place it was, forgotten upon its hill, a place with the smell of death upon it.
We walked our horses into the open gate and drew rein in the courtyard. It was dark and still when our echoing hoofbeats ceased. A bat fluttered by my head, and an owl spoke inquiringly into the shadows.
We had come to our hiding place, two ghosts to join our companion ghosts, yet my fears were for discovery, not things of the night. We who lived upon the lonely Armorican moors were accustomed to werewolves, vampires, and tursts.
“Mathurin,” Aziza whispered, “I am afraid!”
Stepping down from the saddle, I lifted my hands to her. “The darkness is a friend to the pursued, Aziza, and where we are, love can be. Here we shall stay.”
Chapter 13
*
AT DAWN, IN the Castle of Othman, the sun was bright. The ghosts, if such there were, had fled with the shadows. Water bubbled in the ancient fountain, but where gardens had been, lay a tangle of rank grass, unpruned shrubbery, and trees. Bark fallen from the trees lay on the grass, and over all was a carpet of leaves.
The wall had been breached in some forgotten battle, and the stones lay awry, often covered with vines.
Situated on a hill, the castle dominated the countryside, as much a part of the landscape as an outcropping of rock or an old tree.
At one time the hill must have been more abrupt than now, but debris from the castle itself had made the approach more gradual. On the north were three round towers, all partly in ruin, and on the south three towers, one of these square. This and the tower at the opposite end of the south wall were relatively intact.
The court or bailey was enclosed almost completely but the great hall was in ruins, its roof fallen in. My first action was to make a thorough search of the ruin. The curtains around the inner bailey provided a carefully contrived series of stairs and passages that communicated with every part of the castle so reinforcements might be rushed to any point from the keep.
The keep itself was of three stories, vaulted and pierced by arrow loops at each story. At each level, doorways offered access to all parts of the fortification.
From the keep there was an excellent view of the surrounding country, and all approaches could be observed from concealed positions. Yet what I sought was a way of escape. As Plautus has said, not even a mouse trusts himself to one hole only.
Such ancient castles always provided themselves with one or more secret exits as a means of sortie or escape, which also might be used to smuggle in supplies during a siege.
The square tower, which was the keep, was obviously the oldest part of the structure, and any passage that existed must have a concealed outer opening in a grove, a gorge, or at least a hollow. If I could find such an opening, I might more easily discover the inside entrance to the passage.
While Aziza slept I prowled the passageways, explored the donjons beneath, and studied the surrounding country from every window or breach. There might come a time when escape would be imperative, and it was necessary to know all the depressions, streambeds, and low ground, so one could keep from sight while fleeing. It was a lesson taught by caution: to stop nowhere without finding a way out, a means of escape.
Far in the distance lay Córdoba, but no villages lay near nor any habitation or road. Few traveled unless in strong parties well able to defend themselves, as there were bands of brigands and renegade soldiers wandering about.
The Castle of Othman was remote, alone, obviously unvisited. During my search I found no evidence that anyone had even sought shelter here in many years. It was far from roads, and from a distance appeared more to be a jutting crag than a castle.
For a time at least we would be safe, I hoped.
Returning to the bailey, I studied the interior court covered with grass and saw through the breach the ruins of the castle gardens. These were walled, and between the bailey and the gardens there was grazing for our horses for at least a week and perhaps longer. The food we brought with us would last as long, and might be supplemented by fruit from the garden, although there was little of it.
Sitting inside the keep, I gazed through an arrow loop at distant Córdoba and speculated on what the months had meant to me.
Aside from the lessons of the street and the chance to become more perfect in the use of Arabic, I had profited from conversations overheard, and intellectual discussions in which I had, at times, participated. I had read works by Aristotle, Avicenna, Rhazes, Alhazen, al-Biruni, and many others. I had delved into the sciences of astronomy, logic, medicine, the natural sciences, and necromancy. Each book, each author, each conversation seemed to open new avenues of possibility.
My skill with sword and dagger had improved, and with archery as well, yet I was not satisfied. I still possessed the gems brought from the sale o
f the ship and the ransoms, all except the sapphire, but I had no profession, no trade. I was a landless man, with all that implied. I belonged nowhere, had no protector, served no man. Which made me fair game for all.
It was a time of trouble, and the quickest way to success was war or piracy. Of navigation I knew more than most seafaring men, and I was steeped in the military tactics of Vegetius and others. The profession of arms was that for which I was best fitted, yet I inclined toward scholarship.
Scholars were welcome anywhere, with kings and cities vying for their attention. Yet I was a man alone, without family, without friends, without influence or teachers of reputation.
And what of my father? Was he truly dead?
“Mathurin?”
Aziza came to me along the passage, her face still soft from sleep, her hair awry, yet never more lovely than now.
“I thought you had gone.”
“And left you?”
She came up beside me. “Will they find us here?”
“I doubt it. Can you endure this place for a while?”
“If you are here.”
We sat together looking out over the plain of Andalusia. Far away, so far our eyes could scarcely make it out, there was movement on the high road that led from Córdoba to Seville. A few fleecy clouds drifted idly, casting shadows on the tawny plain.
We went below, ate from our small store, and drank water from the fountain. From under the trees I gathered sticks to keep inside in the event of rain, and Aziza, child of luxury though she was, gathered them beside me. We cleared a small room near the garden where we could sleep.
Looking about the ruin, I thought how quickly this could become irksome, less to me than to her who had never been without her comforts, never without a servant at call. For now the novelty and the strangeness appealed. There was also that other thing of which I thought, and which must surely come to her mind as well. If we were found together, we would both be killed, and for no other reason than that.
Questions haunted me. What had become of ibn-Tuwais? What was ibn-Haram thinking now, and where was he searching?
Novel 1984 - The Walking Drum (v5.0) Page 10