“No!” he lifted his hands as if to shield himself. “Take the fruit and go!” Seizing a small clutch of bananas he thrust them at me. “Take these also, but go. I am a poor man. I have done no harm. I did not know. I thought…”
Jerking the bananas from his hand, I glared at him, then strode away, inwardly pleased at my good fortune. Truly, there was power in the word.
Walking along, I ate the bananas and the orange as well. It was overripe and not to my taste, but it was food. Then I rinsed my hands in a fountain and dried them on my shirt. With food in my stomach my mood expanded. I began to think of a place to sleep.
If curses were to be the answer, I could invent horrendous ones, but there must be simpler solutions. Why should I lie in a cold and dusty street when I might rest my head on the shoulder of some wealthy widow looking for solace? Yet if such there were, they would not look with favor upon me in my rags.
There is, after all, an atmosphere that hangs about success that is favorable to the breathing of beautiful women.
No doubt this follows some law of physics, some aspect of feminine instinct or of feminine laws of survival. Despite my tattered clothing and bruised body, I still had my wits. Somewhere, somehow, I would find a bed.
The last of the day was gone, the side streets were shuttered and closed, becoming caverns of darkness, empty of life.
There were lighted streets in Córdoba, but upon these walked the young men of fashion, roistering soldiers, men out upon the town. Many of these had I known, but none could I count as friends. I could beg, a few coins, perhaps?
No, not the son of Kerbouchard.
My feet strayed into a narrow alley between two high walls of baked clay, beyond one of them I heard a feminine voice, softly singing. A haunting song of love sung by a lonely voice. Beyond, the sound of falling water.
My eyes estimated the wall. It would not do to be caught in the women’s quarters of a Moslem house. Men had been killed or castrated for less.
However—I leaped, catching the top of the wall, swinging up to lie flat atop it. Had the music missed a beat? The fingers throbbed the strings of the qitara and the plaintive voice lifted again. The words yearned with memories of the desert, dunes, and palm trees, of the black tents of the Bedouin.
The song’s words hung inquiring into the night; the water fell in a fountain, and there was a heavy smell of jasmine, a sense of delightful coolness after the day’s heat. Swinging my feet over, I dropped to the ground, and the music of the strings whispered away and faded, leaving only the memory of sound.
Feet shuffled by in the street I had quit only in time, and I looked about me, feet apart, hands on my hips.
“Who are you, and what do you want?”
There was a difference in the tone, not that of a frightened girl nor of a woman of the harem. There was unexpected assurance, a voice accustomed to command. My refuge lay in frankness.
“I am a man without money, a man with many enemies. My only food in days was a little fruit in a market, nor do I have a place to sleep.
“However, despite my garb, I am a man of honor, a warrior, and a son of warriors, a man who can sail a ship, compose a rhyme, discourse upon the laws of men and nations, fight a duel, or treat a wound.”
“Leave this garden at once, by the way you came. If I am forced to call my slaves, they will kill you.”
“There is no deliverance from a destiny decreed by Allah,” I said with my tongue in my cheek, “but surely it cannot be my destiny to be sent to starve by one so lovely? If I am here, it was only because of you, of your voice, of the song you sang. Your song called to me. I had no will but to answer.”
Taking a step nearer, I said, “You see in me a Celt, the son of Kerbouchard the Corsair, a wanderer, a man without home, family, or lands, but if you have use for a sword, I know the blade.”
“You must go.”
Did I detect a softening of resistance? A relenting? A suggestion of growing interest? Man’s greatest advantage in the battle of the sexes is woman’s curiosity. She was in the shadows, beyond the reach of my eyes, yet the voice was of a woman both young and well-bred.
“If you drive me from your garden, my enemies may take me, and if they do, I shall be strangled.”
“These enemies of whom you speak? Who are they?”
Ah, the shrewdness of it! was fairly trapped, but the risk was one I must accept. Perhaps I stood in the garden of an enemy, of one with allegiance to those who sought me.
No matter, I had trusted to honesty thus far. I would persist. I must stake all, and hope that emotion would rule rather than political favor.
“Prince Ahmed is my enemy, as is ibn-Haram.”
She moved slightly, to see me better, I guessed, for she was still in darkness. “To have such enemies you must be more than a mere Celtic adventurer. I had not heard that Prince Ahmed was—ah?”
She paused as if remembering.
“Prince Ahmed? Are you the one then? The one who spent a week with Prince Ahmed’s bride? If so, you are the toast of Córdoba.”
She paused. “What is it you want?”
“Sanctuary until I am rested. A bath. Clothing, if it can be obtained. I can stand being hungry but not unclean.”
“Step into the light.”
I did so. “See?” I said mockingly. “I am dirty, I am ragged, but I am a man.”
“The story of your escape is repeated at every gathering in Córdoba, Seville, and Cádiz.”
She stepped into the light. She was small, deliciously shaped. She indicated a door. “Accept what I am giving. Demand more and I shall call the guards.”
I bowed. “Thank you, Princess. I am most grateful.”
“What has happened to your face?”
Briefly, I explained, but only the part about returning to the house, being struck down, and left for dead.
She asked but few questions, but each was to the point. Her manner puzzled me. This was no wartime widow, nor yet a wife. Her questions were those of one skilled in obtaining information.
When I dropped over the wall I’d have been pleased to find only a corner where I could sleep in security, to be on my way in the morning, but there was mystery here. Her eyes held a calculating expression that had nothing to do with my physique.
Women in the Moslem worlds of Spain or the Middle East were not restricted and had attained eminence in the field of letters. Many had attended universities and had a liberty unbelievable to Christian Europe. With all the talk of chivalry among the Franks, women were considered mere chattels.
The house in which I found myself was not large, yet showed every evidence of affluence.
A robe was thrown over a marble bench when I emerged from the bath, and I donned it. A moment later she returned and without a glance at me, placed a bundle of clothing on the bench.
My face was still too tender to shave, but I trimmed my beard in the Moslem fashion and dressed myself. The clothing was the plain but substantial clothing of a man of means, of quality but unobtrusive. There might be five thousand in Córdoba who would dress in similar fashion.
She awaited me in a small room that adjoined her living area, and on the table there was tea, bread, fruit, and a few slices of cold meat and cheese.
Her name was Safia. While we ate she questioned me about my activities, and I told her of my escape from the galley, of my studies, my imprisonment, and my flight.
Safia was older than I, older than the girls I had known, and it was obvious her interest was not in any minor escapade. Quite simply she told me she had plans with which I might help, and that might be profitable to me.
She indicated a pile of rugs and pillows on the floor. “You may sleep there.”
“Of course. Where else?”
Her eyes narrowed a little. This woman had a temper. “We will talk in the morning.”
Again, from the sands of despair I had salvaged the water of well-being. The future remained in doubt, but I had eaten, drunk, bathed, and was freshly
clad. Beneath me, when I finally lay down, was a bed not too soft.
Safia, my lady of the fountain, had the body of a siren, the face of a goddess, and the mind of an Armenian camel dealer. What ideas she had I could not surmise, but Córdoba was a place of intrigue, an art in which the Arab mind was uniquely gifted.
Was she an Arab? A Berber? A Jewess? I could not guess, nor had she given me the slightest hint or clue. Her few questions and comments when I related my story gave evidence that she was well aware of what was happening in Spain, and there was no doubt she was involved somehow, in some way.
No doubt I was to be involved also. No doubt I was a tool to be used, but a tool that would be careful of his own interest, and his own life.
My fingers felt for my dagger. At least, I had that. Tomorrow, with luck, a sword.
In the meantime there was sleep.
Chapter 20
*
CÓRDOBA WAS A universe, a universe in which revolved many planets, each isolated to a degree from all others. Now, following the night meeting in the garden, I inhabited one of those planets.
My world was made up of those who worked, as I now did, for the Society of Translators. Those and the few shopkeepers I met in the daily round of my new life. It needed but a word from Safia to take me to a hearing from the scholars.
My excellent handwriting satisfied them, but then it was requested that I read aloud and translate from works both Latin and Arabic. On the table was a volume of the Canon of Avicenna, known here by his proper name, ibn-Sina. As I had studied it previously, my translation was satisfactory.
They gave me the task of copying the Index of Sciences compiled by al-Nadim in 988.
Each daybreak I arose, dressed sedately, and walked through the streets to the library. There I was among older men, far more interested in the matter of the manuscripts before them than the personalities of their fellow workers.
In the evening I walked home through a park, occasionally sitting down to read under the trees. During all this time I saw few people, none whom I knew.
My work was painstaking yet fascinating. Two months passed in this quiet endeavor. My trained memory absorbed facts easily, skipping all that was unnecessary, but avid for that information that might be of use.
My command of Arabic improved, as did my knowledge of both Greek and Latin, and from Safia I was learning Persian. As the streets were dangerous for me, I avoided those where I might encounter someone whom I had known, but my hours were such that the chance was slight.
Despite my initial confidence, Safia had not found me irresistible. In fact, if she was aware of my maleness at all, it escaped me. This made our relationship simple yet quite pleasant.
That she possessed a mind quite out of the ordinary was immediately obvious, also that she was engaged in some occupation that required secrecy. It soon became apparent, although she told me nothing, that she was the center for many sources of information. Little happened in Córdoba of which she was not aware, nor in Seville, Toledo, Málaga, or Cádiz.
The fact that our relations remained as simple as they were was in part due to the daughter of an innkeeper near where I lived. We had passed each other on the street occasionally, never speaking, but mutually aware. She was a full-bosomed lass with dark Moorish eyes ringed with black lashes, and as I have said, we often passed each other. And then there was a day when we did not pass.
My childhood training in Druidic lore had given me memory and the habit of learning, and for me to copy a book was for me to know it. Among other things I found in the library was a veritable storehouse of maps, many ancient and long out of date, some very new. Some of these were the portolans used by merchant mariners in navigating, trading, living along the coasts. The best of these I copied on bits of parchment, and soon I had a packet of charts of my own.
Then one day John of Seville visited the library and spoke to the various translators. When he greeted me as an old friend, there was a subtle change in the atmosphere. In the cloistered stillness of the library, among rolls of parchment, my big shoulders must have seemed out of place. Despite my efforts at maintaining a subdued profile it was obvious I was a man of the out-of-doors, of the sea, and the battlefield. John of Seville was a noted scholar, and to be his friend was to command respect.
“You have lived an eventful life, Mathurin,” John suggested, his eyes twinkling.
“I was not aware it had attracted attention.”
“You have made enemies, but you have also won friends.”
“Friends? I have no friends.”
“Am I not your friend?”
“I am honored, but I scarcely believed you would remember. But other friends? I know nothing of them. The one friend I thought I had was he who betrayed me to my enemies.”
“But when you escaped, was there not a horse waiting for you?”
“You know of that? Then who am I to thank?”
“I am not at liberty to say. Let it suffice that somebody believed you were too good a man to die in such a way, at such a time.
“Someone,” he added, smiling, “who believed in your somewhat unique abilities to believe that given a chance you could escape.”
No more would he tell me. He asked about my work and was impressed when I repeated pages of an ancient manuscript.
“I envy your memory. It was training, you said?”
“For generations, on my mother’s side of the family, there were Druids. They were the masters of our history, lore, and ritual, all committed to memory. I do not know if a good memory can be inherited, but we all had such memories, and then there was the training—”
“Yes?”
“I cannot speak of it. Only this I can say. It is a method of using the mind as one uses a burning glass. If one focuses the sun’s rays through such a glass, the heat becomes intense and will start a fire. With us it was a matter of focusing the attention, so that what we saw once was ours forever. Although I must say, repeated readings are a help.”
After the visit of John of Seville, I found myself included in small gatherings of the translators when they met away from the library, so in a small way I became a part, a listening part, of that great city.
Often I heard of Valaba, the beautiful woman I had seen in a coffeehouse with Averroës. Her home, it seemed, was a gathering place for beauty and intellect.
In the library I read translations of Heraclitus, Socrates, Plato, Empedocles, Pythagoras, and Galen. Hunayn ibn-Ishaq, who translated Hippocrates and Galen, had also translated Plato. I made several copies of each of these works, for at first I was given more copying to do than translation.
Then I was given a book to translate from the Persian, The Qabus Nama, written by Kai Ka’us ibn-Iskander, Prince of Gurgan, in 1082. It was a book of advice to his son, considering all aspects of his life as a prince and as a man.
In his chapter on enemies, I came upon this passage: Ever remain aware of your enemy’s activities, secret or otherwise; never feel secure against his treachery against you, and consider constantly ways in which you may outwit or defeat him.
My eyes lifted from the page. How could I be sure ibn-Haram or Prince Ahmed did not know of my presence? How could I be sure I was hidden from them simply because I stayed away from old acquaintances?
Thus far I had not followed the advice of Kai Ka’us. My enemies had acted against me, not I against them. Should I give thought to preventive warfare? And to securing my own position, for was I not vulnerable?
Thus far I had trusted to my blade, my strength, and my luck. It was insufficient. I must build defenses, and the only defense possible was that offered by influential friends. I had none.
Could I not spy out his position? Discover his intentions? Duban had told me ibn-Haram was a supporter of Yusuf but was himself ambitious for power.
So then, I needed friends; I needed information; and if not able to defeat my enemy, I could at least elude him.
My face had healed; my strength returned. New blood se
emed to flow in my veins. The coffee shops were beyond my small income, but there were other shops to which I might go and drink sherbet and listen to the idle talk.
Desperately, I wanted a sword, but dressed as a scholar, I must proceed carefully not to excite curiosity.
On a warm day I found myself in a remote bazaar and was glancing at some sandals while actually studying the swords in an adjoining booth. They were fine weapons of Damascus and Toledo steel.
Suddenly, a man stopped almost beside me and chose a scimitar from among those exposed for sale. He tried the balance of the weapon, whipping it through the Persian manual with skill. I started to move away when suddenly he spoke. “Here, Scholar, try your hand. Would you not say this was a fine weapon?”
I knew that voice. It was Haroun.
Keeping my face averted, I said, “I know little of weapons, emir. I am a mere student.”
He spoke in a lower tone. “Do not play with me, Kerbouchard. I know you.”
Looking directly into his eyes, I said, “I have had little reason to trust my old friends.”
“Because of Mahmoud? He was always jealous of you, and when Aziza showed interest in you rather than him—he is very vain, you know.”
“And you?” I asked bitterly.
“I am still your friend,” he replied calmly, “if you will have it so. Did I not let you pass at the gate?”
“You knew me?”
“Not at once. Only after you had passed. It was your walk. I dared not speak to you, for the soldiers would have been curious. After that I looked for you but could find you nowhere.”
We went to a cubbyhole of a place to drink sherbet and talk.
He wore the uniform of one of Yusuf’s crack cavalry regiments. He was a square-built man of great physical strength and was maturing rapidly under the harshness of the military training. Less agile in conversation than Mahmoud, he never spoke without thinking.
Haroun was one of those calm, relaxed men who are capable of tremendous outbursts of dynamic action. I knew the type well, for my father had been such a man.
“You have plans?” he asked.
“To learn, and to learn more. To find if my father lives, and then to see more of the world. I have thought of India.”
Novel 1984 - The Walking Drum (v5.0) Page 15