“I, too, have thought of it, but who knows anything of India?”
“I know of it.”
“You?”
“There are books. Arab ships sometimes sail there, and there is a route through the desert.” Looking around at him, I said, “My destiny is there, Haroun. I feel it.”
He arose. “Perhaps one day we will meet there, or we might go together.” He gripped my shoulder. “It has been good to see you. Like the old days.”
He stepped outside into the evening. “And Mahmoud? Do you see him?”
“Mahmoud is an important man now. He is close to Prince Ahmed.”
“I think of him,” I said, “but there are others who come first.”
“Be careful,” he warned, “you tread upon loose sand.”
“One thing more. Do you know the name Zagal?”
“He commands many soldiers, and rules a taifa. Is he your enemy, too?”
I told him the story of Sharasa and of Akim. Until now I had believed the attackers had been men sent by Yusuf; now I discovered Zagal was a minor ruler of one of the smaller principalities into which Moorish Spain was divided.
“It is nothing,” I said. “I would simply like to know if she fares well.”
“From what you have said I imagine wherever she is, she will be doing well.” He smiled. “If you attempt to protect all the girls you meet, I foresee an active life.”
We parted, but I felt better. It was good to know Haroun was still my friend. However, I had not told him what I was doing, and I wandered about to make sure I was not followed before going home.
It was that night I told Safia of my father, and that despite reports of his death I believed he still lived. She asked me a number of questions about the galley, its crew, and where he had been bound. Then his age, description, and any scars or marks upon his body.
“You should have told me sooner, but no matter. It is possible I can learn something about him.”
Before I could ask her how she could possibly get such information, she handed me a key. “Go to this place.” She described it. “You will find four horses. Look at them and decide if they have speed and strength. Then I wish you to take one day each week for the next four weeks and buy supplies for a trip.”
“You are going away?”
“We are going. I told you I might have need of you.” She turned to look at me. “Mathurin, if I have need, it will be a desperate need. I want nothing spoken of this. Do not go near the horses by day, and when you go, be sure you are not followed.”
“When?”
“When I will. You seemed to be a man of enterprise, and it was such I have needed. Is your friend Haroun to be trusted?”
“I am sure of it.”
She smiled at my surprise, for I had not mentioned his name to her. “It is my business to know. It is yours to be ready to help me as I have helped you. One day—soon, I shall have to leave this city quickly.”
“You have only to speak.”
“Please do not misunderstand. I have done what was necessary, and you came offering your services.”
“And I shall not withdraw them.”
The scent of jasmine was heavy in the garden, and I thought of that night, months ago, when I came over that wall, hungry and in rags, in a city filled with enemies. Yes, I was in her debt.
Moorish Spain was a hotbed of intrigue, and plots were forever developing across the Strait of Gibraltar in North Africa, the homeland of the Berber. In Navarre, Castile, and León their rulers looked south toward the luxury of Andalusia with envy.
Realizing time was short, I intensified my study. Medicine and military tactics held first place, but navigation, history, philosophy, chemistry, and botany I studied also.
The key to success in Arab countries of the time lay in none of these. The Arab is by nature a poet. His language is filled with poetry and wonderful sounds, so much so that even state papers were written in poetic form, and the extemporaneous poet was the most sought after of all men.
The Qabus Nama had a chapter of advice on the writing of poetry. Whether the son of the Prince of Gurgan profited by his father’s advice, I did not know, but I did. The prince had died a hundred years or more before my time, but his advice was still good.
One by one I checked escape routes from Córdoba, and I became familiar with the hours of closing the gates, and which guards were most strict or casual. From time to time I shared a bottle with those who would drink, for most Moslems would not.
Sometimes I frequented the low dives, making the acquaintance of mountebanks, jugglers, troubadours, and even thieves. I listened to the storytellers in the bazaars, thinking this might someday be of use. I practiced with the lute, and here or there I dropped a coin in a hand, or bought a meal.
It became known among them that I was the Kerbouchard who had sold the galley and who escaped from the castle where Prince Ahmed had me imprisoned. Bits of information came my way. Ibn-Haram had gone to North Africa. Prince Ahmed had still no son.
No longer was I employed at the great library, for Safia wished me ready to move at a moment’s notice, yet the library was open to me, and the scholars welcomed me. Safia supplied me with money, and the fact that I was earning the money removed my reluctance at accepting it.
There were elaborate catalogues listing the books of the library, some of which were illustrated with great beauty, bound in aromatic woods and embossed leather inlaid with gems.
Among the books that came to the library were some written on the bark of trees, upon palm leaves, among bamboo or the wood of trees cut in thin slices. Others were written on animal skins, bones, thin plates of copper, bronze, antimony, clay, linen, and silk. Papyrus, leather, and parchment were common.
Some were in tongues none of us could translate, such as those from Crete or Thera or Etruscan ruins.
There were scholars at the library who read in Sanskrit, in Pali, Kharoshthi, and even the ancient Kashmir script, Sarada.
Day after day I buried myself in my work, and now that I no longer was engaged in copying or translation, my studies went further afield, for I delved into that great storehouse of manuscripts untouched and unread.
One night Safia came to the room where I slept. “I have news.”
“News?”
“Your father may yet live.”
“What?” My heart was pounding.
“His galley was sunk off Crete, but he or somebody who resembled him was taken from the sea and sold into slavery.”
“Then I must go to Crete.”
“He is no longer there. He was sold to a merchant in Constantinople.”
My father was alive!
“I must go.”
Safia shook her head. “It would be foolish. Those who discovered this are making further inquiries. When I have news, you shall have it.”
Filled with impatience, I had yet to wait. Safia was right, of course. To dash off without further knowledge would be to set myself adrift once more. First, I must know what merchant bought him and if he was still the owner, or if he had sold him, to whom?
I had waited this long. I could wait longer. I would have to trust that Safia would not fail me just as I would not fail in my duty to her.
Chapter 21
*
WHERE SAFIA PROCURED the horses I did not know, but all were of the Al Khamsat al Rasul, the five great breeds superior to all other Arabian horses. Two were Kuhaila, one a Saglawi, the last a Hadbah. Only the third horse was a stallion, the first two and the last were mares, preferred by the Arab.
They were handsome animals, and the groom who cared for them was a desert Arab, a deaf mute.
Obviously, the horses were his life and could be in no better hands, but I took time to caress them and become acquainted, feeding each a few fragments of naida, a confection made by soaking wheat for several days, allowing it to dry, then pounding it into cakes.
After visiting the horses a second time, I left by a roundabout route so that I might not b
e followed, and I discovered myself in the corner of a bazaar where there were several karob and wine shops. Hurrying past, I was stopped by a cool but familiar voice.
“If you wish to know, ask Kerbouchard!”
The voice was that of Valaba.
Turning, I saw her standing in the entrance to a wine shop, two young men beside her. She wore the Byzantine costume affected by some of the fashionable women of Córdoba, a tunic of pale blue that reached to her ankles and a mantle of dark blue embroidered with small Moline crosses of gold.
“Kerbouchard,” she said, “knows the far regions of the world. Ask him.”
One of the young men, slender and pale, merely glanced at me, taking in my rough student’s clothing. The other, a big, loose-jointed young man with mildly amused eyes, was more interested.
“We were speaking of the earth. Is it true that some Christian theologians believe the world to be flat?”
“Theologians,” I said, “should go to sea. The roundness of the world is proved every time a ship disappears over the horizon.”
Valaba turned toward the interior of the shop. “Kerbouchard, it is good to see you again. Will you join us? I would have you tell us of the lands beyond Thule.”
“Beyond Thule?” The tall young man put his hand on my shoulder. “Are there such lands?”
“They are a mystery only to scholars and writers of books. Fishing boats go there each season. I am a Celt, from Armorica, in Brittany. Fishing boats have sailed to those far lands from our isle of Brehat since before memory. Nor were they alone. Basque and Norman boats have been there also, and those from Iceland.”
“Tell me of those lands.”
“That I cannot. Our boat went for fish, and the land is remote, its people savage. When we caught our fish we came home.”
The fair-skinned young man was bored. He was also haughty. His look was disdainful. “A fisherman? In a student’s clothing?”
“We are all fishermen after a fashion,” I said. “Some fish for one thing, some for another.” I smiled at him. “Tell me? What are you fishing for?”
He stared at me, shocked at my reply. Before he could speak, Valaba said gently, her eyes showing her amusement, “You do not understand, Roderick. Mathurin Kerbouchard is Count Kerbouchard. In his country it is customary that all boys learn the way of the sea.”
The title, of course, was nonsense, although it had been said there were such at some bygone time. The rest of what she had said was simply the truth. I wondered how she knew so much. Or had she merely surmised? Titles had never impressed me. They were given to the servants of kings. I knew one who got his by helping the king on with his trousers each morning, or whatever he wore. We Kerbouchards were servants to no man. My father often said that he knew of no king with a family half as old as his own. Not that the age of the family was important, many an old tree bears bad fruit.
Roderick did not like me, but the other young man was interested. He ordered wine for us, coffee for himself. “You are a scholar, yet you have been a man of the sea. It is a rare combination.”
“There is knowledge at sea to be found nowhere else. Lately, I have been reading accounts of many voyages, but so much is left out. The sea has an enduring knowledge passed from father to son for generations.
“It is our custom in sailing from our land to the great fishing grounds in the west to sail to Eire, the green island beyond England. From there it is but five or six days with a fair wind to IceLand, and but two days, perhaps three, to the GreenLand. From there it is another five days or less to the fishing grounds.
“Our fishermen and those of Eire learned of these lands by watching the flight of birds, for when birds which nest only upon land fly off over the ocean, there must be land beyond. Where they flew, land must lie waiting, so fishermen followed a flock as long as it could be seen, then another flock until it was lost to sight, by then they could see mountain peaks on the far land.
“Over the years our people have found many lands, and the monks from Eire, seeking a hermitage, were often there before us. Such men already lived in the Ice Land before the first Vikings came. The Vikings speak of it in their own sagas.
“Explorers and discoverers are often those who draw attention to what simple people have been doing for years. I doubt if any land has ever been found where some hunter, fisherman, or trader had not been before.”
“Such men would not have the courage for such adventure!” Roderick said.
“Who speaks of courage? Or adventure? The men of whom I speak have time for neither. They fish for fish to eat or sell.”
The big young man agreed. “Mas’udi speaks of this in his geography. The seafarers go and return while the geographer sits in his study and tries to shape the earth and its lands according to a theory of his own.”
Valaba was saying nothing, toying with her wine glass and listening. The big young man puzzled me. He had the hands and shoulders of a peasant and the face of a thinker—if such a face there is. It was the face, at least, of a thoughtful man.
His clothing was rich, and the one jewel he wore was a magnificent ruby, yet I could not place him. He was no scholar as such, nor did he have the appearance of a soldier.
We talked long, of the writings of al-Bakri, of Hind, and of Cathay. Over the wine glasses the conversation moved and sparkled over many topics and half the globe.
Valaba suggested, “You must come to my house tomorrow. We are having many guests, and ibn-Quzman will sing.”
Ibn-Quzman, a wandering minstrel, had taken the zajal, a popular form used by troubadours, and given it real distinction. He had become the delight of Córdoba as well as Toledo, Seville, and Málaga. Naturally, I knew of him, yet I had never expected to hear him sing.
Even now I dared not. At such a gathering there would be spies who might report my presence to ibn-Haram or to Prince Ahmed.
“O Light of the World!” I said. “I would choose to spend my life within the sound of your voice, but if I came to your house at such a time, that life would be short, indeed.”
The big young man smiled. “Come,” he said, “I want very much to speak with you again, and you need not fear arrest. You have my word.”
He arose, and Valaba and Roderick moved with him. “Do come,” she said, “and have no fears.”
They left, and excited by the afternoon, I walked slowly back along the streets. Who was the friendly young man, scarcely older than myself, who accompanied Valaba?
Safia heard my story. “Mathurin, you are indeed fortunate. The young man with the big hands? He had a strong, rugged face? A wide smile?”
“He did.”
“It is Ya’kub, the eldest son of Yusuf himself, and his favorite.”
Abu-Yusuf Ya’kub was much talked of in Córdoba. Between himself and his father there was a rare understanding all too uncommon between Moslem rulers and their sons. Yusuf knew Ya’kub had no ambition to rule before his time, or at all, for that matter.
Extremely able, educated in the business of government, Ya’kub preferred to assist his father and remain free of the sharp focus of public attention.
Safia seated herself and poured coffee. “But Valaba!” she exclaimed. “First, the bride of Prince Ahmed, and now Valaba, the most beautiful woman in Córdoba! I should be surprised, but I am not. After all, you are extremely handsome.”
“I scarcely know her.”
“She knew you well enough to see that your horse awaited you in the guard’s stable.”
“What? You cannot know what you are saying! She could have had nothing to do with that!”
“Nevertheless, it was she. It was her gold with which your guard gambled at the end of the corridor so he might not hear or see what happened in your cell.
“She could do no more. Had you escaped in any other way the guards would have lost their heads. Not that I would mention it. Such things are better accepted and remembered than talked about. It could do her harm.”
“She has power in Córdoba.”
“Yes”—Safia was bitter—“and so had I, upon a time, but power is a breath on the wind and soon lost.” She put her hand on mine. It was the first time she had ever touched me. “Mathurin, do not fail me. I have nowhere else to turn.”
“I have no answer but to say I shall not fail you.” Pausing, I said, “You have never told me what it is you do.”
“Whatever it is will soon be at an end. Believe me, I could not do less than I have done.”
Fear was upon her, it flowed in her veins, shadowed her eyes. That she was engaged in some intrigue was obvious, and that she had sources of information was obvious. More than that I did not know.
It was midnight when I left, for she feared to be alone. I left by a small gate in the garden wall, for I now had a place to live close by the horses. Holding to the deepest shadows, I went along the small alleyway to the street. I hesitated before emerging.
Nothing.
The air was tight with danger, nor did I like to know there were enemies at whom I could not strike because they were unknown to me. And still, I had no weapon but my dagger. Drawing it from the scabbard, I glanced at the blade.
A Berber soldier saw it and laughed. “It is a toy!” he sneered. “Stained only with milk!”
“The milk left no stain,” I said, smiling, “but come to me, and we will see if a dog’s blood will stain it.”
The sneer left his face. “It was but a jest. Who would die for a jest?”
“You could.” I held the blade in my hand, waiting.
“You are crazy!” He walked away down the street, glancing over his shoulder at me.
So I sheathed my blade in its scabbard rather than his belly and walked homeward, smelling the jasmine and thinking that no doubt he was right.
A man would be crazy to risk dying in a world where there was jasmine.
To say nothing of Aziza, Sharasa, and Valaba.
Chapter 22
*
THE MAJOR CONSIDERATION of the world of the twelfth century after Christ was Islam, and so it had been for more than five hundred years.
Novel 1984 - The Walking Drum (v5.0) Page 16