“My friend, I work day and night, as you can see. Paper has become incredibly cheap since the new workshop opened, cheaper than parchment or papyrus, and more practical too. Now every rich man wants to have a library of his own. We cannot copy fast enough.”
“And all this? How does this monstrous glassware help reveal the secrets of the stars?”
He picked up a container that looked like two bottles mating. Ibn Hayyan took it from his hands and placed it carefully back on the table.
“That is an apparatus of my own devising, which I call al-anbiq, the cup. It is not for astrology though. I know as much as I need to know about the movements of heavenly bodies. It’s hard enough to pick out the true knowledge of the ancients from the made-up rubbish as it is, and getting harder. Everything is becoming corrupted.
“No, this is al-khimiya, the study of the nature of matter. Astrology is dying; this is the philosophy of future generations.”
Abu Nuwas wrinkled his nose.
“Then the future stinks.”
“The future is glorious. Astrology is uncertain, obscure, and often only reveals its meaning after the event. What practical use is that to mankind? Al-khimiya, on the other hand, is reliable. When I heat this liquid I know that it will turn into a white powder, that the powder will have certain properties, that a given volume of liquid will yield a certain weight of powder. The process can be repeated until doomsday, and the results will always be the same.
“Besides, the astrologer can discover nothing new, only refine the knowledge of the past. Al-khimiya is a book waiting to be written. See, here — I am working on nothing less than a new classification of the elements.
“The ancients teach us that there are four basic constituents of matter: earth, air, fire and water. At first sight this accords with our observation, for certainly things are dry or moist, hot or cold, or so on. Yet the possible combinations are too few to account for the diversity of substances I examine here, and the variety of their behaviours.
“I believe that brimstone, the metal which burns, is an element, as is quicksilver, the liquid metal. It is the combination of elements that determines the nature of materials. My ultimate goal is to discover the formula, al-iksir, which will allow me to alter the balance of their inner structure; and in so doing, to change their very essence.”
“So you could transmute one to another? Say, turn lead into gold?”
Ibn Hayyan leaned closer.
“My friend, that is a petty ambition. By unravelling the riddles of the universe, man approaches union with God the Creator. With al-iksir, I could bring inanimate matter to life.”
There was silence in the chamber, apart from the pop and seethe of little fires. Then Abu Nuwas grinned.
“In that case, perhaps you could start with my zabb. The old man is increasingly torpid these days, barely bothering to raise his head. He would benefit from some reanimation.”
Ibn Hayyan scowled.
“You may mock, Abu Ali. Through my study of al-khimiya, I have concocted a brew which dissolves gold. Can you imagine what one might do with this royal water? It is more use than your poetry, at any rate.”
“I meant no offence, ibn Hayyan. Although I would argue that poetry has tremendous power to refine, purify and exalt. It can transform animal lust into sacred love, base sycophancy into high panegyric, and crude insult into sophisticated wit. As for al-khimiya:
“You may struggle and strive, until you grow old,
But the only way you’ll make gold, is from gold.”
Ibn Hayyan’s face purpled, and I wondered if Abu Nuwas had gone too far, but the astrologer released a barking laugh.
“Well, God alone knows which of us is right. And history will determine whose work is remembered in years to come, long after our deaths. But see, here is al-Majousi.”
The newcomer was small and nervous. His gaze darted around the room, unable to look anybody in the eyes. Ibn Hayyan clapped him on the shoulder.
“Now, lad, this is my good friend Abu Ali ibn Hani al-Hakami, better known as the Father of Locks. You are to answer his questions, but not to disclose to anybody what you see and hear here, or I will have your tongue ripped out and fed to the crows, is that clear?”
Al-Majousi nodded, a brief, sharp movement.
“Good lad.”
Abu Nuwas was eyeing al-Majousi suspiciously.
“You are called al-Majousi? The Magus? Are you from the east, then?”
“Yes, from Khwarezm.”
“And do you tell fortunes and worship fire?”
Al-Majousi stared at the floor, but his tone was defiant.
“It pleases ibn Hayyan to call me al-Majousi, since he knows that I am descended from the priestly caste of the Magi. However my father converted to Islam, and I was raised in the true faith.”
“Very good. Now —”
Al-Majousi, though, was not finished.
“And the Magi do not worship fire. That is a malicious slander, repeated by the ignorant. We were the first people to recognise that there is only one God. We give the name Zurvan to the dimensions of time and space from which the universe itself, and the rival forces of good and evil that war within it, must have emanated.
“We are an ancient people, guardians of occult lore that has otherwise been lost to humanity. The Jews learned monotheism from us, during their exile in Babylon. The stars guided us to acknowledge the prophet Isa ibn Maryam, when he was still a child. You will show respect to my ancestors.”
Abu Nuwas was taken aback by the little scholar’s vehemence.
“My apologies, friend. I meant no disrespect. Now, if you would be so kind, please tell us what this says.”
Al-Majousi glanced at the silk.
“Those are not words, they are numbers.”
“Numbers? In what tongue?”
“In no tongue and every tongue. The system was invented in al-Hind, but it is a pure language of number, for the use of all mankind. Here, let me show you —”
Al-Majousi pulled over a scroll covered with arcane markings, turned it over, and scratched on the reverse with a reed pen.
“This line is one. Add a dash at its head, to make two, and extend the dash for three. This is four, like a Greek epsilon. Five is a small ring like a ha’, and six is a dash with a long tail. Seven is an arrow pointing down, and eight the same pointing up. Then for nine draw a circle with a tail.”
Abu Nuwas frowned.
“I fail to see how this is superior to the abjad. At least that uses familiar characters. What are the symbols for ten, and twenty, and one hundred?”
Al-Majousi looked directly at him for the first time.
“But that is the wonder of it! No such symbols are needed. Depending on its place, this line can be one, or ten, or one hundred, or one million. Look, the first number written here: a two, followed by a nine. Coming in the second place, the nine represents nine tens, so your number is ninety-two.”
“Then here, a two to the left of a six, that is twenty-six?”
“You see, it is so simple, a child could understand it!”
Abu Nuwas turned to me.
“You did well to find the silk, Ismail. This may be the clue that we need, if we are to thwart al-Sifr.”
Al-Majousi’s reaction to his words was striking. The nervous little man paled and choked.
“I must go… important business… I am sure you can work it out for yourselves now…”
Abu Nuwas grabbed him by his sleeve.
“Wait! What do you know about al-Sifr?”
“Take your hands off me!”
Reluctantly Abu Nuwas released him. Al-Majousi straightened his coat.
“By what authority do you seek to hold me against my will? I warn you, my cousin is a captain in the Khalifah’s guard, and if he hears that you have mistreated me, he will have you thrown into the Matbaq.
“Now, I have explained the Hindi numerals to you. Unless you have any further questions, I will take my leave.”
And he scurried down the stairs. Ibn Hayyan appeared about to call him back, but Abu Nuwas shook his head.
“No. Let him go. As he said, we can work it out for ourselves now. Ismail, do you have the paper where he wrote the numerals?”
He spread out the paper next to the silk, and we huddled round the workbench. Abu Nuwas called out the numbers, while I wrote them down in abjad. I noticed that ibn Hayyan was making his own copy as we talked.
“Ninety-two and twenty-six we already know. Then four and ten makes fourteen, and five and ten makes fifteen. It’s hard to make out some of these numbers, there are ink spots on the silk. Now the second line: Eighty-nine… seventy-four… ninety-five… twenty-nine. Here, on the third line, there’s sixty-two, then there are three ones, so that must be one hundred… and eleven. Have you written that down, one hundred and eleven? Then seven, forty-nine, ninety-eight.”
They stared at the numbers. Abu Nuwas muttered, half to himself.
“There is no obvious pattern to the numbers. For them to contain information, we must assume that they can be converted to words, or ideas. They do not form Arabic words when written in abjad.”
Ibn Hayyan nodded.
“In secret communications of this kind, there must always be some consistent element, a single key that will unlock the whole puzzle. A system in which each element has its own separate solution has no value, it is a message empty of meaning. The question is, to what do the numbers correspond?”
“Perhaps there is a second part to the puzzle: a document, or a book, that lists the numbers and the words they denote…”
Abu Nuwas glanced oddly at me, then gathered up both paper and silk and bundled them into his sleeve.
“Well, I am sure its meaning will become clear in time. However, we have pressing business to attend to, and must defer this intriguing riddle for another day. Come, Ismail.”
“One moment, Abu Ali.”
Ibn Hayyan rooted under a table and pulled out a sealed bottle. Abu Nuwas smirked.
“What is this? Magic potion which turns water into wine?”
“No, fool, it is simply wine. It is, however, the finest red wine from Lebanon. It is a gift for the Khalifah, which I would like you to present to him in person next time you are fortunate enough to be in his company. However, you must swear to me that you will not drink it yourself, but will give it to the Righteous One unopened.”
“My friend, I cannot believe what you are suggesting! Is my name so besmirched that you think I would steal —”
“I am serious, Abu Ali. Swear it.”
The smile disappeared from the poet’s face.
“Very well then. In the name of God the Witness, I swear that I will not open this bottle, but will deliver it to the Khalifah at the earliest opportunity.”
“Good. May God steer your steps.”
On the street, I could not conceal my incredulity.
“What was all that about? What business could be more pressing than somebody trying to kill us?”
Abu Nuwas unleashed a self-satisfied grin.
“Do not concern yourself, Ismail. I believe I have found the key to the mystery. However, I deemed it prudent not to blurt out my insight in the astrologer’s workshop, in front of his slaves and apprentices. There are traitors everywhere. Besides, Ibn Hayyan prides himself on his mastery of such secret languages. I shall let him sweat a little longer before I reveal the solution.”
“Well, are you going to tell me, or am I too under suspicion?”
He showed me the paper on which the numbers were written.
“You provided me with the answer yourself, when you suggested there must be a book with the numbers and their corresponding meanings. Of which book will every educated man have a copy?”
“I suppose… the Quran?”
“Exactly. Then consider the first number on each line. The ninety-second Sura is known as The Night. On the second line, Sura eighty-nine: The Dawn. And here at the third, sixty-two. The Friday Prayers.”
“Tomorrow is Friday.”
“Night. Dawn. Friday Prayers. If the numbers represent suras of the Quran, then the first number of each line is a time of day. What if each line is a set of instructions, for tonight, and then tomorrow?”
“Instructions? From whom, and to whom?”
“Ibn Idris. Al-Sifr. Who knows? The message was important enough that someone took elaborate steps to hide it.”
“What does the rest of it say, then?”
“Let me see. The Night… then twenty-six, The Poets… how promising… fourteen, Ibrahim… fifteen, The City of Stone.”
“What is the City of Stone?”
“Al-Hijr was an ancient city, near the al-Ula oasis. Its people carved magnificent tombs out of rock, but they worshipped idols and rejected the Prophet Saleh, so God destroyed them with earthquakes and lightning. Let’s see the next line. Dawn we already know… The Cloaked Man…The Fig Tree… The Spider. Could that be the same Spider, that will pay gold to guttersnipes for parts of my body?”
“And the last line?”
“The Friday Prayers… then one hundred and eleven, The Palm Fibre… seven, The High Place… forty-nine, the Private Apartments… and lastly, ninety-eight, The Evidence.”
“What does it mean?”
“I don’t know. Not all of it, at least, not yet. But it gives us a place to start. The Night is where I hunt, and I would be losing my touch indeed if I could not guess where to find Ibrahim and the Poets. Let us see what we can learn there, and perhaps then the rest of the mysteries may begin to unravel.”
XVI
From the outside, there was nothing to distinguish the bath house from the many hammams to be found throughout Baghdad, in rich areas and poor. At the door, however, we were examined by hard-faced men with cudgels, who took Abu Nuwas’s sword before guiding us through the steam room to a large chamber at the rear.
The room was extravagantly furnished and decorated, to the point of showiness. Rugs and cushions were strewn across the floor, gauzy curtains hung from the ceiling. All around lounged groups of young men and singing girls, drinking wine together, the girls unveiled and indecent. The curtains provided illusions of privacy, around which the guests flirted and joked and drifted. A band of musicians banged out a popular song from a discreet alcove.
The revellers pretended not to notice the arrival of Abu Nuwas. It is not done in those circles to be impressed by anything much, but I caught some of the men gazing at the Father of Locks in admiration or envy. They quickly dropped their eyes and looked away, when they saw that I had noticed them.
At the centre of all this, like a queen ant surrounded by workers, was a man in his mid-twenties. Even had he not been wearing fine clothes and a bejewelled turban, his air of languid superiority would have marked him as the prince of whom Abu Nuwas had spoken. He seemed familiar, but it took me a moment to recognise the boy I had met years before, the prince who wanted to be a poet: Ibrahim ibn al-Mahdi, younger half-brother of the Commander of the Faithful.
Abu Nuwas knelt before him.
“Peace be upon you, my lord.”
Prince Ibrahim yawned.
“Spare me the formality, Abu Ali. We artists do not observe such conventions. Skill is the only rank we recognise, amongst ourselves.”
“Then still I must bow before you, for your verse if not for your birth.”
The prince pretended to dismiss the flattery, but could not conceal a pleased smile.
“Sit down, my friend. Everybody knows you are the greatest of us all.”
Abu Nuwas placed a submissive hand on his chest, and settled himself on the only vacant rug in the prince’s circle.
“Are you going to favour us with some of your poetry tonight, my prince?”
Before the prince could respond, a black man sitting beside him interjected.
“It might be a greater favour if you do not, and spare us the shame of comparing our own feeble efforts to your mighty lines.”
“Do not fall out, you two; you should be friends. You are both learned men, and sons of Basrah too. Abu Nuwas the poet, this is al-Jahiz the scholar. Al-Jahiz here has come to Baghdad at my invitation. When I heard about this phenomenon, this prodigy of learning of whom everyone was talking, I decided I simply had to meet him.
“Do you know, al-Jahiz grew up in poverty, the son of slaves, and taught himself to read and write? Once he earned a living selling fish along the canals, and now he is one of the most erudite men in the land.”
Al-Jahiz seemed uncomfortable with this description, although whether he was more ashamed by his humble origins or embarrassed by the prince’s praise was unclear. Abu Nuwas glared suspiciously at the newcomer.
“Are you a poet then?”
Al-Jahiz made a placatory gesture.
“No, nothing so grand. I am a mere toiler in the fields of knowledge. I reap, thresh and winnow, so that all men might benefit from the harvest. In my writing, I aim only for clarity; I leave lyricism to the likes of you. I am not an artist, like the Father of Locks; I am content to be a humble artisan. A man should know his place in this life.”
Abu Nuwas, denied the argument he was seeking, looked around for other entertainment. He noticed me, observing the conversation while hovering uncertainly nearby, and snapped his fingers.
“You! Don’t just stand there. Go and get me a drink.”
I decided it was not the time to complain about being treated like a servant. Bowing submissively, I drifted away through the party, in search of enlightenment.
The insipid music shrouded everything, as did the diaphanous curtains. Scraps of voices whispered around him, chattering of love and dreams. They seemed like ghosts, disconnected from the recumbent bodies sprawled below. No word of conspiracy came to me, nor any way of inserting myself into their discourse.
A singing girl wafted towards me.
“Are you alone? Would you like some company?”
“No — no, thank you. I am looking for a man —”
The Khalifah's Mirror Page 25