“You are coming with us, al-Mithaq? I thought you had left the world of intrigue and espionage behind?”
“So did I. However I cannot stand by and watch a Roman spy threaten the life of the Commander of the Faithful. Anyway, you will only get yourself in trouble, without me to keep an eye on you.”
So we were three in number as we approached the royal camp, a noisy confusion of tents, horses, camels and men. A festival mood prevailed among the pilgrims, now only a short ride from home after three weary months in the saddle. There was music, and laughter; but most of the men were still moved by their experience in the holy city, and their joy was good-natured and serene, not raucous or aggressive. Cheerfully they pointed the way to the Khalifah, calling out:
“Peace be with you, brothers!”
At the centre of the camp a canopy fluttered in the brisk wind. Soldiers and courtiers milled around it, in a delicate dance of courtesy and precedence. It was impossible to see the person sitting beneath it, but the quiet intensity of the deference surrounding him identified him as clearly as any banner.
“The Righteous One.”
Abu Nuwas strode off toward the canopy, but was halted by a huge black hand on his shoulder. The owner of the hand was so immense, so imposing, that it seemed impossible he should have arrived noiselessly and unseen, but I had no warning of his approach, and Abu Nuwas jumped at his touch, before recognising him.
“Ah, Masrur. I was just on my way to pay my respects to the Khalifah, and welcome him back to Baghdad.”
“My master has not asked to see you, Father of Locks.”
“There was a time when we were not so formal, Masrur.”
“My master does not want to see you, Father of Locks.”
The black man’s rumbling voice was sympathetic, but firm. Abu Nuwas grasped his huge arm.
“But it is vital that I see the Khalifah! Masrur, do you know that a Roman assassin threatens your master’s life?”
“There is usually an assassin threatening my master’s life. Even when there is not, I like to pretend there is, just to stay in practice. Who is this assassin, Father of Locks? Where and how does he intend to strike?”
“I do not know.”
Masrur raised his eyebrows, but Abu Nuwas pressed on.
“But he has accomplices here at court! I can tell you the name, the name of the traitor, the one who is to admit the killer to the Khalifah’s presence —”
“What I say to you now, Father of Locks, I say as a friend. If you are about to accuse a minister or other official of treason, then you had better be able to prove it. Drunkards who shout wild slanders about prominent men do not survive long at court. Consider your next words calmly. What have you to tell me?”
Abu Nuwas chewed a finger, then sighed.
“Nothing. I have nothing to tell you. But, Swordbearer-”
He put a hand on Masrur’s arm and whispered.
“Be careful around Fadl ibn Rabi.”
“I am always careful, Father of Locks, around everybody. Including you.”
Abu Nuwas released him, and seemed to shrink a little as he turned away. Masrur sighed.
“The Commander of the Faithful is on his way to the Gilded Gate, to lead his people in prayer. Before that he must rest, and wash the dust of the journey from his body. He has no time for such entertainment as you offer, Father of Locks. Come to him after the Friday Prayers, and I will ask if he will see you. God the Forbearing knows, he needs his spirits raised.”
The Swordbearer left. Abu Nuwas was muttering fretfully under his breath.
“After Friday Prayers! By then it will be too late.”
Al-Mithaq clapped him on the shoulder.
“At least we know now where the Khalifah is going. If we get to the Gilded Gate before him, we may be able to stop al-Sifr.”
The camp was already disappearing around us, tents collapsing and swiftly engulfed by busy nests of servants. Horses clopped and jingled, and the pilgrims bantered and jested, hearts lightened by the prospect of seeing their wives and families again. We were swept along in their wake, and trudged once more along the dusty roads towards the city of Baghdad.
For a while we walked in silence, but as we entered the outskirts of the city Abu Nuwas grew impatient, licking dry lips and glancing around.
“I am thirsty. What happened to that wine?”
I stared at him in disbelief.
“What wine?”
“The wine ibn Hayyan gave us, the Lebanese red for the Khalifah.”
“That is for the Khalifah.”
“He will never miss what he does not know he is getting. If we are risking our lives to save his, he could at least provide us with a drink.”
“In the name of God the Patient! Father of Locks, you have been awake all night. Your eyes are red, your clothes and breath are foul. People are trying to kill you, we are hunting a deadly assassin, and you want to have more wine?”
“I am thirsty.”
“Drink some water if you are thirsty.”
“Water is for washing. Give it to me, now.”
I took the bottle from my coat.
“Very well, let us have wine. Al-Mithaq, would you like some wine?”
Yaqub al-Mithaq saw the poet’s agonised face, and grinned mischievously.
“Thank you, my friend. That would be delightful.”
He uncorked the bottle, sniffed at it appreciatively, then took a long slow draught. He wiped his mouth, and handed the bottle back to me.
“An excellent vintage. Rarely have I tasted better.”
Abu Nuwas scowled.
“Very amusing. Now, if I might take my turn —”
I held the bottle at arm’s length and slowly tipped it over. Abu Nuwas stared in horror, as if it were his children’s blood pouring down and soaking into the dry earth.
“What are you doing?”
“It’s for your own good, Father of Locks. You’ll thank me some day. And if we are fighting for our lives, I want you sober.”
He strode furiously up the road, and did not speak again on the way to the Gilded Gate.
We were able to see the great dome of the palace from the outskirts of Baghdad, and it served as a lodestar, guiding us to the precise centre of the Round City. At the foot of the high walls which surround the palace complex we halted, and Al-Mithaq finally broke the silence that had prevailed since the argument over the wine.
“How are we to gain access to the masjid? Only those returning from the Hajj will be admitted for prayers.”
Abu Nuwas stared up at the ramparts, and answered peevishly.
“We will walk around the walls, and pray that God shows us a way.”
I was unconvinced by this plan, but astoundingly God had indeed provided a way. Where a neighbouring building edged presumptuously close to the palace, creating a narrow alley, a rope of plaited fibre hung down. Abu Nuwas clapped his hands and grinned, his sulk forgotten.
“Of course! The Palm Fibre. The sura itself refers to a rope: ‘a noose of twisted fibre around her throat.’ ”
He craned his neck to where the rope disappeared at the top of the rampart.
“Here is The Palm Fibre; and there, The High Place.”
Abu Nuwas wanted to climb first, but I managed to persuade him that, as the lightest, I should lead the way, in case the rope broke under his weight. It had been some years since I had retired from burglary, and my arms and calves ached as I shinned up the side of the palace. Hands raw, I finally wriggled over the battlements and collapsed onto a walkway which ran along the inside of the parapet. At the corner I could see steps running down to the enclosed ground, where servants scurried, oblivious to my presence. On the other side of the wall, the city of Baghdad stretched away, a maze of houses, masjids, workshops and stables, streets and canals and alleys.
The rope was knotted securely around a merlon, but now it began to twitch and jerk. Abu Nuwas was making his ungainly way up the wall, feet kicking against the bricks as he
relied on the strength of his arms to pull him up. When he neared the top I reached down and dragged him over by his coat. He lay panting on the walkway for a moment, then looked around.
“There are no guards.”
“Good. I wouldn’t like to have to explain our presence here.”
“No, don’t you see? The Khalifah is on his way to the Gilded Gate. Why are there no soldiers here to protect him?”
We stared at each other for a moment, then he jumped to his feet with renewed urgency. On the street below al-Mithaq was struggling to heave his portly body up the rope. We watched him jumping and grabbing hopelessly, holding on only for a moment before dropping to the ground again. Without discussion, Abu Nuwas and I began to haul up the rope, while the weaver wrapped himself around it, clinging on like a child fastened to its mother’s leg. He was pale and sweating when he reached the top.
“A moment, my friends… I cannot stand.”
Abu Nuwas was indignant.
“What are you complaining about? We did all the work.”
I was untying the rope from the merlon.
“If al-Sifr is not already within the palace, we have removed his means of entry. Perhaps it will be enough.”
“Then who is that, over there?”
Abu Nuwas pointed to a figure in tawny robes who was edging precariously around the base of the great dome.
“The masjid is on that side. From the dome, he will have a clear shot into the courtyard as al-Rashid crosses to the prayer hall.”
“He carries no bow.”
“What is that in his hand though? An ivory cylinder, the length of his forearm… a weapon of some kind, I have no doubt. Come on!”
We pounded along the walkway, al-Mithaq puffing at the rear, until we reached the point where the curve of the dome brought it closest to the wall. A narrow stone ledge ran around the base of the dome, at the same height as the parapet. Abu Nuwas appraised the gap, which was some six cubits across.
“We’ll have to jump.”
Al-Mithaq was gazing in horror at the dizzying drop to the ground below.
“Can we not take the steps down to the enclosure, and find a way up from there?”
“There is no time. Listen —”
“Allahu akbar! Allahu akbar!”
From the minaret nearby, the mu’addhin was calling the people to the Friday prayer.
“The Khalifah will be entering the courtyard at any moment. I am going in pursuit of al-Sifr. You may do as you please.”
With that he launched himself across the gap. His long legs cleared the jump with ease, and he clattered against one of the copper panels of which the dome was composed. I glanced at al-Mithaq, shrugged, and hurled myself into the air. My feet landed on the ledge, but I did not have sufficient momentum and swayed backward. Abu Nuwas flung an arm around my shoulders and pulled me in. I hugged the cold metal gratefully, and Abu Nuwas grinned.
“There. Once again, I have saved your life.”
With a despairing cry al-Mithaq leapt after us, landing in between us and falling to one knee. I helped him up, and we began to work our way round to the other side of the dome, Abu Nuwas in the lead. It was slow, perilous going; the stone ledge was no more than a span in width, and the copper was treacherously smooth. The wind whipped at us, tugging our clothes, as if determined to dislodge us. Step by step though we inched along, and when I dared to look down I could see over the masjid wall into the courtyard, where the pilgrims were gathering, like termites swarming below. I heard Abu Nuwas shout a wordless challenge.
The man in tawny robes was perched precariously on his haunches, gazing down at the courtyard, the ivory object clutched in his right hand. He looked up, and I stared into the horrified face of al-Majousi, the little scholar from the House of Wisdom. Abu Nuwas hissed.
“The Magus! I should have known. Why would the message be written in numerals only he understands, if it was not intended for him all along?”
Al-Majousi tried to stand, but teetered, and nearly fell. While he steadied himself Abu Nuwas hustled round, until he was within touching distance.
“Now, at last – no!”
A blade slashed past him, aimed at the scholar’s neck. Al-Majousi ducked, and the sword clanged on the copper panel. Abu Nuwas looked over his shoulder, to see Yaqub al-Mithaq, weapon in hand, steadying himself for another blow.
“What are you doing, you idiot? We need him alive, to expose the conspiracy —”
Al-Mithaq showed no sign of having heard him, but drew back his weapon to strike again. I grabbed his sword arm, and al-Mithaq lurched back, knocking me off the ledge. My feet tingled at the emptiness beneath them and I found myself dangling in mid-air, held up only by my grip on his sleeve.
For a moment I imagined myself falling, a brief rush followed by a final, agonising impact. I looked pleadingly up at al-Mithaq, but instead of helping me he jerked his arm as though trying to shake me loose. The fabric of his coat began to rip. Then I felt a hand round my waist, scooping me up. Abu Nuwas yanked me back onto the ledge as easily as though I were a child. I was still holding onto al-Mithaq’s right arm, and now in a furious rage born of fear and relief I battered his wrist against the copper until his sword slipped from his grip and tumbled to the courtyard below. A despairing voice cried out behind us.
“Help me! In the name of God, help! I’m going to fall…”
While the three of us were grappling al-Majousi had seized the opportunity to get away. In his haste though he had tripped over his feet, and fallen headlong against the dome. His hands scrabbled for purchase, but he would not release the cylinder, and his legs slowly slid off, until he was clinging desperately on, his head sinking below the ledge. Abu Nuwas scrambled across to the him, and grabbed him by the arms.
“Now then, Magus, or whoever you are, we will have the truth. If I do not like your answers, I will let you fall, and your final study will be to measure the distance from here to the ground. So, tell me, where is the beardless man?”
“I don’t know who you mean — I acted alone. Please — I cannot die yet — I have great work to accomplish!”
Abu Nuwas eased his grip for a second, causing the scholar to squeal in terror.
“If you acted alone, who sent you the message? Where is al-Sifr?”
“What message? I don’t understand — no, I beg you! I swear — I will show you al-Sifr, if you pull me up.”
Something in his voice must have convinced Abu Nuwas, because he dragged al-Majousi back onto the ledge.
“Very well. But hand over your weapon.”
He indicated the cylinder. Al-Majousi looked at it in surprise.
“But that is no weapon, it is only a manuscript. Look —”
He unrolled it, revealing a long scroll of paper covered in densely written script. Abu Nuwas grabbed the paper, gazed at it in confusion, then shoved it back into al-Majousi’s hand. He helped the scholar stand up.
“Show me, then. Show me al-Sifr.”
A fierce gust threatened to blow us off our feet, and al-Majousi tucked the manuscript into his coat.
“Not here. In the courtyard.”
“How do you propose we get down?”
The little scholar looked surprised.
“There’s a ladder, on the other side of the dome. How did you get up here?”
The ladder led down to a flat roof, from which we could easily scramble to the ground. Abu Nuwas descended first, and was waiting at the bottom, sword in hand, when al-Majousi jumped down.
“Now, Magus, quickly, and no tricks. Where is al-Sifr?”
The scholar paused for a moment, studying Abu Nuwas curiously. Then he bent down, and pressed his finger into the ground, marking a single dot in the dirt.
“There. There is al-Sifr.”
“What mockery is this? I warn you —”
Al-Majousi shook with fear, but his tone was defiant.
“This is al-Sifr: this is Nothing. It is the tenth figure in the Hindi numeral system which I
showed you yesterday.”
Abu Nuwas’ forehead creased in bafflement.
“But — I do not understand. Nothing is not a number.”
Despite his peril, al-Majousi’s enthusiasm burst through.
“But it is! It is the most important number of all! Without nothing, how can there be anything? How can something be present, unless it can also be absent?”
“Very profound, but what possible use is it?”
“Look —”
He marked a short vertical line on the ground.
“That, as I told you, represents one, but also ten, and a hundred, and a thousand. Then how is one to know which it is? If there are other numbers beside it, there is no problem; if I write a figure two here, we can clearly see that the one is a ten, plus two, making twelve. But if the one stands on its own, it may mean one only, or one million. It has been the custom to leave spaces to indicate the empty places, but this can be ambiguous and unreliable.
“Now see the power of nothing. If I place two dots by the stroke, all becomes clear. There are no individuals, nor any tens, so the figure represents one hundred.
“This is the marvellous invention of the mathematicians of al-Hind, which I hope to introduce to the Land of Islam. With it, calculations that were once laborious become simple and swift, and the Hindi system far surpasses in ease both the abjad and the Roman numerals.
“When I learned that you planned to suppress the innovation, I thought to engage the Khalifah’s support. I had no hope of gaining an audience, but my cousin the captain arranged for the guards to be moved from this spot, and left a ladder against the wall, so that I could get up here and throw the scroll to the Khalifah as he passed.”
He pulled out the roll of paper. At its head, I could just make out the title: On calculation using the Hindi numerals.
“See, here, it is a treatise I have written on the subject. Please, I beg you, let al-Sifr flourish in the House of Wisdom, for the benefit and advancement of all mankind…”
“Then we have come here chasing nothing; and nothing is exactly what we have found. We stand here discussing arithmetic while the real assassin, the beardless man, closes in on the Khalifah.”
The Khalifah's Mirror Page 28