Al-Mithaq had finally made it to the ground, and leaned against a wall, sickly and irritated. Al-Majousi tugged at Abu Nuwas’ sleeve.
“Are you done with me, then? May I go?”
The poet seemed barely aware of his presence, but was transfixed by the marks in the dirt.
“What?”
“I have shown you al-Sifr, as I promised. Now may I go?”
Abu Nuwas waved a distracted hand.
“Yes, run along, Magus.”
Al-Majousi, though, stood his ground.
“Please don’t call me that. I am not a Magus. My name is ibn Musa al-Khwarizmi.”
“Then go in peace, ibn Musa al-Khwarizmi. But go quickly, before I change my mind.”
The scholar scurried away. Al-Mithaq coughed, and I scrutinised his ghastly pallor and sweat-speckled skin.
“Are you sick, my friend?”
“Sick? I can barely stand. My head and gut feel as though they might explode.”
“We had better get out of here. Once prayers are over, this place will be swarming with guards.”
“No.”
Abu Nuwas shook his head slowly.
“No. I see it now. Al-Sifr was there in the message all along.”
He looked up, his eyes glittering.
“Do you remember that I complained of an ink spot on the silk? It was not a stray drop, but a number, the number which is no number. It was the tenth element, the Nothing, the Void; al-Sifr. The message did not direct us to the High Place. Look —”
With his swordpoint he scratched in the dirt the “V” shape which represented seven, then beside it a dot.
“Not the Seventh Sura, but the Seventieth: the Ascending Stairs. The Ascending Stairs which lead to the Private Apartments. We must be swift, if we are to save the Khalifah.”
Without waiting for a response he turned and hurried away. I chased after him.
“Wait! I don’t understand —”
He called over his shoulder.
“There is a secret staircase which gives access to the royal apartments. I have used it myself when I needed to be discreet about my visits. The entrance to the stairway is usually locked, and guarded. If I am right, though — yes.”
A door stood open in the palace wall. Inside, a wooden staircase led upward. Abu Nuwas paused, and I saw an unfamiliar tension in his face. I was shocked to realise that he was afraid. Al-Mithaq came stumbling behind, barely able to speak.
“Remember, Father of Locks. Strike first… do not stop to ask questions.”
The poet nodded, and set off up the stairs. The darkness was relieved intermittently by slender bars of daylight, which striped the steps where arrow-slit windows pierced the wall. I trailed a hand along the brickwork, and found that the passage was gently curving as we ascended, so that by the time we reached the top of the stairs, we must have traced a full circuit, returning to a point directly above the entrance.
There was a trapdoor above our heads. Abu Nuwas pushed it open cautiously, and we climbed into a vast round chamber, four hundred paces across. It was bright and airy, the wall studded with oriels, so that the sunlight would illuminate it at any time of day. Looking up to the vaulted ceiling, I realised that we stood beneath the same copper dome which earlier we had circled so precariously. At the centre of the chamber was a marble bath, and elaborate carpets were strewn everywhere.
“The Private Apartments. Merely to be here without permission is death.”
At first I thought the chamber was empty. Then a movement caught my eye, at the opposite side. A man lurked by a curtained doorway, which I guessed must be the official entrance to the apartments. He spun round when he heard us, and cried out, a strangled shriek. I could see his face, round and fleshy, with soft, dark, beardless skin. Abu Nuwas roared and charged.
I waited for the clash of metal, but the assassin carried no sword. Instead he hurled himself at the poet’s midriff, ducking under the blade. Abu Nuwas was pushed back by the impact, but brought the pommel of his weapon down hard on the man’s head. The assassin released him and tottered away, swaying to avoid a wild slash.
I circled around them, hoping to come upon the assassin unseen, but Abu Nuwas waved me back furiously.
“No, Ismail! This is my enemy, and I must defeat him alone.”
He feinted a couple of times, then thrust at the assassin’s midriff. The man kicked high like a dancer, and his boot connected with the poet’s knuckles. The sword leapt from his grip and dropped to the floor with a clang.
They both dived for the weapon, but the assassin reached it first. Abu Nuwas rolled on top of him and held down his sword hand by the wrist. With his free hand he clutched at the assassin’s throat, squeezing and crushing. The man rasped out words with difficulty.
“What are you doing… al-Hasan?”
It must have been the use of his given name that startled Abu Nuwas into letting go. His friends called him Abu Ali, to the wider world he was the Father of Locks; but nobody except his mother called him al-Hasan. He sprang away and the assassin sat up, leaving the sword where it lay.
“For a clever man, al-Hasan, you are disappointingly prone to acting before you think.”
Abu Nuwas stared, his eyes widening in astonishment.
“Umadha Citta? Princess? Is that really you?”
The beardless man, whom I was coming to realise was neither an assassin nor, indeed, a man, stood up.
“Of course it’s me, you idiot. Have I changed so much?”
“No, but… what in God’s name are you doing here?”
“Me? I’ve come to save the Khalifah.”
Abu Nuwas blinked in bafflement.
“Then you too are hunting al-Sifr?”
Princess Citta’s brown eyes were filled with sadness.
“Oh, al-Hasan. Is that who you came looking for? How utterly heartbreaking.”
“Why are you wasting time talking? Kill him… her!”
Al-Mithaq crawled into the chamber, sallow-faced and spitting with rage. Abu Nuwas ignored him though, and gaped foolishly at Citta.
“What do you mean? What do you know about al-Sifr?”
Citta folded her arms.
“Tell me, al-Hasan, this enemy of yours: why is he called al-Sifr?”
“Because we know nothing of the real man behind the disguise: his age, his appearance, his origins…”
“No. He is called al-Sifr, the Void, the Nothing, because he does not exist.”
Abu Nuwas stared at her intently. Then he began to laugh, a hard and humourless sound.
“Glory to God! For a moment there I thought you were serious. I have seen him, talked to him, fought with him. You saw him too. How can you tell me he does not exist?”
“You fought with somebody. Did he ever call himself al-Sifr? Did anybody, other than you? Why do you believe that the enemy you faced was the same man, in Rome, and Aksum, and Atil-Khazaran? As for the person I saw, that could have been any concubine of my father’s. I was young, vulnerable, confused.”
“But Ja’far al-Barmaki told me…”
“Of course he did. Ja’far al-Barmaki invented al-Sifr. Being without honour himself, he dares not rely on it in others, and prefers to control men through their vices: through their greed, or lust, or envy. In your case it was vanity which was your weakness. He knew that he could not master you through fear alone, that in time you would chafe under his orders and seek your freedom. So he created a mythical foe to goad and oppose you, and just as the peacock attacks its own reflection, believing it to be a rival, so you dutifully chased the phantom across the world, preening and pecking at illusions.
“The Wazir used the idea of al-Sifr to manipulate you, and he used you so that he could toy with kings and nations like a child playing with dolls. If you don’t believe me, ask al-Mithaq here. Everyone in the Barid knew the secret, except for you. They liked to pretend it was all real; spies are inclined to sentimentality, and the postmen loved to tell stories of Abu Nuwas and his arch-enemy
the Void. You brought a tawdry glamour to what is mostly a dirty, despicable job.”
“Is this true, al-Mithaq?”
The weaver, hunched kneeling on a prayer mat, stared up at him but said nothing. Abu Nuwas turned back to Citta.
“But if al-Sifr does not exist, then who is trying to kill the Khalifah?”
Before she could answer, the curtain over the doorway was flung aside and two men walked into the room. Abu Nuwas snatched up his sword, but smiled with relief on seeing the newcomers.
“Peace be upon you, ibn Hayyan. I see you managed to work out the message at last.”
The Khalifah’s astrologer, with Ilig the Khazar at his side, contemplated the scene in the chamber and tutted.
“Only just in time. In fact, I am very disappointed in you, Abu Ali. First you conceal from me the solution to the numbers on the silk. Now, instead of slaying the assassin, I find you chatting with her like an old friend. I have to question where your true loyalties lie.”
Citta glared at Abu Nuwas.
“You showed him the message? You have betrayed me.”
“Betrayed you? His allegiance is to the Commander of the Faithful and to the Wazir his master, not to any Roman spy. Now, Abu Ali, if for reasons of misguided sentimentality you cannot strike down this assassin, then hand over your sword to Ilig, and he will do it.”
For the first time I noticed that Ilig carried no blade of his own, here in the royal apartments; Abu Nuwas possessed the only weapon in the room. The giant Khazar reached out a hand to take it, but Abu Nuwas jabbed the point at him, forcing him back. Suspicion in his eyes, the poet swung his sword from side to side, aiming first at ibn Hayyan, then at Citta.
“Wait – I do not understand. The message on the silk, princess – that was for you?”
“Yes. The message contained instructions from my master.”
“You see! She admits it. Orders from her master in New Rome, to murder the Khalifah.”
“No, ibn Hayyan. My orders were not to murder the Khalifah, but to warn him, to save him from the real assassin. To save him from you.”
There was silence in the chamber. Then Ibn Hayyan snorted indignantly.
“From me? What nonsense. I am a loyal and trusted servant of the Khalifah. You, on the other hand, are a foreign spy who has broken into the Righteous One’s private apartments. You will not help yourself now with fantastic stories and wild allegations.”
Abu Nuwas, though, had been gazing at al-Mithaq, convulsed and retching on his prayer mat, and now turned to ibn Hayyan in horrified comprehension. His voice was a whisper.
“The Lebanese red…”
In an instant the genial expression fell from ibn Hayyan’s face like a mask, to be replaced by a look of cold contempt.
“So you broke your oath. I should have known. Abu Ali, you swore you would hand that bottle to the Khalifah unopened. Did you give it to al-Mithaq? Then your disobedience has cost him his life. I am sorry, Yaqub, but there is no hope for you now.”
Al-Mithaq stared up at him with empty eyes. Abu Nuwas raised his sword to the astrologer’s breast.
“So it is true, ibn Hayyan. You are the assassin. You sought to poison the Khalifah, and to make me complicit in your crime. Ilig, seize this traitor. We will take him to the Swordbearer.”
Ilig stepped forward – then his huge arm was around my neck, pinning and choking me. I struggled and kicked, but my blows fell uselessly on his muscled body. From somewhere he produced a small bottle, and forced it between my teeth. Sensing danger, I fell still, and Ibn Hayyan smirked.
“You mocked my studies, Abu Ali; now you will learn the true power of al-khimiya. The poison in that bottle, the one in your friend’s mouth, has neither odour nor taste, yet a small measure will kill a healthy man in a matter of hours, leaving no evidence of its presence. It is my greatest discovery, the perfect means to murder without being detected, the only toxin on earth that could fool the sensitive noses of the Khalifah’s tasters. I call it al-zarnik.”
I was gagging, but dared not swallow. Ibn Hayyan stepped closer to the swordpoint, and spoke softly.
“There is enough poison in that bottle to fell an elephant. If you draw so much of a drop of my blood, Ilig will force al-zarnik down the storyteller’s throat, and he will share al-Mithaq’s fate. Give us what we want though, and I will let you both go free. If you wish to save your friend, you must give us the Evidence.”
Abu Nuwas nodded, his voice and blade steady.
“Of course. The Ascending Stairs; The Private Apartments; The Evidence. The final destination of our journey. But you overestimate me, ibn Hayyan. The Evidence is not in my possession.”
“Then the princess still has it. You must take it from her.”
Abu Nuwas turned his blade back toward Citta, who drew a small clay cylinder from her bosom, and held it out.
“You want the Evidence, al-Hasan? I have it here. Before you hand it over to the Khalifah’s enemies, though, would you not like to know what it is?”
The poet glanced swiftly across at me, but said nothing.
“Then I shall tell you. It is evidence of conspiracy and treason at the very heart of government, of a plot to overthrow and murder the Khalifah; a plot conceived and led, not by any Roman spy, but by one of his most trusted ministers.”
“I knew it! Ibn Rabi, that scheming, pot-bellied Spider —”
“No. Not the Chamberlain. The traitor is your master, Ja’far ibn Yahya al-Barmaki.”
Abu Nuwas blinked, and shook his head.
“No. No, you cannot trick me so easily. Ja’far would never —”
“Think, al-Hasan. He lied to you about al-Sifr, as he has been lying to you for thirty years. He sent you to kill me, and sent al-Mithaq after you to make sure you obeyed. Why would he do all this unless he wanted to prevent the Evidence reaching the Khalifah?
“When you turned up at his palace, he must have thought you his salvation sent by God: the only man in his service resourceful enough to recover the message, clever enough to interpret it, and above all gullible enough to be trusted. All he had to do was resurrect your old enemy one more time, and off you trotted to do his dirty work for him.”
The sword wavered in the poet’s hand.
“Ja’far… it cannot be.”
“Ah, how true the words of the ninety-eighth sura: ‘Those who disbelieve cannot free themselves from error, until the Evidence is brought to them.’ The Khalifah too found it hard to accept that his best friend would turn against him. So I came from Egypt with the Evidence, which I was to hand to the Khalifah in person, bypassing all his attendants, even Masrur. And Ja’far sent you to stop me.”
The face of Abu Nuwas bore the lost, confused expression of a child abandoned by its parents.
“But why would Ja’far do such a thing? He has power, wealth, everything he could desire.”
“Because he is so clever, that he believes everyone else to be a fool. For years he has overstepped his power, issuing decrees and making appointments in the Khalifah’s name, releasing political prisoners without authority, embezzling gold from the royal purse. Recently he has become careless, and failed to cover his tracks. It was only a matter of time before his misdeeds were exposed. He had to strike first.”
Ibn Hayyan clicked his tongue.
“The princess spins a pretty tale, but be careful that Ilig does not become weary of it. His hand may shake, and the poison spill. Either you give us the Evidence, or your friend will die. Make your choice, Abu Ali, and quickly.”
I was suddenly frightened of death, afraid of the idea of poison pulsing through my blood, of those last few hours of accelerating sickness, knowing that I was doomed, still living but beyond redemption. For the first time since I met him I found myself wishing that Abu Nuwas would do the wrong thing. He looked at me, then slowly raised the swordpoint to Citta’s throat. She gazed at him sadly.
“If you do this, al-Hasan, you betray your oath, your ruler, your religion, your nation. Is
a single life really worth all that?”
“I am sorry, princess, but Ismail is my friend. I will not see him die for my mistakes.”
He pressed the point very gently against her skin until a bright spot of red appeared. Citta sighed.
“So you are capable of love, after all. Here.”
She tossed the cylinder to ibn Hayyan, who caught it and examined it greedily.
“The Wazir’s seal. Yes, this must be it.”
Abu Nuwas looked across at him, and in the instant his attention was distracted Citta knocked aside the sword with a sweep of her arm and seized his wrist. While they struggled, Ilig hurled me to the floor and sprang at them. The bottle fell beside me and cracked, its lethal contents trickling out. I spat violently, in case any of the poison had spilled in my mouth, then looked up to see Citta, Ilig and Abu Nuwas wrestling over the weapon.
Ibn Hayyan strolled over to them, and, after a moment’s consideration, punched Citta hard in the face. She reeled back, clutching her nose. Abu Nuwas lunged at him, but Ilig had come away with the sword, and held the poet at bay. Ibn Hayyan laughed triumphantly.
“Hold these traitors here, Ilig. I will summon Masrur the Swordbearer.”
“I suppose it would be futile to point out that you promised we could go free? Still, Masrur will be interested when he hears what Ja’far has been up to.”
“You forget, I have the Evidence. Without it, who is going to believe you three: a drunkard, a storyteller and a woman?”
“It will be harder to explain what al-Mithaq is doing here. He may even have enough breath left to reveal who poisoned him.”
“That is true. Ilig, if you would be so kind?”
The Khazar spun round and plunged the sword into al-Mithaq’s chest. The weaver expired noisily, and Ibn Hayyan tutted.
“Shame on you, Abu Ali. It appears that we were unable to stop you murdering poor Yaqub before Ilig overpowered you and took your sword. Now that I come to think, it might be best if all of you were killed in the struggle, while resisting our attempts to take you into custody. It would prevent any unnecessary complications.”
Princess Citta, still holding her bleeding nose, looked at Abu Nuwas and me.
The Khalifah's Mirror Page 29