by Donald Tyson
By the time I emerged, my relaxed limbs smoking with warm mist, Martala had found simple but clean robes for us both, and the woman who ran the inn had agreed to have our travel garments washed and ready for us by morning. I suspected she intended to wash them herself in the water of the tub, as soon as Martala finished with it. The water was still warm when the girl stripped and slid into it with a soft sigh, the sapphire pendant around her neck. I sat and watched her splash like a happy child and toy with her bauble. She truly was a child in years, though wiser in the ways of life than many men twice her age.
When she finished, I helped dry her with a towel, then held her white cotton robe while she stepped into it and belted it at her waist.
“Why are you being so attentive?” she asked playfully, all traces of her pettishness gone.
“If that was Altrus behind us on the road, I do not wish to be separated from you. Or our wallets.”
We took up the wallets and our weapons and proceeded to our room. It was on the second level of the inn, not far from the top of the stair. One of the better rooms, to judge by what I saw through open doorways. Ani had probably told the innkeeper that I was a man of wealth despite my squalid appearance. I wasted no time, but bolted the door behind us, threw off my robe and boots, and cast myself beneath the sheet of the large bed. I was asleep so swiftly, I did not feel the girl lie down beside me.
The morning sunlight streaming through the open window across my face woke me. I felt refreshed, apart from deep aches in my muscles that came from so many days of hard walking. There was no memory of dreams. Martala stood by the open door, unfolding my thawb and cloak to lay them across the back of a chair. She wore her clean clothes. The leather wallets and my water skin hung from pegs on the wall, newly brushed and oiled. On a table lay our swords and knives out of their sheaths, and I knew by the smell in the air and the gleam of the steel that the girl had oiled the blades and the leather of the sheaths. Even the carved ivory sheath of my dagger appeared whiter.
“You’ve been busy this morning.”
“Your breakfast awaits you in the common room,“ she said briskly. “I did not know if you wanted it brought to the room. Ani is sitting outside on the step.”
“Why isn’t he sitting in the common room?”
“The innkeeper’s wife threw him out.”
“I should buy him a meal while I eat,” I said as I yawned and stretched under the sheet. “He may die from starvation before he takes us to view the house.”
“He is vermin. Waste no more money on him.”
“I thought followers of the Goddess were more charitable.”
She glanced at her fingernails.
“It is only that I know his kind. I used to be like him.”
I renewed the glamour on my face and dressed. We put the wallets on our shoulders, and belted our blades to our waists. If it became necessary to flee, I wanted nothing of value left behind.
“I filled your water skin,” she murmured as she slung its strap over my head. “I know it comforts you.”
“You may become an adequate servant.”
She projected her tongue at me, and we descended to the common room, where a breakfast of boiled eggs, fowl, and fresh bread waited. The wine was better than I expected—another sign that the innkeeper planned to give me a large bill when I left his roof.
Ani jumped to his bare feet when we emerged from the inn.
“Master, I have found such a house for you, a house fit for a prince,” he said with excitement. “Such spacious rooms. Such a broad courtyard. Such a garden with fruit trees and roses.”
“Does it come with its own staff?”
“Of course. They have been with the house for many years, and are as discreet as you would wish.”
“Why would I wish them to be discreet?”
He stopped for a moment, unable to find words. He reminded me of a dog that knows it has displeased its owner, but does not know how.
“Everyone in the Lane of Scholars seeks discretion,” he said at last with an apologetic bow of his head. “All the householders are private men of wealth and reputation. They want no gossiping servants.”
We followed him westward through the heart of Damascus. At length we passed on our right a high stone wall, with gilded towers rising on its far side. Guards in full armor stood with pikes at the closed gate, already sweating in the morning sun despite the lateness of the season. I imagined how hot their leather tunics and chain mail vests must become at noon, and almost felt sorry for them, in spite of the surly looks they gave me from under their visors as we walked by.
“That is the palace of the Caliph, Yazid ibn Muawya,” Ani said with mingled pride and awe. “He is the ruler of the world.”
The Lane of Scholars ran through a quiet part of the northwestern quarter of the city that was almost entirely made up of houses within walled enclosures. Each house sat on its own private plot of ground. From the street, nothing gave indication of their existence but small featureless doors in the brick walls that ran continuously on either side along the winding road, which was so narrow, two ox carts could not have passed upon it. The bustle and din of the marketplace and the busy thoroughfares of shops and professions might have been in another land. The only sound was the scuff of our boots and the chirping of birds in trees on the far sides of the high walls, which were so tall that I could not reach their tops with my extended fingers.
“Be careful,” Ani warned. “Iron spikes are set in the mortar at the tops.”
“The householders in the Lane of Scholars cherish their privacy,” I murmured.
The only thing to distinguish the doors from each other was their bright colors. They were unmarked by names or numbers, and boasted no windows or viewing slots. As if by way of compensation, their unsocial owners had painted their bare planks with shades of red, blue, yellow, green, and every other pigment available to the artist. Each door wore its individual color as though proclaiming ownership, and no two doors that I passed were painted the same tint.
We stopped at length before a door bearing the brightness of spring grass. Ani seized the knob of the brass chain dangling through a slot in its lintel and pulled. The sound of a bell came from the opposite side of the wall. After a brief wait, the bolt rattled across the panel and it swung inward.
The man who faced us was dressed as a scholar in a white robe and white turban, with soft leather shoes laced on his feet. He was of middle years and no great height, wore a serious expression on his long and bearded face, and carried himself with exaggerated dignity. I wondered whether he was the owner or a servant, and how I should address him. Ani perceived my difficulty and made our introductions.
“This is the agent for the owner of the house, who has agreed to show the house to you, and to rent it to you if it meets your needs, and if the terms are agreeable to you,” he said with unexpected eloquence.
“I am Alhazred, and this is Martala,” I told the scribe.
He smiled coolly and bowed an almost imperceptible bow.
“The owner of the house wishes to remain nameless,” he said in a cultured but thin voice. “I am called Theon. The owner has empowered me to rent the property to a suitable tenant.”
“Theon is a Greek name,” I said.
His made an effort to conceal his irritation, but his expression hardened.
“My father was Greek. I have embraced the teachings of the Prophet, may he be blessed.”
I did not need to ask who qualified as a suitable tenant. It would be anyone willing to pay the rent demanded.
We followed him through the doorway into a court paved with widely spaced blocks of unpolished pink marble, between which grew well-watered grass that had recently been mowed. Amid the manicured ornamental trees, marble statues of female figures adorned the court on granite pedestals. They were Gree
k and bore an ancient look, the loot of decayed temples. Pagan sculptures in marble and bronze were to be had for no great price to anyone willing to pay the cost of transporting them, there were so many temples abandoned and fallen to ruin. If they were goddesses, I failed to recognize them, although I could not help admiring their voluptuous naked limbs.
The front door stood beneath a projection of the upper level of the house that was supported by a row of graceful pink marble pillars. The panel of the door was sheathed in plates of beaten brass secured by an ornate floral pattern of large brass nails. A design of leaves and flowers had been engraved into the brass sheets, so that the brightly polished door presented an almost festive appearance. It opened on well-greased hinges. The floor of the hall beyond continued the theme of marble, but was of a cream color and reflected the light from the windows almost as well as a mirror.
A veiled housemaid with linen in her arms bowed her head and lowered her eyes as we passed, her back against the wall. Her modesty was admirable. She resisted the impulse to stare after us. Theon ignored her. With quick steps he paced us through the ornate rooms on the lower level, and showed us the kitchen and the house of defecation in the back garden. It had been recently cleaned or was long disused, for it had almost no odor. Not far from it was the mouth of a well. I tasted its water and found it good. The garden was larger than I anticipated from the facade of the house. It ran back for a considerable distance between high walls that divided it from the gardens of the neighboring dwellings.
Not a murmur of voices reached my ears over the walls as we walked around, examining the fruit trees and flowers. Near the rear was a pleasant bower overhung with roses, and behind it more utilitarian structures for storing firewood and gardening tools. The old gardener bowed his head and reported to the agent that everything was in order, as was obvious from a brief glance. We went back into the house and ascended the marble stair to view the servant’s quarters at the rear and the larger rooms in the front of the house. I decided that I might as well look at everything, and had Theon show me the cellar.
To my surprise, the cellar was not dank with cobwebs and mold, but revealed signs of regular use. The walls above the lamp brackets were black with soot, and the floors well swept. Ani lit a brass hand lamp and carried it before him through the cellar from room to room. Roman arches and thick stone pillars supported the weight of the house above. The floor was paved with flat stones tightly fitted together. There were many utilitarian tables and shelves, all empty. In one room I saw chains hanging from the wall with iron cuffs at their ends.
“Servants sometimes need to be disciplined,” the agent murmured, observing the direction of my gaze.
I let my eyes slide over the brown-stained stones of the wall but made no comment. Perhaps the stains were rust from the chains, although the air of the cellar was exceedingly dry. It was of no concern to me how the former tenant had entertained himself. The rooms would be useful for work that required privacy from household servants. I made my decision.
“Would the owner be willing to sell the house outright, rather than rent it?”
Theon blinked.
“Perhaps. He has not discussed the possibility with me. The price would be high.”
“Please inquire on my behalf, and give Ani the details when he contacts you.”
As the agent led us from the cellar, Martala bent her head close to my ear.
“You really mean to buy this great pile of stones?” she asked, excitement in her voice.
“It is private and easy to defend,” I murmured. “After all, a man cannot wander forever.”
Chapter 54
The next morning, Ani was again waiting at the step of the inn. When I finished breakfast I went out to talk to him. Martala had gone off to buy writing instruments in the paper-seller’s shop. I thought it useful to have means of writing letters, now that I had become a man of the city. The clubfooted youth greeted me with his usual enthusiasm. I saw that he wore a clean if somewhat faded tunic, and that his hair had been cut. At least some portion of the gold coin had gone to good use.
“Theon says his master is willing to sell the house, but he asks for a great deal of gold.”
“How much gold?”
He named a sum large enough to buy a country estate with a thousand goats in Yemen. When I hesitated in thought, Ani became anxious and wrung his thin fingers.
“Theon says the house is all the property his master holds in the world, and he must get a good price for it if he cannot rent it. He had expected to live on the rent.”
“I understand. Do you know a good gem trader in the city?”
He blinked at this shift in our conversation.
“Yes, lord, I know many dealers in precious stones.”
“I will need to exchange several rare gems for gold, if I am to purchase the house.”
His thin face broke into a smile and he nodded.
“I know just the man. He deals in very fine jewels and pearls. He is a Roman from Constantinople who has embraced the way of the Prophet.”
“Take me to him.”
It was in the interests of any foreigner to declare faith in Allah, if he sought to live and trade in Damascus, where the administrators and officers of the Caliph watched all that went on and received bribes for facilitating questionable transactions.
The criers were calling the people to prayer as we left the inn and headed north through the streets. It would be some while before I knew my way around Damascus. It was an ancient city, some of its streets no more than paved donkey tracks, with the houses so close on either side that I could reach out both arms and brush their doors with my fingertips. The only streets that ran straight and broad were near the palace of the Caliph.
A soldier put his hand upon my chest and stopped me in midstep. Looking around with interest at the antique architecture, I had not noticed his approach. He possessed the body of a bull and the eyes of a pig. Sweat streamed down his forehead from beneath the band of his steel helmet, which looked too tight, as though it squeezed his brain inside his skull.
“Why are you not at prayer?”
Ani stepped forward with an anxious expression and bowed so low I thought he intended to kiss the soldier’s boot.
“My noble lord has important business to transact that cannot be delayed.”
The guard grunted with displeasure. My rough travel cloak and leather wallet did not give me a prosperous appearance.
“Are you a native of Damascus? What is your name?”
“Alhazred of Yemen. I only recently arrived in your beautiful city,” I said, spreading my hands in apology. “I do not yet know all your laws, but this man is helping me to learn them.”
He nodded. It was probably not the first time he had been told a similar story.
“In Damascus we obey the teachings of the Prophet, may he be blessed. When we are called to prayer, we answer. Those who are slow to go to the mosque are beaten through the streets with sticks.”
“A useful encouragement to piety,” I said in a mild tone.
He glared at me, uncertain whether I mocked him. Then he spat near my boot, and stepped aside.
We continued on to Goldbeater Lane, a short street lined with unassuming shops. Ani led me to the smallest and most weathered door and knocked. A tiny old man with a bald head and long white beard, who wore a leather apron with pockets over his linen tunic, peered up at me with an unreadable expression. His head did not reach my chin. A lens of glass in a brass frame hung from a fine chain around his neck. He stepped back and allowed us to enter the dim shop. Beneath the window to the right of the door was a table and chair. Two other chairs rested against a wall, along with a closed cabinet. Otherwise, the front room was bare. A closed door in the rear wall no doubt led off to other rooms in the shop.
“My master wishes to trade with you,
” Ani said, smiling his toothy grin.
The old man ignored him. He looked at me and raised a black eyebrow. I turned and took from the front pocket of my wallet the rag that held my supply of jewels, considerably diminished in the course of my travels. It still contained more than a dozen excellent stones. Three of the smallest I removed, and also the great round emerald I had pried from the idol of Shub-Niggurath. The last stone I concealed in the folds of the palm of my hand as I replaced the rag. With a careless gesture, I laid the three jewels gathered from beneath the lost city of Irem on the bare boards of the table in the morning sunlight.
The interest of the old man quickened. He sat and bent his head over the stones, examining them closely without touching them. Then he took up each between his thumb and forefinger and turned it under the lens, which he held near his face.
“These are uncommon stones,” he said in a cultured voice in Arabic with a Latin accent. “How did you come by them?”
“A legacy from my father at his death. He was captain of a ship in the Red Sea and acquired many curious treasures.”
He chewed his lower lip as he continued to study the stones. I wondered if he had ever encountered this type of jewel before, but did not wish to appear overly inquisitive.
“They are such beautiful gems,” Ani said, hovering near his shoulder. “Look at them sparkle in the sunlight. I have never seen such gems in all of Damascus.”
The dealer cast me a penetrating glance over his shoulder, and named a sum. It was less than a tenth of the gold I needed to buy the house. I allowed my face to express disappointment, and gathered up the jewels with regret.
“That is not enough,” I said. “I am selling these gems to buy a house and need more gold.”
“Have you no more stones to sell?” he asked.
I paused, as if the thought had not occurred to me, and made a display of uncertainty.
“There is one jewel, but I could not sell it for ten times what you have offered. It was my father’s most prized possession.”