To move about the city is to confront wonders on every side. There is more color, more noise, more everything to be found on the streets of Cairo than anywhere else under the sun. Hanging from upper windows I saw gilded cages with birds as big as ravens, but more brightly colored than kings, long-tailed and hook-beaked, with feathers scarlet and green, jade blue, white, and yellow. I have no idea what they were or whence they came, but they screeched like the bhean sidhe to burst the ear. There were dogs unlike any I have seen before or since: lean and slender, narrow beasts with long, thin faces, hollow haunches and muscled shoulders, almost as big as wolfhounds, but sleek and fine-footed for running in the sand.
Also, though it was a while before I noticed them, cats. Once I began to see them, however, I was astonished at the numbers. There were very multitudes of the creatures, and they were everywhere. Not a shadow in the city, but you did not see the glint of a yellow eye looking back; not a tree, not a market stall, not a doorway, nor window, nor ledge, nor wall, nor rooftop where a cat did not sit, or walk, or stretch itself.
The crooked streets swarmed with every variety of merchant and seller known—some working from stalls, others carrying their wares stacked on their heads, or dangling from their arms—and every last one shouting to make himself heard above the din. Here a candlemaker walked with hundreds of candles attached by their wicks to a long pole; there a butcher shouted for custom with rings of sausage looped around his outstretched arms; next to him, a carpenter balanced four chairs on his back; and over here, an ironmonger jangled examples of the various chains he could make—and more: goldsmiths, gem dealers, slave merchants, and every kind of food vendor ever known.
Any space on the street, large or small, became a veritable marketplace for vendors to tout for business. I saw carts heaped high with hairy coconuts, others with mounds of sweet black dates, and still others with persimmons, or pears, lemons, almonds, or green bitter quinces.
People thronged these impromptu markets, or bazaars as they are called, eagerly bargaining with the merchants so that the din was a stupendous uproar. Through the tumult scampered lithe, brown children, darting around the legs of their elders, contributing to the havoc with shrill squeals and shouts. Barefoot ragged youths darted quickly here and there and, more than once as I witnessed with my own eyes, relieved unwary passersby of the burden of any unattended purses or belongings.
Our procession snaked through the throngs, passing one exotic quarter after another—including one filled with tiny houses—the only quiet corner of the entire city, I think, and I soon learned why: the stench arising from this place gave me to know that at very least a great calamity had befallen those who lived there. The powerful odor of death hung like an unseen cloud above the silent streets. Yet, save for a few black-robed men ambling idly around the deserted streets, there was no one about.
“Ah, the city of the dead,” Wazim told me when I asked him. “Many Egyptians still hold to the old ways, believing they must feed and house their ancestors in the afterlife.”
The caliph’s men paid no heed at all to the commotion around them, but passed through it with heads high, looking neither right nor left, as if the riotous tumult was so far beneath them as to be invisible. Because of the crush of people and the narrowness of the streets, it took the better part of the morning to reach our destination: a palace of stone that looked as if it might have been hewn in a single piece from the heart of a mountain.
In the dazzling heat of a midday sun, the pale ocher-colored stone blazed like faded gold. Flags of red and blue waved fitfully on tall standards as we passed up the long ramp toward the gates which were made of pierced and gilded iron. Four tall black men with spears and the skins of lions on their shoulders guarded the entrance. At the envoy’s approach, the gatemen opened the gleaming doors without a word; the baggage train entered the palace precinct, and I passed into my opulent prison.
THIRTY-NINE
STILL DAZED FROM the heady journey through the streets of Cairo, our baggage caravan passed through a maze-work of doorways, corridors, walls, and pathways, and arrived at an inner courtyard, there to wait in the sun while the envoy disappeared into one of the many rooms fronting the yard—a pleasant expanse of green grass and small trees of many varieties, all of them meticulously clipped and arranged to show their best features. Peacocks preened in the low branches and paraded in the sunlight, and white doves fluttered around a pool of clear running water. Flowering shrubs, many in gigantic earthenware pots, filled the air with a delightful scent and attracted the lazy hum of bees.
This paradise was bounded by royal residences on three sides; a high, vine-covered wall enclosed the fourth side. Each of the royal apartments and chambers featured a balcony—a roofed, but otherwise open platform affixed to the outer upper floor and surrounded by a wooden railing. These balconies are common in the arid East, for they allow one to escape the heat of the day and enjoy any passing breezes. In the city, I had seen many such balconies, some with elaborate screens of wood; those overlooking the inner courtyard were open, however, so that the residents might enjoy the beauty and calm of the garden below.
As we stood waiting in the sun, I saw a large, very fat man in a golden robe and turban appear at the railing of a nearby balcony; he paused a moment to take in the sight of us, and then ambled away again. A few moments later, I was conducted with the rest of the baggage into a small, wood-paneled hall across the courtyard where this same man was waiting to receive the gifts in the caliph’s name.
He balanced his more than ample girth on a stool at a small table with a square of the peculiar thin Egyptian parchment before him, and the bearers brought the items one-by-one to be entered into his account. I watched as both the gold-bound box containing the embalmed head of Prince Bohemond, and the Black Rood, were duly recorded and borne away with the rest of the treasure—where, I could not say.
Then it was my turn. He looked up from his list, passed his eyes over me, and smiled. “Ah,” he said, and rose to his feet. Speaking first in Greek and then in Latin, he asked which of the two languages I preferred.
“Latin, if you please, my lord.”
“Of course,” he replied. “My name is Amir Abu Rafidi,” he told me, and explained that he was the caliph’s official katib, a position of authority in which, as overseer of the inner palace servants and all the other scribes, counselors, and courtiers, it had fallen to him to receive the gifts which the Caliph of Baghdad had sent. As I was among these gifts, the amir was obliged to take account of me, and he hoped I did not mind this small formality. “I am told that you are a nobleman whose chances of ransom have declined to the point of hopelessness,” he said.
“On the contrary,” I replied, “I am ever hopeful my friends will come for me. I suspect, however, that moving almost continually from one destination to the next since my capture has made the task more difficult.”
“I see,” he replied. “I am also told that you are a spy who has been condemned to death by the Khalifa of Baghdad. Is this true?”
“Not entirely,” I replied. “While it is true that the khalifa ordered me to be executed, it is not true that I am a spy.”
He smiled at my reply, his fleshy jowls wobbling. A cheerful man, and easily amused, I could see he bore me no malice. “It would be a rare man who readily owned such perfidy.”
I agreed, but insisted that it was true nevertheless.
The amir returned to the table and looked at the blank expanse of parchment before him. I could see that he was trying to decide what to write. Gently lowering himself onto the little stool, he folded his arms and rested his chin in his palm, tapping his fingers against his cheek. He looked up into the air, and then down at the table again. Then he rose and walked around the room, hands folded behind him; he looked at me, and said, “You are a nobleman.”
“I am, indeed.”
“That makes it all more difficult, you see.”
“I am sorry.”
“No, no, think
nothing of it.” He quickly reassured me. “We must all take the rough with the smooth.”
He returned to his place and took up the quill; he dipped it in the ink, and then hesitated, his hand hovering above the parchment. He glanced at me thoughtfully. “Ah!” he said, as if discovering the solution to a long-vexing problem.
Dipping the pen once more, he began to write, his hand describing an elaborate flourish as he finished. Laying aside the pen, he picked up the parchment—the odd stuff was so thin, the light from the open doorway shone through it and I could see the strange characters he had written on the other side; holding it before his face, he squinted his eyes and grunted with satisfaction. Then, rising and moving to the door, he called out loudly, and returned to his stool.
A few moments later, the call was answered by the appearance of a little brown man in a long, flowing white garment. Fine featured, with skin like a polished nut, he wore a small white cap atop his close-shaved head. Taking a step into the room, he bowed and stepped lively to the table where he stood looking at me with bright interest.
“Khalifa al-Hafiz is away from Cairo for the foreseeable future,” Abu Rafidi told me. He dipped the pen and added a few amendatory strokes to what had been written. “Only he can decide your fate.” He blew on the wet ink to dry it. “So until the Khalifa returns, you will be given a room in the palace.”
He lay aside the pen once more and, lifting a hand to the white-robed servant, he said, “This is Wazim Kadi; he will be your—ah,” he paused, searching for the right word, “your jailer, let us say. He will attend to your various needs while you reside in the palace.”
“I am to remain a prisoner?” I asked.
“You are to be our…” he hesitated, “our guest, let us say. At least, until the khalifa returns.”
“Forgive me for asking, my lord amir,” I said, “but when is the khalifa’s return expected?”
“Only Allah knows,” the katib replied, “and Allah keeps close counsel.” He smiled pleasantly. “At least, he does not confide in Rafidi. Come now, Wazim will take you to your room and make you comfortable.”
Thus began my friendship with Wazim, the worthy Saracen jailer who has rendered me invaluable service time and time again in a thousand errands large and small. It was Wazim Kadi who provided me with an endless supply of quills and ink with which to write, and who first introduced to me the queer parchmentlike stuff called papyrus. The Egyptians make it from the tall puff-topped reeds that grow everywhere along the river’s edge; tough, yet light, and with the ability to be rolled up tight, this papyrus is in many ways superior to hide parchment—save in one important way: a slip of the pen cannot be rubbed out. Unlike parchment, where the odd blot or misplaced letter can be carefully scraped away to reveal a fresh layer beneath, any mistakes made on papyrus are there forever.
Despite the differences of race and faith, I could not have asked for a better servant. Unfailingly kind and thoughtful, Wazim Kadi has watched over me like a very angel—much like Padraig, in his own way, and I will miss him.
And now, dearest Caitríona, heart of my heart, I must conclude my long and, I fear, far too indulgent missive. What started as a simple letter of farewell has grown to a book. As I look over the work I have done, it pleases me for the most part. If not for the assurances of the caliph that it will one day find its way to you, I would have despaired long ago. But the Saracens are trustworthy; once honor is invoked, they will dare death and beyond to make good a promise.
The end, whatever that shall be, is near. A short while ago, I began hearing cries and shouts of alarm in the corridors and courtyards of the palace. These have intensified, and just now I caught a faint whiff of smoke through my open window. Wazim, who promised to bring word about what is happening, has not returned and I cannot think that a good sign. If this tale is to be completed, I fear it must be by another hand. I am content.
I will close with a prayer for you, and for all those who come after, that in virtue you will find wisdom…and in wisdom, peace…in peace, contentment…in contentment, joy…in joy, love…in love, Jesu…and in Jesu, God and life eternal. Amen.
Farewell, my Cait, my soul. Until we meet in Paradise.
FORTY
UNABLE TO FORCE open the door, I stood at the window and looked out at the dull red bloom spreading across the night sky. There were fires in the city, and I could hear, like the sighing moan of a fretful wind, the eerie ululation of thousands of voices, shouting, screaming, crying. The smell of smoke was stronger now, and I guessed that, once begun, the flames would quickly race through the narrow, tight-crowded quarters, leaping street to street until the whole city was alight.
I was beginning to think what I might do if the flames should come to the palace, when I heard the scrape of a key in the lock; I turned as the door opened, and Wazim Kadi appeared, his face smudged with dirt and soot; his long tunic was filthy and soaked through with sweat. He was bleeding from a cut on the side of his head, and panting for breath.
“Wazim!” I started toward him. “What has hap—”
Glancing over his shoulder, he motioned me to silence and then beckoned me to him with a frantic gesture. “We must hurry, Da’ounk,” he said, his voice a raw, urgent whisper.
Taking up the bundle of papyri I had prepared using one of my siarcs to wrap it, I slipped the loop of a strap over my shoulder, and moved to join him at the door. “Lead the way.” I left the room without looking back.
He led me quickly along the corridor and then down a flight of steps to another corridor below, along this, and out into the small inner courtyard overlooked by my window. He started away again into the darkness, but I took hold of his arm, and said, “Wazim, wait! Tell me what is happening. Where are we going?”
“It is very bad,” he said, shaking his head. “There is no time. We must hurry.”
“Tell me.”
He turned, features dark, eyes glinting in the lurid glow seeping into the sky. “The people are rioting,” he said. His voice trembled. “Many have been killed. They have set fire to the great bazaar, and the khalifa has fled to the citadel. We must hurry if we are to escape.”
“The soldiers, Wazim—where are they?”
“Some are protecting the khalifa,” he said. “Most have been sent to quell the rioting.”
“What about the palace? Are there any soldiers here?”
“A few. Not many.” He pulled on my hands. “Come, this way. We must hurry to the river. Your friends—they are waiting for you.”
“My friends—you mean Padraig?” After so long a time, I could scarce credit the words. Could it be true at last? “Padraig is here in Cairo?”
“Yes, him—and the others. Yordanus Hippolytus is with him, and some others. They have a ship. Come, they are waiting.” He made to dart away again, but I held him firmly.
“There is something I must do first.”
“No, please, Da’ounk. There is no time. The soldiers might return at any moment. We must be gone from the palace before they discover I have set you free. I told your friends I would bring you. They are waiting at the quay. We must hurry.”
“I cannot leave yet,” I insisted. “I need your help, Wazim. Now, listen carefully.” I gripped him by both shoulders and looked into his face. “On the day I was brought here, some treasures came with me—gifts for the khalifa.”
“Gifts?” he said, growing fearful. “Do not think about such things. We must go now.”
“You know what I’m talking about,” I replied, trying to maintain a calm and reasonable tone. “The gifts sent by the Khalifa of Baghdad. What happened to them?”
“They might have been taken to the treasure house,” he allowed, “but it—”
“Take me there,” I commanded. “Take me to the treasure house.”
“It is impossible! We cannot go there. It is locked very tight and the caliph only holds the keys. The treasure house cannot be opened.”
“If you will not help me, I will have to find it
myself.” I made as if I would go off alone.
“Yordanus paid me to deliver you safely to the ship. How am I to do that if you will not come with me?” He snatched at my sleeve. “Please, Da’ounk, it is very dangerous to remain here any longer.”
The urgent pleading in his tone warned me. “Why?”
“They are saying the Fida’in are in the city,” he confessed. “They may be in the palace even now. If they find us they will kill us. We must leave while we can.”
“Soon. First, the treasure house.”
He rolled his eyes and drew a deep breath, but saw it was no good disagreeing any longer. Muttering dark oaths, he led me across the small courtyard and into another of the facing buildings, along a corridor and out again, into the large garden courtyard I saw when first I arrived at the palace. Quickly, quietly, we proceeded along an unseen pathway in the darkness, skirting one building and another, and coming by furtive means to a very large, many-floored edifice set apart from the main wing of the palace and surrounded by a flowering garden.
We stopped at the edge of the garden and hid beneath a low-growing tree. The garden was planted with night-blooming flowers which filled the air with a sweet and heady fragrance, so strong it got up in my nostrils. I stifled three sneezes, and decided it was time to move along. There was no one about that I could see, and there were no signs of life in any of the buildings surrounding the yard.
“This is the treasure house?” I wondered. Although there were no windows on the ground floor, the upper floors contained wide and generous balconies, most of which were screened, but a few of which were completely open, allowing access to anyone who could make the climb.
“This is the hareem,” Wazim replied. “It is the most protected place in the entire palace, with soldiers keeping watch day and night.” The reason, he explained, was that the hareem, as it was called, was where the female members of the Caliph’s family—wives, concubines, and daughters—had their residence.
The Black Rood Page 39