The gates through which we entered were high enough to ride in on horseback. They opened onto a paved yard, with stables to one side. From here silent attendants guided us to a long, torch-lit corridor, with black-clad Guardsmen standing at intervals along the walls.
The corridor led to a small garden, and here we were left in no doubt as to the importance Harun placed on impressing the western barbarians. At the centre of the garden was a tree, glittering in the moonlight. As we crossed the garden I realized that the trunk of the tree was made of silver, the rustling leaves of beaten gold, and plump gems hung like fruit from its branches. Two lions were tethered to the base of the tree, to deter anybody who considered plucking the precious drupes.
At the other end of the garden was the entrance to the Great Hall. Along either side of this cavernous space guests sat on intricately woven prayer mats, talking quietly. At the end a silk curtain hung across the room, separating us from the royal presence. As we walked through the centre of the hall I noticed the poets Abbas and Abu’l-Atahiyya. I also saw Ibrahim al-Mosuli, who was directing the musicians by waving his hands expressively. However there was no time to greet them, as the attendants ushered us toward the curtain.
Here we were met by a fat man with a harassed demeanour. I heard Abu Nuwas call him al-Fadl, and remembered al-Mithaq talking about the Wazir’s brother. I decided to try out my courtly manners.
“It is an honour to meet you. I have already made the acquaintance of your distinguished family.”
The fat man stared at me as if I were a slug in his salad. Abu Nuwas quickly came to my aid.
“You must forgive the boy, Chamberlain. He popped into existence from a magical window only yesterday, and is ignorant of the ways of the world.”
Still looking askance at me, the fat man waddled off to see whether we were to be admitted. Abu Nuwas hissed to me:
“Idiot! That is not Fadl ibn Yahya, the Barmakid. That is the Chamberlain, Fadl ibn Rabi. You have just mistaken him for one of his greatest rivals, and doubtless offended him gravely. Two minutes at court, and you have made an enemy of one of the most powerful men in Baghdad. Smart work, boy, smart work.”
I felt sick with anxiety. I had met so many people in the last two days I had no faith at all in my ability to remember who was who at court, even if my life depended on it – as apparently it did. The Chamberlain reappeared, and beckoned us through a gap in the curtain. On the other side we were stopped by a huge black man, who carried the biggest sword I had ever seen, a blade the length of my body and nearly as wide. He addressed Abu Nuwas in a voice that rumbled like thunder.
“Best behaviour tonight, Father of Locks. We have visitors.”
Masrur the Swordbearer patted the poet’s clothes, and then mine, as if knocking off dust. It took me a moment to realize he was checking for concealed weapons. Then he stepped aside, and finally we were in the presence of Harun the Righteous, Successor to the Prophet of God, the Khalifah ar-Rasul Allah.
The Khalifah sat cross-legged on a pile of expensive rugs. He was tall and elegant, with long limbs and slender hands. His face was surprisingly soft, with brown eyes, a small mouth, and chubby cheeks like those of an infant. However his eyes blazed with awareness of his power.
“Welcome, Father of Locks! What clever words do you have for me, to gladden my spirits on this happy day?”
Abu Nuwas fell to his knees and touched his forehead to the ground as if praying. I did the same, determined not to make any more embarrassing, or possibly fatal, errors. Then he sat up, and stroked his beard as if thinking, although I am sure he had prepared the verses earlier.
“Bounty and Beauty could not agree
And debated their claims over thee.
Said Bounty, ‘His right hand is mine,
For its giving so kindly and free.’
Answered Beauty, ‘Then I take his face,
For its elegance, form and symmetry.’
They parted as friends once again,
Because each one had spoken so truly.”
Harun al-Rashid clapped his hands.
“Very good! Then I had best not disappoint Bounty, by acting the miser when offered such generous praise.”
He threw across a bag of gold, which, like the poet’s verses, he must have had ready. The whole exchange had an almost ritualistic air about it.
“It’s all nonsense, you know.”
The interruption came from a young boy, sitting beside the Khalifah. I guessed him to be the little brother, Ibrahim ibn Mahdi. His childish voice aped the languid sophistication of the adults.
“It’s all nonsense. My birthday was last month. We are only celebrating now because Harun wants to flaunt his magnificence to these Frankish apes.”
He glanced jealously at me.
“I hate politics. I wish I was a poet, like you, Abu Ali.”
Harun laughed indulgently at this, but an elderly woman sitting behind him tutted.
“What talk is this, from a prince of the House of Abbas? A poet? You might as well aspire to be a porter, or a street sweeper.”
Abu Nuwas accepted this denigration of his calling gracefully, making a low bow.
“As ever, the Mother of Islam speaks good sense. You should take heed of your stepmother’s words, little prince.”
I looked at the old woman. Even I had heard of the famous al-Khayzuran, mother to the Khalifah, and an influential figure at court. Her hair was greying, but her face was still strong with the beauty for which she was legendary. She was thin, and nearly as tall as her son; her name meant “The Reed.” She made to speak again, but a guttural voice intruded.
“No, let the boy be a poet! And while we’re about it, turn al-Khuld into a brothel so the Commander of the Faithful can pimp his daughters and wives. Then we can abandon the pretence that there is any dignity left in this charade of a monarchy.”
I could not believe that anyone would dare abuse the Khalifah’s family with such crude mockery, and looked round to see where the voice was coming from. An extraordinary figure was stomping towards us. He was dwarfishly short; his head would only have come up to my waist. His thickset body was twisted and deformed, so that his back was hunched and he walked with difficulty. An angry, warty, black-bearded face adorned his head, which was of normal size but seemed disproportionately large for his stunted body.
I waited for the Khalifah to order his bodyguard to seize this vile intruder, but instead Harun seemed amused.
“Are we sunk so low, then, Buhlul? Is there no chance of redemption?”
“Poets! Musicians! Your grandfather would have had all these wittering fops castrated and sold into slavery. Then he would have sent the Christian pigs back to their so-called king without their heads. Now he was a real Khalifah …”
Harun shrugged in mock resignation.
“You see the burden that I have to bear, Abu Ali? Come to visit me tomorrow. We shall have a pleasant evening, without any of this tedious formality.”
Abu Nuwas prostrated himself once more, then got up to leave. I gathered that the invitation also constituted a dismissal, and rose too. As we walked away, my master muttered to me.
“Is it necessary for me to warn you, never to talk in front of the Khalifah in the way that Buhlul does? As the court jester, he has licence to speak freely that is not granted to the rest of us. If you or I said such things, our deaths would be slow and extremely painful.”
“I hear and I obey, master. I suppose the poor man deserves pity, being crippled like that.”
“Oh, don’t waste your sympathy on Buhlul! He has done very well for himself. And don’t underestimate him either; he has the ear of the Khalifah, and while he may be a Fool, he is not an idiot.”
Flunkies escorted us towards vacant seats in the main hall. Abu Nuwas continued my education.
“The bodyguard, Masrur, he’s another one. He likes to pretend to be a bit slow, but he’s as sharp as his sword, and Harun’s man to the death. Watch yourself around him; he’ll
cut you in half without blinking if he thinks you’re any kind of threat to his Khalifah. In fact, you’d best just keep your mouth shut until we’re safely out of here.”
We were placed by the Frankish delegation. As they were the guests of honour, I assumed this represented kudos for my master; indeed, I saw Abu’l-Atahiyya staring at us enviously from near the door. The Franks themselves had their own concerns. The two men in grey looked uncomfortable on their rugs, and the red haired giant would not sit at all, but stood against the wall scowling. I nearly fell over when I saw that the white girl squatted at his feet, still shamelessly unveiled and gazing around the room with open curiosity.
The leader of the embassy, the man who had worn the diamond-shaped hat, seemed at ease with his surroundings though, and soon engaged Abu Nuwas in conversation.
“I believe you are Abu Ali ibn Hani al-Hakami? They tell me you are a poet. I have some modest pretensions in that direction myself.”
“I am he, my lord – but you have the advantage of me.”
“My apologies. I am Angilbert, ambassador from the court of Karlo, King of the Franks.”
“Your Arabic is excellent, my lord ambassador.”
“You flatter me. I spent some time in Egypt in my youth. We are not all primitive peasants in the west, you know.”
As they spoke Fadl ibn Rabi strutted towards us, looking for a seat near the visitors. Abu Nuwas turned to me with a vicious grin.
“See, boy, how our friend the Chamberlain seeks the pleasure of your company once more …”
Angilbert raised an eyebrow.
“Is this young man, then, an intimate of the honourable ibn Rabi?”
“Indeed he is. Since the moment they met there has been a special bond between them.”
My chagrin was brought to a merciful end when we were interrupted by slaves bringing golden basins of scented water. This time I did not try to drink it, but allowed them to pour it over my hands to cleanse them, as I saw them doing for the other guests. Abu Nuwas gave up teasing me, and continued to demonstrate that he could be not only diplomatic, but even charming when he chose to be; or had to be.
“I will confess, my lord ambassador, that a man of your taste and learning would come as something of a disappointment to the ignorant masses of Baghdad. They imagine all Franks to be savage troglodytes, little better than animals. Your friend here is much more what they would be expecting!”
He indicated the red haired man. The giant appeared oblivious to the discussion, but as I looked at him I realised with a shock that the white girl sitting at his feet was staring directly at me. Angilbert was amused by the poet’s comments.
“Then I must disappoint you further. Gorm is not a Frank. He is a Rus, from the icy north. His people are celebrated warriors, and he helped keep us safe on our difficult journey.”
The white girl had not dropped her eyes when I looked back at her, but held my gaze with a bold effrontery that would have marked her as a whore, had she been Muslim. At last we were interrupted by servants, finally bringing the promised feast. Since arriving in Baghdad I had eaten only a couple of apples and a bread roll, and I found it difficult not to drool openly at the wonders laid before us.
There were chickens roasted in saffron, and a stew of lamb with rice and tomatoes. There were stuffed vine leaves and marrows and eggplants. There were dishes of delicate black roe, pastries filled with sweet cheese and honey, and cakes of crushed sesame flavoured with orange and cinnamon. To drink, however, there was only clear, cold spring water; the Khalifah did not take wine in public.
I made myself eat sparingly, knowing from my years of wandering not to suddenly gorge an empty stomach with rich food. Besides, I was painfully aware of the stare of the yellow-haired girl, and did not wish to appear gluttonous in front of her. My master continued to engage the ambassador in conversation. It occurred to me that Ja’far’s intelligence service might have alerted him to Angilbert’s poetic aspirations. It would be typical of the wily Wazir to have placed a writer, rather than a diplomat, next to the guest of honour, to put him at his ease and draw him out.
“Perhaps, my lord ambassador, you would honour us with a sample of your verse?”
“Alas, even if my feeble efforts were adequate for this great occasion, they are written in Latin. I lack the skill to render them in Arabic with any vestige of poetry remaining.”
“Might I ask, then, what is your theme?”
Angilbert blushed slightly, and for the first time I sensed his embarrassment was genuine, rather than the false modesty of courtly manners.
“I must admit I have the temerity to attempt epic poetry, in the style of the Greek Homer or the Roman Virgil. I am currently working on a lay commemorating the Battle of Orreaga, and the death of Hruodland, Governor of the Breton Marches.”
“I can only regret my ignorance, that the fame of that battle has not reached my ears.”
“Then, in lieu of a poem, might I tell you the story of those tragic events?”
And so he did.
The Tale of the Horn of Hruodland
In the year of our Lord seven hundred and seventy seven, or, as you would count it, one hundred and sixty years after the Prophet left Makkah for Madinah, there came a merchant to the court of King Karlo. Despite the continual wars between the Franks and the Saracens, it was not unusual for Arab traders to cross the mountains separating Andalus from Aquitaine in search of profit. However it was almost unknown for a Muslim to penetrate as far into Frankia as this man had done. When he requested audience with the king, Karlo was intrigued, and agreed to see him.
Once he stood before the king, the Saracen revealed his true identity. He was no mere merchant, but Sulayman al-Arabi, Wali of Barsalona. He had come to seek the aid of Karlo in his struggles against Abd ar-Rahman, the Falcon of Andalus.
Abd ar-Rahman was a scion of the Umayyad dynasty, and would have been Khalifah one day had his family not been overthrown by the Abbasids. During the revolution he had fled Syria and escaped to the west, hunted all the way by Abbasid agents. Finally he landed on the shores of Andalus, where he proclaimed himself Amir of Cordoba, and called on all Muslims loyal to the Umayyad cause to join him.
Sulayman was not happy at this turn of events. He had been content to pay taxes to the Khalifah half a world away in Dimashq, but to have this upstart prince on his doorstep demanding his allegiance was a different matter. The Wali considered asking the Abbasids for help, but even if they could spare an army, it would take years for them to arrive. Instead he conceived a daring plan, to make alliance with the barbarians across the mountains.
Karlo was keen to seize this opportunity, but at the time was heavily committed to his war against the pagan Saxons. It was not until the following year that he was able to muster a force and invade Andalus. I was nineteen years old, and thrilled at the prospect of leading a troop against the Saracen with my king. Hopes were high as we assembled at Burdigala.
The intention was that we would march on the city of Saraqusta, strategic key to the whole of the north of the peninsula. The governor of the city, Husayn al-Ansari, was part of Sulayman’s conspiracy, and was supposed to surrender quietly. Unfortunately, by the time we got there, things had changed.
The self-styled Amir of Cordoba, Abd ar-Rahman, had caught wind of the plot, and sent an army to subdue the troublesome north, under the command of his trusted friend Thalaba ibn Obeid. To the surprise of all concerned, the rebels defeated the Amir’s army, and captured ibn Obeid. Now the conspirators began to wonder whether they needed the barbarians after all. When the king arrived at the gates of Saraqusta, he found them barred against him.
We laid half-hearted siege to the city while fitful negotiations took place. After a month of deadlock and boredom, Sulayman and Husayn decided to give us money to go away. Word of the offer was brought to the king: one hundred thousand dinars in gold and ibn Obeid as hostage.
Karlo was rapidly losing enthusiasm for the whole adventure, and decided to acce
pt. However, he planned to take more than had been offered. Believing the Franks to have been placated, the Wali came out of the city to supervise the transfer of the tribute. Karlo threw him in chains and took him hostage too. We left as hastily as we could without appearing to flee.
Almost immediately the retreat began to go wrong. Firstly we were ambushed by Sulayman’s men, who rescued him and took him back to Saraqusta. In truth we put up little resistance; capturing him had been more an act of petulance than anything. Then we came to Pamplona, city of the Vascones. Here my king made the mistake that was to lead to the greatest disaster of his reign.
The Vascones live in the mountainous regions that separate Andalus from Frankia. They are nominally Christians, but practise many strange rites of their own, and speak a tongue that has nothing in common with the other languages of the west. Fiercely independent, they accept the rule of neither Frank nor Muslim.
These mountain people had caused Karlo much bother over the ten years of his reign. Since he found himself in their territory with an army, he decided to teach them a lesson. I suppose he thought it would give justification to what had been a largely futile expedition. The walls of Pamplona were pulled down. Some of the wilder elements of the army seized the opportunity to vent their frustration at being denied a proper battle, and took the punishment too far. There was looting, rape, a few murders. We left behind us a burning city, and a people who burned more furiously still.
There were few safe routes through the mountains that separated us from the safety of home. Karlo decided to take the one known to the locals as Orreaga. This pass was so narrow that to traverse it we had to march in extended column, with the head of the army several miles ahead of its tail. The baggage, including Sulayman’s gold, was placed under the protection of the rearguard, which was commanded by Hruodland, Governor of the Breton Marches.
Hruodland was a big man, loud, confident and hearty. He was fond of hunting, and always carried with him the horn which he used to call his hounds, and also to rally his troops around him in battle. This instrument was not made from the horn of any animal, but skilfully fashioned from brass. Hruodland claimed it had been made by the ancient Romans, and passed down through his family for generations.
The Father of Locks Page 12