The Father of Locks

by Andrew Killeen

  He was an experienced general, but getting the baggage train over the rough ground of the pass proved difficult, and the rear fell further behind the main body of the army. I myself had been placed at the head, so what happened next I can only tell you from the accounts of the few who survived.

  The leader of the Vascones was a man called Otsoa, the Wolf. Hearing of the depredations suffered by Pamplona, and perhaps more pertinently of the cartloads of gold and other booty we were taking back, he had gathered a troop, and even now the mountain warriors were stalking us. Lightly clad in sheepskin jerkins and leather helmets, they remained unseen as they worked their way along the slopes faster than we could negotiate the valley below.

  Otsoa realised the rearguard had become detached from the rest of the force, and saw his chance. That night the Vascones fell upon Hruodland’s camp, slaughtering men and animals and carrying off loot in the confusion of darkness. The governor sent a message to the kng informing him of the raid, but the mountaineers had been careful to cut off communications. The messenger perished along the way with a spear through his chest.

  When dawn came Hruodland surveyed the carnage in the valley, as the dead were hastily buried under cairns of stones in the grey light. Having received no orders from the king, he decided to fight back. He sent companies of warriors up the slopes in search of the raiders. However, the heavily armoured Franks had no chance of catching the mountain people on their own ground. Those who came back, came back bleeding and beaten; and the main army had pulled still further ahead.

  Hruodland marshalled his men and pressed on. He also sent more messengers to Karlo, but none survived to carry word to the king. Throughout the day the ambushes continued. Not daring to stop, the Franks piled the bodies of their fallen comrades onto the baggage carts for later burial. By afternoon the corpses were too numerous to be carried, and were left behind for the wolves and eagles.

  That night nobody slept, and Hruodland gathered his captains for a crisis meeting. They had realized their messages could not be reaching Karlo, but Eggihard, Mayor of the Palace, had an idea.

  “Your horn, Hruodland! It could be heard along the valley, and would alert the king to our desperate situation.”

  Hruodland shook his head fiercely.

  “What, and drag the others back into this deathtrap? No, I will not summon my king unless I can warn him of the dangers we face.”

  By morning the rearguard had been reduced to half its original strength. The raiders now did not bother to conceal themselves; their silhouettes could be clearly seen on the bluffs and ridges as javelins rained down on the Franks. Again Eggihard begged Hruodland to blow his horn, and again the general refused.

  Finally, at midday the showers of javelins ceased. However, it was replaced by a rhythmic drumming sound. To their horror, the Franks realized it was the sound of swords rattling on shields, as hundreds of mountain men emerged from concealment all around them, walking slowly down the slopes to the surrounded rearguard. For a third time Eggihard asked his general to blow his horn, and Hruodland realized that all was lost if he did not.

  The sound rang down the pass, piercing, keening, echoing from the rocky slopes. But the king was too far away to hear. The Vascones closed in for the kill.

  Karlo did not realize what had happened to his rearguard until he was back in Burdigala. A few survivors, who had managed to hide among the rocks and somehow evaded capture or death, brought news of the disaster. He dismissed them gruffly, waving them away, and they left his presence hurriedly fearing they had offended him. It was only when a sudden sob erupted from him that I realised he was not, as first appeared, deep in thought.

  It is the only time I have seen my king weep.

  Ten

  The Tale of the White Ghost in Blissful Eternity

  “A moving account. I would wager a sum equal to the stolen gold, however, that by the time you have completed your epic, the enemy will not be a rabble of Christian bandits. I suspect they will have transformed, as if by magic, into a vast horde of well-armed Muslims, of – what was that charming word you used? – Saracens. Will you take the bet, my lord ambassador?”

  Caught up in the story, I had not noticed the arrival of Ja’far al-Barmaki. Seeing others around me jump when he spoke, I guessed that had been his intention. Angilbert, however, was unperturbed.

  “Ah, my lord Wazir. I am sure you will understand that my king commands my services as politician as well as bard. I could not risk incurring such a heavy debt.”

  “Your honesty does you as much credit as your tact. With a hundred victories to boast of, you choose to recount your master’s sole defeat. What became of the conspirators?”

  “Husayn al-Ansari’s confidence in the Wali of Barsalona was shaken by his clumsy handling of their rebellion, and further damaged by his foolishness in allowing himself to be captured. The Falcon of Andalus exploited this division between his enemies with the cunning for which he was famed. When he secretly promised Sulayman’s title and lands to whoever got rid of him, Husayn wasted no time in poisoning his former ally and pledging allegiance to the Umayyad.”

  “You say, ‘was’ famed? It is true, then, that Abd ar-Rahman is dead?”

  Angilbert smiled.

  “As I am sure your agents have told you, my lord Wazir, the Falcon died some months ago. His son Hisham has succeeded him as Amir of Cordoba – and, no doubt, as rival claimant to the Khalifate. It seems, does it not, that we have an enemy in common?”

  Angilbert gestured to an empty space on his farsh. Ja’far sat beside him, and they continued their conversation in low voices. As if to prevent them being overheard, Ibrahim al-Mosuli’s musicians struck up a bold tune. The girl who had been singing was replaced by a young man with a strong yet graceful voice. Ibrahim was still directing his band, and when he and the vocalist exchanged a brief smile I noticed the extraordinary resemblance between them.

  The yellow-haired angel-whore seemed to have disappeared, so I dedicated my attention to methodically devouring every scrap of food still within my reach. Abu Nuwas, to my surprise, was flirting with the singing girl. He fixed her with his blue eyes and whispered to her while she blushed and tittered. It was like watching a snake hypnotise a rabbit.

  Ja’far was the first to leave, vanishing as unobtrusively as he had arrived. It was only when the delegation rose to depart that I realised what had been niggling at me all night. The beardless man with the half shaven head, whom I had seen with them on the street, had not been present at the feast. I tried to draw my master’s attention to this, but he refused to take his eyes off the singing girl.

  The ambassador’s exit was the signal for the other guests to stand up. I noticed one of the Frankish priests offering an egg to Fadl ibn Rabi. This seemed odd given the great feast we had just consumed. Still more odd, however, was the sight of the Chamberlain slipping the egg into his sleeve. He bumped into me as he left, and glared at me as if he could poison me with his eyes, like the basiliscus snake.

  I assumed that I would return to the Hall of the Barid, but instead my master and I were escorted to a small room on the second floor. Spending the night alone together in such close proximity made me a little nervous, particularly when Abu Nuwas sent a slave in search of wine. I wished I had pilfered a knife from the feast, in case I needed to defend myself. However, it soon became apparent that the poet had other plans for the evening.

  “Where are you going, Father of Locks?”

  “Is the Newborn jealous? You need only pout those tender lips, and I shall stay by your side. No? Then I shall go to Muti’a, my pretty singing girl. Besides, there are few dangers as rewarding as sneaking into the women’s quarters in a royal palace. The risk of terrible punishment adds spice to the joy of coupling.”

  “The Khalifah seems to favour you. Would he really begrudge you a slave girl?”

  “She is no kitchen maid, boy. These singers change hands for vast sums of money. It is like smuggling a donkey into his stable to cover
his prize mare. And don’t be fooled by that regal charm. Harun al-Rashid is master of an empire, successor to the Apostle of God, and a ruthless bastard with those who don’t show him the proper respect.”

  “I did not think women to be your taste, master.”

  “Are you sure you are not jealous? You seem very reluctant for me to go. Since you ask, it is my rule not to deny myself gratification, in whatever form it comes. Granted, if you offer me the choice, I would probably prefer a beautiful boy to any other companion, but there is a myriad of paths to ecstasy. Old, young, male, female – as long as it is breathing, I will seek pleasure in its arms. In fact, even death need not be an impediment to love …”

  He gazed at me seriously for a moment, then laughed uproariously at my shocked expression.

  “You disappoint me, boy. I had believed you to be a philosopher, who could think beyond conventional, unreasoning morality. What harm can be done to a body from which the life has departed? Of course they must be fresh, while the bloom is still in the cheek and the flesh still soft. But the dead are amenable lovers, if a little passive. It is not unlike fucking a Chinese girl.”

  He left cackling, and I could only hope he was making fun of me.

  With the rare luxury of a room to myself, I settled down for

  a welcome rest. However I would not have survived the years on the road if I were a heavy sleeper. Even the gentle footfalls that entered my room in the still of night woke me immediately.

  At first I thought it was Abu Nuwas, returning from his assignation. I pretended to be asleep, hoping he would be sated or too drunk to bother me. Then I realised something was wrong. The steps were too stealthy, the breathing too hushed. Even if he were sober my master would not take such trouble to keep quiet. I dared to open my eyes a slit.

  A figure was leaning over me. In the darkness all I could tell was that he was too short to be Abu Nuwas. I braced myself to roll away if he struck, swearing to myself that I would never again leave myself so defenceless, even in the Khalifah’s Palace. However he hovered, as if uncertain.

  I lashed out, grabbing his shirt as I twisted, hoping to swing him across me and roll onto his head. It was a clumsy move which could have been disastrous against a skilled opponent, but my attacker seemed surprised and fell easily. We writhed in a tangle, but I managed to get myself on top, pinning down his shoulders with my chest and seizing his wrists.

  It was at this point that I realised two lumps the size of pomegranates were pressing into my ribs. My assailant was female! I leapt away, and she sat up. The light of the moon caught her white skin. It was the Frankish girl.

  We stared at each other for a moment, breathing heavily from our tussle. Then she said something in Latin. I shook my head, as much in befuddlement as refusal. She tried again, this time in Greek. At first I did not understand. Whether it was the years since I used the language regularly, her heavy accent, or the extraordinary nature of what she said, she had to repeat it twice before I grasped her meaning.

  “I’ve come to rescue you.”

  “Rescue me? From what?”

  Now she appeared as confused as me. She was dressed as an Arab man, in shirt and pants, but with no turban, so that her yellow hair gleamed like gold. I had torn her shirt during our fight, and found it difficult to stop glancing at the curve of breast this had revealed.

  “From the Saracens. From slavery.”

  “But I am not a slave.”

  Before each sentence she looked away and her mouth moved. I guessed she was silently trying out the words in an unfamiliar language.

  “Then come away with us!”

  “But this is the greatest city in the world! Why would I want to go anywhere else?”

  We were struggling to communicate, and not only because of our unpractised Greek. I watched her mentally assemble her next speech.

  “For the sake of your immortal soul. You will burn in hell if you stay with these heathens.”

  “I think the people round here would say the same about you. How can you go about with your face on full view like that? Do you have no shame?”

  “You don’t cover your face.”

  “But I am a man.”

  “You are a boy, who is frightened of the body of a woman. I shall show my face if I choose. Perhaps I shall show you my breast, as well. Then you might die of fright.”

  She put her hand to her torn shirt, and I was unable to speak.

  “But if you die now, you will go to hell with the other heathens.”

  The girl lowered her hand, and I breathed again. In truth, when I merely looked at the shaded hollow beneath her collarbone I felt like I was choking. If she actually had exposed her breast, her dire predictions might have come true. I found my voice.

  “Are all Frankish women as immodest as you?”

  She made a plosive noise of contempt.

  “I am no Frank. The women of Frankia are whimpering mice, like your Saracen girls. I am Hervor, a woman of the Rus. My father is raising me to be a shield-maiden.”

  I did not know what a “shield-maiden” was, but I was busy trying to remember where I had heard of the Rus. Then it came to me.

  “So the warrior Gorm –”

  “Is my father.”

  She must take after her mother, I thought. There was very little resemblance between the pale beauty and the red-haired giant. However before I could find out more we heard footsteps outside. Hervor stood up.

  “I must go. You will not come with me?”

  I shook my head.

  “Then tell your friend that if he seeks the secret of the Name, he must stand before the demon with the wings of an eagle and the head of a dog.”

  I do not know whether I was more dumbfounded by these strange words, or by the kiss she planted on my forehead.

  “Farewell, boy. Don’t worry though, I will come back to save you.”

  Suddenly and unexpectedly she smiled, an impish grin that transformed her serious face, and caused my cheeks to flush.

  “And next time, I really might show you my breast.”

  With that she was gone, like a ghost in the night. An instant later, Abu Nuwas lurched into the doorway.

  “If anybody asks, I have been here all the time.”

  He hurled himself onto the farsh and began to snore immediately. I tried to go back to sleep myself, but I was haunted by thoughts of a teasing smile, and dreams of a pomegranate breast.

  ***

  I woke at the first sallow glow of dawn. Abu Nuwas still lay grunting and twitching, but I got up and headed out. I had a rendezvous at the Basrah Gate.

  I had resolved that, since my master appeared in no hurry to delve into the mysteries that faced us, I would take action myself. The trail in Sharqiya led nowhere, so looking for the merchant’s daughter seemed as good a place to start as any. Besides, it gave me the excuse I needed.

  If the girl Najiba had disappeared from within her father’s house, then I must enter the house to look for her. Getting in was no problem for me. But any burglar will tell you it is always safer to have inside information; and for that I needed Layla bint al-Bazza.

  It was only a short distance to her shop, but first I had to find my way out of al-Khuld. I had thought the name of the palace to smack of arrogance, of what the Greeks call “hubris”, in using the Quran’s description of Paradise to denote a place of fleeting earthly pleasure. However, as I wandered around seemingly endless gardens, sparkling with diamond dew in the early light, Blissful Eternity felt like an appropriate description.

  The serpent had crept into my Eden, though. Much as I looked forward to seeing Layla, I could not escape a creeping sense of guilt. I told myself that I had not invited the Rus girl to my room, that she was clearly insane, that the moment I felt her warm body against mine I had jumped off her as if stung. That I had no evidence that Layla even remembered me, let alone expected my fidelity. It was all to no avail; I could not escape the sense that I had somehow transgressed.

  Noneth
eless, I was shivering with excitement when I arrived at the Basrah Gate. Layla’s shop was ideally placed, on the border between Sharqiya and Karkh, at the confluence of two major roads. I wondered how a woman, particularly one so young, had come by such valuable property. It was a busy time of day, when the sun finally gave warmth as well as light, and the crossroads was a popular meeting place for household slaves to gossip and joke while out buying provisions. I had to elbow my way through the bustle to reach the comforting quiet and darkness of the shop.

  “I was hoping you’d come.”

  There was a faint emphasis on the word “you”, and a crinkling around her eyes that suggested a smile. This was enough to lighten my spirits and dispel the gloom that had been dogging me since al-Khuld. I told her of my plan to break into the merchant’s house. Not only did she draw me a map of the building, but she also agreed to help me search. Her business relationship with the merchant’s wife had become a friendship, and it was not unusual for her to spend the night there.

  When all was arranged, there was a moment of silence, and our eyes met. I longed to ask her a thousand things, who she was, where she came from, what her dreams were, but there were too many questions fighting for answers. Then a customer came into the shop, and my spirits sank once more. As I left, though, she put a hand on my shoulder.

  “Please – what is your name?”

  “Ismail. Ismail al-Walid.”

  I did not know why I told her the name that Abu Nuwas had given me, instead of the one I had won for myself. Perhaps it just felt good on that new morning, in that new city, to be the Newborn, al-Walid. It felt like anything was possible.

  She nodded, and the skin around her dark eyes crinkled again with pleasure. I was smiling too, as I emerged blinking into the sunlight. It was a long time before sundown, and I wondered what I was to do next. It seemed unlikely that my master would be awake for some time yet, and I did not know whether I should return to al-Khuld, or meet him elsewhere.