The Father of Locks

by Andrew Killeen

  Eventually I reasoned that Ja’far ibn Yahya had told me I was free, so I might as well enjoy my freedom. I would spend some time exploring the suqs of Karkh, then go back to the Hall of the Barid. I hoped that Yaqub al-Mithaq, the friendly postman who had taught me so much, would be there; I found his solidity reassuring in the crazy whirl of Baghdad.

  The markets were teeming now, and not only with servants on errands. Respectable wives handled and sniffed the merchandise, yelling at stallholders for their outrageous prices. Wealthy merchants strode past, with serious faces and heads full of business. Newcomers to the city could be quickly identified by their wide eyes and open mouths; the pickpockets, fortune tellers and hustlers closed in on them like wolves circling their prey. Ibn Zuhayr’s men, with their blue robes and wooden clubs, were on patrol, but those who could afford it came with their own protection: bodyguards, chaperones and purseholders.

  At first the suqs seemed utterly chaotic, but in fact each alley specialised in different merchandise. One entire lane was given over to sellers of honey, an astonishing variety of sweetness in hues of amber and ochre. I sated my eyes with the riotous rainbow colours of the Boulevard of Clothiers, which stretched across the whole square mile, with endless silks, brocades and fabrics hanging along its length like the banners of an army. On Spice Row I rejoiced in the fragrances that drifted from the baskets and jars: bitter nutmeg, warm cinnamon, delicate saffron, sharp ginger and rich coriander.

  Best of all, however, was the side alley where the booksellers set up shop. The odour of parchment was more delightful to me than all the perfumes and scented oils the suq had to offer, and I wandered up and down in a kind of besotted longing for the priceless manuscripts: the Surahs and Hadiths, the histories and fables, and of course the poetry. There, within my sight but denied to my touch by the suspicious stares of the stallholders, were the odes of al-Qays and Labid, of ibn Kulthum and ibn Shaddad.

  As well as the classics, the Muhdathun, the new wave, were represented too. I saw at least a couple of scrolls tagged with the name of the Father of Locks, and I watched a matronly woman chatter excitedly to her friend as she bought an ode by gaunt Abbas, the poet I had met at the monastery:

  “Oh, the elegance of phrasing in his verse! And of course, the purity of his love, the aching of his unfulfilled longing for Fauz. So much more proper than some of the filthy stuff that passes for poetry these days. My rawi reads it beautifully, such emotion in his voice. You must allow me to send him round to you …”

  I mischievously contemplated telling her what I knew about the real Abbas and Fauz, how their love had not been as pure as the poetry suggested, but I was in too good a mood to want to shatter her illusions. Besides, I doubted she would believe me. The manuscripts may have been beyond the means of most Baghdadis, who would not have been able to read them in any case; but the verses they contained were repeated and memorised throughout the city, and sordid truth could never compete with the legends they propagated.

  Despite stuffing myself the previous night, I was growing hungry again. I supposed I could get food at the Hall of the Barid, but I was tempted by the aroma of the grilled fish and meats, the pastries and patties hawked by market vendors. It occurred to me that if I was not a slave I really should be getting paid by somebody, even if it was just a few coppers.

  Then I remembered the egg which the Frankish priest had given to ibn Rabi. Stealing it had been easy. As the revellers left the hall I made sure that I got under the Chamberlain’s feet, then when he bumped into me I simply lifted it from his sleeve. It had been an act of childish mischief, but I was glad of it now that my mouth was watering.

  I pulled the egg from my belt. A tentative shake suggested it was hard-boiled, so I began to pick off the shell. And it was halfway to my mouth before I noticed the writing, a brown scrawl on the white.

  How the Franks had managed to inscribe a message on the inside of an egg was a question nearly as baffling as why they had bothered. The writing was in Arabic, a string of eight characters written as if it was a single word, but having no meaning I had ever encountered. There were none of the marks which had recently been introduced to indicate vowel sounds, and without any context it was impossible to make sense of it. I attempted to read it out loud, guessing at the vowels.

  “Ghihafa … at … tighasa … Ghihafa at-Tighasa.”

  “Do you give names to all your food, or just the boiled eggs?”

  I wheeled round, to see Abu Nuwas grinning at me mockingly. Beside him stood al-Takht, the Police Captain. Red-faced, I shoved the egg into my mouth and tried to eat it in a single swallow. While I choked and spluttered, the poet slapped my back.

  “Come, boy, we must go to Harbiya. Another child is missing.”

  Eleven

  The Tale of the Red Cloth

  My bright mood had evaporated, and was replaced by irritation.

  “How did you find me?”

  “Really, Newborn, you are nothing if not predictable. I guessed you would dream up an excuse to visit that silly drudge, whose charms, bafflingly, you find more to your taste than my own. Still, I am impressed with your invention. Breaking into the merchant’s house is an excellent idea.”

  Al-Takht winced at this, and pretended he had not heard. Abu Nuwas continued.

  “Learning from the girl that you had already been and gone, I reasoned that you would most likely be drawn to the suqs, and thence, being a healthy young man, to the smell of food. And here I find you, talking to your breakfast.”

  Reluctantly, I decided to confide in him.

  “Master, do you know the words Ghihafa at-Tighasa?”

  “Yes, Newborn, it is the name of your egg.”

  I told him about the Franks, and the Chamberlain, and the mysterious writing. As I spoke, he looked at me with growing concern.

  “And you ate it, boy? Have you never heard the tales of magicians and demons keeping their soul in an egg? Perhaps you have consumed the soul of the Afrit, and now it possesses you. Or you may have summoned the spirit, by speaking its Name out loud.”

  My face must have reflected the horror I felt, until Abu Nuwas burst out laughing.

  “Forgive me, Newborn. Writing on the inside of a boiled egg is an old spy’s trick. A mixture of alum and vinegar will penetrate the shell without leaving any external marks. The only question is why our Frankish friends are passing secret messages to ibn Rabi. And, of course, what that message means.”

  I had been debating whether to mention to him the nocturnal visit of Hervor, and the demon with the wings of an eagle and the head of a dog. His teasing had decided me. I said nothing more as we walked to Harbiya.

  The home of the Abna seemed a different place during the daylight hours than it had on that crazy evening when I had first met the poet. Its more rambunctious citizens were presumably still asleep, and the neighbourhood maintained a tone of genteel respectability. It was surprising therefore to see grown men and women running through the streets as if from a fire. Al-Takht stopped one man as he passed.

  “In the name of the Khalifah, tell us where we can find the veteran Abd al-Aziz.”

  The man had to catch his breath before replying.

  “That’s where I’m going! He’s at the Blue Masjid. He’s dragged his neighbour in front of the Qadi. Reckons he took his boy!”

  He set off again and we followed, even the barrel-like policeman breaking into a gentle trot. When we arrived at the Blue Masjid the courtyard was crowded, and al-Takht had to use his cudgel to force a way through. At the end, by the minbar, we found the source of the excitement.

  Two elderly men were engaged in a furious row. One was an Arab, who was waving a double-pointed sword, and was only being restrained from using it on the other by the intervention of a plain woman of middle years. The other man was taller, thinner, and dark-skinned. He appeared fearful, but smacked his right fist into his left palm in obscene defiance. As we approached the Arab with the sword was yelling.

  “You do
n’t fool me, Babak ibn Bundar! You might fool all these others, but I know what you are, you filthy pervert. Give me back my grandson unharmed, and your death will be swift and easy.”

  Babak ibn Bundar, the black man, replied in an odd, high voice:

  “The only person making a fool of you is yourself, Abd al-Aziz. I don’t know where your grandson is. If you were truly concerned, you would have taken greater care of him in the first place.”

  This enraged Abd al-Aziz still further, but the woman holding him back spoke impatiently.

  “Don’t be a fool, father! If you kill him here – in this holy place–”

  For a moment the veteran slumped in her arms, and I could see through the bluster to the tired old man that he really was. His daughter spoke again, loud enough for everybody to hear.

  “The Qadi will settle this matter. He is from the city of Madinah, where he studied under the great scholar Malik ibn Anas himself. He will find the truth about what happened to my son.”

  Abu Nuwas leaned across to whisper to me.

  “This should be interesting. Imam Malik is a brilliant man, but also a stubborn curmudgeon with a strong anti-authoritarian streak. He dared to issue fatwas against al-Mansur the Victorious! The Khalifah had him flogged, but later begged for his forgiveness.

  “Harun has invited the Imam to his palace, but Malik won’t shift from the holy city. Instead he is supposed to have sent his wisest pupil. Let us see what happens when the scholarship of Madinah has to sift through the sleaze of Baghdad.”

  I was intrigued to discover that, although Baghdad had a police force to keep the peace, it seemed that crime was dealt with there in the same way it was dealt with everywhere else: the plaintiff would drag the accused down to the masjid, accompanied by the whole neighbourhood, to have the matter decided by the Qadi.

  A hush settled on the crowd, and my master fell silent too, as the pupil of Imam Malik emerged from the rear of the masjid. I had pictured a white-bearded sage, but instead a young man appeared, little more than two decades in age. He had a beard, but it was deep black, and sprouted oddly, as if he had hung a small, hairy fruit from his chin. Despite his youth and eccentric appearance, he walked into the courtyard with supreme confidence, eyes almost closed, as if his penetrating intellect made sight unnecessary. He seated himself on a prayer mat.

  “Who seeks the judgement of Muhammad ibn Idris al-Shafi’i?”

  There was a pause, which suggested I was not the only one for whom al-Shafi’i did not conform to expectation. Then Abd al-Aziz started shouting again.

  “My grandson was snatched from the street three days ago, by this deviant son of a donkey. Forty years a soldier, fighting for the true faith, and this is how I am treated! I marched with Abu Muslim, from Merv to Makkah –”

  “You speak as if you are the only man who was ever in a battle! I lost my eye at Talas river –”

  Babak ibn Bundar was pointing at his right eye, which I now realised had been replaced by some sort of glass ball. The effect was disconcerting, as his false eye lagged behind his real one when it moved, so that he seemed to look at everything twice. Al-Shafi’i raised a hand, and astonishingly the old men fell silent.

  “All Muslims are equal before God, and before the law. You will both receive a fair hearing. Now, you, the accused; how do you answer this charge?”

  Ibn Bundar stood upright.

  “I deny it utterly. He’s never liked me. I’ve always been perfectly civil to him, yet he seems to take offence at my mere presence in his neighbourhood – as if he owned the whole of Harbiya. And the way he talks about his military service! You’d think he overthrew the Umayyads single-handed.

  “This is all because of the time I questioned his account of the battle of Talas river. Because I was there, and from the rubbish he talks about it I would swear he was not. He has never forgiven me for daring to disagree with him. Since then he has just been looking for an excuse to accuse me of something.”

  Abd al-Aziz was bubbling like a pot, but the Qadi nodded impassively, encouraging further disclosures from ibn Bundar who, it belatedly dawned on me, matched the description Umm Dabbah had given, of the hooded man with black skin and strange eyes.

  “And he boasts about that family of his, as if they were the family of the Prophet. I mean, the daughter, he even called her Fatimah, where is her husband then? Died a martyr at the siege of Samalu, they’ll tell you. Well, Samalu was nine years ago, and that grandson is no more than seven, at most. You work it out, then tell me what’s going on. Because I don’t know, and it’s none of my business.”

  “I am sure you have nothing to worry about. You only need to say where you were when the child disappeared, and that will be the end of the matter.”

  The old man’s initial relief at the Qadi’s words was replaced by increasing horror, which he then tried badly to conceal.

  “Where I was? Of course I can – I mean to say, why should it be for me, to prove where I was? Does he not need some evidence of my involvement? If, that is, there’s anything to be involved in. I mean to say, that boy, he runs wild on the street day and night. Anything could have happened to him.”

  Al-Shafi’i closed in on his prey.

  “Well, if there is any problem, we could –”

  “Problem? There is no problem. I mean to say, who could call witnesses to their whereabouts all day long? A man needs his privacy. A man must pray, and void his bowels, and …”

  Ibn Bundar was spared trying to think of any more things that a man might admit to needing privacy for, when, to my surprise, Abu Nuwas walked to his side.

  “If I might be permitted to speak, learned Qadi?”

  Al-Shafi’i was not pleased by this intervention, and did not deign to address my master directly.

  “Who is this man?”

  Al-Takht stepped forward reluctantly.

  “Wise Qadi, he has been appointed by the Wazir to look into the … into this matter.”

  He had obviously decided not to complicate things by mentioning supernatural apparitions. Al-Shafi’i took the interruption as a challenge to his authority.

  “It is not the place of the Barmakid to involve himself in the judgement of such matters. If the veteran is condemned he may petition the Wazir for mercy; but the child’s family have a legitimate grievance, and a right to have their case heard in public.

  “In my court, I will not tolerate novelty, nor innovation, even if such practices purport to derive from reason, or common sense. Everything we need to know is contained within the holy Quran, or the Sayings of the Prophet (peace be upon him!) God is the one who judges us. For man to believe he can improve on His laws is arrogance worthy of eternal damnation.”

  “You will agree, learned Qadi, that it is neither novelty nor innovation for the accused to be represented by somebody with legal training?”

  Al-Shafi’i gazed coldly at the poet for a long time. I had the impression he was searching for a reason to disagree. Finally he spoke.

  “I will hear what you have to say.”

  I remembered Abu’l-Atahiyya telling me my master was a hafiz, one who had memorised the Quran. However I did not understand why he was taking it upon himself to defend the one-eyed man. Nonetheless, he pressed on.

  “Surely, wise Qadi, if there is no evidence against Babak ibn Bundar, he should be asked to swear an oath affirming his innocence. Then, unless there are grounds to disbelieve him, the court must accept his word.”

  Abu Nuwas was right. Even I, with my meagre grasp of the Sharia, knew that much. But surely, he could not have failed to realise that ibn Bundar might be the mysterious stranger seen at the site of the other disappearances? I began frantically trying to signal to my master to look at his eyes, by means of spastic hand gestures and wriggling of brows.

  “You are correct in law, agent of the Wazir. Babak ibn Bundar, will you swear the oath?”

  Abu Nuwas bowed deeply.

  “I am indebted to you, learned Qadi. If you would excuse
me for a moment, my servant appears to be having some kind of fit. Allow me to take him to one side and administer treatment.”

  The treatment, administered as soon as we were out of sight in a back room off the courtyard, was a stinging slap around the head.

  “Shut up, you fool! Do you think you are the only one who has seen his eye? If that pompous judge and the Harbiya mob get the idea that he is a demon or a witch, they will have him stoned before sunset. That will bring us no closer to understanding what has happened, nor to finding the children.”

  It was the first time Abu Nuwas had shown any concern for the fate of the innocents, and I held my tongue. We returned to the courtyard, where a Quran had been produced and ibn Bundar was taking the oath.

  “I swear by God the All-Knowing and at the peril of my immortal soul that I am innocent of all the charges which have been put to me before this court.”

  He looked around defiantly, his diverging eyes taking in the whole crowd at once. The onlookers were muttering, wondering whether the entertainment was nearly over.

  “Then, learned Qadi, if there is no evidence against this man –”

  “But I do have evidence!”

  Those spectators who had started to drift away hurriedly returned to their places and sat down. Abd al-Aziz was pointing a trembling finger at his neighbour.

  “My grandson had a red cloth, which he used to staunch his blood when he was hurt in scrapes and scuffles – which was often, as he is the son of a warrior and the grandson of a warrior. If that man has upon his person a square of crimson fabric, a span along each side, then he has taken my boy.”

  This caused a sensation among the crowd, two of whom leapt forward and began to search ibn Bundar. Almost immediately they tugged something red from his sleeve. The cloth fluttered to the ground and lay there like a bleeding corpse.