The winter that followed was cold and hard. It killed off the plague, but also killed off many of the weakened survivors. I was still a child, but nobody would take me in for fear of the Christians. Somehow I scratched a living through the bitter months. I think it was only the hope of vengeance that kept me going.
However I was to be denied revenge against ibn Nafi. That spring he was cut down in the street, by an unknown hand. Most likely it was Thomas or his men, finishing the job they had started with the Camel. However there were persistent rumours that it was Fatimah bint Abd al-Aziz who struck the blow, avenging the death of her lover. Either way, there is only the Syrian left, to pay the price for my father.
As I grew older I began to gather my own fityan around me, street children and orphans like myself. We call ourselves the Raiders, as if we are horsemen of the desert swooping on an unguarded caravan. In truth we live by petty theft and intimidation, until we are old enough and strong enough to challenge the Christians.
When the grandson of Abd al-Aziz began to hang around with us, some of the gang objected. They said that he was too young, and his background too privileged. However I knew the truth: that he was in fact the son of al-Malik, who was once King of south Harbiya, and I was glad of his company.
I would be happy to blame the Syrian for his death, but I do not believe Thomas knew the secret of the boy’s parentage, any more than he knows who I am. Recently he even tried to recruit us to help him. He was looking for the woman who knew the Name, or some such nonsense, and would pay well for information. I do not even understand what it was he wanted.
Then the boy disappeared. His grandfather tried to put the blame on that old crackpot ibn Bundar, and for all I know he might be responsible. All I can tell you is that the son of al-Malik was not with us on the day he vanished. When word came that his body had been found, I had to go and see it with my own eyes. And when I saw you with the police, I thought you must be an informer, and ran.
This much I can tell you. Only God knows all.
Eighteen
The Tale of The Royal Hunt
I found Abu Nuwas back at the Hall of the Barid, where he was waiting for me irritably. His annoyance was somewhat lessened when he heard what I had learnt.
“So my old friend Thomas is looking for the woman who knows the Name? That is interesting. What was it he said to the Frank? ‘If you have the Name, you can unleash the power of the Fire.’ There must be someone else, a woman, who knows the secret. Perhaps Thomas seeks to betray his accomplices, take the power for himself.”
“Can we not have him arrested, and interrogated? He must know something about the death of the boy.”
“I do not think you understand the influence that the Syrian wields. He could not rule the streets as he does without friends at court. Besides, as far as most people are concerned, the boy’s killer is convicted and condemned.”
“So they brought Babak ibn Bundar back before the Qadi, master?”
Abu Nuwas winced at my question.
“Indeed, and a ludicrous embarrassment it was too. The crowd gawping, the veteran demanding his neighbour’s head on a stick, and the judge al-Shafi’i wiggling his ridiculous beard in smug vindication. At the end of it the accused was condemned to be beheaded. I tried to persuade them to take blood money instead, but then ibn Bundar announced that he was innocent and would rather die than pay them a copper penny. That set Abd al-Aziz raving again, and al-Shafi’i glaring at me as though he would condemn me too, if only he could find a reason. At last order was restored, and the execution is planned for tomorrow.”
“Master, why are you so certain ibn Bundar is innocent?”
“Mostly because Abd al-Aziz and al-Shafi’i think he is guilty. When faced with difficult questions, it is not a bad rule to find out the opinion of fools, and then believe the opposite.”
“But I thought al-Shafi’i was considered a man of great wisdom.”
“Indeed he is, and therefore the worst kind of fool. When a clever man decides he has arrived at the truth, he is more blind to learning or evidence that the most ignorant bumpkin. But we have no time for such philosophical musings. We must go hunting with Harun al-Rashid; and I could not go hunting without my true beloved.”
I was slightly embarrassed to be so described. To my surprise Abu Nuwas did not head down the corridor that led outside, but stomped off along the passageways of the Palace of the Barmakids. I ran behind him for a while, but eventually curiosity overwhelmed me.
“Master, where are we going?”
“To meet my true beloved. Ah, did you think I was talking about you? What delightfully complacent self-absorption you are beginning to display. We might make a poet of you yet. No, the friend of which I speak lives at the palace. This way; here we are.”
We emerged into a courtyard where the air was pestilent with the stink of birdshit and the jangle of bells. A number of wooden poles, with triangular bars at the top like cripples’ crutches, were fixed into the floor. Abu Nuwas called out.
“Hey, Salih! Where is my beloved?”
An old man emerged from a nearby colonnade, shuffling and snuffling towards us. He was bent of back and gnarled of hand, with a face so puffed that his eyes seemed to be at the end of deep holes, and his nose could hardly be distinguished at all.
“Eh, Abu Ali! You come round here after all these long months and expect your beloved to be waiting uncomplainingly? What kind of love is that, eh?”
I reflected that if the old man was my master’s true beloved, then his usually high standards had collapsed like the walls of Yeriho. However his next words suggested otherwise.
“You are too severe, Salih. Cruel fate has kept me from my beloved; but now I am here to make amends. Where is she? Where is my beautiful Khalila?”
Salih, the old man, wheezed away grumbling. When, a few moments later, he returned, he seemed to be carrying something in a gloved hand, which he held carefully away from his body. As he came closer I saw that there was a bird perched on his wrist. It was a falcon, hooded and tethered. As the light fell upon her she stretched her wings, a full five spans across. Abu Nuwas made a throaty growl, almost sexual in its intensity.
“Ah, my beloved! But Salih, why is she veiled?”
“She cannot bear the sight of any human face but yours, Abu Ali.”
As the old man spoke he raised his hand towards my master. Abu Nuwas pushed his finger against the bird’s claws, and she stepped across onto his bare hand. Her talons dug into his skin, causing a drop of blood to roll down his arm, but he seemed not to notice.
“Let me look upon your face, my angel.”
Abu Nuwas delicately untied the braces, as if undressing a lover, and drew the hood from the falcon’s head. Khalila blinked her yellow eyes, and two beautiful, cruel faces stared at each other, in a mixture of hunger and fear that approximated love. Salih meanwhile transferred the leash to my master’s wrist. At last the bird shook, ringing the bells on her feathered legs and breaking the spell. Abu Nuwas stroked her breast.
“Her keel is sharp, Salih. Have you been starving her?”
“She spurns food that is not from your hands.”
The poet placed her on one of the perches while he pulled a leather glove onto his left hand, ignoring the wound.
“Come. It is time for us to hunt.”
I did not know whether he was talking to me or the bird; but I suspected the latter.
Before leaving the palace we visited the stables, to borrow horses. Again this seemed to be an unquestioned privilege of the Barid. Abu Nuwas chose a fine-looking bay mare for himself, and was in the process of picking me out a pony when I was forced to make an embarrassing confession.
“But master, I cannot ride.”
He stared at me as if I had admitted to – well, in fact I could not think of anything the debauched poet might consider shameful, except, apparently, poor horsemanship. At last he managed to speak.
“But – how did you travel here from Tiare
t?”
“Mostly I walked. In Ifriqiya they still use wagons pulled by oxen, and where I could I sat on board. Sometimes I rode on camels …”
“Then if you can ride a camel, why not a horse?”
My answer did not come out audibly at first, and I had to repeat it.
“I am frightened of horses, master.”
The laughter of Abu Nuwas was so raucous it disturbed his falcon, until her distress caused him to recover his composure.
“Well, well. I had thought you utterly fearless, Newborn. I am glad to discover that you have at least one human weakness.”
In the end I consented to perch behind him on his mare, clinging to him rather more tightly than I would have done in other circumstances. We headed south out of the city, and Abu Nuwas geed the beast to a lively trot, relishing my misery. He still bore the falcon on his wrist as he rode, although he had replaced the bird’s hood.
I had worried about how we would find the hunt, but my fear was short-lived. Even before we reached the outskirts of town I noticed the pleasure barges heading down the Tigris, brightly painted and crowded with aristocrats. By midday we were some thirty miles outside the city, but the road was as busy as the most bustling suq. Slaves and servants shouted to each other as they dodged round donkeys loaded with packs, and the horses from which their masters serenely surveyed the chaos. Everywhere packs of dogs barked and panted, straining against their leashes, long-eared hounds with slender legs and pinched stomachs. I wondered what we were hunting, that would not have fled long ago from such commotion.
“Master, is there really an abundance of game, so near to Baghdad?”
Abu Nuwas seemed surprised by my naivety.
“There will be now, if the Khalifah chooses to hunt here. You see that grove of cedars, down in the valley? Slaves have been working all night hauling cages of animals and birds out there, and beaters surround it, to stop them escaping. There will be no shortage of wildlife for the wealthy to slaughter.”
We navigated to where the turmoil was most intense, and here we found the camp of Harun al-Rashid. An elaborate complex of tents had been erected, so that the Khalifah and his inner circle could be sheltered from the noon sun while they prepared for the hunt. Abu Nuwas and I dismounted to approach the royal presence. Harun was sitting in state, on a great pile of costly carpets, so we prostrated ourselves with full formality. He dismissed us with a vague gesture; I had the impression he was suffering for the previous night’s adventures.
As we walked away, Abu Nuwas leading the mare and I keeping as far as I could from its huge, mad eyes and yellow teeth, a voice hailed us.
“Peace be upon you, fellow scribbler!”
It was Angilbert, the leader of the Frankish delegation, who was hauling on the leashes of a trio of slavering hounds. Obviously my master had been correct in his guess: not only had the embassy not been expelled after their escapades, but they were even guests of honour at the royal hunt.
“And upon you peace, my lord ambassador. I am glad you are joining us to sample the pleasures of the chase in the Black Lands. Let us hope it is as exciting as the fishing, eh?”
Abu Nuwas aimed this last comment at the Christian with the half shaven head. The priest, who had last been seen secretly meeting the hooded man by the river, was skulking uncomfortably at the rear of his party. Angilbert’s face did not betray a flicker of guilt.
“Indeed, Brother Catwulf enjoys hunting in all its forms. That is a particularly fine bird on your wrist. From its size, it must be a female?”
While the ambassador adroitly diverted the course of the conversation, I studied the warrior Gorm, who was staring straight ahead. It occurred to me that he probably knew neither Arabic nor Greek. I supposed he used Latin to communicate with his Frankish masters. Then I noticed his daughter, the yellow-haired Hervor. She was dressed for hunting, in a man’s shirt that left her arms as shamelessly bare as her face, and long leather pants. She had been staring at me, and when I looked at her she stuck her tongue out between pale lips. I was taken aback by this obscene gesture, but the shock on my face only caused her to shake with silent giggles.
My master had finished exchanging pleasantries with Angilbert, and led me away. Hundreds of men had gathered for the hunt, and now they began to spread out, forming a wide arc centred on the cedar grove a couple of miles away. Although nobody was directing this manoeuvre, the hunt seemed to be forming into an order of precedence, with proximity to the royal camp the measure of status and favour. Abu Nuwas took me to a position some two hundred cubits from the centre, a prestigious, but not presumptuous, station. I did not ask him how everyone knew their place. To courtiers, this kind of fine judgement seemed as natural as the flocking of birds.
I wondered how we would know when the hunt had started, but soon the chatter and bragging died away, and was replaced by a nervous hush. Then Harun al-Rashid emerged from his tent, surrounded by Guardsmen in their black robes. He climbed onto a grey stallion and sat erect in the saddle, allowing the onlookers to admire his fabulous hunting garments of green and gold.
The quiet was broken by strange sounds from a pavilion of the Khalifah’s camp. It was a piercing noise, somewhere between a bird’s chirrup and the yelp of an injured dog, but loud enough to stir birds from the trees and silence the hounds. Even the falcon Khalila shook her bells in unease.
A lean, slinking shadow slid from the tent, attached to a long rope held by a nervous Guard, and the source of the noise was revealed. It was a cat, half my height and nearly as long as I was tall. Powerful muscles moved under its dappled sandy hide as it prowled into the open ground ahead of the huntsmen; deep black lines ran like tears from its eyes to a whiskered muzzle, that yawned to reveal vicious teeth. Abu Nuwas muttered under his breath.
“What a show-off. He must really want to impress those foreigners.”
Again the big cat emitted its peculiar yelp, which seemed to echo from the hills across the valley. The Khalifah spurred his stallion to a walk, and slowly the hunt came to life, advancing raggedly like a reluctant army. I clambered unwillingly back onto the mare.
“Was that a leopard, master?”
“Not quite. It is a beast of similar kind, which the Hindus call the Chita. It can outpace the fastest horse in pursuit of its prey. They do not breed in captivity, so must be captured as cubs and trained for the hunt. Only the very wealthy, and very ostentatious, own them.”
Abu Nuwas had been scanning the skies. Now the vanguard of the hunt had reached the first trees, and a dove ascended suddenly, startled by their intrusion. My master freed his falcon from her leash and hood, still more lasciviously than before. While she roused and fluffed her feathers ready for flight, he spoke, in a distant singsong very different from his usual tone. He seemed to be addressing me, but his voice was low and he looked only at Khalila.
“I caught her myself, as a passager. On a high hill, where the swift autumn winds chilled the bones, I set my dho-gazza, baited with a fat pigeon. Her keen eyes saw the prey far below, and she was seduced. Khalila stooped, plunging to earth.
“She crashed into the net, bringing the dho-gazza down so that she was tangled in its mesh. I crept towards her. She battled against her capture, struggling for the freedom of the sky. Gently I withdrew her, though she scratched and bit in her passion.”
Abu Nuwas thrust his hand out, and the falcon left him, beating her powerful wings as she fought her way upwards.
“I spent weeks manning her, caressing her with a feather and soft words in a darkened room. When I brought her into the light, she shrieked at the sight of me and sought to flee. But in time she grew used to my face, my voice, my touch. At last she bowed her head before me to take food, exposing the back of her neck where a predator would strike to kill.”
Khalila grew smaller as she ascended, climbing far higher than the dove, which looped dazedly above the grove.
“In the spring I flew her on the creance. Each day I paid out another turn of the reel, until
the line stretched fifty cubits from my hand. Finally came the morning when I took her out untethered, and put her to the air. At first she noticed no difference. She circled at the limits of the creance, waiting for the tug that would mark the circumscription of her liberty. Then she understood, and soared away, disappearing with heartbreaking speed into the clouds.”
The falcon, as if hearing herself talked about, suddenly dropped. She seemed to have stopped dead and fallen, except that the speed of her descent was too great. In an instant she was upon the unwitting dove. Inches from her prey she halted her dive, merely scraping the other bird’s wing with her scything talons. The dove tumbled from the sky, while Khalila spiralled around her.
“She came back to the lure. She came, and I rejoiced in my heart. She spurned the wilderness for the certainty of my hand, and I was glad, because I had bent her to my will. But also I wept.”
A shadow appeared over the falcon and the injured dove, as if a cloud had covered the sun. It was not a cloud, however, but a giant raptor with copper plumage, closing on the pair with menacing speed. I thought for a moment it must be a rukh, the monstrous bird of legend, which preyed on elephants. As it came near to Khalila I realised it was an eagle, but still a fearsome predator, twice the size of the falcon.
Khalila darted away, abandoning her prey to the larger bird. The eagle ignored the dove, which fell to the ground, and instead pursued the falcon, to a cry of horror from Abu Nuwas. Khalila was fast, but could not outpace the eagle’s wide wings. I imagined the falcon, in the roar of the upper air, hearing the beat grow stronger and closer, the hunter fleeing for her life.
Then Khalila stooped, plummeting away from the eagle. The predator banked and wheeled, but already the falcon was skimming over the grass and back to the safety of her master’s glove. Cheated of her kill, the eagle descended to where the dove lay bleeding, and put an end to its struggles.
The Father of Locks Page 23