Sherlock Holmes, The Missing Years: Timbuktu

by Vasudev Murthy

  “Why do you wish to meet him?” he asked, appraising us carefully.

  “I have come from a distant land with a letter for him.”

  “Come, I shall take you to the marabouts,” said he.

  Holmes and I were escorted inside. We reached a simple mud building which we inferred was where the administrators were to be found.

  We entered a room with high ceilings and elaborate drapes. On the wall were Arabic inscriptions of various kinds. Three men were seated on the floor on thick rugs, smoking hookahs and talking. Fans woven with reeds hung down from the ceiling and they were operated by slaves sitting inconspicuously in niches in the wall, pulling ropes constantly.

  Holmes bowed, and I followed his example.

  “As-Salaam-Alaikum.”

  “Wa-Alaikum-Salaam,” the men replied in unison. All wore white with turbans. All were strongly built Negros of varying age. They were a splendid sight.

  “My name is Yaqub Beg and I am a merchant from Bukhara. This is my slave Morteza.”

  “Bukhara? Wonderful! Wonderful! Welcome to Sankore Mosque, my friend. My name is Haji Ahmad Al-Kaburi. I am the Imam of the Sankore Mosque. These are my friends Haji Toumani Kouyate and Haji Mohammad Yahya Wangari, Professors of Law at the Madrassah. Please sit down.”

  We did as bid, though Holmes indicated with a subtle gesture I should sit quite a distance away.

  “What can I do for you, my friend?” asked Haji Ahmad Al-Kaburi in a warm manner. He was of a jovial disposition with friendly eyes and was quite heavy.

  “The Imam at the Juma Masjid in Bukhara has sent these special dried fruits to you. You will not find them anywhere else in the world. Please accept them.” Holmes handed over a small packet after bowing elaborately. I had no idea where and when he had picked up such a packet. His resourcefulness was remarkable.

  The three men were delighted.

  “Ah, thank you! We are so grateful.”

  “How does the Imam in Bukhara know of us?”

  “Who does not know of the Sankore Mosque in the lands of Islam?” Yaqub Beg said dramatically. “The light of your wisdom and knowledge shines across the world, O Hajis!”

  The men were even more flattered.

  “Please forgive my poor Arabic,” said Yaqub Beg apologetically. “The language of the Uzbeks is different and we do not speak Arabic often. With your guidance and Allah’s will, I shall improve.”

  “All of us can speak French well. We can converse in that language. You are our first visitor from Bukhara, as far as I know,” said Haji Al-Kaburi. He clapped his hands and two slaves were summoned. He spoke to them sharply, and shortly, tea and dates were brought in. They served me separately (and rather rudely, slamming down a plate in front of me) as I was a slave, and moved me to a niche in the wall, which had, possibly accidentally, a soft carpet for my comfort.

  “When did you come to Timbuktu, Yaqub Beg?” asked Toumani Kouyate, reaching for some dates.

  “Only last night. I came from Morocco with a group of Tuaregs.”

  “Ah, a long and difficult journey! You must be praised! But be careful of the Tuaregs. Some of them cannot be trusted. They are often cheats and murderers.”

  “So far, I have not faced any problem with them, but thank you for your advice. I shall be careful. And I do not feel any fatigue. When I saw the Sankore Mosque, it was like a dream that had come true. Praise be to Allah!”

  “Do you have a place to stay? And when do you go back?”

  “Yes, I do. I am staying with the Tuaregs at the abaradiou. I shall perhaps leave in a week. This time I hope to visit Yaounde and then return. But after Morocco, I hope to visit Mecca and Medina before returning to Bukhara.”

  “A noble goal, indeed! Tell me about your slave,” said Haji Al-Kaburi, gesturing in my direction. Everyone turned to examine me.

  “He is from some tribe in Persia. I purchased him in Tabriz many years ago. He is deaf and dumb. That can be quite useful sometimes.”

  Everyone laughed uproariously at my expense. Since I was deaf, I did not react and continued looking downwards.

  “He is very loyal and helps me with my accounts,” said Yaqub Beg, helping himself to a date.

  “Oh? What do you do?”

  “I am a trader, Hajis. Mostly of carpets and sometimes spices.”

  “What brings you here to Timbuktu?” asked Haji Al-Kaburi.

  “I was looking for trading opportunities. I proposed to come back next year if I find that the products of Bukhara and Samarkand are of value here. I would like your opinion about the dried fruits I have brought for you.”

  “Ah these are Turkish apricots, I think. I once ate them in Gaza,” remarked Toumani Kouyate, chewing with deliberation.

  “And those are a rare variety of pistachios, Qadis. I hope you find their quality to your satisfaction.” Yaqub Beg remarked modestly.

  “These are wonderful! Excellent! We thank you!”

  Yaqub Beg quickly established a cordial friendship with the three marabouts. I, on the other hand, given my new status, failed to form any meaningful bonds.

  Toumani Kouyate and Mohammad Yahya excused themselves as they were needed in classrooms. That was convenient for Holmes.

  Yaqub Beg edged forward toward Haji Al-Kaburi.

  “Haji, you are a great man of God. I ask for your forgiveness before I ask you my questions, just in case they are not appropriate. I am not a scholar like you and do not understand many things, including the art of speaking with care and respect.”

  “Certainly, Yaqub Beg. We are an old and famous madrassah. Perhaps we do not know the ways of the world. But he who comes with a clean heart to Sankore and asks questions may easily get answers, Insha Allah.”

  “I search for a treasure in your library,” said Yaqub Beg.

  “I shall be happy to take you there myself and help you find that treasure.”

  “I know I shall not find it easily.”

  Haji Al-Kaburi looked puzzled. “Why do you say that? You have not seen the library yet. There are thousands and thousands of manuscripts. We even have a rare copy of the Tarikh Al-Sudan and so much more. What do you seek? We can certainly try to help you.” Haji Al-Kaburi looked surprised.

  Yaqub Beg hesitated and then spoke slowly. “Haji, my real name is Yaqub Beg Batuta.”

  Haji Al-Kaburi was startled. “What? Are you a descendant of Haji Ibn Batuta?”

  “Yes.”

  “Ah! That may explain your fairness and features. You do not look like any Uzbek I have seen before, though I have not seen many. But how do you know you are from him?”

  “I know because the story was told to me by my grandfather. And the story of his visit to Bukhara is in Al-Rihla.”

  “You may be right, Yaqub. Let me refresh my memory.” He clapped his hands and asked a slave to bring him a copy of Al-Rihla. It arrived shortly. He thumbed through it and found what he was looking for.

  “Ah! Yes! It is true that Ibn Batuta visited Samarkhand, Bukhara, and Termez. And many more. Yes, I now recall. I am not as knowledgeable about Ibn Batuta as my friends. In fact, Toumani Kouyate possibly knows more. Shall I call him?”

  Yaqub Beg raised a restraining hand. “No Haji. Hear me out. I know the Al-Rihla quite well and, to be frank, it is not Ibn Batuta that I have come to discuss.”

  “But it is such an honour, Yaqub Beg! The descendant of Ibn Batuta visiting the Sankore Mosque after more than five hundred years! It is cause for celebration! I must call the scholars in the area for a discussion of Al-Rihla at the very least!” Haji Al-Kaburi was quite excited.

  “Yes, Haji. I am greatly honoured. But I pray once again that you understand why I am here. Once you do, I will have no objection if you wish to call the scholars. After all, I am just an ignorant merchant, while Ibn Batuta was a Qadi.”

  “Tell me what you
wish to know.”

  Yaqub Beg Batuta requested Haji Al-Kaburi to ask his slaves to provide me with food and drink, which he readily agreed to do.

  “You are a good man, Yaqub Beg. Very few care about their slaves, especially a deaf, dumb, and rather ugly one with little obvious value. Many would have put such a slave to death a long time ago.”

  Yaqub Beg sighed. “I have occasionally thought about it, Haji. I may do so at some point in the future. But for now, he is useful.”

  “Continue then, Yaqub Beg.” Haji Al-Kaburi leaned forward, his brow furrowed, quite puzzled by the tenor of the conversation.

  “Haji, the story is that Ibn Batuta travelled to Uzbekistan with a slave girl he purchased somewhere in the land of the emotional Seljuks. She claimed she was originally from Tabriz in Persia. He brought her to Uzbekistan where he stayed for some time. He left Uzbekistan and moved on toward India, but he left his concubine behind as she was carrying. A male child was born and adopted by the Sultan, Uzbeg Khan, who gave him to a friend to nurture. We are descendants of that son of Ibn Batuta, and we continue to marry women from Persia. That is why we look different, perhaps, though we consider ourselves Uzbek.”

  “A remarkable story. Now what is wrong with your slave? He seems to be swaying.”

  “Let me correct him,” said Yaqub Beg, rising angrily from the floor.

  I stopped laughing and became still again. Yaqub Beg sat down slowly, glaring at me, and resumed his narrative.

  “Alas, Haji, we preferred the life of merchants instead of the life of scholars. It is late in my life but I hope my son becomes a Qadi and becomes worthy of your respect.”

  “We respect everyone, Yaqub Beg.” He hailed a slave curtly and asked for more tea and dates.

  “I have found a letter, Haji, which was always considered priceless and very important for our family. I wish to read it to you. But before I do that, could you confirm to me that Ibn Batuta indeed visited the Sankore Mosque?”

  “Certainly, Yaqub Beg. Al-Rihla is one possible proof. But there is stronger proof. Haji Toumani Kouyate will tell us specifically. In Timbuktu, there is a great tradition of storing manuscripts in metal and wooden chests under the desert sands. Whatever documents are not used often, we store in these metal chests and bury them. It is safe. We know where all our buried documents are kept. There is an index that Toumani Kouyate has. The records of important visitors to the mosque were kept, as far as I know. I am quite sure there is a record of Ibn Batuta’s visit somewhere. It is probably an insignificant point. But if I recall, the Sankore Mosque was being rebuilt at that time—was it in AH 752 perhaps? Who can say if the record keepers were consistent at that time? That opens a new line of thought!”

  “Let us continue this discussion further at lunch time. Come with me. Toumani Kouyate will certainly join us. You can leave your slave behind.”

  To my horror, Holmes did just that and I was left in my niche in the wall. The heat had become intense. The other slaves seemed in a better condition, and once Haji Al-Kaburi and “Yaqub Beg” left the building, they too disappeared, leaving me in a hot room with still air.

  After some time, some slaves summoned me to their area and bade me sit down with them. Then they placed a plate with a huge mound of some camel meat—only slightly cooked— rice, porridge, and a paste of yam and something else. It was the most deplorable and unappetizing meal I have yet encountered, with clotted blood dripping off the plate and on to the floor, but I was hungry and needed my strength. I closed my eyes, held my breath and ate a little. Then I washed it down with water. I missed my Yorkshire pudding and bacon. It was a pity that the wonderful, refined cuisine of the English had not yet found favour in this land.

  I was then escorted back to my niche in the wall of the office of Haji Al-Kaburi to wait for the return of my old friend, “Yaqub Beg Batuta,” whom I knew so well from our adventures together in London and elsewhere at a time when I was not a slave but a free man.

  ***

  The account of Sherlock Holmes, in the guise of Yaqub Beg Batuta, an Uzbek merchant

  I walked with Haji Al-Kaburi to another large room where a number of others had started assembling for an early lunch, as was the custom. Al-Kaburi introduced me to many as his guest from Uzbekistan. He hailed Toumani Kouyate and the three of us sat on a thick carpet together as slaves came by to serve us. The fare was interesting, though challenging to an epicurean perhaps. Goat meat, goat cheese, camel meat, millet, yam, fruits, and so on. It was expected that I would eat this alien fare constantly.

  “Toumani Kouyate, Yaqub Beg is an interesting guest. You may be able to answer his questions.”

  “Yes, we rarely get visitors from Uzbekistan at Sankore.” Toumani Kouyate bit into some salted mutton.

  “Do you know who he really is?” smiled Al-Kaburi.

  “I only know him as Yaqub Beg.” His lack of interest was obvious.

  “His real name is Yaqub Beg Batuta, Toumani Kouyate!”

  Toumani Kouyate stopped eating and stared at me.

  “Is that so?”

  “I believe it is the case. I hope to convince you.”

  “But you are not a Qadi.”

  “No. We are descendants of Ibn Batuta in a different way. He brought a concubine from Tabriz to Uzbekistan. When he left, she was carrying and he left her behind. We are descendants of the son she gave birth to.”

  “A very interesting story.” He paused for a few moments. “But I do not recall reading about Ibn Batuta’s son in Bukhara in the Al-Rihla.”

  “It would not have been possible, Toumani Kouyate, because Ibn Batuta did not return and therefore never knew for a fact that he had a son.”

  Toumani Kouyate looked sceptical. “Then what proof do you have that you are indeed a descendant? Anyone could have made up such a story.”

  “I would not dare to do so at such a holy place, Toumani Kouyate. But I understand your point. I have proof.

  “I have with me a letter that the dying Ibn Batuta sent to Uzbeg Khan from Tangier. Uzbeg Khan handed it over to the son when he became an adult. In our family tradition, it was hoped that if a male child had the resources, he would visit Timbuktu and present this letter to the custodians of the Sankore Mosque. I am the first such person who could afford to travel such a distance. But I would like to show that letter to you in Haji Al-Kaburi’s room because it is an old and delicate parchment and I would not like to show it while eating.”

  Toumani Kouyate continued to look sceptical. Al-Kaburi smiled at me and shook his head slightly. We then changed the topic and I asked the two about the students, the curriculum, the faculty and so on.

  We returned to Al-Kaburi’s room, where I found Watson sitting quietly in his assigned niche. I was most impressed by his forbearance. I had not anticipated that he would be so obedient a slave.

  We sat down on the carpet and the conversation resumed.

  ***

  Haji Al-Kaburi repeated Yaqub Beg Batuta’s question about the storage of manuscripts to Toumani Kouyate.

  “Yes, Yaqub Beg, we have thousands of scrolls and books,” said Toumani Kouyate. “Most are of immense value. They must be protected from the sun, air, and moisture. In any case, there is only a small set of books and manuscripts used by scholars again and again. Therefore, it is wise for us to store most of the documents in metal and wooden boxes underground. We take them out when necessary. This method is absolutely safe. The documents are dry and cool in the sand and there is no possibility of insects destroying them. And of course, there is no rain in Timbuktu.”

  “Very admirable,” said Yaqub Beg Batuta, nibbling at a date.

  “But we are equally sensible about indexing them. We have a complete list of what lies below and can retrieve anything we need. Such retrieval happens rarely these days—perhaps once a month. It depends on what the scholar wants. There is no restriction. />
  “But why do you ask?” Toumani Kouyate asked keenly.

  From my niche in the wall, I could sense acute scepticism.

  “Toumani Kouyate, as I mentioned, I am a descendant of Ibn Batuta. I do not expect you to believe me. However, I would like to show you a letter that Ibn Batuta sent from Tangier to King Uzbeg Khan, who in turn gave it to Ibn Batuta’s son when he grew up. I have no reason to believe he lied.”

  Yaqub Beg Batuta took out a soft leather bag from within the folds of his dress. He took out what appeared to be a parchment, quite similar to the half-manuscript of Marco Polo. He gave it to Haji Al-Kaburi, who took it eagerly but carefully.

  “Toumani Kouyate! Look at this! Let me read it!”

  O Great Sultan Uzbeg Khan.

  I salute your memory as one of the greatest Emperors the world has seen. In all my travels, no ruler has impressed me with his kindness, generosity and wisdom as you did.

  I am now at death’s door and am sending this letter to you in the safe hands of my friend. I recall that I had left behind my concubine when she was heavy with child and you had very kindly agreed to make sure the child, if a boy, would carry my name and be treated respectfully.

  Advise my son, if son there is, to take this letter with your seal and travel to Timbuktu. Ask him to present it at the Sankore Mosque and request the documents that I gave the Imam for safekeeping. He promised me that he would keep my books and letters safely till I returned. These are the only gifts I have for my son, but in all families these are important treasures for the sons to preserve and hold dear.

  Abū‘Abd al-Lāh Muhammad ibn ‘Abd al-Lāh l-Lawātī ṭ-Ṭanǧī ibn Baṭūṭah

  19 Safar 770 A.H.

  The letter did indeed have an elaborate seal. It was of the Sultan Uzbeg Khan.

  Toumani Kouyate’s face changed. He seemed quite impressed and less sceptical. He read the letter again and seemed to be thinking of something. I guessed it was the date. Then he nodded; the date seemed right. The parchment looked genuine and so was the handwriting and language.