by Severin, Tim
He gave me a surprised look. ‘On the coast of Ethiopia. Far south.’
‘Have you ever been there? Or any of your people?’
He shook his head. ‘Not that I know of. Why do you want to know?’
‘The caliph is sending us beyond the land of Zanj to bring back animals to add to his menagerie,’ I said sourly.
Abram was visibly relieved. ‘Then I’m afraid I won’t be of any help to you. I have no knowledge of the languages of the people along that coast. You’ll have to ask for a different interpreter to be provided.’
‘But you know what the people are like?’
‘Only that they are black.’ He looked at me quizzically, ‘And what sort of animals are you expected to bring back?’
Osric answered for me. ‘The caliph called it a rukh, or simurgh. It’s similar to the griffin pictured in the Book of Beasts.’
The dragoman regarded us with a mixture of incredulity and amusement. ‘Do you think that such a creature really exists?’
‘It’s not for me to say,’ I told him. ‘The expedition was the crown prince’s idea.’
The dragoman made a sharp intake of breath. ‘What do you mean by that?’
‘I’m sure that it was young Abdallah who persuaded his father to grant us a private audience. But it was his half-brother who suggested sending us to bring back a rukh from Zanj.’
Abram spoke slowly and carefully. ‘Sigwulf, be careful. You’re on dangerous ground.’
I waited for him to go on.
‘I warned you earlier about the rivalries around the throne,’ Abram said. ‘Abdallah pleased his father by bringing you and Osric before him with the mysterious book. That would have made the crown prince jealous. Mohammed has devised a way of discrediting Abdallah by sending you off on a mission that he hopes will fail.’
I hesitated, trying to think how it might be possible to avoid going in search of the rukh when Osric spoke up. ‘The rukh can’t be any more dangerous to catch and handle than a pair of ice bears. Walo should be able to cope.’
Abram’s response held more than a hint of condescension. ‘I admire your confidence,’ he said meaningfully. ‘If a rukh does exist and is so easy to obtain, I’m surprised that there’s not one already in the caliph’s menagerie.’
Chapter Sixteen
MUSA WAS ABLE to provide a few more details about the rukh when Osric and I went to see him in the royal library. We found him in the same airless room as before, surrounded by books and scrolls.
‘I never thought that there would be any use to the librarian’s list of animals mentioned in our books,’ he admitted, ‘but I was wrong.’
‘Our former dragoman doubts the rukh even exists,’ Osric told him.
Musa mopped the sweat off his glistening scalp with a length of cloth. ‘And until recently I would have agreed. But our archivists have turned up reports of similar animals.’
‘Like the griffin in the Book of Beasts?’ I asked.
‘Nearly so. Our texts from India contain several references to a giant bird called a Garuda, large enough to seize an elephant in its talons. We also have a mention from China, of a huge bird known as a Peng. Interestingly, it is said to fly south each year to an unknown destination over the ocean.’
‘To the land of Zanj?’ I suggested.
‘Let me show you on a map.’ Musa lumbered over to a wall where hung a circular sheet of thin flat metal some two feet across. He unhooked it and laid it on the floor beside his low table.
‘This,’ he said, leaning over and prodding the centre of the sheet with a thick finger, ‘is where we are now, in Baghdad.’
The surface of the sheet was incised with interlocking and irregular shapes. It took me a moment to work out that each shape represented a country. I presumed that what was written inside each shape in Arab script was the country’s name.
Musa’s finger moved to a large empty space. ‘This is the sea southward from Baghdad. And here,’ he touched a curved line to one side of the space, ‘is the coast of Ifriquia.’
The stark lines of the map brought to mind the geometrical patterns in the central courtyard of the library. It was an interesting way of seeing the world.
‘Each year,’ explained Musa, ‘half a dozen of our shipmasters set out as a trading squadron. They sail south along that coast, stopping off at various beaches. They drop anchor and wait for the locals to come out to them to barter, buy and sell. There are no real ports.’
‘Have any of the captains ever gone further than the land of Zanj?’ I enquired.
‘The shipmasters are fearful of being left stranded. It’s a question of the winds. For four months a year the wind blows from the north, then there’s a brief lull, and afterwards the wind blows from the south. If a ship goes too far, it may not be able to get back in the same season.’
The big man returned the wheel-shaped map to its hook on the wall, and came back to his desk. I concealed my disappointment. The map was so worthless for practical purposes and I remembered how useful Abram’s itinerarium had been.
‘Have the captains made any charts from their voyages to Zanj?’ I asked.
‘I’m afraid not. They rely on star books.’ The big man gave a breathy chuckle. ‘As I said when you told me about your dreams of the future, our preference is to look to the skies for guidance.’
*
Al-Ubullah, a roadstead and port adjacent to Basra, was where the trading ships were fitting out for the annual voyage to the land of Zanj. Jaffar’s staff arranged for Osric, Walo and me to stay there in a merchant’s house while we waited for the shipmasters to complete their preparations. It was a fine, substantial building made of whitewashed coral blocks, part storehouse, part residence, with large double doors that led from the street into a central courtyard where the owner stacked his trade goods. Al-Ubullah was not as bakingly hot as Baghdad, but the sea air was more humid and stifling, and we sweltered as the days dragged by. Sulaiman, the shipmaster whom Nadim Jaffar assigned to take us to Zanj, was a gnome-like figure, all skin and bone and with a rim of straggly white beard around his jaw. I put his age at approaching sixty but he had the bright eyes of a four-year-old and the sprightly energy to match. He invited Osric and me to inspect his vessel lying at anchor just off al-Ubullah’s waterfront. The place echoed to the sounds of vessels being prepared for long-distance voyages: the work chants of dock gangs handling heavy cargo, the thump of mallets as rope workers spliced cables, the rasp of saws, and the long-drawn-out creak and squeal of wood on wood as spars were hoisted, checked and then lowered again, rubbing against their masts. There were smells of new-cut timber, foreshore rubbish, charcoal cooking fires and the fish oil smeared on hulls.
Sulaiman led us down into the dark gloom of the hold of his ship, clambering across a newly loaded cargo of sacks of dates.
‘Not a single stitch broken after more than fifty years,’ he said, pointing to the inside of the hull.
When my eyes adjusted to the dark, I saw that the planks were held together with thick cords, and similarly fastened to the ribs of the vessel. There were no nails.
I thought back to how Protis’s ship had sprung a leak and foundered, and wondered what would happen if the cords burst. Sulaiman’s vessel would disintegrate, the planks dropping away like the petals of a dying flower in autumn.
The shipmaster prodded a rope fastening. It was black with age. ‘Soaked in coconut oil every season. It will see me out my lifetime,’ he assured us. Tucking up his loincloth he scurried up the ladder and back on deck so nimbly that Osric and I lagged far behind him.
‘When do we set sail?’ I called after him, as we emerged into the bright sunlight. ‘My companions and I are ready to leave whenever is convenient for you.’
‘We leave on the mawsim for Zanj,’ he said firmly, folding his legs under him as he sat down cross-legged on a tattered scrap of carpet on the stern deck. He gestured at us to join him.
‘The mawsim?’
‘The correct da
y of departure. I’ve sailed to Zanj more than a dozen times on the appointed day, and come back safely,’ he answered.
‘And when is this mawsim?’
‘The end of the first week of October.’
‘Can we not leave earlier?’ I was eager to get the expedition over with as quickly as possible.
‘We sail in company with others.’ He gestured to the anchorage where three or four merchant ships, similar to our own, lay with their crews hard at work on mending sails and rigging.
‘And how long before we reach Zanj?’
‘A month or two, depending on the wind and the speed of our business. Nadim Jaffar agreed that I can stop at the usual places along the coast and trade.’
He gave me a sideways, conspiratorial look. ‘If your interpreter could help out, it will reduce the time spent on these stopovers.’
I mumbled something about being prepared to assist in any way I could.
The shipmaster wanted a more definite undertaking from me. ‘The further we travel along the coast, the more difficult it is to deal with the locals. We bargain in a mix of Arabic and the regional languages. Misunderstandings arise. They take time to untangle.’
‘My interpreter will help out as best he can,’ I promised.
Sulaiman burst out in a cackle of sheer delight. ‘Not he . . . she!’
I blinked in surprise.
The shipmaster rocked back on his haunches, still chuckling, ‘So you haven’t heard the rumour. Your interpreter is to be a woman, and what a woman!’ He rolled his eyes.
‘I look forward to meeting her,’ I said frostily. This was the first time I had heard that Jaffar was making such an unusual arrangement, and I felt put out.
Suddenly the old man became serious. ‘I do not mean to sound ungrateful or frivolous. Nadim Jaffar has been most thoughtful in providing such an interpreter. Very few are fluent in the languages spoken along the coast –’ he paused, ‘and she cost him a very great deal of money.’
I decided it was time to turn the subject back to the practical arrangements for our voyage. ‘How far beyond Zanj are you prepared to take us?’
‘I have given my word to Nadim Jaffar that I will not turn back until my ship is as far south of Zanj as Basra is from Baghdad,’ he said.
‘And how will you know that?’ I asked. ‘I had understood that these are uncharted waters.’
The shipmaster reached into the pocket of his grubby gown and pulled a small, thin rectangle of wood, about an inch by two, with a cord through its centre. ‘When this tells me so.’
He put the end of the cord between his lips, held out the tablet at arm’s length to stretch the cord, and closed one eye. He held the position for a moment, then spat out the cord and grinned at me, showing worn brown teeth. ‘Beyond Zanj I will have to find a different star, of course, probably Farqadan.’
I must have looked utterly mystified for he wound the cord around the little tablet and slipped it back into his pocket, then said, ‘It will be easier to explain once we are at sea and under the great bowl of the heavens.’
*
On the morning before Sulaiman and his fellow captains were due to weigh anchor, Osric and I planned to walk to the harbour and make sure that there was to be no last-minute delay. But as we left our house, we came face to face with one of Jaffar’s servants. I recognized the senior steward I had last seen in the lamplight of Jaffar’s luxurious garden.
‘Nadim Jaffar sends his sincere apologies for keeping you waiting,’ said the steward after we had exchanged greetings. ‘He asked me to say that he is entrusting to you the most precious of all his flowering plants.’
My glance travelled over the steward’s shoulder to the small, veiled figure standing a few paces behind him. It took me a moment to grasp Jaffar’s pun. Zaynab was the name of a fragrant flowering plant. It was also a popular name given to girls.
‘Please come inside,’ I said, stepping back into the house. The two visitors followed Osric and me into the courtyard. Only after I had shut the door to the street, did the steward gesture at his companion to draw aside her veil. Sulaiman had already hinted that our woman interpreter was special, but I was completely unprepared for Zaynab’s good looks. She had dark lively eyes, a delicate mouth and a neat pointed chin. Her hair was still hidden beneath a shawl so I could only see her face, but it was her complexion that caught my attention. Her skin was the colour of the cinnamon that the Nomenculator had shown us all those months ago in Rome, and flawless.
I struggled to find something to say. Beside me Osric was equally speechless.
‘Nadim Jaffar sent me to be of assistance to you on your journey,’ she said, breaking the silence. Her voice was huskily melodious, and the way she phrased her remark confirmed that she was a slave.
I forced myself to stop staring. ‘I understand that you speak the languages of Zanj.’
‘Only some of them,’ she murmured. She stood with her small, neat hands clasped in front of her, utterly composed.
‘Our captain, Sulaiman, hopes you will also assist him in his trade negotiations.’
‘If that is what you wish.’
Jaffar’s steward caught my eye. ‘If I may have a word in private.’
‘Of course.’ I walked with him across the courtyard to the side room our host used as a counting house. Behind me I heard Osric strike up a polite conversation with our new interpreter.
‘Nadim Jaffar offers you Zaynab in obedience to the caliph’s direct command,’ the steward said to me once we were alone.
He hesitated for a moment as if unsure whether he was exceeding his instructions. ‘One of the Zanj chieftains sent Zaynab as a gift to the Commander of the Faithful.’
His statement brought to mind the wretched slaves I had seen in Kaupang. It required a great leap of the imagination to equate them with the beautiful woman in the courtyard.
‘My master was willing to pay almost any price to include Zaynab in his household. The caliph agreed to sell Zaynab for thirty thousand dirhem.’
I sensed that I was missing something. The steward’s gaze searched my face, waiting for me to understand what he was hinting at.
Then it struck me: this was the crown prince’s doing. Mohammed had suggested to his father that Jaffar despatch Zaynab to join the expedition. Jaffar was not only tutor but also the leading figure of his rival Abdallah’s circle. By forcing Jaffar to send away a favourite slave worth a small fortune, the crown prince was twisting the knife.
‘I shall make sure that Zaynab returns unharmed to Nadim Jaffar,’ I promised with a confidence I did not feel. My recent experiences had shown how easily the lives of travellers were put in danger. During the days in al-Ubullah I had thought long and hard about the succession of delays and mishaps we had experienced on the way from Aachen to Baghdad. I had now come to the conclusion that some, if not all, of these events had been deliberate attempts to wreck the mission, and I had a suspicion of who had been responsible, though the underlying motive was still unclear.
Chapter Seventeen
AFRICA
*
SAILING TO ZANJ had a marvellous, dream-like quality. Each day seemed to repeat as if time was turning back on itself. Dawn brought a horizon, sharp and clear and infinitely distant, from which the sun rose into a sky where a scattering of puffy white clouds were all moving in the same direction as our ships. Far below, our little company of half a dozen trade vessels ran across a sparkling sea of the deepest blue. A favourable wind, fine and steady from the north-east, filled the huge cotton sails and our crew scarcely needed to touch the ropes. The breeze tempered the heat of the noonday sun so the deck was never too hot to the touch, and the air retained its pleasant warmth long after dusk. Sunsets were dramatic. A tremendous golden-orange glow suffused the entire sky, changing to the colour of pale parchment that diminished and retreated as darkness spread in from the east. Then the moon rose and laid a silver-white path across the black undulating surface of the sea. Wherever one looked u
pward, the heavens were alive with a multitude of bright stars.
In such idyllic conditions I fell in love with Zaynab.
On the third morning of the voyage, not long after sunrise, I was standing near the mainmast with Walo and waiting for the cook to hand us our breakfast of dates, bread and water. There was a sudden light slap as something struck the sail and fell close to where Zaynab was seated on the foredeck where the anchors were stowed. There was flapping and wriggling on the planks. Walo ran forward and I watched as he picked up what seemed to be some sort of small fish. He turned to Zaynab and must have asked her a question for she pulled back the shawl that covered her head and leaned forward to look at what he was holding. As Zaynab would be unable to understand Walo’s Frankish, I walked across to interpret.
‘Is it a fish or a bird?’ Walo was asking her. I looked down at what he had in his grasp. The creature had a fish’s body, six or seven inches long. There was a fish tail and a fish head, with round startled eyes.
Walo gently took the fin on the side of the fish between his finger and thumb, and pulled. Out swung a wing.
‘Our name for it is “fish that flies”,’ said Zaynab.
Walo pulled open the second wing. The web between the bones was so fine and delicate that the light shone through it.
‘Is it in the book?’ he asked, turning to me.
‘I can check,’ I said uncertainly, my voice sounding odd in my ears. Zaynab’s shawl had slipped down around her shoulders. Her dark hair was long and lustrous, piled above her head and fixed with an ivory comb. She wore tiny diamond studs in her small, shell-like ears, and the curve of her slender neck was so soft and perfect that it made me want to reach out and stroke it.
‘What book is that?’ she asked me, looking up. Her eyes held mine for a moment, and I felt a tingling shock. Never before had I met with an expression of such gentle kindness framed with beauty, yet tinged with melancholy.
