The Mystic Rose

by Stephen R. Lawhead

  EIGHT

  UPON ARRIVING AT the inn, Cait discovered that the rooms she had bespoken for her enlarged retinue were now occupied by the merchants who had arrived earlier in the day. The innkeeper was vaguely apologetic, but unwilling to turn his guests out; moreover, the special meal Cait had arranged was now being prepared for the merchants. “I begged to be excused, but they insisted,” he said, spreading his hands in a gesture of abject helplessness. “They paid in gold dinars. What could I do?”

  “I suppose honoring your promise to me never occurred to you?” inquired Cait tartly.

  “Exalted lady, you must try to be reasonable,” protested the innkeeper in his rough, marketplace Latin. “These are very important men from the East. It is said that one is the supplier of pepper and saffron to the Sultan of Rhum, and the others are the owners of caravans that carry silk and spices from Kush to Samarkand. They are celebrating a royal commission to provide the court at Baghdad with damask cloth and cinnamon.”

  “Spare me your mealy mouthed excuses,” snapped Cait. “These merchants who cannot be denied—where are they?”

  “Cait, no,” murmured Alethea; she had been watching for her sister’s return and hurried out to meet the knights, who, having eased themselves from the carriages, stood gazing at the evening sky with the transparent delight of children.

  “The merchants, my lady? But—” He looked to Alethea for help.

  “Cait, please…” Thea tugged anxiously on her sleeve.

  Ignoring her sister, Cait demanded, “Where are they?”

  “Why, they are resting in the inner court. But—” began the innkeeper.

  “As it is our meal they propose to eat, they will not mind if we share the celebration.” Turning to Abu, Cait said, “Come with me, we will secure our invitation to the feast.”

  The horrified innkeeper started after her. “My lady, this you cannot do. It is—”

  Cait turned on him, and let fly. “You will not presume to tell me what I can and cannot do! I have five noblemen who require beds tonight. Not merchants: noblemen. Knights! They are newly released from captivity and are not of a mind to sleep in your stinking stable. So, if I were you, my oily friend,” she jabbed a finger into his flabby chest, “I would not waste another moment worrying about my precious propriety, but would start trying to save my worthless skin. For unless you find rooms where my men will be comfortable, I will give them leave to peel you like a grape.”

  With that, Cait turned and marched directly into the inner courtyard to a flurry of protestation from a red-faced, horrified innkeeper. The courtyard had been spread with rugs and cushions for the comfort of the merchants and their guests, who were reclining around large brass trays filled with cups and jars, and bowls of olives and roasted pine nuts.

  At her sudden appearance, all conversation ceased. The merchants looked up to see a woman livid with rage sweeping into their midst. For a moment they merely stared, and when it appeared that she was not about to leave, one of them rose to his feet and addressed her courteously. Abu translated.

  “Most gracious lady,” he said, “you honor us with your radiant presence.” A swarthy man of middle years, his ample form swathed in costly robes of glistening blue and black and crimson, he touched his fingertips to his forehead and made an elaborate flourish with his hand—a flash of gold from the rings on every finger. “I am Ibn Umar al-Farabi, purveyor of rare spices from the Orient. How may I be of service to you?”

  “It seems the rooms which I have engaged for my party have been given to you and your friends.”

  “Indeed?” remarked the merchant with mild surprise when Abu had relayed her words. “Nothing was said of this to me. I am sorry, but I fear there is little to be done about it now. We have already paid for the rooms, you see.”

  “Also, the meal which you will be served was bespoken by me,” she told him bluntly.

  “Again,” replied the trader, “it is unfortunate, but we were not told of this—otherwise we would certainly have made other arrangements. As it is, we have paid for the meal and it is even now being prepared. There is no remedy, I fear.” He inclined his head sympathetically. “Please accept my deepest regrets.”

  The other merchants were listening now; she saw one of them smile with a smugness that brought her already seething rage to a roaring boil.

  “You may keep your regrets. I have no use for them,” Cait snapped. “However, I may be persuaded to accept an invitation to join you at table tonight—sharing the cost, of course.”

  The Arab twisted a gold ring on his finger. “Truly, you are as astute as you are determined. Therefore, it pains me to confess that we cannot offer you the invitation you suggest. For, according to our faith, it is a sin for a follower of Muhammed, peace be upon him forever, to entertain an infidel beneath the roof of his house.”

  Abu relayed the merchant’s words, and added for Cait’s benefit: “This is not strictly accurate. I believe he is testing you, sharifah.”

  Cait considered this observation, and countered, “If this is all that prevents you, allow me to put your pious soul at ease. We are not infidels, as you conveniently suppose, but Ahl al-Kitab, People of the Book.” Indicating the dusky red sky overhead, she said, “Also, the roof you see above you was created by God himself, and it is his good pleasure that all his many children might sit with one another beneath it so that harmony and understanding may increase.”

  A shrewd smile spread slowly across the Arab’s smooth face. “I perceive that you are a most formidable advocate,” said Ibn Farabi, bowing low. “I yield to your superior judgment. Therefore, let it be as you say.” Spreading his jewelled hands wide in welcome, he said, “Please join us, and what was to have been a simple meal among friends will become a banquet.”

  Cait thanked the merchant for his liberality and sent Abu to bring the knights. They trooped noisily into the courtyard, still reeling with the heady intoxication of freedom. Haemur and Otti came next with a mortified Alethea trying to remain invisible behind them.

  Upon seeing their dinner companions, however, the Norsemen’s jubilant expressions faded abruptly. Cait heard the ugly growl of muttered oaths. “It is not what I planned,” she told them sternly, “but it comes to this: dine with them, or go hungry. You decide.”

  As they stood staring dully at their reluctant Arab hosts, the first platters arrived—two large brass trays bearing a veritable mound of apricot-stuffed partridges, and a wicker basket heaped with bread in flat round loaves. The trays were served by the innkeeper’s wife and daughters, dressed for the evening in shimmering green satin with strands of gold coins on their brows and in their hair.

  “Well?” demanded Cait. The aroma of the roast fowls filled the courtyard, and the knights’ gaze shifted from the Arabs to the mounded platters. “What is it to be?”

  “Lady,” Rognvald answered, recovering something of his former exuberance, “tonight I would sup with the Devil himself for a taste of this feast.” Turning to the others, he said, “Not so?”

  They all agreed, so Cait bade her band of prison-haunted knights, land-locked sailors, and mortified sister to follow her and, with Abu’s help, presented each in turn to al-Farabi, who welcomed them and introduced them to his four fellow merchants and their companions. The two parties sat down uneasily together. One of the knights reached straight for a roast fowl, and would have gulped it down, but for Cait’s sharp tap on his wrist. “This is not prison slops in a trough, it is a banquet. We are guests, not prisoners. Therefore, you will behave as if you have dined in civilized company before.” She turned her withering gaze on the rest of them. “You may look like denizens of the dung heap, but try to remember you are noblemen, and let us refrain from giving these Arabs the satisfaction of slandering us when we leave.”

  Alethea, blushing crimson, lowered her eyes and shrank even further into herself. But the knights accepted the reproach with good grace. Duly chastised, they assumed a more courtly demeanor and began to imitate their Mu
hammedan hosts. They washed their hands in the basins provided, and proceeded to dip from the platter with their right hand, placing the food on a flat of bread balanced on their left.

  More platters and bowls were brought—herbed vegetables soaked in olive oil and grilled over coals, fish and olives in mustard sauce, and slivered cucumbers in salted cream and vinegar. A careful, if not altogether convivial, silence descended over the meal as the hungry Norwegians filled empty stomachs with food they would have gladly given sight and sanity to eat only half a day ago. The merchants, not to be outdone at their own feast, kept pace with their ravenous guests, and the food rapidly disappeared. Indeed, the hungry company was just finishing the platter of partridges when the centerpiece of the meal arrived: a whole roast lamb stuffed with rice, leeks, pistachios, and spiced sausage surrounded by a sunburst of spit-roasted doves glazed with sweet mulberry jelly.

  As this grand dish was laid before the delighted company, the innkeeper appeared, and meekly inquired if the meal was satisfactory. “Is all to your liking?” he asked, tugging at his moustache with apprehension.

  “Bring us wine,” Cait told him, “and, God willing, all shall yet be well.”

  “At once,” said the innkeeper, hurrying away.

  Within moments, wine was pouring from tall pitchers into cups and bowls. The Muhammedans did not drink the wine, but continued to sip their sharábah, an infusion of violets in sweetened water; the knights, however, more than made up for the Muslims’ restraint by quaffing the luscious dark liquid in deep drafts until it ran down their untidy beards.

  As night drew in around them, casting the company into deep shadow, the innkeeper brought torches which he placed in jars of sand around the courtyard; the resulting flames cast all in a rosy glow, allowing Cait to study her ragged band of knights.

  There was Yngvar, first chosen, a big man, tall, with hands easily twice the size of her own. His fair hair was long and looked as if it had been gnawed by rats. As she had noticed in prison, he favored his left side somewhat—wincing now and then when he laughed. But that did not stop the laughter. His face was open and honest, and his deep-set eyes seemed like chips of northern slate beneath the overhanging ledge of his brow.

  Next to him sat Svein: darker, more thoughtful, genial, but reserved. Cait suspected that however much he might nod and laugh with the others, the greater part of him remained aloof and watchful. The weight of his captivity lay heavy on him; his broad shoulders drooped from carrying the burden of that long oppression. And although he said little, Cait could tell from the wry, knowing expression when she talked that his understanding of Latin was better than his fellows, and perhaps equal to her own.

  Beside Svein was Dag, whose knowledge of Latin appeared to extend only so far as the end of his well-shaped chin. Nor, Cait suspected, was he troubled by an overly energetic intellect. But, where the others looked like they had been pulled fresh from the hostage pit, he appeared as hale as a man who had just woken from a long nap. Younger than the others, he was undeniably handsome, and enjoyed the confidence his dusky good looks bestowed. Even so, Cait was pleased to see he displayed none of the conceit that good-looking men so often cultivated. He was easy with himself and the others, his smile at once genuine and effortless. Beside Dag sat the unknown knight, guarded, silent, happily making himself an unobtrusive, humble presence.

  And then, next to her, Rognvald. Tall and gaunt, his flesh seemed to hang on his bones, but the bones were strong. Cait imagined that a few weeks of good food, clean air, and rest would restore his former strength and chase the prison pallor from his face. And it was, she decided, a good face—a true Nordic face with generous features and a long straight nose. He was past the first blush of youth—his sand-colored hair had begun to thin somewhat, and the lines were beginning to deepen on his face—but, just sitting next to him, she sensed a steady and resolute spirit, and his quick blue eyes hinted at hidden depths.

  While she might have hoped for a more imposing bodyguard, Cait was satisfied. They were near kinsmen, after all; with their familiar Scandic features they might have been brothers, uncles, or cousins, and she felt she understood them. In the strangeness of this foreign land, she found their presence comforting and reassuring and she was confident that once they had exchanged their prison clothes for attire more natural to their rank, they would begin to resemble something more impressive than the moth-eaten coterie she saw before her now.

  After the first pangs of hunger were appeased, the meal took on a more cordial atmosphere. The warmth of food and wine and the pleasant surroundings of the courtyard worked a charm of peace and calm. Conversation became more cheerful, filling the evening with an amiable companionship which expanded to embrace them all.

  In their elation over the extravagant and sumptuous fare, the Norsemen completely forgot their qualms about eating with Arabs, and the sedately dignified merchants gave every appearance of enjoying the company of the raucously enthusiastic northerners. Though they could not speak to one another, save through Abu’s mediation, the Arabs offered their boisterous guests choice morsels of succulent lamb, or tiny spiced sausages. For their parts, the knights loudly acclaimed the virtues of their hosts with endless salutes of their cups. All around the circle, smiles came easier and laughter more frequent—even Alethea, from the security of her place beside old Haemur, had shaken off her embarrassment and was enjoying herself.

  As she sat watching the others eat and drink and laugh, Cait felt the hard-twisted knot she had carried within her for many days begin to loosen and unwind. She found herself wishing Duncan could be there to enjoy it. Papa would have loved this, she thought, and suddenly the grief which she had succeeded in stifling since Constantinople rolled over her in a great fathomless wave. Tears welled suddenly and unexpectedly in her eyes. To hide them, she bent her head over her cup and let them fall.

  “Lady,” murmured Rognvald beside her, “are you well?”

  She nodded, dabbing the tears away with the back of her hand.

  “Celebrations always make me cry, too,” he confided. She glanced up quickly to see if he was mocking her, but could not tell from his thoughtful expression.

  “I suppose I am just a little tired,” she said.

  “It has been an eventful day for all of us.” He raised his cup, held it up to her, then drank a silent health in her honor, before filling his bowl with more roast lamb.

  As the moon rose above the finger-thin tops of the cypress trees lining the courtyard and showered the company with its gentle glow, a man in a white turban and long black cloak appeared in the arched doorway. Instantly, Ibn Farabi rose from his place, and clapped his hands for silence. Gesturing for Abu to join him, he made a formal announcement in Arabic, which Abu translated: “Friends and esteemed companions,” the merchant said, “I have now the very great pleasure of presenting to you the renowned seer and conjurer, Jalal Sinjari, who has kindly consented to perform for us this evening a few of his legendary feats.”

  The innkeeper and his family, and several of the other guests at the inn, slipped in through the door to stand along the perimeter of the courtyard and watch the dark magician who stepped forward, bowed, and made a fluttery movement with his hands. Suddenly there was a blinding flash of light, and two small boys appeared beside him, one on either side. Dressed in white tunics and trousers, barefoot, their hair shaved to a single thick knot which hung from the back of their heads, they knelt and touched their foreheads to the ground. Sinjari stretched a hand over each of the boys and, still kneeling, they floated up into the air.

  Then, producing two large squares of blue silk cloth from beneath his cloak, he covered first one boy and then the other. He lifted his hands and the boys drifted higher still, and then hung there, suspended in the air while Sinjari, his arms spread wide, walked beneath them to the chorused murmurs of his small crowd. He stepped back, holding his hands high, turned his face heavenward, drew breath, and gave out a mighty shout. In the same instant, he leaped forward
and, seizing a corner of the silk in each hand, whipped the coverings away.

  There was a popping sound and a flurry of white flower petals whirled and spun around the magician. Cait felt a puff of warm air on her face and was bathed in the fragrance of roses. The unexpected marvel delighted even as it astonished, and Cait laughed out loud. She laughed again when the conjurer turned around and…there were the two boys clinging to his back!

  They somersaulted to the ground and, while the diners and onlookers applauded and rattled their cups against the brass trays, the boys ran off to fetch a large, urn-shaped wicker basket which they dragged forward between them. One removed the basket’s lid, and the other retrieved a small pipe-like flute which the conjurer began to play with a raspy, low, droning sound. The noise, while not entirely pleasant to Cait’s ear, nevertheless made her feel as if a subtle movement was taking place in the earth beneath her, and all around; the trees and walls and air seemed to quiver with the sound.

  For a long time nothing appeared to be happening, but as the buzzing notes from the pipe began to quicken, there came a movement from the basket which drew gasps and shrieks from the onlookers as what appeared to be the head and thick sinuous form of a gigantic serpent rose slowly above the rim of the basket.

  But it was not a snake—it was a heavy braided rope, the end of which had been knotted and bound. Up it went, slowly undulating as it rose ever higher, as if drawn upward by unseen hands. Eventually, the top of the rope reached up beyond the small sphere of torchlight, and there it stopped, stretching itself taut. Without taking his lips from the pipe or interrupting the strange low melody, Sinjari nodded to the boy beside him, who began to climb, wrapping his arms and legs around the rope and gripping it with his bare feet.

  Higher and higher he climbed until he reached the top. Cait could see his small form dimly outlined in the moonlight as he clung there above the courtyard. Only then did the conjurer cease his playing. He called up to the boy, who answered him, his small voice drifting down to them. Handing the pipe to the other boy, Sinjari took hold of the rope with both hands and began to shake it, shouting angrily at the boy above.