Enoch's Device

by Joseph Finley

  “Then why would they burn precious books?” Dónall asked as they entered Abir’s home.

  “Because the imams have become fanatics,” replied a bronze-skinned man sitting with Abir at his table. The stranger, who spoke fluent Latin, peered at them through keen eyes set in a comely face with a well-groomed beard. “They interpret Islam through a viewpoint of intolerance and hatred. So if you’ve come here seeking the treasures of Al-Hakkam’s library, I fear you are too late.”

  Ciarán gave Dónall a concerned look.

  “Forgive him,” Abir said gruffly. “Despite his famously eloquent tongue, he often speaks bluntly. Meet Khalil al-Pârsâ.”

  Khalil wore a blousy silk shirt and black pantaloons striped with gold, and a finely crafted curved scabbard and sword hung from the sash at his waist. He tipped a cup in greeting toward the monks and took a long drink, then plucked an olive from a small bowl.

  “Why was this allowed to happen?” Isaac asked.

  “There was a time in Córdoba when books were more prized than jewels, or even the caress of a beautiful woman,” Khalil said. “Yet now the fanatics fear that books spread heresy. It is the intellectuals, who do not bow to the their extreme views, that they truly fear. Al-Mansor allows this, because he needs the imams to maintain his power. But I promise you, their ways shall be the downfall of great Córdoba.”

  Dónall bit his lip pensively. “Do the imams know where the rarest books are held?”

  Khalil shrugged. “Al-Mansor has legions of spies. But can I say for certain? No.”

  “Then there’s still hope,” Ciarán said.

  Khalil took another sip from his cup. “Why don’t you tell me what you are looking for?”

  “We’re not certain,” Ciarán replied. Dónall gave him a hard look, but he went on. “In France, we found a copy of a lost book of scripture, which had been referenced in a work by one of the paladins of Charlemagne. The book mentioned a great and glorious device . . .”

  Ciarán’s words trailed off as Khalil’s expression, so confident a moment before, melted into astonishment. “Charlemagne?”

  Khalil set his cup on the table and rose from his chair.

  “This thing you are looking for—by chance, is it known as Enoch’s device?”

  CHAPTER FORTY

  FIERABRAS

  Seeing the astounded faces all around him, Khalil explained, “It is referenced in a poem by Faris al-Basir. You may know him as Fierabras.”

  Ciarán had never heard the name. He glanced at Dónall, who studied the poet intently.

  “One of Charlemagne’s paladins,” Dónall said.

  “Fierabras was a Moor who converted to Christianity in the service of your famous emperor,” Khalil replied. “He was a warrior poet—very much my inspiration despite his religious conversion. He typically wrote of the beauty of women or the passion of battle, lamentations for fallen friends, and the deeds of great men. But he penned one curious poem about this device you mentioned, belonging to Enoch. I have never understood what it meant, but I always wondered.”

  “What did it say?” Ciarán asked.

  “It has only three lines.” Khalil recited from memory:

  In Virgo’s seed of Charlemagne’s line, and Enoch’s device where the answer lies, in the whisper of breath, or all hope dies.

  Ciarán and Dónall stared at each other. “Those lines come from Maugis’ book,” Ciarán said.

  “Of course!” Dónall said, as if struck with a revelation. “Maugis would have shared the secret with his peers.”

  Khalil’s eyes narrowed. “Maugis d’Aygremont, another of Charlemagne’s paladins?”

  Dónall nodded. “Maugis had a theory, just like the riddle in your poem. It speaks to the purpose of Enoch’s device.”

  “But what is this thing?” Khalil asked.

  Dónall raised an eyebrow. “The answer to that question, hopefully, lies within your caliph’s great library.” He let the statement linger. “Can you get us in?”

  Khalil turned and plucked another olive from the bowl. “This is a perilous time to go hunting for rare books.”

  “We will need access to the secret collection,” Isaac told him.

  Taking the carafe, Khalil refilled his cup and drained it before speaking again. “You are convinced that Al-Hakkam’s library contains the answer to the riddle of Fierabras’s poem?”

  “If any library in Europe does,” Isaac replied, “it is this one.”

  “So,” Abir asked, “will you help them?”

  Khalil tapped an index finger to his bearded chin, and a shrewd smile spread across his face. “I owe you many favors, my friend, and I must admit that I have longed to know the meaning of that poem. In the morning, I will go to the palace and see if the sultana can get me the access your cousin desires.” Khalil paused, eyeing Ciarán. “But I shall take him with me. She fancies young men—the sight of this northern boy may please her.”

  Alais flashed Khalil a bitter look, and Ciarán felt his face go warm.

  “Maybe this one, too,” Khalil said, looking Eli up and down.

  Eli’s eyes grew wide, though Isaac was beaming. “Good,” he insisted. “By all means, take the boys. They must be good for something besides eating and taking up space!”

  So it was decided. Khalil made arrangements with Ciarán and Eli to leave in the morning for the palace, where they would seek an audience with Subh, the sultana of Córdoba. Khalil thanked Abir for the food and drink and bade his friends farewell.

  After he had left, Dónall said to Ciarán, “You think this is fate again, don’t you?”

  “Either that or good Irish luck,” Ciarán replied.

  *

  The next morning, Khalil al-Pârsâ rode up to Abir’s house on a gray stallion, leading two black geldings behind him. Wisps of white cirrus streaked an otherwise blue morning sky, and already the air was pleasantly warm. Ciarán glanced at Eli. “No sign of the demons,” Eli said.

  Ciarán nodded warily. “Let’s pray it stays that way.”

  “Look at you two,” Khalil said from astride his mount. He wore a white silk turban with a long gray feather clasped by a jeweled pin. His curved sword hung at his side. “You are like two eager pups. But how do you know I’m not leading you into the lions’ den?”

  Ciarán grinned. “I’d tiptoe through a lions’ den to get into that library.”

  “This device is that important to you?” Khalil said, raising a brow.

  “You could say that—our lives may depend on it.”

  The Persian eyed them shrewdly. “Then we best get going, he said,” gesturing toward the two Arab geldings.

  *

  The palace of Medinat al-Zahra stood several leagues outside the city, at the base of a mountain that Khalil called the Hill of the Bride. Once they left the city gates, Khalil, Ciarán, and Eli found themselves alone on the road. “How is it,” Khalil asked, “that two Irish monks and a rabbi are looking for an object described by one of Charlemagne’s paladins nearly two hundred years ago?”

  “Isaac says the Jewish mystics have searched for it for centuries,” Ciarán explained. “But there are other men looking for it now—rivals of Dónall.”

  “How desperate are these rivals to find it?” Khalil asked.

  “Desperate enough to have killed for it.”

  Khalil frowned. “So that is why your lives may depend on finding it?”

  “In a way,” Ciarán replied, unsure whether to trust the Persian with theories about the prophecy. He glanced at the curved sword that hung at Khalil’s side. “Why do you wear that?”

  “I have my enemies, too. And, I’ve found that artistry with a sword, just like artistry with a pen, is good for the soul—and for keeping it united with the body.”

  For a while they rode in silence. As they passed a hillside lined with shrubs of lavender, Ciarán asked Khalil how he came to know the sultana of Córdoba. “Through my art,” Khalil replied. “As I earned a reputation as a poet, rulers thr
oughout Al-Andalus would invite me to perform for them. In time, they brought me before Al-Mansor. He sponsored competitions among poets, in which two men would challenge one another to see whose verse was more elegant and whose wit more biting. For a time, these were wonderful affairs that made men like me quite wealthy. But they also introduced me to the more influential women in Córdoba. And that is how I met Subh.”

  “Is it true they call her Aurora?” Eli interjected.

  Khalil nodded. “Because she is as beautiful as the dawn. She was a Basque, a Christian at the time, who became a slave to Al-Hakkam and soon became his favorite. Of course, Al-Hakkam’s true interests lay with boys, shall we say, so in the bedchamber he had her dress as a boy and called her Ja’far.”

  Eli snickered, and Ciarán’s eyes grew wide. “Really?”

  “To Al-Hakkam, she was like a songbird, a treasure to be displayed. But she gave him a son, who is now our caliph, and, in doing so, became the most powerful woman in Córdoba.”

  “What is she like?” Eli asked.

  “Very much like a tigress: beautiful to behold, but deadly when provoked.”

  Concern gathered in Ciarán’s brow as he recalled Khalil’s comment about the lion’s den. “Is she the only way we can get access to the great library?”

  “Only Talid, the caliph’s librarian, has access to the places you wish to go,” Khalil explained. “And Subh is one of the few with access to Talid.”

  “Who are the others?” Ciarán asked.

  “The caliph, of course, but he is a recluse. I do not know if Al-Mansor has access, but if so, I suspect that the secret collection you seek has already burned in the streets.”

  Ciarán sensed bitterness in Khalil’s voice. “You disdain Al-Mansor.”

  “The feeling is mutual, I assure you.”

  “Did he dislike one of your poems?”

  Khalil shrugged. “Let’s just say I was unwilling to flatter him as much as one of my opponents, so the Illustrious Victor sent me to one of his prisons.”

  “For losing a contest?” Ciarán asked.

  Khalil smiled. “Better than losing my head.”

  Ciarán’s eyes widened. “He would do that?”

  Khalil nodded. “He is especially fond of doing that to Christians.”

  As they rode, Ciarán mused that the last thing he wanted to do was cross the king of the Moors.

  “Look,” Khalil announced after some time. “We are nearly there.”

  From their new vantage point, Medinat al-Zahra looked more like a city than like a palace. It consisted of a number of structures built across three ascending terraces, each surrounded by high turret walls. On the first terrace, a minaret rose skyward amid a structure resembling a smaller version of the Great Mosque. Palms and cypresses hung over the crenellated walls, climbing each tier to the top, where a many-pillared edifice stood crowned with a golden dome that blazed like a jewel in the sun.

  “Amazing,” Ciarán said, shaking his head.

  “I’ve only seen her from the river,” Eli added. “Never would I have imagined . . .”

  “How many people live there?” Ciarán asked.

  “About thirty thousand,” Khalil replied.

  He could hardly believe his ears. “All serving the caliph?”

  “There are thousands of slaves, attendants, and guards, as well as the caliph’s harem.”

  “Évrard says he has a thousand concubines,” Eli said.

  Khalil raised a brow. “Try six thousand.”

  Ciarán’s jaw dropped.

  “Under our law, a man can have only four wives. But he can have relations with all the female slaves he possesses. His is a rather large harem.”

  Ciarán could not shake this thought as they approached the palace gates. There, Khalil spoke in Arabic to the guards, bearded men who wore turbans of rich fabric, hauberks of polished mail, and curved swords slung from their leather belts. After taking Khalil’s blade, the guards summoned a man named Najah, who held the title “keeper of the wardrobe.” A tall, bare-chested man with a sash of fine purple cloth draped over his left shoulder answered the summons. His chest and arms were clean-shaven, as were his head and face. Through kohl-lined eyes, he regarded them with a severe expression.

  Najah addressed Khalil in Arabic, speaking in a sharp tone, while Khalil replied in a gentler manner. Their exchange lasted longer than Ciarán expected, and the longer it went, the more concerned he grew that they might never gain admission to the palace.

  Eli leaned toward Ciarán and whispered in Latin, “Khalil is talking his way inside.”

  “Who is this man?” Ciarán whispered back.

  “One of the palace eunuchs,” Eli replied. “You know, they’re missing some things below the belt, but their treacheries are legendary.”

  “What do they do here?” Ciarán asked.

  Najah glared at them crossly. “We are servants of the caliph,” he responded in perfect Latin, “and guardians of his harem.”

  Ciarán exchanged a sideways glance with Eli, whose face was glowing.

  “Follow me,” Najah snapped, “and obey my every command.”

  Khalil shot Eli and Ciarán a reproachful glance. He was clearly annoyed that they had talked about the eunuch in his presence.

  Najah escorted them through horseshoe-shaped archways into corridors as wide as city streets. More bare-chested men, and also veiled women, moved among marble buildings decorated with mosaics of geometric design, and floral motifs of acanthus and vines. After leading them through a bewildering series of turns and archways, the eunuch took them up a wide flight of steps flanked by Romanesque pillars, to another golden archway. From there, they entered the most magnificent garden Ciarán had ever seen. Ornate fountains spouted water into shimmering pools surrounded by flower beds, fruit trees, and palms. Short-cut grass carpeted the entire terrace, and rosemary and jasmine scented the air. And all around this manmade eden, exotic animals roamed: graceful, long-necked beasts that Khalil called giraffas; birds of red, green and blue; and small creatures that looked like sleek goats and hopped like rabbits over streams filled with huge yellow and orange fish. Ciarán could scarcely believe his eyes.

  “Do they come from around here?” he wondered.

  “You truly are from the edge of the world,” Khalil said, nudging him along. “They come from Africa.”

  Najah led them down a stone pathway and up another flight of steps, through the gateway to the palace’s topmost terrace. From there, he took them through a more private garden with orange trees, flowering vines of jasmine, and a central fountain that trickled water from the mouths of great stone fishes. At the far end of the garden, another arch framed the entrance to another of the palace’s structures. “Wait here,” Najah commanded before departing through the archway.

  “When we see her, let me do the talking,” Khalil said.

  Ciarán nodded. After a short time, Najah reemerged. “The sultana will see you now,” he told them.

  Leaving the eunuch there, Ciarán and Eli followed Khalil through the archway into a dim parlor lit by oil lamps. A divan laden with pillows sat in one corner, and a sprinkling of flower petals dotted the tiled floor, filling the room with the scent of lilacs. Long drapes covered what appeared to be the entrance to a balcony fronted by a half-dozen slender columns, and a curtain of beads hung across the far end of the parlor. In the shadows, the beads parted, and a lithe figure emerged.

  Ciarán’s breath caught. The sultana’s face, still beautiful and only subtly touched by age, was framed by long, shimmering hair the color of spun bronze. Golden earrings like teardrops dangled past her cheeks, and a necklace bearing the shape of a heron rested in the naked valley between her breasts. The outline of her nipples pressed through her silk sheath dress, and Ciarán felt an unexpected warmth stirring in his loins.

  “Subh,” Khalil said to her, bowing slightly.

  “Khalil,” she answered in a sensuous voice. She wrapped her slender arms around his neck and
brought her lips to his. Ciarán’s heartbeat quickened as she added to her first kiss.

  “You must visit me more often,” she said, brushing Khalil’s cheek with her lips. “I am lonely. Ever since I turned my son against him, Al-Mansor has kept us prisoner in the palace.”

  Khalil looked at her fondly. “I shall be more diligent with my visits.”

  She strolled toward Ciarán and Eli, her eyes aglow. “Who are your friends?” She patted Eli on the chest. Then her fingers caressed Ciarán’s shaven face. “This one’s a northerner, too. But he looks like a priest,” she said with a frown. “Alas.”

  “He and his companions have come a long way to see the secrets of Al-Hakkam’s library,” Khalil explained. “That is why I am here.”

  Subh pursed her lips. “Al-Mansor will destroy those priceless works, you know. He has caved to the imams.”

  “Which only increases the urgency of their mission,” Khalil said. “I need you to speak with Talid. Have him let us into the library, to where the rarest books are kept.”

  Subh glanced wistfully toward the ceiling. “Talid has become distrustful lately. Al-Mansor’s spies crawl around the palace like cockroaches, and he’s horrified about what the imams would do to those rare books. He loves each of them like the children he could never sire.”

  “But he trusts you,” Khalil pressed.

  She turned away. “Why should I care about my husband’s old books?”

  “They were his treasures,” Khalil said.

  “But what good do they do me now? And why should I further risk the anger of Al-Mansor?”

  A sense of unease replaced Ciarán’s arousal. “The books hold the secret to a weapon,” he said, thinking quickly. “A weapon known to the paladins of Charlemagne—the type of thing a man like Al-Mansor would kill to possess.”