by Tim Severin
‘Ambassador Ganelon tells me that you wish to accompany me to Zaragoza. I look forward to your company, so let us be friends,’ he said.
‘Your Excellency is to be congratulated on his excellent command of my language,’ I answered diplomatically. I was thinking that Husayn’s Latin was so fluent that Ganelon would not have required an interpreter at their private discussion.
The wali smiled delicately, showing small, even white teeth.
‘Then we shall be able to converse as we ride.’
‘Does Your Excellency know how long the journey will take?’ I asked.
‘A week at the most. We are fortunate there is so little snow this year.’
Husayn, his curiosity evident, turned his gaze on Osric.
‘Your Excellency. This is Osric, my servant. He has been with me for many years,’ I explained.
Abruptly the wali switched into what must have been the Saracen tongue and asked Osric a direct question.
There was an awkward pause as Osric looked across at me. I nodded.
When Osric had finished his reply, the wali treated me to another of his engaging smiles.
‘Now it is you who must be congratulated. Your servant tells me that you are a good master, and he is happy to serve you. Come, let us get started!’
*
Thankfully, riding in company with Husayn was less gruelling than what had gone before. The young wali rode at a steady walk so that I could match the pace of my gelding to his mount and he encouraged me to ride by his side. He asked many questions about my life and later, when I ran out of answers, we continued together in companionable silence, the white-capped mountains gradually coming closer and the land wilder and less inhabited. Recalling Hroudland’s comment that the Saracens could turn nasty and cut my throat, it occurred to me that no one would be any the wiser if it happened in these remote borderlands. Yet I sensed no threat from the Wali of Zaragoza. Husayn was courteous and friendly and, as it turned out, also very devout. Whenever we stopped for him and his people to say their prayers, they took a long time. This gave me a chance to dismount and wander away from our little group under the pretence that I needed to stretch my legs. Then, privately, I wrote down my observations for Alcuin.
Our route continued westward for two days before turning south and beginning to climb steadily through the foothills. The landscape was a dreary succession of barren hills slashed by steep-sided ravines. Watering sources were few, forage non-existent and, in many places, the road narrowed to a single track difficult for carts. The inhabitants were a sturdy, taciturn people living in small, scattered settlements located on spurs of high ground. They provided food and shelter for us and our animals in return for generous payments in silver coins from a heavy purse carried by one of Husayn’s attendants, but they showed no interest in who we were or where we were going.
On the fourth day of our journey, we passed above the snow line. Now the mountain slopes were speckled with boulders poking up through the snow crust. But the track itself was almost clear. It was another cold, crisp day of bright sunshine, and we had not seen a living soul since setting out that morning. I judged that we were approaching the crest of the pass itself and I could see that Husayn was pleased with our progress.
‘Normally I would be worried that snow would block the road. But tomorrow we will be over the worst and our path will begin to slope downhill,’ he said cheerfully. For the past mile he had been glancing up at the sun to determine when to halt and recite the Saracen prayers that are said just after noonday. I waited patiently. I had slipped behind in writing up my notes and this was the most crucial stage of the road through the mountains.
At length we came to a narrow defile, warmed by the sun but sheltered from the wind.
‘This is a good place to halt,’ Husayn announced. ‘After prayers, we can take some food and rest the horses.’
I dismounted stiffly and handed the reins of the bay gelding to Osric.
‘I think I’ll go for a stroll,’ I said.
‘Stay close,’ warned Husayn. ‘There are bears in these mountains, and wolves. They have been known to attack travellers.’
I laughed.
‘I haven’t seen a bear or a wolf since we began our journey.’
‘Then at least take a weapon with you, just in case,’ Husayn insisted.
Dutifully, I unstrapped my bow case from the packhorse and took out the weapon and a couple of arrows. I noticed the look of mild interest on Husayn’s face when he saw the type of bow I was using.
Leaving the others, I walked off, picking my way carefully over the loose rocks. Behind me I could hear the sounds of the Saracens unsaddling their horses. From past experience I expected we would halt for at least an hour.
The bare hillside was open and exposed, and I was obliged to walk a little distance to find somewhere to sit privately and write my notes. I angled up the slope until I could no longer be seen from the defile. There, I found myself a patch of ground free of snow in the lee of a large boulder. I laid down my bow and arrows, sat down and took the flat box containing my writing materials from the inner pocket of my coat.
I had just slipped off my gloves and taken up the stylus when a movement caught my eye. A bird, the size and colour of a crow, was flying in low swooping arcs across the hillside. Occasionally it stopped and landed on a boulder. It was the only living creature in the immense, frozen landscape, and I wondered what it found to feed on. I watched the bird come closer until it settled on a rocky outcrop below me. I turned my attention back to the work in hand and began to scratch out a diagram of our route for the past three days. The wax tablet had hardened in the cold and the metal point of the stylus skidded on the brittle glazed surface. I pressed harder, the wax chipping and flaking. I engraved the main line of the route then started to mark the location of the mountain villages I had seen and the distance between them. The air was so still and the silence of the mountains so absolute that I clearly heard the sound of claws scrabbling on rock as the bird settled on the crest of a boulder, not six feet from me. It cawed loudly. Its voice came back as an echo from the far mountainside.
I ignored the bird and worked on, head down. I was anxious to finish my work before the Saracens thought I was overdue and came looking for me. After a short while I heard the soft flap of wings as the bird flew away. Then came a tiny clink, the sharp sound of a pebble falling on rock. I vaguely thought that the sun melting the snow must have released a stone lying on the crust.
I was concentrating so fiercely on my work that I was shocked by the loud crack as something smashed into the boulder close to my head. I jerked back and felt a sharp sting on my cheek. A round pebble, the size of a hen’s egg, fell to the ground beside me.
I dropped my writing materials and sprang to my feet. Fifty yards away and slightly up the slope a shaggily dressed man was standing and whirling a strap around his head. I recognized a slinger and threw myself to the ground just as he released his second missile. I heard it whirr overhead. If it had struck me in the head the blow would have split my skull.
Seeing that he had missed, my attacker turned and began to run, dodging from rock to rock up the hillside.
A cold rage seized me. This attack was too similar to the murderous assault in the forest to be a coincidence. This time I would not let my assailant get away. I picked up my bow, nocked an arrow to the string, and then turned to judge the distance to my target. The slinger had not gone far. He had chosen to run directly uphill, thinking no doubt that he could outdistance any pursuit, and his decision had slowed him down. Evidently he had not noticed my bow lying on the ground beside me. He was running straight, not bothering to weave from side to side. He was an easy target.
Taking a deep, slow breath, I took up the tension on the bow and waited. It was like one of the archery exercises that Osric had made me repeat so often in the royal park of Aachen. My target was a dark, shapeless figure, bundled in heavy fur clothing, moving steadily and predictably up the slope
away from me. In another few yards he would cross an undisturbed patch of snow. I waited until he was halfway across the white background and clearly outlined. Then, in a single controlled movement that concentrated all my rage, I drew the bow to full extent, aimed and released, watching the arrow fly up the hill.
The arrow struck the slinger squarely in the back. He pitched face forward into the slope. There was a moment’s pause as though he was embracing the mountain, then his body slithered back down a few feet in the snow and came to rest.
I put the bow down. My hands shook for the first time as I collected up the writing tablet and stylus, put them away in their wooden box, and then hid them safely out of sight inside my coat. I retrieved the bow and the second of the two arrows, though I knew it would not be needed. Then I began climbing towards the man I had struck down.
There was a shout from the hillside below me. One of the Saracens was calling my name. I did not answer but kept heading upwards, taking deep deliberate breaths, each step breaking through the crust of snow.
I reached my victim. He was still lying face down, the feathered shaft of my arrow protruding a hand’s span from the grimy fabric of his heavy wolfskin jacket. I had struck him square between his shoulder blades. Callously I put the toe of my boot beneath him and turned him so he lay on his side. He was a man of middle age, his face gaunt with hunger and burned dark by the sun. A few strands of dirty grey hair straggled out from under a tight-fitting cap, also of wolfskin. A long scar, perhaps the result of a sword cut, ran from his left ear to the side of his mouth. He was breathing but only just. I had never seen him before.
I kicked him hard in the ribs.
‘Who sent you?’ I snarled.
His eyes opened, revealing dark brown irises, and he mumbled something in a strange, spiky-sounding language.
I kicked him again, more viciously.
‘Who sent you?’ I demanded.
He had not long to live. My arrow, large and heavy enough to have brought down a bear, had transfixed the man. The bloody head, three fingers’ width of sharp iron, emerged from the front of his coat which he had wrapped tight around his chest, using his sling as a belt.
I felt a hand on my elbow and turned to see Husayn. He looked shocked, staring down at the dying man for several moments before turning to face me.
‘Are you hurt?’ he asked. I put up my hand to my cheek. It came away streaked with blood. The first slingstone must have knocked a chip off the rock where I was sitting, and the flying shard had cut my face.
‘Who is this wretch?’ I asked angrily.
The wali bent down and asked the man a question, speaking in the Saracen tongue.
He got a faint reply, again in that strange-sounding language. Then there was a choking sound. A grimace of pain passed across the battered face, the eyes were now shut in agony.
‘What did he say?’ I demanded.
Husayn straightened up.
‘He’s a Vascon. I recognize the language but he is too far gone for me to make out the words.’
‘Search the bastard,’ I growled. ‘Maybe we will find a clue about who sent him.’
By now Osric had reached us. He knelt down and began to rummage through the man’s garments. He found only a pouch containing half a dozen sling stones, a lump of hard cheese in one pocket, and a knife with a short stubby blade in a wooden sheath. By the time he had finished, the man had stopped breathing, choking on his own blood.
‘A brigand, surely,’ said Husayn.
‘Then he was a foolish one. He was on his own,’ I pointed out.
Osric looked to me for instructions.
‘What do you want done with the body?’
‘Leave it for his friends, the bears and wolves,’ I said sourly and began making my way down the slope back towards our horses. I did not want to stay a moment longer in that grim place and I needed to puzzle out who could have arranged the attack. Ganelon and Gerin were many miles away. My immediate suspect was Husayn, though the wali seemed genuinely shocked by what had occurred.
*
Husayn said little for the rest of that day’s ride. The incident had delayed us and we were obliged to push our horses hard to reach our destination that night, a smoky shepherd’s hut that doubled as a way-station for travellers. Fortunately the shepherd was there, and he lit a fire and prepared a pot of mutton broth for his visitors. With hot food inside me, I asked Husayn to tell the shepherd that we had left a dead man in the pass. I hoped that it might lead to some information.
Husayn relayed the information and the shepherd gave me a sideways look, furtive and mistrustful. Then his face closed and, without a word, he got up and left the hut and did not return.
‘Is he a Vascon, too?’ I asked Husayn.
‘He belongs to one of their mountain clans.’
‘And you speak their language, as well as Latin? I’m impressed.’
Husayn shrugged.
‘I have to. My lands border with the Vascon territory. Sometimes they see me as their protector.’
‘So they’re not all a bunch of cut-throat robbers.’
Husayn looked mildly unhappy at my bluntness.
‘They are an ancient people. They were here even before the Romans came.’
‘It’s a pity that the shepherd did not see you as his protector.’
The wali grimaced.
‘His clan has no need for protection. If attacked, they can retreat into their citadel. It’s set on a mountain peak and impregnable. From there they laugh at their opponents until they lose interest and go away.’ Husayn made a sweeping gesture, encompassing the mountains. ‘For generations the mountain Vascons have hovered around these passes, extracting treasure from travellers, by force or by guile. This clan’s citadel is said to contain a great hoard of raw bullion, as well as plates and cups of solid gold, bowls studded with gems, loose jewels and precious fabrics.’ He gave a bleak smile, adding, ‘Naturally no outsider has ever seen such marvels with their own eyes.’
‘So no excuse for murdering a lone traveller for his money,’ I said bitterly.
The wali stared straight at me. His large intense eyes under their dark painted lids glittered in the firelight.
‘You might have been attacked for something equally valuable.’
I looked back at him coolly.
‘What do you mean?’
‘Words on a page.’
I felt a cold lurch in my guts. Husayn knew that I was a spy for Alcuin. Either he had seen me making notes during the journey or perhaps Ganelon had told him.
Husayn’s next words came as a surprise.
‘I understand that you interpret dreams. With the aid of a book?’
Shakily, I recovered my poise.
‘That is something I prefer to keep to myself. Some people regard it as devil’s work.’
Husayn nodded gravely.
‘They are wrong. The messenger of God – may the peace and blessings of God be upon him – was also an interpreter of dreams. God spoke to him through them.’
I let out a slow breath.
‘So you know about the Oneirokritikon.’
‘It is famous. My people know how it was lost, left behind in the hands of the infidels.’
‘And someone told you that I have the Book of Dreams?’ With a sudden surge of anger, I guessed Ganelon had passed on the information.
Once again, Husayn surprised me with his answer.
‘I knew that Count Gerard’s family had possession of the book. When I was in Aachen, I offered to buy it from him for a great price. But he told me that it was no longer in his keeping.’
‘Did he say he had given it to me?’
‘No. But one of your king’s daughters was heard to boast that you had foretold the coming of our embassy to Aachen. So I guessed that the Book of Dreams had passed into your hands.’
‘I may have left it behind in Aachen,’ I pointed out.
The wali treated me to a veiled look.
‘I don’t
think so. No one would leave behind such a precious object, least of all someone who travels with a servant who can help him read it.’ Husayn leaned forward and laid a hand gently on my arm. ‘I respect your ownership of the dream book. I would not take it from you by force. But should you ever wish to sell it, I would pay a great price.’
Chapter Thirteen
WE REACHED ZARAGOZA three days later. It was mid-morning and the air crisp and invigorating, the cloudless winter sky a pale washed-out blue. The city had been alerted to the governor’s approach and an escort of Saracen cavalry came jingling out to meet us among the plum and apple orchards that ringed the city. The troopers made a cheerful show in their close-fitting mail jackets and burnished metal helmets, and they had tied banners of dark crimson silk around their spear heads. They swung in behind us as we passed through the main gate in the centuries-old city wall. Built of brownish-yellow blocks of stone, the wall was immensely thick and topped with dozens of semicircular defensive towers, all of them in good repair. The gates themselves were plated with heavy iron sheets. I made a mental note to report to Alcuin that Zaragoza would not easily be taken by storm.
Within the wall, the city was a mixture of the familiar and the exotic. Some passers-by, fair-skinned and fair-haired, would have been unremarkable in Frankia. They dressed in tunics and leggings under warm outer garments, for winter in Zaragoza was cool without having the biting edge of more northern climates. Other citizens were more exotic. They wore bulky turbans in bright colours and stripes. A few preferred a close-fitting lace skull cap or a tall, stylish bonnet in black felt. When I asked Husayn about these differences, he told me that the bonnet-wearers were more traditional in their tastes and wished to emphasize that they came from the Saracen lands further east.
‘I govern a city of many peoples and faiths,’ he said ruefully and indicated a side street where it disappeared into a warren of narrow alleyways and lanes. ‘Down there is the Jewish quarter. Next to it is the area where the Vascons live. It’s no easy task controlling such a mix of citizens.’
