by Tim Severin
He pointed out an officious-looking person fingering a bolt of cloth on a market barrow. The stallholder was looking on nervously, occasionally darting forward with obsequious gestures to help unroll the cloth.
‘See that man there, with an assistant holding a set of weighing scales. He’s one of my market inspectors. He’s checking the quality of the goods for sale. If he finds a cheat, he will punish him with a fine or confiscation of all his goods, regardless of race or creed.’
My eye was caught by the sight of a black man, the first I had ever seen. Standing at the edge of the street, he was displaying a basket of what looked like fist-sized pine cones, greyish green in colour.
‘What’s that he’s selling?’ I asked.
‘Alcachofa, we call it. It’s a vegetable. You’ll taste some this evening,’ said the wali. He raised his whip to acknowledge a greeting from a distinguished-looking grey-beard wearing a long dark-brown woollen cloak edged in fur. ‘The plant is said to be an effective cure for someone who has eaten poison.’
I gave him a sharp glance, but he seemed oblivious to the effect of his remark.
We continued down the main thoroughfare, which was lined with two- and three-storey houses. Most were in good repair, though some were losing their plaster, and a few were boarded up. Halfway along it we were obliged to pull aside our horses to squeeze past an immense load of firewood piled on a donkey, its head and tail scarcely visible. The donkey’s owner was shouting abuse at the driver of a mule cart blocking the roadway. I commented that several words in his stream of insults had a familiar ring to them and was told that the citizens of Zaragoza had even more languages than religions.
Eventually we arrived in the central square. It was dominated by the gleaming newly built dome and spire of what the wali proudly told me was the place of worship his father had paid for. Directly across the square was a long, white-washed wall. Twice the height of a man, it was blank except for a single archway shaped like an upside-down horseshoe. This was closed with a pair of double doors of dark, oiled wood, which had been intricately carved and embellished with patterns of heavy, brass studs. In front, two armed men stood guard.
‘Welcome to my home,’ said the wali as we came to a halt in front of the doors. In the same moment they were pulled open from the inside to reveal an elderly man with a thin wispy beard waiting at the head of a band of at least a dozen servants. All of them were dressed identically in white gowns and turbans. Their waistbands were the same dark crimson as our cavalry escort.
We dismounted and grooms ran forward to take our horses and lead them away. Husayn spoke with the old man, the steward of the household, and then turned to me.
‘You and your servant Osric are my guests. Your quarters are being prepared,’ he declared.
Together we walked through the entrance and into a small, intimate courtyard paved with fine, pink gravel. A double line of carefully tended ornamental shrubs led towards the slim white pillars of the portico to the main building. Husayn accompanied me up a short flight of marble steps and into the antechamber. His house was built as an open square and through an archway ahead of me I observed another courtyard, even larger than the first. Flowerbeds bordered a long, rectangular pool. In the centre of the pool rose a jet of water which fell back, making a pleasant splashing sound. Like the phenomenon of a black man, it was the first time I had ever seen a fountain.
‘You will forgive me if I leave you in the care of my steward,’ said the wali. ‘After such a long absence I have much to discuss with my councillors. God willing, we will dine together after evening prayers.’
He moved away to join two grave-looking men, both wearing high Saracen bonnets who had been hovering in the background. The elderly steward escorted Osric and me along the colonnaded gallery that surrounded the central courtyard. At the far end he turned to his left and, opening a door, showed us into a set of rooms. Our panniers and saddlebags had already been placed inside. The steward bowed formally and withdrew, closing the door behind him. I heard a click.
I gazed about me, overawed by the level of comfort. High glazed windows let in daylight and made the room bright and cheerful. The walls were covered with tiles painted with patterns of flowers, blue on white. The plaster ceiling was intricately moulded into geometric shapes that had been subtly picked out in muted shades of red and green. Rich carpets were spread on the floor and draped over low couches. A lantern crafted from perforated copper hung by a chain from the ceiling. On a low table a tray with a bowl of fruit, a jug and porcelain cups had been placed. By comparison, Carolus’s private apartments in Aachen were a cowshed.
Osric had paused, as if reluctant to step further into the room.
‘I once lived in a house like this,’ he said quietly, his voice full of a wistful sadness, ‘though not so large or opulent. My father was a well-known doctor.’
I turned to him in surprise. It was the first time he had ever mentioned his own family.
‘I studied to follow in his profession. But he died of a fever he caught from one of his patients and, in my sorrow and anger at life’s whims, I decided I wanted nothing more to do with medicine. I chose to go to sea as a merchant and, as you know, was wrecked on my very first voyage.’
There was such aching distress in his face that an impulse made me say, ‘Would you like to return to that life when this is over?’
He thought for a moment, considering his reply, and then shook his head sadly.
‘It would be all but impossible. These are not my people, and there is no place for me among them. You should realize that Saracens can be as different from one another as Greeks are from Franks, or Saxons from Romans.’
I went across to the door and tried to open it. As I suspected, it was locked.
Osric dropped his voice almost to a whisper.
‘Politics here are dangerous. Today Husayn is an ally of the governor of Barcelona. Tomorrow he may switch his allegiance to Barcelona’s most bitter enemy.’
I recalled what old Gerard had told me of the in-fighting among the Saracens and why the king had sent me to Hispania.
‘Osric, I’m going to need your help more than ever before,’ I said, speaking softly in case anyone was listening outside the door. ‘I need to learn whether the wali is genuine in seeking the king’s help against his enemies.’
‘I’ll keep my ears open,’ murmured Osric. He seemed to have regained his usual careful poise and began unpacking our luggage. I explored our new quarters. Beyond the living area was a sleeping room and then a small marble-lined wash room. There towels had been laid out. A wall alcove held a display of jars containing various creams and on a wooden stand was a large metal basin. I dipped my finger into it. The water it contained was hot.
‘If this is to be our prison, it’s a comfortable one,’ I said, returning to the main room where Osric had opened an inlaid chest and found a store of clean clothes in the Saracen style. I held up one of the garments for inspection. It was a long gown of fine wool with an embroidered edging. I sniffed. It had a pleasant slightly musty smell.
‘What’s that?’ I asked.
‘Kafur, a perfume to keep the garment sweet and the insects away. It’s also used as flavouring in cooking.’ Osric allowed himself a grim smile. ‘Too much kafur in your food is fatal, and there is no known cure.’
‘I doubt the wali is planning to do away with me just yet,’ I said. ‘We’ll get on with translating the Oneirokritikon until I’m called for the evening meal. I have a feeling that the wali will want to talk to me about it.’
*
Washed and changed into a gown, I sat down cross-legged on a cushion to use the low desk the wali provided for his guests. There was a metal stylus in place of a quill, and though the inkpot was familiar there was neither parchment nor vellum, only leaves of what looked like pale stiff fabric.
‘What’s this?’ I asked, holding one up to the light to examine it more closely. I could see what looked like matted fibres in the materi
al.
‘Old rags soaked in quick lime, then washed and pounded together and dried into a sheet you can write on,’ explained Osric.
‘It doesn’t feel very durable,’ I said dubiously and wrote out a trial sentence. The tip of the stylus scratched and skipped on the rough surface but the result was legible.
Osric resumed his place in the Book of Dreams where we had left off our translation, and we settled down to work. We had reached the last few pages of the book by the time the light began to fade, and not long afterwards we heard the call to evening prayer and then a knock on the door. The chief steward was outside, waiting to escort me to dine with the wali. To my surprise, I saw that the meal was to be in the central courtyard, in the open air despite the winter chill. Carpets had been spread under the arches of the colonnaded gallery, lamps and cushions for two people arranged, and a row of lanterns lit and placed along the marble rim of the pool. The reflections shimmered in the ripples radiating from the fountain which was still sending up its jet of water. Above, the dark immensity of a cloudless sky was full of stars.
Husayn was waiting to greet me. He had changed into a pale-grey robe edged with gold brocade and when he stepped forward into the light of the lamps I saw he had refreshed the black eye-lining and his lip colour. He looked relaxed and self-assured, very much the master in his own home.
‘It is such a fine night I thought we should dine in traditional style,’ he said.
I took my seat on to the carpet. To my surprise it felt warm. I laid my hand on its surface to make sure. Husayn noted my interest.
‘We have to thank Zaragoza’s early rulers for installing a system of sending hot air beneath the floor tiles as well as leaving us with strong city walls and a never-failing water supply,’ he murmured, a subtle reminder of his city’s strength to resist attack.
The wali was a gracious and attentive host. A relay of servants brought out the trays of food, and he explained in careful detail how each dish had been prepared: lamb baked within a coating of olive oil, salt and turmeric; rice flavoured with saffron and then a handful of dried and chopped jujube mixed in; sherbet prepared from the juices of crushed pomegranate and orange. So many of the names and tastes were new to me that I almost failed to notice the alcachofa roasted in oil that the wali had remembered to order from his kitchen.
‘Nearly everything you have eaten this evening was produced within a day’s journey of Zaragoza,’ he said contentedly as we finished the meal. He gestured for the servants to clear away the remains of our feast. A plate of dried figs was set down between us, along with a silver ewer of water and a bowl so that we could wash our hands. Then the attendants collected up the nearest lamps and withdrew, leaving only the lanterns around the pool and, close to us, a single lighted wick floating in a small earthenware bowl of scented oil. The wali waited until we were alone, then he turned towards me. His face was in shadow making his expression inscrutable. I sensed that he was about to broach the main topic of the evening.
‘How can I convince you to part with the Book of Dreams?’ he asked gently.
‘Your Excellency, Count Gerard is still the owner of the Oneirokritikon. The book is only on loan while I translate the text.’
‘And will you return it to him when you have completed the work?’
‘I will.’
The wali was silent for several moments, then in the same soft, even tone he asked, ‘But you will keep your copy of the translation?’
‘Yes, I suppose so.’ The answer seemed obvious.
‘Then you accept that you have the right to allow a copy to be made.’
Too late, I saw the trap that I had fallen into.
Husayn’s voice took on a more urgent edge.
‘That book belonged to my people for generations. It is written in our language and in our script. Wise men studied it. Rulers consulted it.’
I thought quickly. Rather than offend the wali by stubbornly denying him the book, I should use it to my advantage.
‘Your Excellency, I am willing to allow a copy to be made, but on two conditions.’
Husayn leaned forward into the lantern light and there was a hint of a smile on his pink lips. ‘Name your price.’
‘I intend to give my servant his freedom. I want you to appoint him to a position in your court. If Osric later chooses to return to his own country, you will assist him in doing so.’
The wali reached forward and selected a dried fig from the bowl.
‘Easily done, and what is your second condition?’
I took a deep breath.
‘You must tell me what Count Ganelon discussed with you privately on the day that we left the others and took the direct route to Zaragoza.’
Slowly and deliberately Husayn sank his teeth into the fig, closing his eyes as he savoured the flavour. He swallowed and then asked, ‘Why is that so important to you?’
‘It may help me understand who my enemies are,’ I replied.
Husayn finished eating the fig, picked up the silver ewer and began to trickle water over his fingers.
‘Ganelon offered to advance my interests on his return to Karlo’s court,’ he said calmly, using the Saracen name for the Frankish king.
I was not entirely shocked. Hroudland had often spoken of Ganelon’s double-dealing.
‘What reward does he expect?’ I asked.
‘Money, of course. Naturally I accepted his proposal, though I told him that the amount would depend on results.’
‘How did he react?’
‘He asked for a down payment of five hundred dinars when I got back to my treasury in Zaragoza. He needed a note – he even had a document ready for me to sign – in which I promised to pay over the money.’ Husayn dried his hands on a towel and there was a low popping sound in the dark. The wali was cracking his knuckles. He spoke casually, as if talk of treason was an everyday occurrence. ‘Ganelon said that the down payment would help him to dispose of a rival at court and increase his influence as a royal councillor and that would therefore also be to my benefit.’
I already knew the answer, but I asked anyway.
‘Did he say who this rival was?’
‘Karlo’s nephew. Ganelon intends to lay evidence before the king that his nephew offered to betray the Frankish army in return for my silver.’
‘But that is absurd!’ I burst out. ‘The king’s nephew, Count Hroudland, is too far away. He’s been appointed the Margrave of the Breton March. How can he have made such an offer to you?’
Somewhere in the city a dog barked, and was answered by another. There was a furious storm of barking as other dogs joined in. When silence returned, the wali spoke quietly.
‘The note I signed for Ganelon says that you would collect the five hundred dinars. It does not mention on whose behalf. I did think it odd, but I presumed Ganelon wanted to keep his role secret.’
Now I was truly stunned. I believed what the wali had just told me. Hroudland would know nothing of the deceit until the moment he was summoned before the king and asked to defend himself against a charge of treason. Then it would be his word against Ganelon’s, and Ganelon would produce the note from the Wali of Zaragoza as evidence. No wonder Ganelon had been keen for me to go with the wali; Gerin would confirm that I had chosen to leave the other Saracens and ride off directly to Zaragoza. I was known as Hroudland’s close friend and confidant, and the king would accept that I had acted as a go-between. I tried to think clearly.
‘You seem dismayed,’ Husayn said. There was a note of genuine concern in his voice.
‘The person whom Ganelon seeks to destroy is a decent and honourable man. He does not deserve such treachery,’ I said.
‘A close friend of yours?’
‘Yes, that too,’ I said. I was heartsick to think that I had been selected as the instrument of Hroudland’s downfall.
‘Had I known, I would not have signed that document,’ the wali murmured. He watched a small, white moth circle the flame in the bowl of scented oi
l. When it had fluttered away, he continued in a comforting tone. ‘Surely Karlo will not condemn his nephew out of hand. He will cross-examine all those concerned and that will be your chance to speak up for your friend and establish the truth.’ There was a brief pause, and then he added meaningfully, ‘If you are still alive.’
The image of the dead slinger rose before me. It would have made sense for Ganelon to have me killed once Gerin had seen me ride off with the wali. If the king thought to ask what had happened to me, it would be presumed that I had stolen the five hundred dinars and run away. As long as I remained alive, I was the single flaw in Ganelon’s scheme.
At that moment I knew I had to avoid Ganelon and reach Hroudland and warn him of his danger.
Husayn seemed to have read my thoughts.
‘I can arrange for you to join your friend. It will mean a sea journey, possibly a difficult one as this is a stormy season.’
There was another upsurge of barking as the city dogs again challenged one another. I shivered despite the warmth of the carpet underneath me as I thought of another sea voyage.
‘I accept your offer,’ I said. There seemed nothing else I could do.
There was a gleam of gold in the darkness, the light from a lantern reflecting on the brocade of his gown as the wali shifted position. His manner became businesslike and brisk.
‘Good. It will take a few days to make the necessary arrangements for your trip. In the meantime my scribes will make a copy of the Book of Dreams so you can take the original with you and return it to Count Gerard.’
‘You are very gracious, Your Excellency,’ I said. ‘Men like Ganelon are dangerous. My friend Count Hroudland describes him as a reptile.’
The wali gave a low, grim chuckle.
‘I’ll know how to deal with him. Country people say that Zaragoza is so well favoured that a bunch of grapes suspended from the ceiling remains sweet for six years, and no article of dress whether it is wool, silk or cotton is ever eaten by moths.’ His gown rustled as he rose to his feet. I also stood up and he came forward and took hold of me by both elbows. Looking into my eyes, he said, ‘The country people also claim that in Zaragoza scorpions lose their sting, and snakes and other reptiles are deprived of their venom.’
