“Master,” Dabir said, “is it wise to remove the pull without the caliph’s knowledge?”
Jaffar dismissed this worry with a casual hand wave. “The caliph would ask me to look into the matter, were he here.” It was true that Jaffar was the caliph’s closest friend, but I, too, wondered as to the wisdom of the action.
“The Greeks are keeping something from us, Excellency,” Dabir said. “Did you note something odd in their manner? The translator was too freely elaborating what the archduke said … adding details, and the Greeks seemed almost deferential to him as he did so.”
Jaffar stroked his beard thoughtfully, and I wondered if he had failed to see this and did not wish to admit it.
“I presume,” Dabir continued, “that there is some important message hidden in the text on the pulls—which is assuredly not any kind of ancient Greek.”
“What did the first pull say?” I asked.
“It introduced the device as the ‘opener of ways to the Keeper of Secrets.’ Also there were magic symbols.”
“What do they mean?”
“I have not yet finished the translation.”
“Go with him, Asim,” Jaffar instructed. “See that this second pull is recovered. We will keep the Greeks occupied while Dabir studies it.”
As Dabir and I walked for the stables I ventured that the master seemed kindly disposed toward him, and he agreed that it seemed so and the conversation died as surely as if I had stabbed it. Before long we were mounted and riding our mares out through the streets.
I have journeyed through many cities in my years, and Baghdad was the loveliest of them all. Admittedly a few portions were filthy and rank smells sometimes assaulted the senses, as will happen whenever you crowd humanity behind walls, but there were fountains and blooming gardens and vast stretches of waterways and canals, spanned by bridges.
In this, early spring, there was not yet the suffocating heat, and the streets and marketplaces thronged with folk on their way hither and yon, sometimes with children in tow, or leading mules laden with baskets and bags. It was a cacophony of sound but a joyous one.
To reach the gilded palace that was Baghdad’s heart, we left the quarter of the city where Jaffar lived and crossed the Tigris on one of its three great bridges. The outer wall of the Round City, as Baghdad’s center was known, watched over the river from a height of eight spear lengths. This grand wall was interspersed with even taller watchtowers, the mightiest of which was the highest point in the city. The Iron Tower, however, was never visited, for Harun al-Rashid’s brother and short-lived predecessor was said to haunt its balcony. Hadi the Brute had planned to replace the standard towers with a series of more fortified structures, each fashioned from thick-walled stone and rising more than a hundred feet, but had perished with the plan barely under way. Allah be praised, he also died before any of his many attempts to poison his brother were successful.
Between the height of the Iron Tower—so called for its locked and rusting door—and the triple walls, was the mosque of Al-Mansur. The glittering golden spires of this, the city’s most glorious structure, dazzled all who stared at them from the length and breadth of the city, for it was decreed they be polished always to a high sheen.
Once behind the palace walls, Dabir and I were in a sea of black, for all the government functionaries dressed in dark cloth; not to do so was tantamount to resignation. The road passed through the outer gardens, which were decorated with flowers blooming in verses from the Koran. Barefoot slaves tended yew and cypress belted with jewel-studded metal. Soldiers and couriers passed us along the road, some bound perhaps for palaces across the city, others to the ends of the earth.
It happened that the master, his father, and his brothers all maintained apartments within the palace, and thus I was not unknown there to the staff. We were admitted and then introduced to the chamberlain, who asked first after Jaffar’s health and then read his letter, brushing his gray beard all the while.
“This is a peculiar request,” he said finally. “It may take some time to lay hands upon such a thing, if it does, indeed, exist.”
“Do you know of anyone who has made inquiries into it before now?” Dabir asked.
“I have never heard it mentioned.”
“Do you know of any Greeks who sought it?” I asked.
The chamberlain shook his head no.
“It may be that they asked about it by letter,” Dabir suggested.
Again the old fellow shook his head. “But I am not familiar with every dispatch that reaches these walls.”
Dabir frowned. “If one were to come from an archduke, do you think—”
“Ah, well, then I would surely have been apprised. Any request by a foreign official would be examined carefully.”
“The Greeks lied?” I prompted.
“So it would appear,” Dabir said.
The chamberlain was intrigued enough by the story to send his top assistant with us to look into the matter.
Poets might say that the treasures of the caliph are beyond counting, but that would be a falsehood, for all the treasures have been counted and cataloged, and it is the duty of a harried triptych of thin, black-garbed clerks to track their outflow and inflow. The caliph or his brother Ibrahim and other assorted relatives were at constant pains to diminish the treasury whereas the vizier was at constant pains to bring currency into the state coffers, so these three were ever busy. It is not just money that flows in and out, but gifts as well, bequeathed by this ambassador or governor or foreign potentate to the caliph, or gifted by the caliph or some member of his household to a distant king or a song girl whose voice was especially pleasing. Thus there is a vast warren of underground cubbyholes and shelves and halls, sealed behind lock, key, and swordsmen of massive girth and fearsome manner. That the tracking lies mostly upon the shoulders—or, in truth, necks—of but three men is a testament to their skill.
Once the chamberlain’s assistant described our need to them, one looked up from the paper where he was scribbling figures, called for a boy, and bade him take us to a certain hall and a certain room and look along the left.
Within a half hour of our arrival we had passed treasures and splendors to set a miser fainting in envy and a thief perspiring with greed. The boy filled my mind with wonder, chattering as he went about this or that rumored treasure. Beyond a heavy door were niches where the boy claimed the very staff of Moses could be found, along with the crown of Cyrus, the sword of Iskander, and a book written by the angel Gabriel. We saw none of these, but left in possession of a door pull identical to the first. At least I thought so. Dabir indicated to me that the characters were different, but when the characters are nothing but scratches and geometric symbols I cannot know how a man is supposed to judge the difference. Dabir was eager to return with it so that he might compare it in more detail to the first, and begin work upon the translation, and thus we begged off the invitation of my cousin Rashad—a lieutenant in the caliph’s guard staff—to join him for a meal before prayer at the Golden Mosque, and hurried back to Jaffar’s halls. I thought surely to be done with the matter, but before long Boulos conveyed that the master wished me, personally, to guard the pull while it was in Dabir’s hands.
Thus I spent a dull afternoon as the scholar sat staring alternately at the two pulls and all manner of scrolls and books. We were joined in the late afternoon by the old women, resuming their game, and their charge, Sabirah. Then pupil and teacher both sat hunched over the old pulls, making notes.
Sweets were to be had, and I ate them, but that did nothing to allay the boredom. For a while I looked over Dabir’s shoulders and saw for myself that the little markings differed between the pulls, but nothing else. For a time I looked back and forth between the girl and the man, seeking for sign of a touch, or a long look, or other such cues. But their love seemed to be one for symbols and Dabir noticed my scrutiny and condemned it with a hard stare from lowered brows, whereupon I retreated to the room’s far side. No
ne of the other hangings were as fine as that one of Rostam, so by and by I looked out through an open window at the garden.
My older brother, Tariq, may God bless him, once showed a strange trick to me. A dog lay on the ground outside our window, and he said he would gain its attention neither by calling its name nor making any other noise, nay, nor movement. The dog had his back to us, so the latter would have been impossible in any case. I was but ten, and very curious, so I watched as my brother stared at the beast. Within a minute, the creature turned and stared at him. I raised an outcry, asking my brother if he had learned magic, and he laughed. “No,” he said, “the soul shines through the eyes, and when you stare at a man—or a beast with sufficient wit—he will sense your gaze. Try it yourself.”
I never forgot the lesson, which showed that there are senses beyond the ones we catalog. I mention it now because, after I sat there in the shadows by the window for a time, I felt that strange prickling sensation that I myself was under examination. I saw no man, though, or even a dog, but a small black bird upon the rim of the upper pool of the garden’s fountain. It might have been a statue, so still did it sit, and I wondered if it were an omen of some kind, and made the sign against the evil eye. At that, it stirred, and looked past me. Its eyes were particularly brilliant, shining less like eyes and more like gemstones. I had never seen its like. I watched the bird for a long moment, but it did not move again.
I tried dismissing the notion that there was anything threatening about a bird that I might slay with a flick of my hand, but as it perched there, quiet as death, I found nothing common in its appearance or reassuring in its behavior. Would not a normal bird have been hopping, or picking at its wing, or flapping to another roost? It just sat there, looking through the window.
I crept from my own perch, quietly and slowly, so as not to startle it, and backed into the room. I found Dabir just where I had left him, tediously poring over the books.
“Dabir,” I said softly, “there is a strange bird outside.”
You might think he would have rolled his eyes or cursed me for my foolishness, but he answered without looking up. “Is it a small black bird with shining eyes?”
“Bismallah!” I could not hold off a cry of surprise. “It is! How did you know?”
“It was there during our battle yesterday. And it flew overhead when we rode to the palace.”
“You joke,” I said weakly.
“I do not.”
The course was clear to me. “We must slay it.”
“Nay; we will not let its masters know we know they watch us. They might send some other guardian we would not see.”
“Can I see the bird?” Sabirah asked. “How could it tell anyone what we’re doing?”
“That is an excellent question,” Dabir admitted. “Some birds may speak, but they rarely say anything of use.”
“Who sent the thing?” Sabirah stared toward the window.
“Do not pay it too much attention,” Dabir said, motioning her back. His eyes dropped again to his papers. “I think perhaps it comes from the Greeks, but I cannot say. There is much here that is shielded from me.”
Sabirah chewed her lip thoughtfully then returned to unroll one of the scrolls.
“What have you learned?” I asked Dabir. I stood over him and the pulls, placed side by side on a brown rug, their gemstones twinkling.
“These are very old, for one thing.”
“How old?”
“Older than Noah, may peace be upon him. This is cuneiform script, similar to that we saw in Kalhu, but of an older make.”
“What does it say?”
“These”—he pointed here and there to strings of symbols—“call for the blessings of djinn these folk worshipped as gods. But the blessings are strange.”
“It’s all about magic,” Sabirah said from her cushion. “The folk of Ubar wanted these pulls on doors that open to a place called the Desert of Souls, where—”
“Ubar?” I repeated, my mind reeling.
Dabir gave Sabirah a hard look. “Aye, Ubar.”
There were none who failed to hear of the splendors of Ubar. The wealth of a dozen kingdoms had been funneled to the ancient world’s finest artisans in crafting the fabled city, but it had been destroyed by Allah in a rain of fire and covered over with a sea of sand because its people had turned their face from right thinking.
“Did the Greeks find the pull in Ubar?” I asked.
“No, Asim. I think they tracked this one down, or, likely, stole it. What they intend with both of them I am not sure.”
“What good are they?” I asked. “Apart from their gold and gems. Ubar is lost.”
“They may plan to find it,” Dabir said.
I laughed shortly, for men had sought the riches of Ubar for millennia. Some few returned with stories of nothing but failure; most did not return at all. “No one has ever found Ubar; no one ever shall.”
“Do not be so sure, Asim.”
The door was opened behind us and the master strode in, followed by Boulos. Jaffar’s mouth was a stern line. Boulos’s head was bowed, and I had the sense that he was both quite interested to observe and somehow ashamed to be involved.
Upon seeing who entered, Dabir rose and bowed his head.
The master did no more than glance at him, demanding instead of Sabirah, “What do you here, niece?”
“Dabir is instructing me.” Her voice was carefully neutral.
“Was it not clear that your studies with him are at an end?”
Sabirah rose, her head bowed only slightly. Her eyes burned. “Perhaps I was too simple to understand your meaning.”
Jaffar scowled. “Do not play games with me, girl! I am trying to see to your protection!”
“See to your own!” she said, abandoning dispassion. “May God see fit to open your eyes!”
Jaffar was astonished by her rudeness. She brushed past him, wiping at her eyes. Jaffar ordered Boulos after her, to see her to her quarters. The old watcher women scuttled in his wake.
Jaffar faced Dabir. “What is your excuse, Dabir? You are not a willful child.”
“Honored One,” I said, “I saw no evidence of desire between the two, save the desire for learning.”
The master rounded on me. “I did not ask, Captain! But since you intrude, how is it that you did not put a stop to them? You knew that I meant to dismiss Dabir from my service!”
I bowed. “Forgive me, Excellency. He yet remained within your service. The order had not been given, and I thought—”
“I do not pay you to think! I pay him to think!”
“Forgive Asim, Master,” Dabir spoke up. “And forgive the girl. I need help with these texts, and hers is an agile mind. When she came for her afternoon studies, I set her to work.”
“Your lie exposes you! What possible use could she be here? She does not know this language!”
Dabir explained quickly. “She has a mind that, upon reading a thing, will not let it go. It is greater for this purpose even than mine. She scans the references, and—”
Jaffar put his hand to his head, rather dramatically, and Dabir fell silent.
When the master spoke at last, it was as a disappointed father pleading for reason. Stern, but disappointed. “Dabir, I need your aid in unraveling this knot. But do not use that need to your own advantage. I can call upon other men, if need be.”
“I understand that, Excellency.”
“Do you deny that you are in love with Sabirah?”
I thought to immediately hear Dabir counter, but he hesitated. I think this hesitation even surprised Jaffar, and I was reminded that Jaffar might still be trying to convince himself the fortune-teller had confused the readings.
“I have affection for her,” Dabir said. “As is only natural for a teacher with a talented pupil.”
The master waved this off. He seemed almost relieved. “You deceive yourself, Dabir. It is easy to do, with pretty eyes. But she cannot be for you. Her marriage must be a
political one.”
That was only reasonable.
“I hope that you will find more tutors for her,” Dabir said. “She chirps after knowledge as a newborn sparrow for worms.”
“That soon shall be her husband’s lookout. It is time to obey Musa’s wishes, as I should have done months ago. Her father has been after me since autumn to marry her, and I keep writing him that we should delay. She flashes her eyes at me and says ‘Uncle, do not marry me—I wish to continue my studies.’ ” He shook his head. “Now come, it is almost time for evening prayers. When we return, I wish you to show me what you have discovered.”
Dabir locked the gold pulls in a chest and dropped the key in a pouch belted to his waist.
The mosque on the grounds of Jaffar’s palace was not quite as large as that upon the grounds of the caliph’s palace—my master knew better—but the calligraphy decorating its walls rivaled or perhaps even surpassed the caliph’s in grandeur. We made ablutions, then set to our prayers.
When I am troubled, I bow to Mecca and pray to God, and my spirit is eased; it is as though a mighty river sweeps me up and carries me upon its current, my back to the streambed, my face to the stars. Prayer both soothes and comforts. Yet this day my mind was elsewhere. My brother Tariq had warned me that I must always mean the words, but that day I dishonored his memory; that day my spirit was uneasy and I focused less upon the marvels of God than upon the burdens of Dabir, and the legends of lost Ubar.
After prayers Jaffar put off the servants who demanded this or that from him, and put aside the request of one of his wives to join him for a fine meal, and returned with us to the room of study. Along the way he was at his charming best, alert and witty, although it was plain to see Dabir was troubled. I think Jaffar meant to put him at ease.
As it happened, God had veiled the sky with black clouds, so that it seemed night chased eagerly after the evening. The halls were dark.
A particularly loud blast of thunder heralded our arrival at the study room, rattling the palace just as Dabir pushed open the doors. Darkness can clothe the unknown in malignance, thus when the dark man-shapes hunched by the chest whirled at our entry, I thought them dwarf demons sent up from hell.
The Waters of Eternity Page 18
