by Tim Severin
Chapter Eleven
Proof of the dreambook’s accuracy came in mid-January when Bertha asked me to explain another of her father’s dreams. The winter, though intensely cold, had brought very little snow to interrupt the king’s favourite sport. Day after day he was away at hunting camp, returning to Aachen briefly to attend to affairs of state. In his absences I had spent several more nights with Bertha for I was far too besotted with her to pay any heed to the sly comments of Oton and the others. But on this occasion I was summoned in mid-morning and arrived to find her sister with her in the same reception room as before. Both women were dressed against the cold in long gowns of heavy velvet, the bands of embroidery at the neckline almost hidden beneath short fur capes.
‘Last night the king dreamed of a strange horse,’ Bertha informed me.
I had a momentary qualm, recalling my own vision of the bronze horse, its rider weeping blood. Her next words reassured me.
‘It was a beautiful animal, a glossy, dark chestnut with white blaze on its nose. It had neither saddle nor bridle. Yet it was not wild, for its coat and mane were brushed and well cared for.’
‘And what happened?’
‘The horse came walking quietly towards where he was standing, and turned in through the gate of a paddock. My father was intrigued. He did not recognize the horse and he had no idea who owned such a magnificent creature.’ She looked at me expectantly. ‘What does your dream book have to say about that?’
I relaxed. The appearance of a riderless horse was one of the visions that the author of the Oneirokritikon had dealt with.
‘Your father’s dream means that he will receive a visitor, a person of importance. The more splendid the horse, the more powerful the visitor.’
Adelaide was as sceptical as before. She gave a sigh of exasperation.
‘Bertha, I don’t know why you pay any attention to this nonsense. Of course the king will have an important visitor. He receives important visitors all the time, whether from Byzantium or Rome or a hundred other places.’
I had to defend myself.
‘But this visitor will arrive when he is not expected and the outcome could be far-reaching.’
Adelaide did not bother to conceal her disbelief.
‘And when will this mysterious visitor grace our presence?’ she asked. Her voice dripped with sarcasm.
‘When did your father have this dream?’
‘Last night, as Bertha just told you.’
I ignored her rudeness.
‘That is not what I meant. Did the king have this dream last night soon after he retired, or in the middle of the night? The timing is all-important.’
‘In the morning, shortly before he woke. He told us about it at breakfast,’ snapped Adelaide.
‘Then the visitor will arrive very soon, in the next day or two,’ I said firmly.
‘Why couldn’t you say when the earlier dream would be fulfilled?’ Adelaide asked caustically. ‘The dream of my father losing an eye?’
‘Because I had not yet come across the passage in the book that deals with the timing of dreams and their fulfilment,’ I said.
‘And now what can you add?’ Adelaide demanded.
‘The earlier in the night one has a dream, the longer it will take to come true,’ I said.
Adelaide turned to her sister, and again I detected that air of conspiracy between the two sisters.
‘Did the king mention at what time he had the dream?’ I asked.
Bertha thought for a moment.
‘I think it was soon after he retired to bed.’
Adelaide swung back to face me.
‘How much longer could it be before the king loses a son?’
I did not like the ambitious look in her eyes.
‘According to the book, the longest time between a dream and its fulfilment is twenty years.’
Her lip curled in disbelief.
‘So no one would be around to see it come true.’
I held my ground.
‘If you remember, Joseph dreamed of seven years of plenty in Egypt, followed by seven years of famine. So it was fully fourteen years between the dream and when the final year of near-starvation came about.’
She glared at me angrily, and then strode out of the room.
‘Let’s hope your interpretation of my father’s latest dream is correct,’ said Bertha. She was looking nervous, fearful of her older sister. ‘Otherwise Adelaide may no longer keep our secret.’
The very next morning the stone masons and bricklayers on the scaffolding of the great hall stood gaping down at a foreign-looking cavalcade of strangers riding into the royal precinct. It was a Saracen embassy from Hispania. The newcomers had thrown open their heavy sheepskin riding coats to reveal long flowing gowns and broad silver-studded belts. Their heads were wrapped in great white turbans that contrasted with their dark skins and thick, immaculately barbered black beards. Two musicians preceded them blowing wind instruments of wood that looked like reed pipes and made an unearthly wailing sound.
The king had not received notice of their approach. He was away in the forest, hunting.
‘Look at their horses. No wonder they made such good time,’ muttered Berenger as he stood beside me in the small crowd, observing the spectacle. The embassy’s horses were small and neat, with high arched necks and well-muscled hindquarters. They moved with a high-stepping grace, almost dancing, and their well-brushed manes had been allowed to grow like curtains until they reached almost to the ground. With bright red bridles and saddle cloths edged with gold braid, they made a splendid sight in the wintry sunshine.
The flamboyant procession made its way past the admiring spectators as far as the portico of the great hall. There the visitors dismounted in a swirl of expensive silks to be greeted by the count of the palace and led inside.
‘Their leader is the governor of Barcelona, name of Suleyman al Arabi.’ said Engeler. He had spoken with one of the officials making hasty preparations to accommodate the embassy. ‘He’s brought with him two other walis, as they call their governors, from Zaragoza and from Huesca.’
‘What could possibly bring them all the way here in midwinter?’ asked Berenger.
‘Whatever it is, this is more than a courtesy visit,’ said Gerin.
A royal messenger was hurrying across to intercept us. He headed straight for me and said in a loud voice.
‘Your presence is requested by the Princess Bertha.’
Otto sniggered.
I gave him a nasty look and followed the messenger to the side entrance of the royal apartments. Bertha was waiting for me in the private audience chamber. She was jubilant, eyes sparkling with triumph. Adelaide was nowhere to be seen.
‘The king is not yet back, but I’m sure he will want to meet you as soon as he hears how you interpreted his dream,’ she said.
I recalled Gerard’s warning about the dangers of being recognized as an expert in dream prediction.
‘There’s more than one way to interpret a dream,’ I protested.
‘That’s why you must talk with the king,’ she insisted. ‘He will want to hear from you the different meanings.’
She laid a hand on my sleeve.
‘Don’t worry, Sigwulf. It will be for the king to decide which outcome to believe.’
The summons from the king came a week later. Whatever had been discussed with the Saracen embassy was kept confidential to the king and his advisors, so I had no idea what to expect when I entered the royal chambers. It was the same room where I had first met the king more than half a year before, and little had changed. The clay model of the palace was still on the central table, and Carolus, standing by the window, was again dressed in the belted tunic and leggings of an ordinary citizen. I noted that he had less of a paunch, doubtless the result of so much energetic hunting in the forests. As I bowed, I realized that his view from the window overlooked the private entrance that I used for my visits to Bertha. I felt suddenly uncomfortable.
‘Count Gerard has been sharing his knowledge of the Saracens with me,’ began the king briskly. ‘My daughter tells me that you foretold the arrival of their embassy.’
‘You foretold their coming yourself, Your Majesty,’ I said diplomatically. ‘I merely interpreted your dream with the help of a book.’
The king looked unimpressed.
‘You also claim that their visit will have important results.’
‘That is what your dream would indicate, sire. But there is no clue as to what those results will be.’
The king turned to Gerard.
‘What do you make of them?’ he asked, referring to the three Saracen ambassadors.
‘I do not know them personally, my lord,’ Gerard said. ‘I understand that they are seeking your help against their overlord.’
‘And I have to decide whether to give it to them,’ the king grunted. He began to pace up and down the room with long, heavy strides. Occasionally a floorboard creaked beneath his weight. ‘The Saracen Lord of Barcelona takes the lead. He asks me to bring an army in Hispania to aid him against his rival, the Emir of Cordoba.’
‘There is always much rivalry among the Saracens,’ Gerard agreed. ‘They form factions and fight among themselves. It was what saved Septimania in my father’s day. The leaders of the Saracen invasion quarrelled among themselves.’
‘So you don’t think this embassy is here to draw us into a trap?’
‘Treachery is possible, but unlikely,’ said Gerard.
The king stopped his pacing and studied me, his grey eyes shrewd and probing.
‘If I had more dreams to tell you, young man, perhaps they would reveal what answer I should give these Saracens.’ He treated me to a sour smile. ‘Or should I try taking one of those potions which produce strange and peculiar visions.’
‘Only a dream that comes naturally to the sleeper can possess meaning. The author of the dream book is clear on that,’ I replied meekly.
‘But is it not also true that a person often dreams of people and places known from real life?’
‘That is the case,’ I agreed.
‘You yourself dream.’ It was more a statement than a question.
‘I do, my lord.’
The king gave a short, mirthless laugh.
‘So, if I cannot force myself to have a dream that will reveal the true intentions of these Saracens, I can do the next best thing.’
My heart sank as I realized what he was about to say.
‘I can place a dreamer among them, someone to get to know them so well that they appear in his dreams, and he will learn what they intend.’ He chuckled softly. ‘You might say that I will have an insight into their minds as well as into the future.’ The king shouted for an attendant, and a man appeared instantly at the door. ‘Escort this young man to the chancery. I am attaching him to the mission that returns with the Saracens. They leave in two days’ time.’ Carolus looked down at me from his great height, his face a mask of royal authority. ‘Speak with Alcuin. Tell him why you are going to Hispania. He will give more detailed instructions.’
I bowed and began to walk towards the door.
‘And be sure to take your crippled servant with you,’ the king added. ‘He may overhear some useful information. I’ll tell Bertha you may be absent for some time.’
I left the chamber, stunned. The king must have spies and informants everywhere. It was reasonable to suppose that Gerard had told him that Osric was a Saracen by origin, but I wondered how often the king had stood at the window looking down at my comings and goings to his daughter’s chamber.
Alcuin greeted me without enthusiasm when I tracked him down in the chancery. He was deep in conversation with two clerks from the office of records. They were discussing the correct wording for a charter document, and I had to wait until they had finished and moved away before I told him what the king intended for me.
‘So that’s why you asked about the meaning of Oneirokritikon,’ the priest said. ‘If I’d known, I’d not have told you.’
‘I thought it would be a leech book, not a book of dreams,’ I said.
‘The Church does not approve of such writings.’
‘I’m sure that the Oneirokritikon is harmless.’
Alcuin arched his brows in disbelief.
‘Dreams are the raw material of necromancy and superstition. Often the Devil works through them.’
‘Yet an angel of the Lord used a dream to tell Joseph the husband of Mary that her unborn child was conceived by the Holy Spirit,’ I objected.
He drew a sharp breath of displeasure and stepped past me.
‘If you will follow me, I will do my best to carry out the king’s instructions.’
He led me to where the great map of tiles was still laid out on the trestle table. Instinctively I looked towards the range of mountains where I had pricked my finger. Today there was no glint of light.
Alcuin’s sandals clacked softly as he made his way round to reach over the map and point to a spot on the coast of Hispania.
‘The leader of the embassy, Suleyman al Arabi, governs this region centred on the two cities of Barcelona and Girona. He is accompanied by the governors of Zaragoza and Huesca. All three are at war with their overlord, the Emir of Cordoba. His name is Abdurahman.’ Alcuin hitched back the sleeve of his gown. ‘They are asking Carolus to bring an army into Hispania to aid them. In return they promise to place their lands under his protection. Note how their lands lie just beyond this mountain range which presently forms our border with Hispania.’
He brushed his hand across the tiles and I half expected him to flinch and draw back, his finger bleeding. But nothing happened.
‘The allegiance of these Saracens would be immensely valuable,’ Alcuin continued. ‘It would provide Frankia with a broad march, a protective frontier zone, on the far side of the mountain range.’ He stepped back from the map, allowed his sleeve to fall, and thrust both hands into the sleeves. There were cold draughts in the chancery. ‘Equally, this might be a trap. The Saracens may be seeking to lure our army across the mountains so that they can fall on our troops and slaughter them. They consider us to be infidels, enemies ripe for destruction.’
He gazed for a moment at the map, shoulders sagging slightly as if imagining the dreadful consequences. I recalled how I had once pointed out the danger of over-extending the kingdom.
With a slight shake of his head, Alcuin brought his attention back to the present.
‘If the king thinks he can discover the intentions of the Saracens through your dreams, so be it. But I believe he is badly mistaken.’ Suddenly he was briskly efficient. ‘If we are to send an army across those mountains and into Hispania, we require intelligence on the conditions of the road, where to obtain water and pitch camp, the danger points where we might be ambushed, and so forth. All this you can observe as you travel with the Saracens.’
‘The king has already made a spy of me,’ I said gloomily.
‘So when you are not dreaming, keep your eyes open.’
‘And what do I do with this information when I have it?’ I asked.
‘You write it down and include it with the official reports that our two ambassadors will be sending back to us here in the chancery whenever possible.’
‘And if I am discovered or my despatch is intercepted?’ There was no need for me to add that such a discovery would discredit the embassy in the eyes of their hosts and probably lead to my arrest. I had no idea how the Saracens dealt with spies they caught, but it was unlikely to be a pleasant experience.
A hint of a smile appeared on Alcuin’s face.
‘Let me give you something.’ He led me to a small side room which had the appearance of being his personal office. One wall was lined with shelves holding neatly folded vestments, wr
iting supplies of pumice, paper, quills and an ink horn. He took a small box down from an upper shelf.
‘You can use this,’ he said. From the box he took out a flat wooden disc about six inches in diameter.
‘Caesar’s Wheel,’ he said. The disc had an inner and outer ring. Both were marked with letters of the alphabet. Alcuin rotated the outer ring so that the letters were displaced against one another.
I grasped the principle.
‘I use the wheel to code my report. If I want to write an A, for example, and the A lies opposite the letter F, that is what I write.’
He gave a nod of approval.
‘Correct. It won’t fool an intelligent observer, but someone who scarcely knows how to read would be puzzled, especially if they are more accustomed to the Saracen way of writing.’
It occurred to me that anyone who could read both Saracen and Western script would be no fool, but I said nothing.
Alcuin returned the device to its box.
‘To make matters a little more challenging for anyone who tries to decipher your code, we will vary the offset. Taking the letter A on the outer ring as your reference, I suggest you offset it differently at the start of each sentence you write, according to a sequence based on a single word.’
‘What is this key word?’ I asked.
‘Something you can easily remember.’ There was a hint of a twinkle in his eye. ‘Why not Oneirokritikon? That should keep them guessing.’
He was about to hand me the box when I asked, ‘Have the ambassadors been told that I will be acting as a spy?’
He shook his head.
‘They will know only that they must give your despatches to their courier who in turn will hand it on to me. The courier, of course, will be bringing only a verbal report to His Majesty. Neither of his envoys is comfortable with pen and paper.’
‘Who are these two envoys?’
Alcuin’s reply shook me to the core.
‘The king has selected Ganelon and Gerin.’
Chapter Twelve
‘Ganelon! That devious reptile!’ Hroudland let out a string of oaths. ‘The king must be out of his mind sending him with the Saracens. There’ll be double-dealing and lies. The only person who will come out of it unscathed will be Ganelon, that slimy bastard.’
