The Book of Dreams s-1

by Tim Severin

  I must have been silent for quite some time because it was Hroudland who spoke next, his voice thick with anger.

  ‘You insult my family. My uncle would never commit such a base act.’

  Osric shrugged.

  ‘Then he was badly advised.’

  ‘By whom?’ The count’s voice dripped disbelief.

  ‘I understand it was by one of his chief counsellors. A man named Ganelon.’

  Hroudland looked as if he had been struck across the face. There was a long pause, and then he spoke again, slowly.

  ‘Now perhaps I might believe you.’

  ‘As you wish,’ said Osric drily. He touched his reins to his stallion’s neck and as the horse obediently turned aside, he added, ‘Make no mistake, the gates of Zaragoza stay closed.’

  For a long moment we all sat on our horses watching him ride back to the city. I had no idea what Hroudland was thinking, but my own thoughts were in turmoil. I had been looking forward so much to meeting Osric again, renewing our friendship, and learning about his life at the wali’s court. Now it seemed that Frankish double-dealing meant we were on opposing sides. I regretted that I had ever tried to use the Oneirokritikon to help me understand my visions. I had allowed myself to be led disastrously astray with my interpretation of the snake dream. Was I also wrong about other dreams where I had found explanations? I had jumped to the conclusion that my own adventure in the hunting forest explained the king’s vision of the huntsman attacked by wolves and desperately blowing his horn to summon help. Lost in the forest I had sounded the horn dropped by my unknown attacker, hoping to hear an answering call. But I had seen no wolves in the forest. Perhaps the huntsman in the royal dream was someone else entirely.

  A clammy chill spread into the pit of my stomach as I recalled those other troubling visions that still haunted me — the rider on the great horse crying blood, and the ghoulish incident when Hroudland and I were on a mountainside and attacked by monsters and flying demons. I had no idea what either dream meant, though I knew now that they were of great significance. But I did not know whether I wanted to understand what they might foretell, or if I should throw the Oneirokritikon into the fire and give up the interpretation of dreams entirely.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Carolus arrived a week later at our camp outside Zaragoza’s walls, leading an army that was weary and much reduced in size. Many of his levies had returned to Frankia, having completed their days of service. Others had deserted. The great baggage train had dwindled to less than a hundred ox carts and the accompanying herd of cattle no longer existed. The troops had eaten every last animal and were now living off the land like locusts.

  The king lost no time in summoning a council of war. It was held in the same royal pavilion, its bright colours now faded by sun and rain, and once again Hroudland required Berenger and me to attend him.

  This time, as I entered the great tent, I saw Ganelon. He was dressed in exactly the same clothes he had been wearing at the first banquet in Aachen. Apart from a deep tan on his bearded face he appeared to have changed not at all since he rode off with Gerin to negotiate with — or rather betray — the Wali of Barcelona. I quietly took my usual place in the outer circle of attendants and stood watching him, waiting for his reaction when he noticed me. Halfway through a conversation with his neighbour, he happened to look up and saw me. His eyes widened and for a fraction of a moment he froze. Then he recovered himself and glanced briefly towards Hroudland. If he was busy calculating whether or not the count knew of the plot to discredit him, it did not show on his face. Without the slightest change of expression he turned back to continue his conversation with his companion. At that moment Carolus appeared from behind the velvet curtain.

  In just a few months, the king looked as though he had aged by ten years. He no longer walked with quite the same confident stride, and his face was more deeply lined than I remembered. His long moustache, once straw-yellow, held flecks of grey and he looked tired. As usual he was dressed in the ordinary cross-gartered leggings, tunic and trousers of a well-to-do Frankish noble, though, as a concession to the heat of Hispanian summer, the cloth was now of light linen rather than heavy wool. In his right hand he carried a mace of dark wood, gnarled and polished and banded with gold. I imagined it was some sort of sceptre.

  He walked across to his portable gilded throne and took his seat. His attendants had already set up the trestle table with the map of tiles, and Carolus looked across it at the assembled company. His gaze was the same as ever, the grey eyes shrewd and penetrating, knowing each and every one of the people before him. Despite myself I held my breath and stood straighter as I waited for his pronouncement.

  ‘I have summoned you to council,’ he began, ‘to hear your advice on how we should proceed with the campaign. As you are aware, our allies are in disarray. The Emir of Cordoba has defeated the Wali of Huesca in battle. The Wali of Barcelona was unable to offer us the help he promised. Our original plan for Hispania must now be modified.’

  The king’s words made me realize how little I knew of the overall progress of the campaign. Evidently the Falcon of Cordoba had moved decisively against the rebellious Saracen governors before the Franks had arrived.

  ‘We now find ourselves in front of Zaragoza, whose governor is the third of our so-called allies,’ Carolus continued. ‘He has closed its gates to us. I await your suggestions as to what we should do next.’

  There was a long awkward silence. I sensed the Frankish nobles trying to gauge the king’s frame of mind. None of them wanted to speak up and risk the king’s wrath by making an unwelcome proposal. It was the ever-cautious and practical Eggihard who spoke first.

  ‘Your Majesty, we are running low on supplies. The army cannot keep in the field for more than a few weeks.’

  Carolus toyed with his wooden sceptre, stroking the polished surface.

  ‘So how do we put those few weeks to good use?’

  ‘We teach the Saracens a lesson they will remember so they never cross into Frankia again,’ called out a swarthy, heavily built nobleman I did not recognize.

  ‘How?’ grunted the king.

  ‘We’ve already dealt with the Wali of Barcelona as he deserved. Now we should do the same to the Wali of Zaragoza. Take his city, and hold him to account.’

  The man looked around for the support of his fellows. Most of them avoided his gaze and stared instead at the map table. The mood of the meeting was decidedly pessimistic, even sombre.

  To my surprise, it was the normally aggressive Hroudland who urged caution.

  ‘I have seen the walls of Zaragoza,’ he said. ‘Believe me, without large siege engines we cannot take the city in less than six months.’

  ‘Then our engineers must build siege engines,’ insisted the swarthy nobleman. He scowled angrily at Hroudland. The man was evidently another of the margrave’s rivals at court.

  ‘It will take far too long to construct heavy siege engines,’ argued Eggihard. ‘By the time they are ready, our supplies will be finished.’

  There was another long interval as no one else spoke. The king stirred restlessly on the wooden throne. Close to me someone coughed nervously. I was aware of the faint, musty smell of mildew; the canvas of the great royal tent had begun to rot. It occurred to me that this decay symbolized the threadbare, worn-out state of the Frankish army.

  Finally Hroudland again spoke. He raised his voice so everyone could hear him clearly, and his words were delivered with a confident flourish.

  ‘I suggest, Your Majesty, that instead of laying siege to Zaragoza, we extract its wealth like honey from the hive, and leave the city so impoverished that it will be unable to trouble us in the future.’

  ‘And how do we keep the bees at bay?’ demanded his uncle. I could see a glint of interest, even affection, in the gaze he turned on Hroudland.

  ‘We have the Wali of Barcelona as our prisoner. He is both the brother-in-law and the close ally of the Wali of Zaragoza,’ the cou
nt answered. ‘I’m told that there is a strong bond between the two men. I propose that we demand a very great ransom for the release of the Wali of Barcelona plus an additional sum to recompense the expenses for bringing the army into Hispania.’

  Like a shaft of sunlight suddenly lighting up gloomy countryside, his words lifted the atmosphere in the pavilion. Noblemen exchanged knowing glances. Most of them had come to Hispania for loot, not to stay and settle. There was a mutter of excitement; they could carry back the spoils without having to fight for them.

  ‘Is there enough wealth in Zaragoza to meet such a heavy demand?’ the king asked Hroudland mildly.

  ‘Your Majesty, Zaragoza is one of the richest cities in Hispania. The wali has enormous personal wealth,’ Hroudland assured him.

  A low rumble of approval greeted his announcement.

  By now I knew this was the way of the Frankish world. The naked greed of the Franks was unpleasant to observe but, however distasteful I found it, I had to accept that I had committed myself to helping satisfy their craving for riches when I rode into Hispania as a loyal member of Hroudland’s entourage.

  ‘And how do we persuade the wali Husayn to part with his wealth?’ asked the king.

  With a sinking heart I anticipated what Hroudland would say next.

  ‘I have just the man to act as a go-between. He will know how best to present our demand,’ answered the count. He looked in my direction.

  The king followed his glance and there was a flicker of recognition as his shrewd, grey eyes came to rest on me.

  Unexpectedly Ganelon spoke up. His voice was measured and serious, with no hint that he was raising an objection. He was too clever for that.

  ‘Your Majesty, the noble margrave’s plan is admirable, but it may come to nothing unless we can provide the wali with some sort of surety of our good faith.’

  It was a fair comment but Ganelon rarely did anything without a hidden reason.

  Hroudland blundered into the trap set for him.

  ‘Your Majesty, I am willing to offer myself as that surety. I will go into Zaragoza as hostage for the honest fulfilment of our bargain. Only when the Wali of Barcelona is set free and rides in through the gates of the city will I bring back the wealth of Zaragoza.’

  I detected a hint of a smile under Ganelon’s black beard. He was evidently relishing the success of his intervention. If something went badly wrong with the payment of the ransom, Hroudland might well have forfeited not only his freedom, but also his life.

  The king looked around the assembly.

  ‘Does anyone else wish to make a suggestion?’

  When there was no reply, he announced that Hroudland’s plan was to be put into immediate effect and declared the meeting closed.

  As soon as the king had left, a cheerful group of Hroudland’s supporters clustered around him, congratulating him for his proposal and applauding him for his personal courage. I held back. I recalled describing Husayn’s splendid palace and its luxury to the count as we rode side by side on our journey to Hispania. I should have known that my description of such wealth would attract Hroudland’s craving for riches. I had also let slip that Wali Husayn was married to the sister of the governor of Barcelona. That pleasant conversation intended to pass the time would now lead to the ruin of the wali and Zaragoza. Crassly I had betrayed Husayn’s hospitality and kindness. Perhaps the snake in my dream of treachery should have coiled itself around my leg. Sick at heart, I felt soiled and dirty.

  The next morning the army engineers constructed a small ballista capable of throwing a heavy arrow three hundred paces. They dragged it to the edge of the cleared ground around the city, and Hroudland had me write a note to Wali Husayn outlining the ransom plan. I suggested that it would be easier for a messenger to deliver the message under a white flag, but was told that the ballista would serve as a reminder to the Saracens that the Frankish army was capable of preparing siege engines.

  The arrow carrying the message was shot over the city wall.

  The wali’s reply came within an hour, delivered by a messenger who rode out of the city and dropped it disdainfully on the ground. Husayn had agreed to our terms. He would pay four thousand pounds weight of silver coin for the governor of Barcelona to be handed over, in good health. Additional treasure including silks, gold and jewels to the value of another five thousand pounds of silver would reimburse Carolus for the expense of bringing his army into Hispania. Husayn made only one condition: he required four days to assemble such a colossal sum.

  On the appointed day, Hroudland and I crossed the open ground towards the city gate. The count had chosen to ride his great roan war horse and he towered above me on the small, sturdy cob that had been provided for me. Neither of us carried weapons, though we wore full armour, intending to put on a brave show. The sun was already well above the horizon so the heavy war gear was hot and uncomfortable. Behind us was the wreckage of the orchards. The troops had set up camp, hacking down the carefully tended trees to make shelters and for firewood. The irrigation ditches were crumbling under the constant trampling of horses and men, the water in them was muddy and foul. Swarms of fat flies buzzed over mounds of human filth, and the air reeked with the smell of horses, men and dung.

  ‘Let’s get this over as quickly as possible,’ Hroudland muttered to me as we approached Zaragoza’s main gate. The note of resignation in his voice made me take a quick glance at him. His face had a fixed expression, downcast yet determined. I guessed he was thinking how he had once hoped to become the Margrave of the new Hispanic March. Now he knew that it would never happen. When the campaign was over, he would be returning to the rain and mists of Brittany.

  ‘Wali Husayn will keep his word,’ I said, trying to reassure him.

  The city gate swung open as we came closer and there waiting on his white horse was Osric, again dressed in the wali’s livery. Beside him was a single mounted cavalryman, also wearing Husayn’s colours.

  I sensed Hroudland’s surprise. He must have expected that we would be met by at least a troop of horsemen to escort us through the city. Instead it seemed that we were being treated as little more than a passing nuisance.

  Osric did not speak a single word in greeting. I felt a pang of acute disappointment at his frigid reception. I had expected at least some small gesture of recognition for the years we had shared. But he had merely nodded to the both of us and now, stony-faced, he led us in silence.

  This impression strengthened as we rode through Zaragoza on Osric’s heels. Life was continuing as normal. It was as if there was no foreign army camped outside the walls. The streets were crowded with people going about their business, shopping, gossiping, and haggling in the market. The air was full of the rich odour of street food being cooked over open braziers. I even recognized the same pavement seller with his tray of fruit whom I had noticed when I rode into the city for the first time with Husayn. The vendor’s display of fruit was piled high, and the butchers and vegetable sellers had no shortage of goods. It was a stark contrast to the camp we had just left where disgruntled soldiers were ravenous for provisions and sweltered in the heat while mounted patrols scoured the countryside seeking supplies.

  The passers-by were as dismissive as Osric. Whenever I caught someone’s eye in the crowded streets, that person would simply turn his back on me. It was very unpleasant to be treated as being beneath contempt.

  Eventually we arrived in the main central square. It was almost deserted of people. I had expected that we would be brought to the arched doorway that was the entry to Wali Husayn’s own palace. Instead, we crossed towards the mosque that Husayn had told me his father built. Beautifully proportioned, a central dome was tiled in green and blue, spiral patterns in the same colours twisting up the columns of the four thin spires that surrounded it. To the left was a low, squat building, its thick white-washed walls pierced with a few windows barely large enough to be pigeon roosts. A horse was tethered in front of it. Hroudland recognized the animal bef
ore I did.

  ‘Patch, that’s the gelding I picked out for you in Aachen,’ he exclaimed.

  The horse wore the same saddle I had used on the ride across Frankia. Dangling from it was my curved bow and the sword that Hroudland had selected for me in the royal stores of Aachen the previous year. I had an uncomfortable feeling that I knew why they were there.

  Our little group halted before the building and dismounted. The Saracen trooper took the reins of our horses and led them away while Osric limped ahead of us to the massive iron door and knocked. It was pulled open from inside and Hroudland and I followed Osric in.

  Immediately I was reminded of the strongroom at Hroudland’s great hall. The interior of the building was a single chamber, some fifteen paces squared. The small windows seen from the outside had been deceptive. The chamber was lit by a dozen shafts of sunlight shining down through a pierced dome in the ceiling. Specks of dust floated in the sunlight, and the thick walls kept out the noonday heat so that the air inside the room felt slightly chilly. It also had a faint smell that I could not identify. The floor was made of massive stone slabs and there was no furniture apart from a tall metal-and-wood contraption whose function escaped me until I recognized a set of over-size weighing scales. Waiting for us were two men, dressed in the wali’s livery. One of them was the grey-bearded steward who had looked after me when I had been Husayn’s guest. Ashamed at my role in this sordid ransom, I could not look him in the eye and could feel the distaste oozing from him as he stepped around me and firmly closed the heavy door to the outside. We were standing inside Zaragoza’s treasure house.

  Arranged on the floor was a neat row of stout leather panniers. They were the size normally carried by mules, and it was the rancid smell of leather saturated with mule sweat that had perplexed me. The flap of each pannier had been unlaced and thrown back so that their contents glittered dully. Each pannier was full to the brim with silver coins.