“He was tall, but sort of stooped. Like he used to be a soldier, but now he carries a great burden. He stood there by the well, wearing a hood that concealed his face.
“Nobody comes round here, unless they have kin in the neighbourhood. I thought he must be looking for someone, so I went up to him. I know everybody round here. First thing I noticed was his eyes. Big, bulging things they were, pointing in different directions. And his skin – it was black. Not dark like a man of Aksum or Sind, but pure black, like nobody I’ve ever seen.
“I asked him who he was. He looked at me as if from a thousand miles away, and said:
“ ‘I am the Father of Bitterness.’
“He brought his hand down, and sparks of red burst from his fingers. The dyer’s house erupted into flame, as if it was a gateway to Jahannum. The neighbours threw buckets of water, but it only made the blaze worse.
“And when we looked round, the hooded man had vanished.”
Umm Dabbah’s mouth kept moving, although she stopped talking and stared intently at al-Takht, waiting for his response to her story. The other women watched too. Finally, the policeman spoke.
“So if witches are summoning a Jinn, why does the Devil appear?”
The heads of the women swung round to see how the widow would respond. She got to her feet, slowly and with dignity.
“You may mock me, Nasr ibn Nasr al-Takht, Captain of Police. Just because you can read and write, you may sneer at me as an ignorant gossip. But evil attracts evil, as any woman can tell you. And Iblis is of that kind, the Jinni, the Afarit, as anyone of learning could tell you. And your mother, may God the All-Merciful forgive her sins, would have slapped you round the ears for treating me in such a way. And she would never have looked down on a respectable woman like me, so be careful how you talk to me, Captain of Police.”
There was a pause and she seemed to be finished, but Umm Dabbah turned once more to administer the killer blow.
“And if you want proof that children are being stolen by witches, you need only go to Karkh, and talk to the merchant Imran ibn Zaid. Ask him what has happened to his little girl, who disappeared from his own house. Ask him where his daughter is, Captain of Police, before you impute dishonesty to a poor widow.”
Al-Takht was so choked by fury that he could not speak. I guessed that the references to his mother touched on a long-buried shame. Umm Dabbah sat back, with a satisfied air. Abu Nuwas, however, stepped forward.
“Thank you for your aid, Umm Dabbah. But poor widows who accuse others of witchcraft would do well to avoid practising it themselves – even for their own protection.”
It was Umm Dabbah’s turn to look aghast. As we left she bent towards the other women, speaking in hushed tones and with frequent glances at our departing backs. No doubt the mysterious strangers, sent by the Wazir, were being woven into her conspiracy. Al-Takht had recovered his composure enough to recommence grumbling.
“Now she truly will believe you are a sorcerer.”
“How did you know she was using magic?”
Abu Nuwas tried to act stern with me, but was clearly pleased that I had asked.
“Really, boy, you must learn to use your senses, or your career in the Barid will be painfully brief. She reeked of frankincense. What would she have been using it for but to purify talismans against evil spirits?”
“Perhaps that is why she claimed the stranger was the Devil, so she could sell amulets to her neighbours.”
Both the men seemed surprised by the simplicity of my suggestion, but al-Takht shook his head.
“Umm Dabbah has lived in this neighbourhood as long as there has been a neighbourhood here to live in, and has never stopped interfering in other people’s business. Some day she’ll get her tongue cut out. But she does not have the imagination to invent a conversation with the Devil. If I know her at all, she is telling the truth, at least as far as she understands it. If I know her at all, she is frightened.”
Abu Nuwas and I exchanged a glance. It spoke of shared amusement at the policeman’s eccentricities, but also an acknowledgement that his word carried weight. What struck me most, though, was that for the first time the poet had looked at me as an equal. Now he addressed me directly.
“Well, boy, we have the scent of our quarry now. And it seems the trail leads to Karkh.”
Al-Takht decided to accompany us. Despite his affected acerbity his curiosity must have been aroused. Abu Nuwas, on the other hand, was suspiciously quiet and serious as we walked slowly westward. I wondered whether his belligerence was the product of boredom, and contempt for the slow wits of those around him. The challenge of the Wazir’s mission gave him something to gnaw at, like a dog with a bone.
My thoughts were interrupted by shouts from ahead. We turned a corner to find crowds lining the street, jostling to see something further down the road. The policeman forced his way through the mob with his club, muttering about idiots with nothing better to do than stand around gawking. However the onlookers closed ranks behind him, and Abu Nuwas and I were left stranded.
The lanky poet stretched his neck in a bid to find out what was causing the commotion. All I could see was the backs of the malodorous throng. I was determined not to miss out, and scrambled up the wall of a low building behind me. Hands reached out to grab me as I neared the top, and pulled me up onto the roof where a rabble of ragamuffins already sat, swinging their legs against the wall. I looked down – then I understood what Yahya the Barmakid meant about visitors.
A procession was working its way down the street. Blackrobed Guardsmen were clearing a path, making enthusiastic use of their long cudgels, but it was not the Khalifah who had drawn the spectators. Nor was it any of his household, nor his ministers or family. They were neither Arabs nor Persians, the men parading toward the Kufah Gate, but instead beings so strange to the ordinary citizens of Baghdad that they might as well have come from the moon.
They were mostly bare headed, and wore strange clothes, long garments of unfamiliar cut and hue. And they were white, the first people I had seen of my own colour since passing through the Straits of Gibel Tariq. At the head of the train were two men in grey robes. The top of their heads was shaved, so that their hair grew in a ring like a crown. One carried a cross, the other a red banner that hung down to three jagged points. Stitched onto it was a depiction of a flaming yellow sun, dripping tears of flame down the cloth.
Behind them walked a man in magnificent vestments of white and gold. He seemed to be the focus of the procession. His importance was underlined by the servants on either side of him, who carried a silk canopy on sticks to shield him from the sun. He wore a peculiar hat shaped like a diamond, and carried a long stick similar to a shepherd’s crook, except that it was tipped with silver.
After this spectacle came the animals. A number of horses with embroidered caparisons must have been the transport which conveyed the moon-men to Baghdad. There were also mules and donkeys with packs and saddle bags, attended by Arab servants.
The strangest sight of all came at the rear of the train, where three figures walked behind the baggage. One was a beardless man in black robes. The whole front of his head was shaved, but the back was left to grow long, and hung a span below his shoulders. Beside him was a giant, taller than Abu Nuwas and with a bulk to match. This ogre had a red beard, and his hair was of the same hue where it stuck out from his round helmet. He carried an enormous double-headed axe, and the gasps from the crowd were audible as he passed.
It was the third figure that held my gaze, however. She was female, and young, and wore a long green dress but no veil. Her hair, cropped short, was the colour of wheat at harvest time, and her eyes the colour of the sea in spring. Her face, naked to the stares of the whole city, was a soft oval with plump, pale lips. If you asked me to guess her age, I would have thought it to be about the same as my own. If you asked me to guess what she was thinking, as she walked between the shouts and speculation of the Baghdad mob, I could not have told you,
for her face revealed nothing.
The boy next to me pointed at her and made some gibe about her needing no veil because she was a freak; there was no risk of anybody lusting after her. He noticed my own white skin just as I smacked him round the back of the head, toppling him from the roof. The boy, who himself had a blotchy birthmark on his cheek, picked himself up from the dirt and hurled a stone at me, but I dodged it absent-mindedly and stared transfixed at the retreating back of the wheat-haired vision.
It was not love, or even lust, that drew my gaze toward her. Rather I admired her beauty as one might admire the stars on a summer night, or rose tinted clouds at sunset. I never dreamed of touching her, but could have sat looking at her for days, and would have gone without food and water to do so.
I was shaken from my reverie by a shout from below.
“Put your eyes back in their sockets, boy, you’re going to need them.”
Abu Nuwas stood below. The crowd was dispersing, and he had managed to find al-Takht. I jumped down from the roof, and my stone-throwing adversary scurried off when he saw me with a policeman.
“Who were those people?”
Again, it was al-Takht, not Abu Nuwas, that answered my question.
“They’ve been waiting outside the city for a week while we made arrangements for their arrival. Kept it secret though. You can see the reaction they provoked. Imagine what it would have been like if the mob had had time to get themselves worked up. Those people were the ambassadors of Karlo, King of the Franks: the man who would be Emperor of the West.”
Eight
The Tale of the Deserted Camp
The house of the merchant Imran ibn Zaid was a marked contrast to the hovels of Sharqiya. It stood south of the suqs, on an avenue of ostentatious mansions. Even in such grand company, it refused to be outdone. The long façade was lavishly decorated, and quotations from the Quran were painted over the door.
We were admitted to a courtyard, where the harsh-faced, red-nosed merchant sat under a canopy sipping sherbet. Beside him a slave girl wafted a large fan of cloth soaked in water. However we were offered no such comforts. The three of us stood in the blazing afternoon sun, while Imran ibn Zaid addressed us imperiously.
“Who sent you?”
Abu Nuwas allowed al-Takht to answer.
“The Wazir, sir. We understand your daughter has gone missing.”
“That is none of your business! It is a private matter within my household. I asked for no interference from the City Police. Some foolish slave must have reported it without my permission.”
I noticed a woman standing behind the merchant, in the shade of the portico. She watched our faces as he spoke, her dark eyes above her veil brightened by quick understanding. Al-Takht persisted with his questioning.
“With respect, sir, if the child has been abducted …”
“Abducted? Who told you that? Nobody could have got into or out of this house to take her. Do you take me for a man who cannot protect his huram? My daughter was last seen in this house, and by God she must still be here somewhere. I’ll beat it out of the slaves, sooner or later. Now get out.”
And that was the end of our audience with the merchant. Abu Nuwas had not uttered a word, but his gaze darted around the courtyard, as if committing it to memory. We were escorted politely but inexorably to the door, which banged shut behind us.
“I wonder what that was all about?”
Al-Takht pondered the poet’s question.
“He’s guilty of something. I don’t believe it has anything to do with his daughter, but there’s something in his house he doesn’t want us to find. Oh, well – we can’t go breaking down the doors of wealthy men, especially when he is the victim. Besides, we have no reason to believe this has anything to do with the hooded stranger. Come on, it’s a long walk back to Sharqiya.”
Before we reached the end of the avenue I heard the sound of bare feet running towards us. I turned to see a female figure chasing us down the road. As she approached, I recognised the deep brown eyes of the woman from the courtyard.
“Stop! Wait! I need to talk to you …”
The poet and the policeman watched expectantly while she recovered her breath. When she spoke, her voice was like cool rain at the end of a drought.
“My name is Layla bint al-Bazza. I sell fabrics – I have a little shop near the Basrah gate. Ibn Zaid’s wife is one of my best customers. I am often at their house. I was there the day the little girl disappeared.”
Al-Takht nodded, and Abu Nuwas said:
“Tell us what happened.”
“It has been ten days now. She was playing in the courtyard of the women’s quarters. There should be no safer place! The nurse was watching over her, but had to go to pass water. When she returned, the child was gone.
“The doors of the house were locked. Even if anyone had got in, they would have to pass through the main courtyard; somebody would have seen them.
“The girl is called Najiba. She is six years old, but small for her age. She always greeted me merrily, with a ‘Peace be upon you, Layla,’ and some new song or jest she had learnt. I must go now. If the merchant knows I am speaking to you, he will be angry, and I will be barred from his house. But if there is anything I can do to help Najiba, I will do it.”
“We will find the girl, Layla bint al-Bazza, I give you my word.”
The girl and both men turned to stare at me when I blurted this out. Then I could see from her eyes that she was smiling.
“Thank you. I believe you will.”
She was about to go, then said:
“One more thing you might need to know. There was a man hanging around the house, for a couple of days before. An old man, with skin as black as night, and strange eyes that seem to look all around you. Thought it might be useful.”
With that she raced off back to the house. I could see the shape of her long, strong legs through her robe as she ran, and found myself hoping destiny would lead me to the shop at the Basrah Gate. Al-Takht stroked his beard thoughtfully.
“So the Father of Bitterness has been here, after all. Still, the merchant did not want any help from the police, and chasing demons is your job, not mine. So if you have no further need for me, I shall return to Sharqiya. And if Abu Murra wishes to cause any mischief there, he will have to get past me first.”
He stomped off. Abu Nuwas was smiling, but this time I did not share his amusement. The policeman’s mention of the Father of Bitterness, Abu Murra, had reminded me where I had first encountered the phrase.
“Master, I overheard something at the Garden of Delight that might be important. Thomas the Syrian was talking to another man, who was hiding in a room there. The other man was angry with the Syrian, accusing him of trickery. And Thomas said, ‘Have no fear. Abu Murra has the Bottle. If you have the Name, you can unleash the power of the Fire.’ ”
I did not know whether he would mock me, or take me seriously. Nor did I know which would be more frightening. His face revealed nothing.
“I see. And you believe this is relevant, because …?”
Suddenly I found my teeth rattling against each other, and I could not speak. Abu Nuwas answered his own question.
“Because it reminds you of the stories of Umm Dabbah, of tales of murder and human sacrifice. Of spirits of fire called Afarit, evil Jinni who can be enslaved, and made to grant wishes. Of the rituals used to summon and bind these spirits. Rituals which use the blood of children …”
I knew there were others around, but the street felt cold and empty. The words of the old woman pounded in my ears. The Name, by which the Afrit is invoked and controlled. The Bottle, within which it is imprisoned. I tried to shake the chill from my skin.
“But master, surely you are not giving credence to the foolish talk of an old gossip? Spells, Jinni, wishes – this is the stuff of children’s stories.”
“You call the Jinni children’s stories, boy? Are you disputing the truth of the Quran? The holy book teaches us tha
t God created the Jinni from smokeless fire, that they will be saved or damned on the Day of Judgement just like men. The seventy-second Surah is named for them. King Sulayman, we are told, was given Jinni to serve him, and they built him shrines and statues and fetched treasures from the deep sea –”
“Hey, Abu Ali!”
A man calling from horseback interrupted him, causing me to jump.
“I’ve chased halfway round the city looking for you, you elusive devil.”
The man leaned forward in his saddle, and I saw that it was Abu’l-Atahiyya, the pudgy poet I had met at the monastery. His breathless shout seemed to break the enchantment, and the street came back to life around us.
“I have been sent to tell you that Ibrahim ibn Mahdi is ten years old today. You had best be at Blissful Eternity by sundown, in your finest garments. Bring the gosling!”
He clopped away, and I saw that Abu Nuwas was gritting his teeth.
“Bad news, master?”
He sighed.
“Ibrahim ibn Mahdi is the little brother of our beloved Khalifah. His birthday will be the cause of great feasting and celebration. And I will be expected to be there, being witty, improvising verses, and acting scandalously without causing an actual scandal. It will be such hard work.”
“But, master … is that not how you make a living?”
“Indeed, boy. And those that want to see me suffer for my sins might reflect that the punishment sometimes precedes the crime. Of course it will be a marvellous opportunity for advancement. One smart remark tonight could make me rich; although I hope he doesn’t want to fill my mouth with gold coins again. It’s undignified and uncomfortable, but you have to pretend to be terribly grateful.
“On the other hand, though, one smart remark might also lose me my head. It is a coincidence, is it not, that this happy event comes at the same time as the Frankish embassy? Al-Rashid is making a point. We can only hope he is playing munificent monarch, not ruthless despot. God the all-merciful save us from the whims of princes!”
The Father of Locks Page 10
