Lord Sadiq laughed at this, turned and commanded Faysal to have refreshments brought to his private rooms. Placing his hand on my shoulder, he led me from the reception hall saying, “And now, my friend, I think it time we began telling one another the truth.”
54
The amir poured the cool sweet lemon water into golden cups, and passed one to me. He had dismissed Faysal and the other servants so that none should overhear. Leaning back on his cushions, he eyed me shrewdly and, after a sip from his cup, said, “You may speak freely. On my honour, no harm will come to you. If I placed so much as a finger to the tip of your nose, Kazimain would have me boiled in oil.”
“I am your servant, Lord Sadiq. I will tell you anything you wish to know.”
“Then begin by telling my why you are doing this.” Before I could ask what he meant, he added, “Are your feelings for Kazimain genuine?”
“What I feel for Kazimain,” I answered, “I have never felt for any other woman.”
The amir smiled. “You are most adept at paring the truth to its finest point. But come, let us be done with this childish game. Since you remain reluctant to speak openly, perhaps you will allow me to begin.” He sipped from his cup, watching me over the rim. When he finished, he placed the cup on the brass tray, touched the back of his hand to his mouth, and then said, “All you told me of the Armenian treachery, I repeated to Abu Ahmad. While he agreed that it explained much, he determined that it was necessary to test the validity of this information. Thus, inquiries were made through means available to the khalifa.”
“Yes?”
“And it was learned that all you said was true.”
“If all I said was true, then obviously, I must be a spy—is that what you thought?”
His sly smile returned. “It was determined that an additional test was required,” he explained. “After all, who else could know so much? Only a spy of the emperor could possibly command such intimate knowledge.”
“Would such a spy,” I asked, “also arrange to have himself sold as a slave? Would this same spy arrange his own death at the hands of his torturers?”
“Misfortunes abound,” answered Sadiq, “even for the emperor’s spies. No doubt you were caught in Nikos’s treachery along with the others and thus prevented from carrying your information back to the emperor. If I had not discovered your whereabouts, you surely would have died.”
“I am truly grateful to your highness,” I told him sincerely.
“Yes, and you have taken wonderful advantage of your position,” he continued. “But let us make a bargain between us: I will give you a thousand denarii in silver, and I will see you safely to Trebizond where you can board a ship to take you back to Byzantium—or wherever you wish to go.” He leaned forward. “All this is yours if you tell me what I wish to know.”
Growing wary, I said, “Why do you suggest this bargain?”
“So that you will know that you do not have to marry Kazimain merely to obtain your freedom. Tell me the truth and I will let you walk free. Do you agree?”
“Very well,” I acceded, “I agree. What do you wish to know?”
“The truth—are you a spy?”
“Yes, I am.”
“I knew it!” The amir’s fist struck the brass tray, upsetting the cups and spilling the drink. “I knew it!” he cried—as much in relief as vindication.
“I am a spy,” I confessed again, “but perhaps not in the way you think.”
“I must know the truth,” Sadiq insisted. “It is of utmost importance, believe me. Who is your master? What is his purpose?”
“Everything I have told you is the truth. I was indeed a slave to Harald Bull-Roar when he came to raid Constantinople. It so happened that while we were there I was able to perform a small service for the emperor—”
“So he freed you, and took you into his service,” suggested Sadiq.
“No, lord, he did not. He might have, but that is not his way. Instead, he made the Danish king part of his mercenary force and sent the Sea Wolves to guard the eparch and the merchant ships on their voyage to Trebizond. He said that if I performed a certain task for him, we would discuss my freedom when I returned.”
“What was this task?”
“To watch and listen to all that was said and done in Trebizond during the peace mediations and to bring him word if I should discover anything suspicious regarding the eparch.”
“The eparch!” wondered Sadiq, plainly surprised. “Did he doubt the eparch’s loyalty?”
“He did not tell me why, but he seemed to me a man deeply concerned with trust and loyalty. I think he mistrusted the eparch—unnecessarily, in all events.”
“He should have mistrusted this Nikos,” mused the amir. Glancing at me, he said, “So, you were to watch the eparch. That was all? Nothing else?”
“Nothing else.”
“You were not to watch the Arabs, perhaps? Even a little?”
“In all truth, he said nothing to me regarding the Arabs. He had no reason to believe that I would ever be in a position to be privvy to intelligence from that quarter, amir. He did not anticipate my present situation. You must know that the emperor is as anxious for the peace as is the khalifa. Byzantium needs it as much as Samarra, if not more.”
“Why is this?”
“Emperor Basil seeks the increase in trade and commerce if he is to pay for his new palaces and public buildings. The imperial city has been neglected for decades; renovation on such a massive scale requires an unending supply of wealth.”
“Ya’allah!” Sadiq nodded in rueful agreement at this. “If only the rulers of this world had smaller appetites.”
“Now you know the truth,” I told him. “I watched and listened to what was said and done in Trebizond—for all the good that came of it. The eparch is dead, and the traitor remains free to continue his treacheries. The warring and raiding will resume, and—”
“No,” said the amir earnestly, “the fighting will not resume. This is what Abu Ahmad has determined. We will abide the peace we have sought and won.” He paused. “This is why I was forced to test you, my friend. I had to know what manner of man I had entrusted with the future of our people.”
I did not know what he meant, but it sounded far-reaching and vaguely ominous in my ears. “Your future, amir?”
Sadiq clucked his tongue over my bewilderment. “Ah, indeed you are a sorry spy,” he replied lightly. “You held the fate of the Arab people in your hands, for you knew our weakness—a thing even the notorious Nikos does not suspect.”
“The rebellion?” I said. “I learned about that long ago. Had I been the sort of spy you imagined, I would have run to the emperor as soon as you left the palace.”
“Obviously.”
“But I stayed.”
“Yes, you stayed.”
“Even so, you thought me a traitor. You threatened to kill me—”
“I would certainly have killed you,” Sadiq maintained firmly, “if you had lied to me.” He spread his hands and placed them flat on the table as if to push the unpleasantness from him. “Please, understand; with so much at hazard, there could be no mistake.”
“And Kazimain—did she know? Was she watching me?”
The amir glanced away. “Kazimain…” he began, and hesitated, “She knew, yes.”
“I see.” I nodded absently. The heatflash of anger flared quick and hot, then swiftly abated; in its place settled a sour humiliation. I had been made a fool. It came to me that I had felt exactly this same way before: upon discovering Gunnar had waited in the forest all day to see if I would run away from him; the Watching-Trial, he called it. Well, I had unwittingly undergone a second watching-trial, and found it no more to my liking than the first.
Sadiq righted the cups and poured more drink; he placed a cup before me, poured one for himself, drank, and began speaking again, his voice taking on a tone of urgency, but I was thinking: Why must my loyalty be always put to the test? Am I so unreliable, so inconstant that those abov
e me cannot trust me otherwise? What is it about me that fills everyone with such doubt?
“…Abu has agreed,” the amir was saying, “it is of utmost importance. We are to leave at once, taking only—”
Hearing the last of this, I glanced up quickly.
“I am sorry, my friend,” said the amir, mistaking my stricken look, “your marriage must wait a little longer, I fear. Certainly, we will return here as soon as possible, and I will gladly provide a wedding celebration to surpass all celebrations. This shall be my gift to you both, but as it is—”
“Please,” I said, “where are we going?”
“To Byzantium,” he answered, mildly surprised that I should ask. “Did I not just say so? The treachery of this man Nikos must not be allowed to obstruct the peace between our peoples. He must be stopped before fighting begins again.”
“By all means, Lord Sadiq,” I concurred, quickening to the thought. For I suddenly saw the opportunity I desired above all else: I could have my revenge, and I would not have to betray the amir to get it. “But it occurs to me that we will need help.”
The amir appeared taken aback by my suggestion. “What help would you suggest?”
“I am not the only one who knows what happened in Trebizond, nor the only one who survived the ambush on the road to Sebastea. If we are to confront Komes Nikos with his crime, it seems to me that the more voices raised in condemnation, the better. You will remember that I was last seen by the emperor when I was slave to a barbarian king. If the basileus is to credit what I say, I must have help.”
Sadiq regarded me with dark, unfathomable eyes. “This help, of which you speak. I suppose it has a price?” He sounded disappointed.
“Only this: obtain freedom for my friends, and we will help you stop Nikos and renew the peace.”
He waited, expecting me to say more. “What else do you require?”
“That is all.”
“Freedom for your friends?” wondered Sadiq, surveying me dubiously. “Nothing else? You must hate this Nikos more than I suspected.”
I felt my stomach tightening into a knot of anticipation. “Can it be done?”
“Allah willing, it might be arranged,” the amir replied, tapping his chin thoughtfully. “But let us understand one another: if I achieve this feat, you will go with me to Byzantium and aid me in restoring the treaty?”
“We will do whatever you ask,” I vowed.
“Then we must pray the khalifa is in his right mind today,” Sadiq replied, making his decision. “If you like, I will inform Kazimain that the wedding must be delayed a little.”
“Thank you,” I said, “but I will tell her myself.”
“As you wish.” Sadiq rose to his feet. “You must excuse me,” he said, “there is much to be done—and quickly.” He clapped his hands, and Faysal appeared as out of nowhere. “I have an urgent message for the wazir,” he said. “We require an audience with the khalifa at his earliest convenience—today. Go!”
To me, he said, “Rise up, Aidan. If my new advisor is to accompany me, he must be arrayed like royalty.”
The amir led me to another room where his clothes were kept in sandalwood chests. He chose a new robe and cloak for me, then summoned servants to come and prepare me for my audience. “Make him appear a nobleman,” he commanded as he left the room. “For today this man must stand before the khalifa!”
When they had completed this task, Faysal came in carrying a bundle wrapped in blue silk. “For you, Aidan,” he said. “The amir wishes you to have this.”
I opened the bundle to reveal a knife of the kind the Irish call a daigear, but unlike any I had ever seen: all silver and gold of the most wonderful craftsmanship, worked into fantastic leaf-and-tendril designs and studded with rubies, emeralds, and sapphires. The blade, however, was of a metal called steel, and sharper than the cut of the keenest razor. I could hardly take my eyes from the knife long enough to thank Faysal.
“All Sarazen noblemen wear such a knife,” he said. “It is called Qadi.”
“Judgement?” I wondered. “Why that?”
“Because,” said Faysal, taking the treasure and tucking it into my belt properly, “a man must sometimes rely on his own hand for justice, and when Qadi speaks, arguments cease.”
Stepping away, he pronounced me an acceptable likeness of an Arab nobleman, and said, “Now you are ready to meet the khalifa. May Allah grant you favour in his sight.”
55
The Caliph of Samarra was sitting under a fig tree in the palace arboretum. He had, it was explained, been sitting under the tree for five days, awaiting inspiration from the angel Gabriel for the completion of a poem recently begun.
“Perhaps,” Wazir Tabataba’i suggested discreetly, “your business with the khalifa would be more auspiciously conducted another day.”
“All business should be conducted in gardens under fig trees,” countered the amir. “The world would be a far better place. We will be happy to greet the khalifa in his garden.”
“As you will.” The black-turbaned wazir bowed graciously, but I perceived a note of warning in his tone. He turned and led us through the vast, empty reception hall, his dark blue robe billowing behind him like a sail, his soft-slippered feet silent on polished green marble floors.
We walked through one enormous room after another, passing beneath blue-painted domes as big and deep as the heavenly skybowl; some were even pierced by thousands of tiny star-shaped holes to imitate the night sky. Tall pillars upheld these domes, and the grand, shapely arches. The walls of some of the rooms were covered with blue-and-green painted tiles; others were painted red or warm ochre, and decorated with gold-leaf peacock plumes. Along the walls there were chests and boxes—and in several rooms, throne-like seats—of exotic woods inlaid with gold and silver and pearl. And everywhere were rugs and carpets of the most cunningly intricate design and colour. We passed one room where the ceiling was covered with red-striped cloth that hung loosely down from a central timber pillar, so that the room entirely resembled a tent.
The wazir then led us along a wide corridor of onyx columns and out into a walled garden with a fountain in the centre, through this to an iron scroll-work gate and into the arboretum, or tree garden, where dwelt his master, awaiting divine inspiration.
I felt slightly foolish and out of place: my clothes were far more extravagant than anything I had ever worn; the turban made my head feel several times too large and dangerously unsteady; the oil on my moustache kept getting onto my lips, making them feel slippery and strange; the knife hilt dug into my hip bone, and I greatly feared wounding myself by bending over too quickly. In all it was, I suppose, a necessity, but I would have been far more at ease and confident if less had been made of me.
But the amir, having insisted on this course, had departed, leaving me to the expert ministrations of his servants. First, I had been stripped naked and washed with scented water poured from a tall, slender ewer into a huge brass bowl in which I was made to stand. My hair, long now and without a trace of tonsure anymore, was dressed with perfumed oil, and my skin as well. Then, one after another, various coloured tunics were brought and tried until they settled on one to match the red robe and cloak the amir had chosen. Next I had been given a wide black belt which wrapped my waist four times, and a pair of soft black leather boots. A long narrow strip of creamy white cloth became a turban, the end of which was secured with a ruby pin. It was as they were finishing that Faysal had entered carrying the Qadi-knife. Thrusting the blade through a fold in my belt, Faysal pronounced me ready and I was conducted to the courtyard where Sadiq was waiting.
Two milk-white horses stood in the yard and the amir was watching his grooms saddle the wonderful animals. At my approach, he turned and his handsome face brightened with genuine pleasure. “Ah! A very Prince of Persia! Please, do not let Kazimain see you, or she will never allow you out of her sight.”
“Do you think me ready to stand before the khalifa?” I asked.
&nbs
p; “My friend,” intoned Sadiq seriously, “were you going to meet Allah himself, you could not look any finer. Now then, when was the last time you sat a horse?”
“I cannot remember.”
Sadiq frowned. “I thought as much…” Turning abruptly, he called to one of the grooms. “Jalal! Take Sharwa away. Bring Yaqin instead.” To me he confided, “You will find her more to your liking.”
The stableman left the courtyard on the run leading one of the white horses—only to return some moments later, leading a pale grey mare with a black tail, mane, and forelegs. The sunlight on the animal’s coat made it look silky. “Ah, yes,” sighed the amir appreciatively. “She is a wonder, this Yaqin.” He stepped to the horse and patted her smooth neck, and motioned for me to do the same. “Here, Beautiful One, is my friend Aidan,” he said, speaking softly into the horse’s ear. “He is a good fellow. Do not disgrace him, please.”
As if in answer to the amir’s request, the mare tossed her head up and down, and nuzzled Sadiq’s neck. “Later,” the amir said, scolding lightly, “if you behave yourself, you shall have a fig.” To me, he said, “She has developed a liking for honeyed dates as well.”
We watched the stablemen go about saddling the horses; they accomplished their work deftly and efficiently, handling the horses with polite firmness. “It is a sin,” observed Sadiq idly, “to mistreat a horse.” He clearly enjoyed his horses, and lavished great affection on them. “A very great sin. One of the worst.”
“Mahmoud tells me all men shall ride such horses in paradise,” I mentioned.
“That is true,” Sadiq agreed. Having finished with the horses, one of the stablehands led the white horse to the amir and passed the reins to him. Lord Sadiq placed his foot in the stirrup and swung himself up into the saddle. “Let us pray, however,” he said, “that we live to ride through the streets of Byzantium first.”
We then made our way in slow and stately progress along the wide central street of Ja’fariya to the khalifa’s palace, drawing stares and greetings from the people in the streets as we passed. Upon arriving at the palace, we were greeted by the wazir and led through one stunning room after another to our audience with the most powerful man in the whole of the Arabian empire.