Byzantium

51

Through casual questioning of Mahmoud, I was able to discover that, after one delay and another, Lord Sadiq had given up waiting for Abu's oft-promised return, and had ridden to the south with a company of warriors-his rafiq, I was told; a word which meant companions. These particular companions however, had not been chosen for fellowship's sake, but for other qualities, such as loyalty, courage, and skill at arms.

Although my young teacher did not know why the amir had gone away, I reckoned it was all to do with the information I had given Sadiq regarding the treacherous death of the eparch and the betrayal of the peace treaty. Abu was still fighting the rebellion in the south, and it made sense that the amir would wish to hold council with his superior before attempting to repair the ruptured peace.

Meanwhile, I continued to learn all I could from Mahmoud, a remarkably intelligent fellow, whose knowledge extended far beyond language to include religion and science and music. He could play several instruments and knew many songs, and composed music which he performed and sang. He read whole portions of the Qur'an, the holy book of Islam, and we discussed what he read.

Mostly, however, we talked of ethics, a subject in which Mahmoud was particularly adept, and which the Arabs had developed into a sacred art. Simple hospitality, for example-the ordinary care of visitors observed in some fashion by most peoples-for the Arab faithful imposed enormous spiritual obligations on both host and guest which were transgressed at great peril to the soul. The list of proscriptions, prohibitions, duties, and responsibilities was endless, and the tiniest nuances parsed to the finest hair.

As my strength returned and stamina increased, my lessons were often conducted outside the walls of the amir's palace. Mahmoud took me into the city where we wandered the streets and talked about what we saw. This allowed me the opportunity to question him on the things I found puzzling about Arab ways. We always had much to discuss.

Oddly, the more I questioned, the less I understood; I came to suspect that my questions only served to expose the vast chasm of difference between the Eastern and Western mind that could not be observed from a distance. The life Mahmoud revealed to me was strange in many hundreds of ways, and I began to believe that any similarities between East and West were purely accidental, and not an affirmation of a common humanity. Certain resemblances or affinities of thought I might perceive in the Eastern races were likely to be my own invention; for upon closer scrutiny the imagined similarity was sure to alter beyond recognition, or disappear altogether.

This conclusion, however, was long in coming. I did not hold this view when wandering the streets with Mahmoud. It is always my fate to arrive at a thing too late. To think of the suffering I might have saved shames me now. Still, if I was ignorant-and, oh, I was-at least I was innocent in my ignorance. Pray, remember this.

My first impression of Ja'fariya was of immense wealth; the place was less a city than a congregation of palaces, each more ostentatious than the last. It had been built on the banks of the Tigris river by Caliph al'Mutawakkil to escape the closeness and squalor of Samarra, which itself had been built by Caliph al'Mutasim to escape the closeness and squalor of Baghdat, a few days' journey down river. Samarra, mere shouting distance to the south of its lavish neighbour, was larger and only slightly less extravagant and, save for housing the caliphs and their noblemen, served in every other respect as the official centre of government.

Clearly, no expense had been spared by the caliphs on their pleasure homes, or on those works they deemed best able to bring them credit in the eyes of men and Allah. The Great Mosq of Samarra, for example, had been conceived with an eye toward dwarfing all other rivals. From what Mahmoud told me, I reckoned that it had achieved the aim of its patron admirably well. He took me to the mosq on one of our rambles.

"Behold!" he cried, raising a hand to the edifice upon our approach. "The walls you see before you are eight hundred paces long and five hundred wide; they sit on foundations thick as ten men standing shoulder to shoulder. Forty towers crown the wall-top, and the inner yard alone can contain a hundred thousand faithful and fifty thousand can pray inside! The minaret is unique in all the world. Come, A'dan, I will show you."

With that, we stepped through a huge wooden door set in an even greater timber door which formed half of the pair which made an absolutely gigantic gate. There were two men in white turbans standing just inside the door; they wore long white robes with wide belts of red cloth wrapped around their waists many times. Into their belts were thrust the curious curved thin swords of the Arabs. They regarded us impassively, and allowed us to pass without a word.

"Since the rebellion began," Mahmoud whispered as we moved away quickly, "the mosqs are guarded at all times."

He led me into the immense inner yard: a vast and virtually empty square within the many-towered walls enclosing only the hall of prayer and the minaret which, as he said, was certainly exceptional. "The khalifa was inordinately fond of Babylon's ancient artifacts," Mahmoud informed me. Indicating the steps spiralling up the outside of the prayer tower, he said, "Al'Mutasim copied his design for the prayer tower from the ruins of ziggurats which abound in the south." Mahmoud gazed in admiration at the towering minaret, then added, in a tone that left no doubt regarding the caliph's madness, "He liked to ride to the top of his tower on the back of a white donkey. He kept a herd of white donkeys solely for this purpose."

Turning away from the minaret, we moved towards a low stone basin standing in the centre of the yard; this basin, though shallow, was fully large enough to hold the entire population of Ja'fariya, and was filled with water which swirled about the stone rim where people sat washing their hands and feet before going into the prayer hall.

"The pool," explained Mahmoud, dipping his hands into the running water, "is continually replenished by fresh water from the river in such a way as to make it flow. Washing is sacred to Islam, and standing water is unclean. Therefore, the water in the pool must flow."

A large circular plinth sat near the basin, a bronze spike projecting from its surface. Though its prominence suggested some importance, I could perceive no use for the massive object. "This is the Divider of the Hours," he said when I asked what it could be. "I will show you."

Stepping to the plinth, I saw that the face of the thing was uniformly flat, and inscribed with a bewildering array of lines both straight and curved which had been etched into the stone. "Heaven's light strikes the marker;" Mahmoud touched the bronze spike, "the shadow falls upon the line," he indicated one of the series of lines, "and as the sun moves the shadow moves, dividing out the hours of the day. By this the muezzin knows when it is time to mount the minaret and make the call to prayer."

"A sun dial," I murmured. I had heard of them, but I had never seen one-not even in Constantinople. The Christian monks in sunny climes could make good use of such a device to reckon the times of prayer, regularly spacing them throughout the day, summer or winter. But then, I reflected, I was no longer a monk and held no interest in the problems of abbey governance and the daily round.

"Come, I will take you into the prayer hall now."

"Is it permitted?" I was still finding the intricate assortment of prohibitions and allowances entirely baffling; it was impossible to guess what might be permitted or denied.

"Certainly," Mahmoud assured me. "All men are welcome in the house of prayer, Muslim and Christian alike. The same God hears our prayers, does he not?"

Mahmoud led me back to the basin where we washed our hands and feet, then proceeded to the hall where we were met by more white-turbaned guards, who regarded us closely, but made no move to hinder us in any way. We lay our sandals alongside those of many others on grass mats provided for the purpose at the doorway. The entrance to the hall was closed, not by a wooden door, but by a heavy green cloth with an Arabic word sewn in yellow.

Mahmoud took hold of the edge of the cloth and drew it back, beckoning me to enter. I stooped under the cloth and found myself in a cavernous dark space, the darkness pierced by shafts of blue light from small round windholes high in the upper reaches of the hall.

The air was still and cool, and I could hear the murmur of voices like the insect drone in an orchard. Owing to the brightness of the sun outside, it was some moments before my eyes adjusted and I could see properly, but the impression of a grove only deepened; before me marched row upon row of slender pillars, like gently tapering trees, their boles illumined by moonlight.

I took a few hesitant steps and felt as if I were walking on cushions; looking down, I saw that the great expanse of floor was spread with carpets-thousands of them-from one wall to the other, thick like moss grown deep on a forest floor.

Soon I was able to make out the forms of people kneeling or standing here and there. A low wooden beam, like a ship's rail, provided a boundary to the right and left. "Go in, go in," urged Mahmoud softly. "Only women must stay behind the rail."

Indeed, there were, I noticed, a few women kneeling in the area provided for them; they wore their shawls over their heads and knelt low so as to disappear. Mahmoud and I passed deeper into the hall, and proceeded towards the place where, in a Christian church, the altar would have been. Here there was no altar, however, nor any other sort of furniture; the only feature to distinguish the place from the rest of the hall was an empty niche, the qiblah, Mahmoud told me. "Kneeling thus," he indicated the niche, "we set our faces towards Makka, the holy city."

"What is the significance of this city?" I asked.

"From the beginning of time it is a holy place-the place of the Ka'aba, the House of God built by the Prophet Ibrahim," replied my teacher. "For the Faithful, Makka is the centre of the world. It is also the birthplace of the Blessed Prophet, peace be upon him, and the place where he was called and consecrated to his work. It is the destination of the Hajj."

I had never heard this word before, and asked what it was. Mahmoud thought for some moments before answering. "The Hajj is a journey," he said. "But unlike other journeys a man may make, it is both physical and spiritual at the same time, a journey of the body for the good of the soul."

"A pilgrimage," I suggested.

"Perhaps," he allowed ambiguously. "For the Faithful, it is this way: when a man comes to his maturity, he begins to prepare himself for the Hajj. Depending on the man, and where he lives, this preparation may take many years. But one day he orders his affairs and sets out on his way to Makka. When he arrives, he will perform the sacred rituals of our faith: he will perform the Greater Hajj and the Lesser Hajj; he will drink water from the Well of Zamzam, and make sacrifices on the plain of Min; he will make progression seven times around the Ka'aba and go inside to kiss the sacred Black Stone. These things, and others, he will do, as all the Faithful must do, if they are to stand ready before God on the Day of Judgement.

"So," concluded Mahmoud, "when we pray, we face Makka out of respect for this holy place, and to remind ourselves of the journey we must all one day make."

We talked further of such things, and then returned to the heat and sun outside, which seemed, after the cool darkness of the cave-like mosq, akin to stepping into a flaming oven. Again, it took some moments for my eyes to adjust to the light, and then I discovered that someone had taken my sandals. This struck me as most peculiar-that a thief should practise his nefarious craft at the entrance to a house of prayer-and I remarked on it as we stepped back into the street.

"Why does this surprise you?" wondered Mahmoud. "It is, after all, the way of the world, is it not? The good man goes about his affairs with faith and good will, and the bad man looks only to satisfy his base desires, caring nothing for others, or for God."

"True," I agreed. "Yet, I did not expect to be robbed by thieves within the holy precinct."

Mahmoud laughed at my foolishness. "What better place to steal shoes?"

We walked slowly-and for me, somewhat painfully-back to the amir's palace, stopping often to rest in the shade where we found it. Once, while we sat under a tree beside the road, a man came out of a nearby house and brought us sweetened lemon water to drink. "You see?" said Mahmoud, when he had thanked the man and sent him away with a blessing. "Thieves in the temple and angels in the street. Allah is utterly mysterious, is he not?"

"Inscrutable," I agreed sourly. My feet hurt.

Later that night, when Kazimain came with my tray she brought me a bundle wrapped in blue silk. "What is this?" I asked as she placed the tray on the tripod and the bundle in my hands.

"It is a gift, Aidan," she replied, kneeling beside the tray. I do not know which surprised me more-the unexpected gift, or her use of my name.

I looked at the shimmering cloth and could think of nothing to say. Kazimain tugged at one end of the silk covering. "You must open it," she instructed, "and see what is inside."

"I do not understand," I admitted, fumbling with the smooth material. Kazimain watched me for a moment, smiling, almost glowing with delight. She was more beautiful than I had ever seen her-black hair shining, her deep brown eyes alight with joy, her smooth almond skin slightly flushed with the excitement she felt.

"It is a gift," she said, "there is nothing to understand." With that, she pulled away the silk to reveal a new pair of sandals, good leather and finely made-far better than the ones I had lost at the mosq.

"Thank you, Kazimain," I said, mystified. "How did you know my sandals had been stolen?"

She smiled slyly, taking immense pleasure in my bewilderment.

"Did Mahmoud tell you?"

She shook her head, her mouth quivering with suppressed laughter.

"Then how did you know?"

"I was there," she said, laughing.

"There-at the mosq? I did not see you."

"Oh, but I saw you," she replied, and her smile took on a mysterious quality-as if she were keeping a secret to herself. "I was praying."

"And what were you praying for?" I asked the question glibly, without a moment's thought; I was so enjoying her laughter and was beguiled by her almost luminous presence, I merely wanted to keep her talking.

But her smile disappeared instantly. She turned her face away, and I thought I had offended her in some way. "Kazimain," I said quickly, "forgive me. I did not mean-"

"I was praying," she began, turning to face me once more; and I saw that her cheeks and throat were rosy; she was blushing. "I was praying that Allah would show me the man I am to marry." She spoke solemnly, but her eyes still held the glow of excitement.

"And did he?"

Kazimain nodded, and glanced down at her hands in her lap. "He did," she answered, her voice growing quiet.

"Who did you see?"

"I prayed that he would show me the man I am to marry," she said again, her head still bowed. "When I finished, I looked up," she raised her eyes to mine, "and I saw you, Aidan."

For the space of three heartbeats neither of us spoke. Kazimain's eyes met mine steadily and I read neither embarrassment nor uncertainty in her glance. She had confided her secret and was now measuring my response.

"Marry me, Kazimain." The words were out of my mouth before I knew what I was saying. I reached across and took her hand. "Will you be my wife?"

"I will, Aidan," she replied, softly acquiescing. Her glance did not falter. As if to emphasize her answer, she squeezed my hand.

We sat there awkwardly for a moment, looking at one another. I had asked and she answered. It was finished just like that. Very likely, she had given me her answer many times before; had I known how to listen, I might have heard.

Nevertheless, none of this surprised me; it was as if this meeting between us was foreordained by a force greater than either of us. I know I had the feeling of events wheeling swiftly over a well-travelled course to a destination long ago established. I felt as if I was merely saying the words I had been destined to say. If there was no surprise, neither was there fear or alarm. The circumstance seemed both right and natural-as if we had talked this way a thousand times, and knew well what the other would say.

"Kazimain," I said, and reached out for her. She came into my arms at once, and I felt the warmth of her embrace filling me with an unutterable certainty. This, I thought, holding her, is the only truth we can know in life. Nothing else in all the world is certain-only this: that a man and woman should come together in love.

We kissed then, and the ardour of her kiss stole my breath away. I returned her passion with all the fervour I possessed. A lifetime of vows and heart-felt disciplines had prepared me well, for in that kiss I sealed with all my soul the fate before me, embracing a mystery clothed in warm and yielding female flesh. Holding only the moment, with neither thought nor care for the future, I kissed her, and drank deep the strong wine of desire.

I knew, even as we touched, that I had never wanted anything more in all my life. All my crabbed cravings were as a cupful of pondwater beside the vast ocean of longing I felt surging through me. My head swam; my eyes blurred. I burned from inside out as if my blood and bones were consumed with liquid fire.

It was only later, after she had gone, that the awesome implications of what I had done struck me. How could this be? I could not possibly marry her. Even if I wanted to-did I? — would the amir allow it? I, a slave of undetermined rank in his house, was in no position to marry a woman of his tribe. What is more, I was a Christian and she a Muslim. The thing could not be.

I would, I decided, undo what had been done. Tomorrow, when she came with my tray, I would explain to her that it could not be, that I was wrong to suggest such a thing as marriage. It had been but the folly of the moment; I had not been thinking clearly. No doubt she felt the same; she would agree. We had both been careless, perhaps confused. It was only a tiny lapse, after all. Kazimain was intelligent; Kazimain was wise. She would not fail to see how wrong we were, how foolish we had been to imagine what could not be.

"She will understand," I told myself. "She must."