The Emperor's Elefant

Chapter Fourteen

BAGHDAD

*

I had never imagined that Baghdad would be so vast, or so hot. The breeze that filled the sails of the merchant ship that brought us from al-Qulzum had kept us agreeably cool during a trouble-free five-week voyage, so the scorching July heat of the caliph’s capital was all the more stunning.

‘It must be the largest city in the world,’ I remarked to Osric holding up my hand to shield my eyes from the blinding white glare of the sun. In Basra, now three weeks behind us, Abram had arranged for our remaining animals to be transferred to an upriver barge, and it was from the Tigris that I was getting my first impression of the caliph’s extraordinary capital. It was huge. Docks, quays, residences, boatyards, gardens, workshops, warehouses and steps for washing laundry lined the banks. In the distance an enormous green dome seemed to float above the low houses of the sprawling suburbs shimmering in the haze.

‘Baghdad is a thousand years younger than Constantinople but already twice its size,’ put in the dragoman, with more than a hint of pride.

I gave him a sideways glance. Abram was no longer the quiet and self-effacing guide I had known previously. He imparted his knowledge of the caliph’s realm in a manner that was close to patronizing. I ascribed the change in him to a sense of relief that our long journey was almost at an end. I felt the same.

‘Two generations ago this place was nothing more than a riverside village,’ he continued. ‘Haroun’s grandfather, Caliph Mansour, picked the site, brought in the architects and city planners, and paid the wages of the masons, bricklayers, carpenters and other builders. A canal was dug to bring Tigris water to where the mud bricks were made.’

Abram nodded towards a riverside mansion. It appeared to have been abandoned. The boundary wall was crumbling, the garden overgrown, and the building itself was beginning to disintegrate. On either side of it the large houses were in perfect condition, trim and neat.

‘Baghdad is built of mud brick, sun dried or oven baked. Quick to build, almost as quick to disintegrate. That palace probably belongs to a court high official, and he’s found somewhere else he prefers to live. He’s simply walked away.’

‘And left it behind?’

The dragoman shrugged. ‘Why not? Baghdad is constantly expanding. Thousands of people arrive here every month from the countryside. Land speculation is on a massive scale. A grove of palm trees given by the caliph to a court favourite ten years ago when it was on the edge of town is suddenly worth hundreds of thousands of dinars as the site for new housing.’

‘And everything depends on the caliph’s whim?’

‘Nearly everything.’ Abram turned to me, his tone sharper. ‘Make no mistake. You are about to encounter the richest, most profligate, open-handed, and luxury-loving court on the face of the earth. A place where a singer whose sentimental song tugs at the caliph’s heartstrings might receive a gift of enough pearls to fill his mouth. Or a poet writes a few successful lines and suddenly finds himself the owner of a house and servants so that he can spend the rest of his life at ease.’

‘What happens to those who incur the caliph’s anger?’

‘If you get to meet Caliph Haroun in person, take a look at the grim-faced man always standing a few paces behind him. He’s known as “the blade carrier of his vengeance” – the palace executioner. Last time I was in Baghdad it was a man named Masrur.’

The broad surface of the Tigris was swarming with water traffic. Barges, lighters, freighters and rafts rode the current loaded with their cargoes. With little or no wind, many were being moved with long sweeps or towed behind rowed boats. Passenger ferries shuttled from one side of the river to the other. Fishermen hung their lines from small skiffs and set and hauled nets. Pleasure craft had colourfully striped awnings under which their occupants sat on cushions, relaxing while hired boatmen or slaves worked the oars. Every few minutes yet another boat would emerge from the mouth of one of the small canals that joined the river and take its place in the throng.

‘We’ll be landing very soon,’ warned Abram. ‘We’re nearly at the first of the three pontoon bridges that cross the river. I doubt that the bridge keepers will open up the bridge to let us pass.’

In Basra, Abram had met with customs officials and impressed on them that we were gift-bearers from the King of the Franks to the Commander of the Faithful. We had been promised every assistance, but opening a pontoon bridge and disrupting the city traffic was too much to expect.

‘How far to where we can house the animals and find our own accommodation?’ I asked.

‘I expect we’ll be allocated space inside the Round City itself. That’s the caliph’s personal precinct.’

One of the minor officials assigned to escort us from Basra was already coming along the deck towards us. Two assistants followed, carrying a large chest between them. They set down the chest and threw back the lid to reveal a store of neatly pressed garments made of fine white cotton. Walo and I had already taken our example from Abram and Osric and were wearing loose-fitting Saracen clothing suitable for such stifling weather. But our garments were travel-stained and crumpled, and it was a pleasure to put on the local costume – loose trousers and a wide-sleeved long shirt with pockets. Everything was crisp, clean and newly laundered. The official also insisted that we put on an additional over-gown of white cotton. This too was required of anyone who passed in through the gates of the Round City. Finally, we had to select our headgear because it would be considered uncouth to go about bare headed. Osric was comfortable with a dazzling white turban and from his own baggage Abram produced a white skullcap. Walo and I hesitated. Neither of us were expert in winding a turban around our head, or keeping it there. So the official issued us with small neat caps shaped like pots, around which he wound and then pinned in place a length of white cloth. The caps felt strange, but were sufficient to satisfy local custom.

By the time we were correctly dressed, our barge was slanting towards the western bank where a group of dock-workers was already waiting. Mooring ropes were thrown and made fast, the barge scraped against the quay and the labourers swarmed aboard.

‘Please make sure that the ice bears are kept out of the sun,’ I said to their overseer. After the months of practising the Saracen tongue with Osric, I could make myself understood.

Madi and Modi were in a very sad condition. Walo had done his utmost to keep them healthy. He had fed them their favourite foods, given them plenty to drink, doused them with water almost hourly during the heat of the day. But the sapping heat had taken its toll. Both animals were emaciated. There were great hollows in their flanks. Their fur was lacklustre, a dingy yellow, and they spent hour after hour, slumped on the floor of their cage, barely moving, taking shallow breaths.

They did not even raise their heads as the dockers lifted up their cage with levers, slid rollers into place, and began to shift it off the barge.

‘Our reception committee seems very well prepared,’ I said to Abram. On the quay a stout, low trolley was already in position.

‘The barid, the caliph’s intelligence service, will have told them what to expect,’ he replied.

Walo, hovering beside the cage, was trying to explain something to the official in charge. Osric hurried off to help with translation.

‘The barid has eyes and ears everywhere. That’s how the caliph keeps his throne,’ said Abram, lowering his voice. ‘Be careful what you do and say.’

The shore gang was quickly on the move. At least twenty men hauled on ropes as they dragged the laden trolley away and down the nearest street. Behind them two men carried the gyrfalcons in their cages, and another group were leading the white dogs. Abram and I hurried after them.

Baghdad’s houses were set close together, scarcely an arm’s length apart, and they were a strange assortment. Some were modest in size, little more than cottages with small windows and sun-warped doors. The plaster on their walls was often patched and peeling. Other dwellings were far grander and larger, boasting intricately carved doors of oiled wood and outer walls decorated with patterns of coloured tiles in green, blue and yellow that glittered in the sunshine. All were single-storeyed and every house was built with a flat roof. Several times I saw people looking down at us, curious to see the little procession on its way past.

‘This is a mixed district,’ Abram explained. ‘Merchants, traders, shopkeepers and manual workers, all living side by side.’

I asked why there were so few people in the street.

‘It’s still too hot,’ he answered. ‘People prefer to stay indoors until the worst of the day’s heat is over. Even the homeless and the beggars try to find a spot of shade.’

‘So there are beggars even in wealthy Baghdad.’

The corners of his mouth turned down. ‘Beggars and vagrants by the thousand. While the caliph and his favourites live in unimaginable luxury, there are vast numbers of desperate poor. Often they are those who have flocked into the city, hoping to better their lives. That’s another reason why the caliph needs the barid’s eyes and ears. To be alert to any risk of mob riot.’

We walked for perhaps a quarter of a mile further, crossed a small bridge that spanned one of the canals that provided the citizens with water, and found ourselves confronted by a thirty-foot-high wall, topped with battlements. It needed no imagination to see why the caliph’s residence was called the Round City. The great wall trended away on each side in a smooth curve, a circular design unlike anything I had seen before.

Abram noted my reaction with a knowing smile. ‘Not like Rome with its conventional straight walls, is it?’ he said. ‘Caliph Mansour himself drew the initial outline of Baghdad in the ashes of his campfire. He sketched a circle, then jabbed his pointed stick in the centre. That spot, he told his architects, was where they were to put his palace so that he could be in the middle of all that was going on.’

I was finding the dragoman’s air of superiority irritating but had to admit that the great wall was impressive. The base was a full fifteen feet thick, and we passed through the iron gates of an imposing brick archway into a hundred feet of open space – a killing ground. Beyond was an inner wall, even higher and thicker than the first, and a second iron gate. If the city mob did riot, they stood little chance of gaining access to the royal household.

Once through the second gate we turned to our left, still following the bear cage on its trolley, and continued along the line of the inner wall past a long arcade of shops and stalls that, I presumed, supplied the needs of the palace staff. Ahead was a high, square building that I took to be an immense warehouse. Gatekeepers held open broad double doors and we went inside. The smell made me catch my breath. It was like walking into a vast, stuffy stable. Behind the familiar mix of dung and hay there was something else – sour, pungent and fetid. Large windows set high up pierced the thick walls. Shafts of sunlight illuminated a long central passageway floored with wood blocks, and on either side a long line of heavy wooden doors. Instantly, I was reminded of the place where we had kept our animals inside the Colosseum.

An extraordinary sound made me jump: a shrill trumpeting blast, part squeal, part bellow. Just ahead of me one of the doors creaked open a few inches, pushed from the inside. A loose chain prevented the door from opening any further. Out from the crack slithered a thick grey serpent. It waved in the air, menacingly. I jumped back with a frightened yelp.

The grey snake heard me and turned in my direction, reaching out towards me. I shrank away, shuddering. The head of the serpent was horrible. It had no eyes. Instead there were two slimy holes and above them a short fat finger that was moving up and down as if questing for me.

Abram guffawed. ‘Don’t be afraid. He’s just curious,’ he told me.

‘What is it?’ I blurted, still keeping well back from the serpent that now curled up and was withdrawing itself back through the gap in the door.

‘You’ll see in a moment,’ he replied, grinning broadly.

A little further on, the upper half of one of the doors was open. When we came level, I looked inside, and caught my breath. I was looking at the animal that I had longed to see – a live elephant. My only mild disappointment was that it was not quite as large as I had expected. The animal swayed gently on thick grey legs and flapped huge ears with ragged edges and patches of mottled pink skin. Then it reached up with the long flexible nose that I had mistaken for a serpent and felt inside the hay net hanging on the wall. It tore off a wisp and, curling back its trunk, put the hay into its mouth. It stood there, chewing meditatively and watching me with tiny, bright eyes. The creature was as wonderfully strange as I had imagined. I looked on, delighted.

‘Walo needs our help. We’d better hurry,’ said Abram.

Ahead of us the team hauling the bear cage had stopped in front of an open door. Walo was waving his arms, arguing with the overseer of the slave gang. I looked around for Osric who had been acting as Walo’s interpreter and saw that my friend had been distracted. He had found another half-open door and was peering over it at whatever creature was kept inside.

I hurried forward to help Walo. ‘What is it?’ I asked.

‘They want to put my bears in there,’ he said, casting an unhappy glance into what looked like a perfectly ordinary stall. It had clean straw on the ground, and a large tub of water. The only drawback was that the stall was ill-lit and gloomy.

Walo was very distressed. ‘Modi and Madi are very weak already. If they are put in there, they are likely to die. They must have fresh air.’

I translated what he had said to a small, grey-haired man who had appeared from further down the central aisle. I guessed he was the chief keeper of the menagerie.

He gave Walo a sympathetic glance. ‘Tell your friend not to worry,’ he said to me, ‘we’ll open shutters and allow fresh air to circulate as soon as the sun goes down. At this hour it is too hot outside for us to do that.’

I translated his words to Walo but failed to calm him. ‘It would be better if the bears were taken outside, somewhere in the shade,’ he insisted.

The head keeper saw that Walo was still troubled. Stepping past him and into the stall, he beckoned to Walo to follow him. Then the older man walked around the stall, patting the walls with the palm of his hand and repeating something in a soothing tone.

‘What’s he trying to say?’ Walo pleaded with me.

I asked the head keeper to repeat himself, because what he had said was impossible.

But I had not misheard.

‘He wants you to know that the walls are hollow, and they will be filled with ice.’

Walo gaped at me, his eyes wide with disbelief. ‘With ice? How can that be?’

I relayed the question to the keeper and was told that great blocks of ice were brought down from the mountains every winter and stored underground in straw-lined pits within the Round City. The purest ice was kept for cooling the drinks served to the caliph, his senior ministers and their guests. The lesser grade was used just as he had shown within the palace itself. Certain rooms in the palace had hollow walls that were filled with ice and, when that was not possible, trays of ice were placed where the breeze would carry the cold air into the rooms.

‘This stall is constructed in the same way,’ explained the keeper. ‘We use it for sick animals who need to be kept cool in the summer. The caliph takes a keen interest in his menagerie and we are permitted to take from the ice stores when necessary.’ He gestured towards Walo who was still looking dazed. ‘If your friend wants, he can stay close by. There’s a dormitory at the end of the building where the keepers sleep when they are on night duty. He can find a bed there and I will make arrangements for food to be brought to him.’

I was longing to see more of the elephant and other exotic animals, but our escort from the barge was growing impatient.

‘What would Carolus think if he saw Baghdad for himself – how big it is?’ I remarked to Osric as we went back out into the street, leaving Walo to watch over the ice bears.

‘I’m more concerned about what the caliph will think of the animals we have brought him,’ Osric replied in a low voice.

His tone caused a twinge of anxiety. ‘What do you mean?’

‘I had a look into some of the other stalls while you were helping Walo. There are animals in them that I have never seen before, animals so extraordinary that I wouldn’t have believed they could exist.’

‘What sort of animals?’

‘One of them must be the animal our friend the Nomenculator thought was the unicorn.’

My heart sank. After all my searching for the elusive unicorn, it was already to be found in the caliph’s menagerie.

Osric’s next words were more reassuring. ‘It does have a single horn. But that’s the only resemblance. It’s greyish black, like the elephant you saw, and not white, and no one would ever call it graceful. More like a stout ox or a very large boar with a wrinkled and armoured hide. The horn is a pointed stump growing on its nose. Not a unicorn’s long spiral spike.’

My friend had also learned that the building we were visiting was not the only place where the caliph’s exotic animals were housed. ‘The keepers told me that there are at least two more similar buildings, as well as kennels, stables and mews for his hunting birds,’ he told me.

‘Did they say what other animals are kept?’ I asked him.

‘Wolves, several creatures whose names I didn’t recognize, and thirty lions.’

I looked at him in utter disbelief. ‘Thirty! That’s impossible.’

Osric made a slight, helpless gesture. ‘I know. It does make our gift of strange animals seem trivial. But I’ve no reason to doubt what the keepers told me.’

‘I’d need to see those thirty lions with my own eyes before I’d believe them,’ I said grudgingly.

‘Maybe we will. I was told that when the Caliph wishes to impress an important visitor the lions are brought out and put on display. The keepers stand in a double line, each with a lion on a short chain. The visitor has to approach the caliph, walking in the aisle between them.’

‘But where could so many lions have come from?’ I said.

‘From rulers in India,’ Osric replied. ‘Along with elephants. There are at least two dozen elephants in the royal collection. Only a handful are kept in the building we visited. Others are in an open-air park.’

‘And next you’re going to tell me the caliph already owns a dozen ice bears,’ I said.

Osric smiled. ‘He has bears of all sorts, large and small, brown and black. But there’s not a single white bear in all of Baghdad.’

We had arrived at our destination, a substantial, high-walled building with an archway that opened into an interior courtyard. Our escort accompanied us inside and showed us to a set of rooms along one side of the courtyard. The rooms were spacious and airy, and our baggage had already been brought from the barge and placed inside. There was very little furniture apart from a couple of low tables, a scattering of large cushions embroidered with geometric patterns in red and green, and some expensive-looking carpets. The whitewashed plaster walls were bare but the doors and windows looked out directly on a fountain playing in the centre of the courtyard. The drifting spray made a rainbow in the rays of the afternoon sun and the sound of the water gave an impression of coolness.

Our escort informed us that a meal would shortly be provided and suggested that we might like to rest for a few hours. Later that evening, Osric and I would be taken to a private meeting at the palace of Nadim Jaffar, who had expressed a wish to meet us.

‘Do you know anything about this Nadim Jaffar?’ I asked Abram as the escort withdrew.

‘Short of meeting with the caliph himself, you could not hope for a more promising introduction.’ Abram went across to the doorway and checked that he could not be overheard. ‘Jaffar is a member of Haroun’s inner circle. “Nadim” is a title given only to the caliph’s particular friends.’

‘And this Jaffar is influential?’

‘More than that. He is a senior vizier – a minister as well as being Haroun’s chief advisor. His family, the Barmakids, wield extraordinary power, second only to the caliph’s himself.’

‘Why would he want to meet us so soon after our arrival?’

Abram frowned. ‘Jaffar is the head of the barid. Perhaps he intends to check on the reports that he has been receiving about us.’

‘And why weren’t you included in the invitation?’ I asked.

‘As your dragoman, I have no formal role now that we have reached Baghdad. Besides, Jaffar will have been told that you speak good Arabic, so no interpreter is needed.’

‘I would be easier in my mind if you accompanied Osric and me,’ I said.

Abram treated me to one of his enigmatic smiles. ‘I’m sure you don’t need my help to make a good impression on Jaffar, and that way you could get to meet Caliph Haroun himself.’ He paused for a moment. ‘My only regret is that I won’t have a chance to see Nadim Jaffar’s palace. It is a byword for his opulent lifestyle.’

*

A decent interval after the call to evening prayer, our escort reappeared at our door. He walked with Osric and me to the bank of the Tigris. A private ferry was waiting at the quay, manned by a crew of a dozen oarsmen. All three of us settled ourselves on the benches and our vessel was rowed out on the river as the pink tinge of the sunset seeped from the sky. We steered directly for a row of blazing torches on the far bank, the reflection of their flames twisting and flickering on the water as we drew closer. The torches were fixed in brackets along a balustrade to show a flight of marble steps. Our guide led the way as we disembarked and followed him along a path through a garden half hidden in shadow. Dozens of torches and lanterns, artfully placed, cast their light on beds of flowers in full bloom. I marvelled at the effort and expense of growing such blossoms in Baghdad’s scorching dry summer. A hidden musician was playing a stringed instrument so that the notes seemed to float through the leaves of ornamental trees that lined the path. When the music faded away, an unseen woman with a beautiful voice began to sing a gentle, haunting song.

The pathway eventually brought us to an open space some twenty paces across. Here the ground was spread with rich carpets arranged around a shallow tiled pool. Pinpoints of light slowly revolved and shifted on its surface. Tiny lamps of crystal, set on lily pads, were drifting at random; the lily pads themselves were crafted from thin sheets of beaten gold. A low tree leaned over the water at the nearest corner of the pool. On a branch a kingfisher sat, peering down and poised to strike. Everything was so lifelike, down to the outline of each feather and leaf, that it took me a moment to understand that both tree and bird were artifice. The tree was made of gold and silver, and the brilliant colours of the kingfisher were close-set arrays of gems, blue-green, burned orange and azure. As I looked on, marvelling, the water beneath the bird’s perch swirled as if to tempt the kingfisher. A golden fish, a real one this time, broke the surface briefly and the ripples spread. It was the movement of the fish, I now realized, which made the lights on the lily pads change position, for there was no breeze.

Seated on a low couch beside the pool was the man I presumed to be our host. Some thirty years old, he was dressed entirely in black, as was a lad of about nine or ten beside him. Between them on the couch were ivory pieces on a chequered board.

‘Welcome to the City of Peace,’ said the man, glancing up. He rose to his feet and advanced round the edge of the pool to greet us. My eyes had grown accustomed to the half-darkness, and I could see that he was remarkably handsome. Slim and graceful, he had a perfectly proportioned face. Dark, almost feminine eyes under long lashes gleamed with a bright intelligence. A thin belt studded with emeralds held in his black silk coat and accentuated his slender waist. A discreet spray of diamonds was pinned to the front of his black turban.

Our escort bowed and, without a word, left us, disappearing back down the path into the darkness.

‘My name is Jaffar. It is my privilege to greet you on behalf of the Prince of Believers.’ The man’s speech was a match for his good looks, beautifully modulated and clear.

‘We are honoured by your invitation and thankful to have reached our long-sought destination,’ I replied respectfully.

Jaffar clicked his fingers so softly that I almost missed the sound. Instantly, a servant materialized out of the surrounding darkness. ‘Cushions and refreshment for my guests, if you please,’ he murmured. Turning towards the boy who still sat on the couch, he said, ‘May I introduce my young friend Abdallah. He was about to beat me at chess, but checkmate must wait until you have told me what I can do to make your visit to our city agreeable.’

Before I could answer, a line of half a dozen servants came forward. Two of them carried an inlaid tray as large as a cartwheel, laden with small dishes Other servants brought large velvet cushions that they set down on the carpets beside the pool, arranging everything so that when Jaffar indicated to us that we should be seated, Osric and I were facing the nadim. He took his seat on the tiled surround to the pool. The lad Abdallah stayed where he was on the couch, watching and listening.

I opened my mouth to speak but Jaffar lifted a hand to stop me. ‘First, please eat and drink. The evening is to be enjoyed.’

Two more servants silently appeared at my elbow. One held a basin, the other a ewer from which he poured scented water over my hands, before offering me a towel. The moment he withdrew, another servant brought forward a silver tray on which a small drinking bowl stood, eggshell thin and patterned blue and white. Yet another servant leaned forward with a matching jug and poured a pale gold liquid. I picked up the bowl and the cool surface on the palm of my hand told me that the drink had been chilled with ice from the mountains. I took a sip. It was a mix of exotic fruit juices slightly fizzy on my tongue.

Our host waited until we had sampled the food set before us – I tasted pickled fish, both sweet and sour, and chicken marinated in different sauces that, apart from orange and ginger, were impossible to identify. Among the sweeter dishes the flavour of cinnamon brought back a vivid memory of the meal we had shared in Rome with the Nomenculator.

‘I’m on tenterhooks to hear about your journey, Sigwulf,’ said Jaffar courteously, looking at me.

‘Your Excellency, it would take far too long to recount everything that happened,’ I answered, wondering just how much the nadim already knew. He had used my name though I had not formally introduced myself. It was a reminder, probably deliberate, that this man, so full of charm, was also head of the caliph’s intelligence department.

‘The evening is young, and tales of travel are never dull,’ he replied. ‘Tell me how your journey began.’

So I started with the day I had been summoned to Alcuin’s study and seen an aurochs’ horn, and how Carolus himself had instructed me to go into the Northlands and obtain the white animals that dwelt there. I said nothing about the unexplained attack on me in Kaupang, nor the strange events that followed in Rome and on the Mediterranean. As for the death of the aurochs, I explained that the creature had escaped and been eaten by lions, and made no mention that it had been set free deliberately. I wished to avoid distracting the nadim from the purpose of my mission – that the animals I had brought to Baghdad were a gesture of friendship from Carolus to the caliph.

Jaffar listened attentively, his head tilted slightly to one side. He interrupted only twice: firstly to ask me to describe Carolus’s physical appearance and what he thought of the presents that he had received from Baghdad; then secondly to enquire about Alcuin and his role as an advisor.

‘You and your companions are to be congratulated,’ observed the nadim when I had finished my recital. ‘It was a magnificent achievement to have transported those animals for such a great distance and kept them alive, except for that giant ox.’

Something in his voice made me wonder if there had been a hidden reason for wanting to hear my tale. His next words confirmed my unease.

‘To return for a moment to the beginning of your story . . .’ the nadim’s manner was as soothing and courteous as ever. ‘You say that King Carolus sent you to the Northlands to obtain white animals because these creatures would be rarities, previously unknown in Baghdad.’

‘That is correct, Your Excellency,’ I replied. ‘King Carolus showed me a book, a bestiary, and pointed out the white animals I was to search for.’

‘A book?’

‘I have brought a copy with me, Your Excellency. It is another of Carolus’s gifts to the Commander of the Faithful. Unfortunately, I did not think to bring it with me this evening.’

‘There was no need,’ said the nadim, with a graceful, dismissive wave of his hand. ‘This evening is private and informal. I am sure that the Emir of the Believers will enjoy looking into this book. It will reassure him . . . and me.’

He must have noted my look of incomprehension for he added, ‘The colour your King Carolus chose for the animals he sent us is surprising.’

‘I’m sorry, Your Excellency, I do not understand,’ I stammered. I was beginning to fear that something had gone very wrong.

For a brief moment Jaffar looked at me, judging my reaction. ‘Some might say that the gift of white animals was provocative.’

It felt as though the pit of my stomach had fallen away. With a terrible certainty I knew that the nadim’s jet-black clothes had special significance. ‘But King Carolus was advised that white is the royal colour of the caliphate, that all must wear white when they enter the Round City . . .’ I said shakily.

‘The latter is correct,’ Jaffar acknowledged. ‘White is worn in the Round City so that no one can draw undue attention to themselves with costly garments or flamboyant colours. But anyone who enters the caliph’s presence must dress entirely in black. It is the colour of the turban worn by Allah’s Messenger – may Allah honour him and grant him peace – when he preached from the pulpit. Our caliph follows the true path. He wears the prophet’s cloak and carries his staffs – may Allah honour him and grant him peace – and the colour of his house is black.

‘Your Excellency,’ I blurted, ‘King Carolus meant no disrespect.’

Jaffar leaned forward. ‘It is equally evident that your king was unaware that white is the colour worn in the presence of the usurper in al Andalus, the false Emir of Cordoba.’

My throat was dry. I recalled vividly what Alcuin had told me of the feud between Haroun and the Emir in Andalus. Haroun’s ancestors had slaughtered the Emir’s family in the fight for power and laid claim to the true heritage of Islam.

Jaffar’s eyes suddenly twinkled with mischief. ‘Sigwulf, do not look so aghast. No one would be so crass as to deliberately insult the caliph in this manner and I shall tell him so.’

‘Your Excellency, if King Carolus had known, I am sure he would have despatched me to find animals of the deepest black and bring them to Baghdad.’

The nadim flashed a brilliant smile. ‘Sigwulf, your tale rings true, though I must confess that when I heard that Carolus was sending white animals I thought it was a less-than-subtle hint that he favoured an alliance with nearby Andalus and not with the Commander of the Faithful in far Baghdad.’

He rose to his feet. ‘So now you will understand why the public presentation of white animals to the caliph is impolitic. I’m sorry.’

Clearly this announcement was the true purpose of our meeting. I felt utterly numb, stunned by the unexpected turn of events.

Jaffar saw my dismay and was swift to offer a consolation. ‘Sigwulf, His Magnificence will wish to view the white animals, but discreetly. Also I’m going to recommend that he grants you a private audience so that he, too, can hear your remarkable tale.’

It was obvious that the evening was at an end. I stood up groggily, sensing that Osric beside me was equally confounded. Then I remembered something I had forgotten in my sudden confusion.

‘Your Excellency, the elephant your master sent as a gift to Carolus was white. That added to our misunderstanding.’

Jaffar brushed my excuse aside. ‘That is not a detail I am aware of.’

My knees were shaking and I felt my shirt sticking to my back. I was sweating; not from heat, for the evening had turned cool, but with a cold sweat from the realization that my mission was a total failure.

Jaffar was still speaking. ‘The palace staff will send word when the date of your audience with the caliph has been settled. Meanwhile, you can oblige me by recounting the details of your remarkable trip to the scribes in the royal library. It will make a valuable addition to their collection of travel accounts.’

I gathered myself together sufficiently to thank the nadim for his hospitality and then a servant guided Osric and me back down the path to where our original escort was waiting at the wharf.

When we got back to the privacy of our rooms, we found that Abram had been waiting up, eager to hear our news.

‘How did the meeting go?’ he asked.

‘A disaster,’ I replied sourly. ‘We should have brought black animals to Baghdad, not white ones. Black is the caliph’s royal colour. White is associated with his rival in Hispania.’

Abram looked utterly taken aback. ‘But everyone wears white in the Round City, that’s a requirement.’

‘Yes,’ I said, trying not to sound aggrieved. ‘But all who appear before the caliph on a formal occasion must be dressed in black. Why didn’t you warn us?’

The dragoman spread his hands in a gesture of apology. ‘As a Radhanite I’ve never been summoned to appear before the caliph in person. The inner workings of the court are shrouded in secrecy.’

‘Both Jaffar and a young lad with him were dressed in black from head to toe.’

Abram’s eyes lit up with curiosity. ‘What young lad?’

I described Abdallah and when I had finished, Abram sucked in his breath. ‘Do you know who that is?’ he asked.

‘I have no idea, except that he was listening to every word.’

‘Abdallah’s father is Haroun himself,’ the dragoman said, clearly impressed. ‘Not only Jaffar will report to the caliph what he thinks of you, so too will his favourite son.’

‘Then I hope Abdallah liked what he saw and heard,’ I answered peevishly.

The dragoman gave me an anxious look. ‘Abdallah’s mother is a Persian concubine. He has a half-brother, Mohammed, of the same age and born to one of Haroun’s legitimate wives. Mohammed is the crown prince. There is much jealousy between the two youths.’

I shrugged. ‘How would that affect us?’

‘If Abdallah makes a favourable report to his father, then Mohammed will try to make your life in Baghdad as difficult as possible.’

‘But Abdallah and Mohammed are both youngsters.’

‘Sigwulf, you have no idea of the in-fighting that goes on beneath the glittering surface of the caliph’s court. Each young man has his own supporters and they compete for power and influence, hoping their own candidate will one day ascend the throne.’

‘You’re sounding like the Nomenculator in Rome when he warned me about the hidden conflict for the selection of the next pope.’

‘This is far more vicious than Rome,’ said Abram grimly. ‘The previous caliph, Mahdi, died before his time. Some say he was poisoned, others that he was smothered with cushions. He was Haroun’s brother.’

‘And Haroun arranged his death?’

The dragoman dropped his voice to a whisper. ‘No, their mother did. She feared she was losing influence over her eldest son and preferred to see Haroun on the throne.’