The Emperor's Elefant

Chapter Fifteen

‘I still don’t understand that mistake between black and white at the caliph’s court,’ Osric remarked to me the next morning. We had emerged from the menagerie building where we had gone to check on Walo. Despite not speaking Arabic, he had struck up a working friendship with the keepers and was comfortably installed in their dormitory. Madi and Modi were being given their proper food and the hollow walls of their pen were regularly replenished with ice. Walo was confident that they would soon be back to full health.

‘I’ve been thinking back to my meeting with Alcuin and then the interview with Carolus,’ I told my friend. ‘Both believed that white was the royal colour in Baghdad.’

It was mid-morning and the glare of the sun was blinding. We were keeping to the shady side of the narrow street as we walked behind our escort, the same man who had accompanied us to the meeting with Jaffar. He was leading us to the palace library to meet the scribes who would record the details of our journey from Aachen.

‘Did Alcuin or Carolus mention where they had got their information from?’ asked Osric.

‘No, and there was no reason for me to ask.’

‘Yet it’s unlike Alcuin to be so poorly informed.’

‘I don’t remember his exact words, but I think he only said that anyone who enters the inner city must be dressed in white. And that’s correct.’

Osric stopped for a moment to dislodge a pebble that had got trapped in his sandal. ‘What about Abram? He should have known.’

‘I didn’t meet Abram until we got back from Kaupang. By then everything was settled, and we had the white animals. Besides, our dragoman tells me that he had never been admitted into the presence of the caliph. Only seen him from a distance.’

We were heading in the direction of the huge green dome I had noticed from the barge during our arrival in Baghdad. The dome loomed over the surrounding buildings and was evidently part of the main palace complex at the heart of the Round City. As we came closer, another defensive wall topped with guard towers became visible. The caliph’s palace was a fortress within a fortress.

Before we reached the foot of the wall, our guide turned aside through an archway where two elderly porters sat half-asleep on a stone bench. We followed him into a large open courtyard. In the centre a fountain played, a feature that I was beginning to recognize as commonplace throughout the Round City. The courtyard itself had been designed as a perfect square, and contrasting lines of the grey and mottled-white paving slabs had been laid out in geometric patterns of triangles, circles and squares. Solid-looking buildings two storeys high surrounded all four sides of the court, each fronted by a portico with evenly spaced marble columns whose muted colours matched the courtyard paving. The overall effect was an atmosphere of austere calm, orderly and contemplative. It reminded me of a monastic cloister.

In the shade of the porticos groups of men were seated on the marble flooring. They were talking quietly among themselves or bent forward over low desks and busy writing. Many were greybeards, others barely out of their teens. I noticed that the usual pattern was for the scribes to work in pairs, an older man reading aloud from a book while a younger man sat at the desk and took down his dictation.

Our guide led us to the far side of the courtyard where a tall, painfully thin man stood waiting, his shoulders hunched and his hands tucked into his sleeves. Our escort introduced him as the caliph’s librarian, Fadl ibn Naubakt.

‘Nadim Jaffar sent word that you have recently arrived from Frankia. He instructs that we make a record of the details of your route,’ the librarian said in a thin, scratchy voice. He blinked rapidly as he spoke and I wondered if it was due to the sun’s glare or if he had spent so long over his books that his eyesight was damaged.

‘My companion and I will be happy to provide what details we can remember,’ I replied. The librarian sounded mildly aggrieved that his normal routine had been disrupted.

‘Very good. I hope we will not take up too much of your time.’ Fadl ushered us into the shadow of the nearest portico. ‘I compliment you on your command of Arabic,’ he said to me. ‘I had assigned a Frankish speaker and one of our best notaries. But I can see that the former will not be needed. That will make the task go more quickly.’

We passed close enough to a pair of scribes for me to hear the older man reading aloud in a language I did not recognize. It had odd, bubbling sounds like water emptying into a drain.

‘How many languages can your interpreters understand?’ I asked the librarian.

‘They’re translators, not interpreters,’ Fadl corrected me with a touch of pedantry. ‘A good deal of our work here is the transcription of texts written in foreign languages and their scripts. We turn them into Arabic or Syriac. If the subject matter is judged to be very important, we make multiple copies for our library holdings.’

‘What language is most in demand?’

‘Greek,’ he replied without hesitation. ‘Last year we sent a deputation to Byzantium to buy classical medical texts. His Magnificence was most generous with the necessary funds, as was Nadim Jaffar, though his taste inclines more to philosophy.’

It was an unexpected insight into the interests of the head of the barid. ‘Your deputation was well received in Byzantium?’ I enquired.

The librarian blinked at me in mild reproof. ‘There is no reason why not. Numerous Greeks live and work here in Baghdad and throughout the caliphate.’

I decided to let the matter drop. Alcuin had given me to understand that Baghdad and Byzantium were enemies, that their troops launched raids across the common border, and from time to time there was outright war. Perhaps this was another area where Alcuin was misinformed.

The librarian was speaking again. ‘We produce a large number of original texts ourselves, in particular in the fields of astronomy and astrology. We consider those subjects to be the pinnacle of learning.’ He nodded towards an old fellow who was sitting by himself in a shady corner of the portico. He had dozed off, his head slumped forward on his chest under the weight of an enormous turban that threatened to undo itself at any moment. ‘Yakub is one of the leading authorities on planetary movements. He has been correlating observations at our own Baghdad observatory with the predictions in Indian texts.’

It crossed my mind that Yakub had been staying up late at night observing the planets, for he did not stir as we skirted around him and went through a door into a large, high-ceilinged room. Bookshelves lined the walls, and deep niches were piled up with scrolls. A row of small unshuttered windows allowed in light and air, but the place had a still, dead feel to it.

The only occupant of the room was a man who looked more like a heavyweight wrestler than a scholar. He heaved himself up from where he had been sitting in front of a low desk. Everything about him was oversize, from his barrel chest to his massive, entirely bald head. He did not wear a turban and there were beads of sweat on his shiny scalp.

‘Musa will take down your story,’ said the librarian. ‘If you need to take a break during your narration, please do not hesitate to say so.’ He stalked out of the room, closing the door behind him.

Musa waved us to cushions placed near his desk and when we had sat down, he took his place behind the desk, pen in hand. ‘Perhaps you could begin with a description of King Carolus’s palace,’ he suggested.

It took the rest of the morning to repeat the tale I had recounted to Nadim Jaffar the previous evening. Osric helped me out. We took it in turns to describe all that had happened, each filling in details that the other had forgotten or overlooked. This time I also told of the attack on me in Kaupang, the sinking of Protis’s ship and the young Greek’s death in the Colosseum. Osric and I had agreed that a complete record of our journey should be written down and held somewhere safe, in case a further, possibly fatal, accident occurred, and the barid might wish to investigate.

Occasionally, Musa would interrupt, usually to ask us to repeat a place name or check that he had each episode of the journey in the correct sequence. When, finally, he had finished writing and had laid down his pen, he leaned back and stretched his meaty arms. ‘You seem to have survived an unusual number of narrow escapes. Didn’t Carolus consult with astrologers before sending you on such a hazardous venture?’ he commented.

‘As far as I am aware, there are no astrologers at King Carolus’s court,’ I replied.

‘Really!’ Musa’s eyebrows arched in surprise on the great egg-shaped face. ‘History tells us that every great ruler tries to look into the future. The Greeks consulted their seers, the Romans opened the entrails of chickens and goats.’

I paused before replying, not wanting to make Carolus seem too credulous. ‘Carolus believes in his dreams.’

‘Ah!’ said Musa. His tone managed to be understanding and disapproving at the same time. ‘And how does he know what the dreams mean?’

‘He consults with family and his council, and . . .’ here I hesitated – ‘there was a time when he had access to a Book of Dreams.’

‘I expect you mean the Oneirokritikon,’ said Musa casually.

Osric and I exchanged glances. It was startling to come across Artimedorus’s work in Baghdad, although our copy had been an Arabic translation from the original Greek.

‘There’s a rumour that you’ve brought a book from Carolus as a present to the Commander of the Faithful,’ said Musa. ‘I hope it is not the Oneirokritikon, because I’m fairly sure we already have a copy.’ He levered his great bulk to his feet and walked to the book shelves, and within moments had pulled down a volume. ‘Yes, here it is.’ He looked up at us.

‘No, no,’ I hastened to assure him. ‘We are carrying a book of beasts, a bestiary.’

‘Our librarian will be pleased.’ Musa’s sardonic tone indicated that he was not on good terms with the gaunt librarian. ‘He already has a team working on a new volume of natural history, a complete list of the animals and plants mentioned in the various texts we own. A couple of artists are drawing new illustrations. Nadim Jaffar ordered the book as a present for the caliph on his birthday next year. Doubtless your bestiary, as you call it, will be placed in this library once the caliph has received it formally from you. It will be an additional resource for us and much appreciated.’ He half turned, about to replace the Oneirokritikon on the shelves.

‘I wonder if it would be possible to check something that Artimedorus wrote?’ I asked.

Musa swung round to face us. ‘Of course. You read Greek?’

I shook my head, and thought it wiser not to say that Osric and I had once had our own copy, and still kept a few pages. ‘I had a couple of dreams on the journey here. They might be significant. Perhaps the Oneirokritikon can offer an explanation.’

‘What were they?’ asked Musa.

‘I dreamed of a man covered with bees and, in another dream, someone was climbing inside the body of a dead elephant.’

It took Musa some time to find the first reference, then he read out: ‘“To see a man covered in bees, who is not a farmer, is to foretell his death.” ’

I was aware of the accusing glance that Osric flicked in my direction.

Musa was leafing further through the book. Then he read, ‘ “If one dreams of a person breaking the skin and entering the body of a dead elephant it means that person will one day derive great riches.” ’

He closed the book. ‘The problem with the Oneirokritikon is that far too many of the explanations deal with making or losing money. Very Greek . . .’ He gave a throaty chuckle.

He replaced the Oneirokritikon on the shelf. ‘And naturally the author covers himself against mistakes.’ He thought for a moment and then quoted, ‘“A dream that comes through a gate of horn is false; a dream that comes through a gate of ivory is true.” ’

His fleshy shoulders moved in a dismissive shrug. ‘What on earth can that really mean?’

He reached down another volume from further along the same shelf. ‘I don’t suppose the librarian would approve, but we have an hour or so before he comes to collect you – why don’t I illustrate how astrology is more reliable than dreams when indicating the future?’

He brought the large, heavy book across and opened it on the desk.

From where I sat I could see that the page was covered with columns of numbers, various symbols and drawings with lines and circles that vaguely recalled the geometric patterns in the courtyard.

‘I’m no expert like old Yakub outside. I just dabble in these things. But if you tell me some of the key dates in your journey I may be able to put together a simple prediction of how it will end. For a start, I need to know the date when you started on your journey. Also the dates and places of your births.’

Osric and I provided the information as best we could, and Musa carefully wrote it down. He then spent a long time turning back and forth the pages of the great book and making calculations on a sheet of parchment. Finally, after a good twenty minutes, he sat back. ‘Interesting,’ he said. ‘I’ve calculated – very roughly, you understand – the star signs, the houses of the planets, mansions of the moon, both on your birth dates and when you began your journey, how the constellations varied along your path, and the timing of your arrival here.’

‘What are your conclusions?’ I asked. I was sceptical of the accuracy of such a method, but impressed by the amount of mathematical calculation. It seemed more arcane and intricate than merely dreaming.

‘According to the astrology, your journey is not yet over. There will be more hardship, some disappointment and death, but – finally – great happiness. Life will change back to where it began.’

I was mildly disillusioned. Musa’s predictions were hardly less ambiguous than the Oneirokritikon.

Behind us came the sound of the door opening, then the librarian’s reedy voice announced that our escort had arrived and was waiting to bring us back to our lodgings. We got to our feet and thanked Musa for his help.

I avoided looking at Osric as we left the building. We had gone only a few yards before he asked in a low voice, ‘Sigwulf, why didn’t you tell me that your dream of two wolves and Walo covered with bees is an omen of his death?’

There was an uncomfortable pause as I struggled to find the right words. ‘You forget that the Book of Dreams also states that madmen achieve what they set out to do, which is why I thought Walo should travel with us.’

When my friend did not reply, I added lamely, ‘Walo has proved to be our lucky mascot, essential to our embassy. Thanks to him, the ice bears have reached Baghdad, not to speak of the gyrfalcons.’

Osric stopped abruptly and turned towards me, his eyes searching my face. ‘And if this costs him his life?’

‘My dream with the bees was nothing to do with his impending death,’ I said firmly. ‘As I told you, a bear is called a “bee wolf” in the Northlands, and the dream was fulfilled the day Walo crawled into the cage and sat between the two bears without being harmed.’

Osric looked only half persuaded.

‘Walo was rejected by his family, struggling to survive, teased and mocked by strangers,’ I concluded. ‘Whatever happens to him now must be better than if we had left him behind in Aachen.’

My friend managed a slight nod, as if to accept my reasoning but, as we walked on in silence, I felt that the foundations of our mutual trust had shifted slightly.

*

Nadim Jaffar kept his word. A servant called at our lodgings the following morning with a message that our private audience with the Commander of the Faithful would take place later that day. He also brought two sets of black clothes, so it seemed that Abram was not expected to attend. Indeed, we had seen little of our dragoman since he had obtained permission to find accommodation with his co-religionists outside the Round City. His role as a guide was largely redundant. Whenever Osric and I stepped outside, a guide was loitering in the street. Doubtless an employee of Jaffar’s barid, sent to keep an eye on us, he insisted on accompanying us everywhere, showing us the sights. At the caliph’s lion enclosures we had learned that Osric’s information had been correct; we counted thirty of the beasts in captivity.

‘No avenue of lions held on chains, I hope,’ I joked nervously to Osric as we put on black silk shirts and long gowns, black trousers and belts, black slippers and tall, narrow hats made of straw and covered with black felt stitched with black brocade.

My hat was nearly the length of my arm, and threatening to topple sideways. Osric came across to straighten it. ‘It would be tactful to wrap the bestiary in a length of black cloth before presenting it to the caliph,’ he suggested.

I selected a spare black turban and wound it around the precious volume.

Soon after midday, the same man who had brought us to Nadim Jaffar’s garden arrived to bring us to our meeting with the caliph. Instead of leading us towards the great dome of the central palace as I expected, he took us in the opposite direction, out of the city by the north-east gate and towards the river. We negotiated the narrow streets of a residential quarter and came to an imposing gatehouse flanked by brick walls too high to see what lay on the other side. Guards searched us, unwrapping the bestiary, and checking that it was not hollowed out to conceal a weapon. Beyond the gatehouse we emerged onto a broad, open terrace a hundred yards in length and built along the river front. It gave a spectacular view over the Tigris with its constant movement of boats across to the array of grand houses lining the far bank, and – a little downstream – the main city pontoon bridge. Overlooking this lively scene was a handsome palace in the Saracen style. Tiled domes gleamed turquoise in the late afternoon sun. Bands of polished marble – dark red, black and green – emphasized the symmetry of the rows of arched windows along the façade. The main entrance was framed by slender marble columns and high enough for a man to enter on horseback. This, our guide informed us, was the Khuld Palace, the Palace of Eternity, and here the caliph would receive us.

Veering off to one side, he took us to a side entrance half hidden by a screen of delicately carved stonework. Here he left us with a chamberlain waiting with two assistants, and they accompanied us down a long deserted corridor, past a line of closed doors. Tiled walls threw back the clack of our footsteps on the marble floor and, with our escort in such close attendance, we might as well have been prisoners on the way to their cells. The difference was the all-pervading scent of rosewater that perfumed the air. We were hurried up two flights of steps and then along a gallery that looked down on a large antechamber where small groups of black-clad men were standing and waiting, possibly for an audience with the caliph. There was no way of telling whether they were courtiers or officials. They did not look up, and it was clear, too, that our escort did not want us to be seen.

At the far end of the gallery, we were ushered into a room and the chamberlain and his assistants silently withdrew, closing the door behind us and leaving us alone.

Osric and I exchanged glances. We had stepped into a jewellery box. Panes of coloured glass in the ceiling illuminated gorgeous silk hangings covering the walls. Underfoot the thick carpets were richly detailed with intricate patterns of blossoms and fruit. Gold leaf had been applied to every exposed surface. Here the scent of rosewater was almost overpowering. Directly in front of us hung a curtain that divided the room in half. The fabric was gauze so fine that the slightest draught set it swaying. Daylight filtered through it, yet by a clever trick of the weave it was impossible to see what lay the other side.

I guessed we had been brought into one of the upper rooms of the palace with a window overlooking the Tigris. I strained my ears, trying to catch the sounds of the river when – bewilderingly – through the curtain came a succession of whistles and liquid trills. I recognized the song of a nightingale.

Osric and I stood facing the curtain, waiting politely for whatever might happen next. Several minutes passed. I wondered if someone was observing us secretly and I dared not turn my head and search too obviously for a spyhole. The birdsong stopped, then started again, then stopped. There was no other sound, no movement. Presently, the curtain in front of us swayed minutely, the barest tremor. I heard a faint rustling sound. Another pause followed. Finally, an unseen hand or some hidden mechanism drew back the curtain in a single, smooth movement.

The other half of the room was even more opulent. Matching mirrors extended from floor to ceiling on the side walls. They were positioned to angle the daylight pouring in through the window arch on the further wall and direct it onto hundreds of precious stones sewn into the fabric of the wall hangings. The gems caught the light and glowed in all their brilliance – amethyst, ruby and emerald. The cloth itself shimmered with gold and silver thread. Suspended from the ceiling by a silk cord in one corner was a golden birdcage. The drab brown of its occupant, the nightingale, made the surrounding colours appear all the more sumptuous.

Directly in front of us the floor level was raised to create a platform and oblige us to look upwards. There, reclining on two bolsters were two boys. I recognized one of them immediately. He was Abdallah, Caliph Haroun’s son whom I had seen in Jaffar’s garden. Something told me that the other boy was his half-brother, Mohammed the Crown Prince. Both were much the same age and identically dressed in long black surcoats and tightly fitting trousers, and both wore black turbans. While Mohammed’s turban had a diamond brooch in the shape of a starburst, Abdallah’s turban bore no decoration.

For a long moment we stared at one another without a word being said. Then, making me jump, one of the mirrors swung to one side and became a door. Through it stepped a tall, handsome and well set-up man about thirty years old, whose light complexion contrasted with a neatly barbered black beard some four or five inches long. He wore no jewellery but his long black silk gown was open at the front to show an under-robe of grey silk with discreet bands of embroidery at the collar and wrists. On his head he wore the same style of tall black felt hat as Osric and me, though his hat had a black turban wrapped around it, the free end hanging down his back. The two youngsters promptly sat up straighter on their cushions. Even without that hint I would have known that the man who had entered the room was their father, Haroun al Rashid, Prince of the Faithful, Caliph of Baghdad and Allah’s Shadow on Earth.

Beside me, Osric immediately sank to his knees and pressed his forehead to the ground. A heartbeat later I followed his example, almost letting slip the bestiary I was clutching. We stayed kneeling until a quiet voice told us to rise. Getting to my feet, I found that the caliph had sat down between his two sons, only a few paces from me, and was scrutinizing us closely.

‘You must be Sigwulf,’ he said to me. ‘Abdallah did not tell me about your eyes.’

I realized that the sunlight coming in through the window behind Haroun was falling full on my face.

‘The great Iskander also had eyes of different colours,’ Haroun continued. ‘He, too, was a great traveller.’

My mind had gone blank. I knew he was talking of Alexander the Great and I tried desperately and unsuccessfully to recall what I knew about the extent of Alexander’s journeys. I stood there tongue-tied and feeling foolish.

Abdallah came to my rescue. He leaned towards his father and whispered something.

‘My son tells me that you have a book to give us.’

This was safer ground. My mind began to clear. ‘Your Magnificence, it is but one of the presents that my master Carolus, King of the Franks, sends you in return for your great generosity in the gifts you despatched to him, for which he thanks you.’

I realized that I was gabbling and forced myself to slow down. ‘There are other items he hopes will please you – bears, birds of prey, specially selected -’ I was still so flustered that I only just stopped myself from mentioning that the animals had been chosen because they were white.

Fortunately, the caliph cut across me. ‘Nadim Jaffar has told me about these and Mohammed and Abdallah have been to see the bears. They are indeed remarkable.’ He leaned forward slightly. ‘The book . . . ?’ he prompted.

It was clear that the caliph was in a hurry. I presumed that he was taking a short break from his official duties to hold this private audience, and was doing so to please Abdallah who had reported on the meeting in Jaffar’s garden. Certainly Abdallah was listening closely to everything being said as if he owned the interview.

‘Your Magnificence,’ I blurted, hurriedly unwinding the black cloth from around the book, ‘it cannot compare with the splendid volumes in your royal library, but King Carolus hopes that it will be of some interest.’

Abdallah scrambled to his feet. He came across the platform and I handed him up the book. He took it back to his father, and then sat down beside the caliph, who opened the cover. On Haroun’s left, the other son, Mohammed, leaned in to look more closely.

There was silence as the caliph slowly turned the pages, pausing from time to time to study a particular illustration. At one point he stopped for several moments, then looked up at me, and turned the book around so that I could see the picture.

‘What is this bird?’ he asked. He looked down again, and slowly and carefully read out: ‘ “c-a-l-a-d-r-i-u-s.” ’

With a shock I realized that Haroun al Rashid had deliberately not looked at the Arabic translation that had been prepared long ago in Aachen. He was testing out his knowledge of Western script. I was dumbfounded. The contrast with Carolus could not have been greater. In Aachen, I had watched the King of the Franks looking through the pictures in the bestiary. He could write no more than a few words in his own language and struggled with reading the simplest phrases. In Baghdad, his counterpart, the Commander of the Faithful, could recognize a foreign script and, with close attention, even make out the letters.

On the page that Haroun then held out to me were two pictures. The upper one showed a man with a crown on his head. He was lying on a bed and looked very ill. At his feet a white bird vaguely like a magpie was perched on the bed frame, behind it an open window. It was clear that the bird had flown into the room and settled there. The bird was staring at the crowned man. The lower picture was identical except that the bird, instead of staring at the man, had turned its head and was looking away.

‘A caladrius, Your Magnificence,’ I explained, remembering the text written below, ‘is a bird that can foretell whether a king who is sick will live or die. If the caladrius looks at the patient, the sickness is drawn into the bird. It then flies up into the sun and is burned away and, with it, the sickness. But if the caladrius looks away when he sees the ill king, then death is certain.’

Haroun’s expression did not change. He turned the book around in his hands and continued to look through the pages. I wondered if I should have been more tactful in my explanation, then thought to myself that a translator in the royal library would eventually produce a full translation of the text written below the pictures, and that the caliph might see it. It was wiser to be honest.

The caliph reached the end of the book, and looked up at me again. ‘Many of the animals shown here I recognize. Some are already in my collection. But others are not.’

On his right the young Abdallah looked pleased, doubtless glad that he had told his father that it might be worth looking through the book I said I was carrying.

‘You are to be congratulated on delivering the bears alive – and the other animals – from such a great distance,’ said the caliph.

I bowed in acknowledgement.

‘It is pleasing that your King Carolus and I have a shared interest,’ Haroun continued.

I cleared my throat and spoke as humbly as possible. ‘My Lord Carolus has a menagerie, though not as varied as your own superb collection. He instructed me to say that if you could send him unusual animals he would be very grateful.’

‘Did he mention any particular animal?’ asked the caliph.

A clear memory sprang into my mind: Carolus showing me a picture in the book and saying that, if the opportunity arose, I was to ask the caliph if he could supply such a creature for the royal collection.

‘Your Magnificence, King Carolus mentioned one creature of particular interest to him. It is shown, I believe, on the eighth page of the book.’

The caliph turned to the correct page, and studied the illustration for several moments. ‘I find something familiar about this animal but can’t place exactly what it is. Perhaps you can explain further. What is written underneath?’

He passed the book to Abdallah and listened approvingly as the lad read out: ‘“The Griffin: It has the body of a lion but the wings and head of an eagle. Some say it lives in the Indian desert, others in Ethiopia. A griffin will tear a man to pieces or carry him to its nest to feed its young. Griffins are strong enough to carry away an entire live ox.” ’

The illustration showed a fierce, predatory creature with a cruel hooked beak and huge wings sprouting from the shoulders of a lion-like body. Its paws had long curved talons.

‘That must be the same as our simurgh, that some call the rukh,’ said the caliph gravely.

Mohammed, the crown prince, leaned in and spoke quietly in his ear. I did not like the sly expression on the youngster’s face as he sat back straight and watched me.

‘Naturally, I shall be happy to oblige your King Carolus,’ announced the caliph. ‘This animal is known to us, though only by hearsay. It is a great bird so fierce and powerful that it can even carry away elephants in its claws.’

He glanced approvingly at the crown prince. ‘My son reminds me that the rukh is found in the lands south of the Zanj.’

The caliph turned his full attention back to me, and his tone of voice left no doubt that he was giving orders. ‘I too would like to add a rukh to my animal collection. You and your companions have shown great skill in these matters and I will ask Nadim Jaffar to make arrangements for you to travel to the land of the Zanj and on to where the rukh lives. Bring back at least two of the creatures. One will be for my collection, the other to take back to King Carolus.’

I could only bow. The private audience had taken a totally unexpected and unwelcome direction and there was nothing for me to say. I had an uncomfortable recollection of Carolus telling me to find a unicorn.

The caliph spoke to Abdullah. ‘I think our new emissary to Zanj should keep the book until he returns from his voyage. It may be useful.’

My hands shaking, I took the bestiary from Abdullah, and my consternation must have been obvious. The caliph looked down at me with the suspicion of a twinkle in his eye. ‘You can place it with my royal library on your return, Sigwulf, and do not look so dismayed. Iskander travelled to the far ends of the earth, even to the Land of Darkness. In our Holy Book, it is said that he even reached the fountain of life. Take him as your example.’

With those words the caliph rose to his feet and the curtain that divided the room began to close. But before it drew completely shut I caught a brief glimpse of a grin of malicious triumph on the face of Abdallah’s rival, the crown prince.

*

The moment Osric and I got back to our lodgings in the Round City, I sent for Abram. ‘Where’s the land of the Zanj?’ I asked the dragoman when he arrived.

He gave me a surprised look. ‘On the coast of Ethiopia. Far south.’

‘Have you ever been there? Or any of your people?’

He shook his head. ‘Not that I know of. Why do you want to know?’

‘The caliph is sending us beyond the land of Zanj to bring back animals to add to his menagerie,’ I said sourly.

Abram was visibly relieved. ‘Then I’m afraid I won’t be of any help to you. I have no knowledge of the languages of the people along that coast. You’ll have to ask for a different interpreter to be provided.’

‘But you know what the people are like?’

‘Only that they are black.’ He looked at me quizzically, ‘And what sort of animals are you expected to bring back?’

Osric answered for me. ‘The caliph called it a rukh, or simurgh. It’s similar to the griffin pictured in the Book of Beasts.’

The dragoman regarded us with a mixture of incredulity and amusement. ‘Do you think that such a creature really exists?’

‘It’s not for me to say,’ I told him. ‘The expedition was the crown prince’s idea.’

The dragoman made a sharp intake of breath. ‘What do you mean by that?’

‘I’m sure that it was young Abdallah who persuaded his father to grant us a private audience. But it was his half-brother who suggested sending us to bring back a rukh from Zanj.’

Abram spoke slowly and carefully. ‘Sigwulf, be careful. You’re on dangerous ground.’

I waited for him to go on.

‘I warned you earlier about the rivalries around the throne,’ Abram said. ‘Abdallah pleased his father by bringing you and Osric before him with the mysterious book. That would have made the crown prince jealous. Mohammed has devised a way of discrediting Abdallah by sending you off on a mission that he hopes will fail.’

I hesitated, trying to think how it might be possible to avoid going in search of the rukh when Osric spoke up. ‘The rukh can’t be any more dangerous to catch and handle than a pair of ice bears. Walo should be able to cope.’

Abram’s response held more than a hint of condescension. ‘I admire your confidence,’ he said meaningfully. ‘If a rukh does exist and is so easy to obtain, I’m surprised that there’s not one already in the caliph’s menagerie.’