Saxon: The Book of Dreams (Saxon 1) (22 page)

‘Who sent you?’ I demanded.

He had not long to live. My arrow, large and heavy enough to have brought down a bear, had transfixed the man. The bloody head, three fingers’ width of sharp iron, emerged from the front
of his coat which he had wrapped tight around his chest, using his sling as a belt.

I felt a hand on my elbow and turned to see Husayn. He looked shocked, staring down at the dying man for several moments before turning to face me.

‘Are you hurt?’ he asked. I put up my hand to my cheek. It came away streaked with blood. The first slingstone must have knocked a chip off the rock where I was sitting, and the
flying shard had cut my face.

‘Who is this wretch?’ I asked angrily.

The wali bent down and asked the man a question, speaking in the Saracen tongue.

He got a faint reply, again in that strange-sounding language. Then there was a choking sound. A grimace of pain passed across the battered face, the eyes were now shut in agony.

‘What did he say?’ I demanded.

Husayn straightened up.

‘He’s a Vascon. I recognize the language but he is too far gone for me to make out the words.’

‘Search the bastard,’ I growled. ‘Maybe we will find a clue about who sent him.’

By now Osric had reached us. He knelt down and began to rummage through the man’s garments. He found only a pouch containing half a dozen sling stones, a lump of hard cheese in one pocket,
and a knife with a short stubby blade in a wooden sheath. By the time he had finished, the man had stopped breathing, choking on his own blood.

‘A brigand, surely,’ said Husayn.

‘Then he was a foolish one. He was on his own,’ I pointed out.

Osric looked to me for instructions.

‘What do you want done with the body?’

‘Leave it for his friends, the bears and wolves,’ I said sourly and began making my way down the slope back towards our horses. I did not want to stay a moment longer in that grim
place and I needed to puzzle out who could have arranged the attack. Ganelon and Gerin were many miles away. My immediate suspect was Husayn, though the wali seemed genuinely shocked by what had
occurred.

*

Husayn said little for the rest of that day’s ride. The incident had delayed us and we were obliged to push our horses hard to reach our destination that night, a smoky
shepherd’s hut that doubled as a way-station for travellers. Fortunately the shepherd was there, and he lit a fire and prepared a pot of mutton broth for his visitors. With hot food inside
me, I asked Husayn to tell the shepherd that we had left a dead man in the pass. I hoped that it might lead to some information.

Husayn relayed the information and the shepherd gave me a sideways look, furtive and mistrustful. Then his face closed and, without a word, he got up and left the hut and did not return.

‘Is he a Vascon, too?’ I asked Husayn.

‘He belongs to one of their mountain clans.’

‘And you speak their language, as well as Latin? I’m impressed.’

Husayn shrugged.

‘I have to. My lands border with the Vascon territory. Sometimes they see me as their protector.’

‘So they’re not all a bunch of cut-throat robbers.’

Husayn looked mildly unhappy at my bluntness.

‘They are an ancient people. They were here even before the Romans came.’

‘It’s a pity that the shepherd did not see you as his protector.’

The wali grimaced.

‘His clan has no need for protection. If attacked, they can retreat into their citadel. It’s set on a mountain peak and impregnable. From there they laugh at their opponents until
they lose interest and go away.’ Husayn made a sweeping gesture, encompassing the mountains. ‘For generations the mountain Vascons have hovered around these passes, extracting treasure
from travellers, by force or by guile. This clan’s citadel is said to contain a great hoard of raw bullion, as well as plates and cups of solid gold, bowls studded with gems, loose jewels and
precious fabrics.’ He gave a bleak smile, adding, ‘Naturally no outsider has ever seen such marvels with their own eyes.’

‘So no excuse for murdering a lone traveller for his money,’ I said bitterly.

The wali stared straight at me. His large intense eyes under their dark painted lids glittered in the firelight.

‘You might have been attacked for something equally valuable.’

I looked back at him coolly.

‘What do you mean?’

‘Words on a page.’

I felt a cold lurch in my guts. Husayn knew that I was a spy for Alcuin. Either he had seen me making notes during the journey or perhaps Ganelon had told him.

Husayn’s next words came as a surprise.

‘I understand that you interpret dreams. With the aid of a book?’

Shakily, I recovered my poise.

‘That is something I prefer to keep to myself. Some people regard it as devil’s work.’

Husayn nodded gravely.

‘They are wrong. The messenger of God – may the peace and blessings of God be upon him – was also an interpreter of dreams. God spoke to him through them.’

I let out a slow breath.

‘So you know about the Oneirokritikon.’

‘It is famous. My people know how it was lost, left behind in the hands of the infidels.’

‘And someone told you that I have the Book of Dreams?’ With a sudden surge of anger, I guessed Ganelon had passed on the information.

Once again, Husayn surprised me with his answer.

‘I knew that Count Gerard’s family had possession of the book. When I was in Aachen, I offered to buy it from him for a great price. But he told me that it was no longer in his
keeping.’

‘Did he say he had given it to me?’

‘No. But one of your king’s daughters was heard to boast that you had foretold the coming of our embassy to Aachen. So I guessed that the Book of Dreams had passed into your
hands.’

‘I may have left it behind in Aachen,’ I pointed out.

The wali treated me to a veiled look.

‘I don’t think so. No one would leave behind such a precious object, least of all someone who travels with a servant who can help him read it.’ Husayn leaned forward and laid a
hand gently on my arm. ‘I respect your ownership of the dream book. I would not take it from you by force. But should you ever wish to sell it, I would pay a great price.’

W
E
REACHED
Z
ARAGOZA
three days later. It was mid-morning and the air crisp and invigorating, the
cloudless winter sky a pale washed-out blue. The city had been alerted to the governor’s approach and an escort of Saracen cavalry came jingling out to meet us among the plum and apple
orchards that ringed the city. The troopers made a cheerful show in their close-fitting mail jackets and burnished metal helmets, and they had tied banners of dark crimson silk around their spear
heads. They swung in behind us as we passed through the main gate in the centuries-old city wall. Built of brownish-yellow blocks of stone, the wall was immensely thick and topped with dozens of
semicircular defensive towers, all of them in good repair. The gates themselves were plated with heavy iron sheets. I made a mental note to report to Alcuin that Zaragoza would not easily be taken
by storm.

Within the wall, the city was a mixture of the familiar and the exotic. Some passers-by, fair-skinned and fair-haired, would have been unremarkable in Frankia. They dressed in tunics and
leggings under warm outer garments, for winter in Zaragoza was cool without having the biting edge of more northern climates. Other citizens were more exotic. They wore bulky turbans in bright
colours and stripes. A few preferred a close-fitting lace skull cap or a tall, stylish bonnet in black felt. When I asked Husayn about these differences, he told me that the bonnet-wearers were
more traditional in their tastes and wished to emphasize that they came from the Saracen lands further east.

‘I govern a city of many peoples and faiths,’ he said ruefully and indicated a side street where it disappeared into a warren of narrow alleyways and lanes. ‘Down there is the
Jewish quarter. Next to it is the area where the Vascons live. It’s no easy task controlling such a mix of citizens.’

He pointed out an officious-looking person fingering a bolt of cloth on a market barrow. The stallholder was looking on nervously, occasionally darting forward with obsequious gestures to help
unroll the cloth.

‘See that man there, with an assistant holding a set of weighing scales. He’s one of my market inspectors. He’s checking the quality of the goods for sale. If he finds a cheat,
he will punish him with a fine or confiscation of all his goods, regardless of race or creed.’

My eye was caught by the sight of a black man, the first I had ever seen. Standing at the edge of the street, he was displaying a basket of what looked like fist-sized pine cones, greyish green
in colour.

‘What’s that he’s selling?’ I asked.

‘Alcachofa, we call it. It’s a vegetable. You’ll taste some this evening,’ said the wali. He raised his whip to acknowledge a greeting from a distinguished-looking
grey-beard wearing a long dark-brown woollen cloak edged in fur. ‘The plant is said to be an effective cure for someone who has eaten poison.’

I gave him a sharp glance, but he seemed oblivious to the effect of his remark.

We continued down the main thoroughfare, which was lined with two- and three-storey houses. Most were in good repair, though some were losing their plaster, and a few were boarded up. Halfway
along it we were obliged to pull aside our horses to squeeze past an immense load of firewood piled on a donkey, its head and tail scarcely visible. The donkey’s owner was shouting abuse at
the driver of a mule cart blocking the roadway. I commented that several words in his stream of insults had a familiar ring to them and was told that the citizens of Zaragoza had even more
languages than religions.

Eventually we arrived in the central square. It was dominated by the gleaming newly built dome and spire of what the wali proudly told me was the place of worship his father had paid for.
Directly across the square was a long, white-washed wall. Twice the height of a man, it was blank except for a single archway shaped like an upside-down horseshoe. This was closed with a pair of
double doors of dark, oiled wood, which had been intricately carved and embellished with patterns of heavy, brass studs. In front, two armed men stood guard.

‘Welcome to my home,’ said the wali as we came to a halt in front of the doors. In the same moment they were pulled open from the inside to reveal an elderly man with a thin wispy
beard waiting at the head of a band of at least a dozen servants. All of them were dressed identically in white gowns and turbans. Their waistbands were the same dark crimson as our cavalry
escort.

We dismounted and grooms ran forward to take our horses and lead them away. Husayn spoke with the old man, the steward of the household, and then turned to me.

‘You and your servant Osric are my guests. Your quarters are being prepared,’ he declared.

Together we walked through the entrance and into a small, intimate courtyard paved with fine, pink gravel. A double line of carefully tended ornamental shrubs led towards the slim white pillars
of the portico to the main building. Husayn accompanied me up a short flight of marble steps and into the antechamber. His house was built as an open square and through an archway ahead of me I
observed another courtyard, even larger than the first. Flowerbeds bordered a long, rectangular pool. In the centre of the pool rose a jet of water which fell back, making a pleasant splashing
sound. Like the phenomenon of a black man, it was the first time I had ever seen a fountain.

‘You will forgive me if I leave you in the care of my steward,’ said the wali. ‘After such a long absence I have much to discuss with my councillors. God willing, we will dine
together after evening prayers.’

He moved away to join two grave-looking men, both wearing high Saracen bonnets who had been hovering in the background. The elderly steward escorted Osric and me along the colonnaded gallery
that surrounded the central courtyard. At the far end he turned to his left and, opening a door, showed us into a set of rooms. Our panniers and saddlebags had already been placed inside. The
steward bowed formally and withdrew, closing the door behind him. I heard a click.

I gazed about me, overawed by the level of comfort. High glazed windows let in daylight and made the room bright and cheerful. The walls were covered with tiles painted with patterns of flowers,
blue on white. The plaster ceiling was intricately moulded into geometric shapes that had been subtly picked out in muted shades of red and green. Rich carpets were spread on the floor and draped
over low couches. A lantern crafted from perforated copper hung by a chain from the ceiling. On a low table a tray with a bowl of fruit, a jug and porcelain cups had been placed. By comparison,
Carolus’s private apartments in Aachen were a cowshed.

Osric had paused, as if reluctant to step further into the room.

‘I once lived in a house like this,’ he said quietly, his voice full of a wistful sadness, ‘though not so large or opulent. My father was a well-known doctor.’