Saxon: The Emperor's Elephant (33 page)

‘Do they have any idea where he might be now?’

‘The camel drivers think that he will have gone ahead. The road is easy enough to follow and we’re little more than a day’s journey from al-Qulzum. My guess is that he slipped
away in the night before he was questioned.’

‘As soon as we get to al-Qulzum we’ll track him down and find out who he’s working for,’ I said grimly.

As it turned out, the interrogation was not possible. We resumed our march and not long after the halt for midday prayers there was a shout from the head of the column. A cloak had been spotted
on the ground a few yards off to the side of the track. Someone ran to investigate and found the garment was bloodstained and torn. Another shout came from a man pointing towards a clump of thorn
bushes some fifty paces away. Five or six hyenas could be seen trotting off into the desert, their loping strides unmistakable. The caravan halted and after a hasty conference between the camel
drivers, a group of half a dozen men, armed with spears, headed cautiously towards the bushes.

Abram and I made our way to where the leader of the caravan was surrounded by several camel drivers. They were passing the torn cloak from hand to hand, talking among themselves in local
dialect.

‘They are fairly sure that it belongs to the man who ran away,’ Abram translated for me.

Streaks of dry blood on the dusty ground were signs of a struggle. A line of scuffmarks led towards the distant thorn bushes.

‘I’d say the lions got him as well, poor wretch,’ said Abram. ‘Then the aurochs came along and offered a better meal and they abandoned the corpse and went after larger
prey.’

An empty water skin lay among the stones close to where the cloak had been found. A few paces farther on was a cheap cloth satchel with a shoulder strap.

I picked up the satchel and looked inside. It contained half a flat loaf of bread, a lump of mouldy cheese and a handful of dates. More than enough to sustain a man for a day’s walk to
al-Qulzum. I took out the food, set it aside on a flat rock, and checked the satchel again. There was nothing that might give a clue as to the identity of the owner; no money, no document. I put my
hand inside and felt around. A cloth divide separated the interior, and my fingernail snagged on something lodged in a seam. I picked it out and held it up to show Abram. ‘Do you know what
this is?’

He glanced at it. ‘The shell from a cardamom seed.’

‘Cardamom?’

‘A spice, from India. It’s used for flavouring food.’

I flicked the shell away casually, held the bag upside down, and shook it. Nothing fell out.

There was a sudden buzz of excitement from the men examining the bloodstained cloak and we hurried over to see what was causing the fuss. One of the camel drivers was holding out his hand. On
the grimy palm were four gold coins.

‘He found them sewn into the hem of the cloak,’ said Abram, listening to their excited chatter.

‘Advance payment for setting loose our animals,’ I said bitterly. ‘Ask if we can take a closer look.’

Abram spoke to the caravan leader and one by one the coins were handed to him so that he could examine them, watched suspiciously by the camel men.

‘Can you learn anything from them?’ I asked the dragoman.

He shrugged. ‘Not really. They’re the caliph’s coinage, local money – and more than a humble camel driver could earn in a year.’

He gave the coins back and we accompanied the group to the thorn bushes to see what they had found. It was a man’s body, part eaten by wild animals. Flies were already gathering on the
mangled flesh. There was little to glean about him except that he had been of slight build, with delicate hands and feet, and probably in his early thirties. Except for his sandals and a torn
undershirt, nothing survived of his clothing. What he had looked like when alive was difficult to imagine. The hyenas had chewed off most of his face.

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.’