Saxon: The Emperor's Elephant (36 page)

‘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.’