55

The Caliph of Samarra was sitting under a fig tree in the palace arboretum. He had, it was explained, been sitting under the tree for five days, awaiting inspiration from the angel Gabriel for the completion of a poem recently begun.

'Perhaps,' Wazir Tabataba'i suggested discreetly, 'your business with the khalifa would be more auspiciously conducted another day.'

'All business should be conducted in gardens under fig trees,' countered the amir. 'The world would be a far better place. We will be happy to greet the khalifa in his garden.'

'As you will.' The black-turbaned wazir bowed graciously, but I perceived a note of warning in his tone. He turned and led us through the vast, empty reception hall, his dark blue robe billowing behind him like a sail, his soft-slippered feet silent on polished green marble floors.

We walked through one enormous room after another, passing beneath blue-painted domes as big and deep as the heavenly skybowl; some were even pierced by thousands of tiny star-shaped holes to imitate the night sky. Tall pillars upheld these domes, and the grand, shapely arches. The walls of some of the rooms were covered with blue-and-green painted tiles; others were painted red or warm ochre, and decorated with gold-leaf peacock plumes. Along the walls there were chests and boxes-and in several rooms, throne-like seats-of exotic woods inlaid with gold and silver and pearl. And everywhere were rugs and carpets of the most cunningly intricate design and colour. We passed one room where the ceiling was covered with red-striped cloth that hung loosely down from a central timber pillar, so that the room entirely resembled a tent.

The wazir then led us along a wide corridor of onyx columns and out into a walled garden with a fountain in the centre, through this to an iron scroll-work gate and into the arboretum, or tree garden, where dwelt his master, awaiting divine inspiration.

I felt slightly foolish and out of place: my clothes were far more extravagant than anything I had ever worn; the turban made my head feel several times too large and dangerously unsteady; the oil on my moustache kept getting onto my lips, making them feel slippery and strange; the knife hilt dug into my hip bone, and I greatly feared wounding myself by bending over too quickly. In all it was, I suppose, a necessity, but I would have been far more at ease and confident if less had been made of me.

But the amir, having insisted on this course, had departed, leaving me to the expert ministrations of his servants. First, I had been stripped naked and washed with scented water poured from a tall, slender ewer into a huge brass bowl in which I was made to stand. My hair, long now and without a trace of tonsure anymore, was dressed with perfumed oil, and my skin as well. Then, one after another, various coloured tunics were brought and tried until they settled on one to match the red robe and cloak the amir had chosen. Next I had been given a wide black belt which wrapped my waist four times, and a pair of soft black leather boots. A long narrow strip of creamy white cloth became a turban, the end of which was secured with a ruby pin. It was as they were finishing that Faysal had entered carrying the Qadi-knife. Thrusting the blade through a fold in my belt, Faysal pronounced me ready and I was conducted to the courtyard where Sadiq was waiting.

Two milk-white horses stood in the yard and the amir was watching his grooms saddle the wonderful animals. At my approach, he turned and his handsome face brightened with genuine pleasure. 'Ah! A very Prince of Persia! Please, do not let Kazimain see you, or she will never allow you out of her sight.'

'Do you think me ready to stand before the khalifa?' I asked.

'My friend,' intoned Sadiq seriously, 'were you going to meet Allah himself, you could not look any finer. Now then, when was the last time you sat a horse?'

'I cannot remember.'

Sadiq frowned. 'I thought as much…' Turning abruptly, he called to one of the grooms. 'Jalal! Take Sharwa away. Bring Yaqin instead.' To me he confided, 'You will find her more to your liking.'

The stableman left the courtyard on the run leading one of the white horses-only to return some moments later, leading a pale grey mare with a black tail, mane, and forelegs. The sunlight on the animal's coat made it look silky. 'Ah, yes,' sighed the amir appreciatively. 'She is a wonder, this Yaqin.' He stepped to the horse and patted her smooth neck, and motioned for me to do the same. 'Here, Beautiful One, is my friend Aidan,' he said, speaking softly into the horse's ear. 'He is a good fellow. Do not disgrace him, please.'

As if in answer to the amir's request, the mare tossed her head up and down, and nuzzled Sadiq's neck. 'Later,' the amir said, scolding lightly, 'if you behave yourself, you shall have a fig.' To me, he said, 'She has developed a liking for honeyed dates as well.'

We watched the stablemen go about saddling the horses; they accomplished their work deftly and efficiently, handling the horses with polite firmness. 'It is a sin,' observed Sadiq idly, 'to mistreat a horse.' He clearly enjoyed his horses, and lavished great affection on them. 'A very great sin. One of the worst.'

'Mahmoud tells me all men shall ride such horses in paradise,' I mentioned.

'That is true,' Sadiq agreed. Having finished with the horses, one of the stablehands led the white horse to the amir and passed the reins to him. Lord Sadiq placed his foot in the stirrup and swung himself up into the saddle. 'Let us pray, however,' he said, 'that we live to ride through the streets of Byzantium first.'

We then made our way in slow and stately progress along the wide central street of Ja'fariya to the khalifa's palace, drawing stares and greetings from the people in the streets as we passed. Upon arriving at the palace, we were greeted by the wazir and led through one stunning room after another to our audience with the most powerful man in the whole of the Arabian empire.

Caliph al'Mutamid, by the will of Allah, Ruler of the Abbasids, Protector of the Faithful, was a round- shouldered fat man with a long, wispy grey beard and soulful dark eyes. He was arrayed like one of his fabled thousand peacocks, in lapis lazuli blue and emerald, with sparkling flashes of crimson. Each garment was interwoven with gold and silver threadwork, and a peacock plume surmounted his bulging satin turban of glistering grey. His wide belt was the same satiny stuff, and he wore a long, curved dagger with a golden, gem-studded handle protruding from the folds across his dome-shaped belly.

As the wazir had told us, the Great One sat under a large, full-leafed fig tree, propped up on damasc cushions, a small writing desk ready to hand should the awaited inspiration strike. Around him lay bowls of fruit and breads of various kinds-to help fortify him for his vigil, no doubt. Two braziers sent clouds of fragrant incense wafting on the soft breezes stirring beneath the leafy canopy of branches.

Had I been a poet in the khalifa's place, I believe the garden itself would have supplied inspiration enough for many great works; it appeared the very semblance of what God must have had in mind when he created Eden. Neither leaf, nor bud, nor branch, nor blade of grass was misplaced; each plant and every tree was the paragon of its kind, residing in perfect harmony with every other plant and tree. But the caliph, far from basking in the serenity of his beautiful surroundings, appeared bored and unhappy; he sat slumped in his cushions as if he had been dropped there from a great height.

At our approach, al'Mutamid roused himself from his stupor and sat up, blinking his eyes. 'Tabataba'i!' he cried. 'There you are! How dare you keep me waiting like this!'

'Calm yourself, excellent one,' soothed the wazir with exaggerated patience. 'Amir Sadiq has arrived. He wishes a word with your highness.' He bowed and gestured the amir forward. 'I will leave you to discuss your affairs in private.'

'By all means, Tabataba'i, please stay,' suggested the amir quickly. 'If the khalifa has no objection, I have none.'

'Let him stay,' muttered the caliph irritably. His head swivelled and he passed a critical eye over me. 'Who is this man? What does he want?'

'May the peace of Allah be with you, Great Khalifa. With the khalifa's kind permission, I present to your highness my advisor. His name is Aidan. He has recently joined my household.'

'He is not an Arab,' al'Mutamid pointed out.

'No, Majesty,' replied Sadiq smoothly, 'he comes from Erlandah-a sea island far to the west.'

'I have never heard of this place,' grumped the khalifa, then doubt clouded his face. 'Have I, Tabataba'i? Have I ever heard of this place?'

'Assuredly not, Highness,' answered the wazir.

Вы читаете Byzantium
Добавить отзыв
ВСЕ ОТЗЫВЫ О КНИГЕ В ИЗБРАННОЕ

0

Вы можете отметить интересные вам фрагменты текста, которые будут доступны по уникальной ссылке в адресной строке браузера.

Отметить Добавить цитату