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.’
I turned to him in surprise. It was the first time he had ever mentioned his own family.
‘I studied to follow in his profession. But he died of a fever he caught from one of his patients and, in my sorrow and anger at life’s whims, I decided I wanted nothing more to do with medicine. I chose to go to sea as a merchant and, as you know, was wrecked on my very first voyage.’
There was such aching distress in his face that an impulse made me say, ‘Would you like to return to that life when this is over?’
He thought for a moment, considering his reply, and then shook his head sadly.
‘It would be all but impossible. These are not my people, and there is no place for me among them. You should realize that Saracens can be as different from one another as Greeks are from Franks, or Saxons from Romans.’
I went across to the door and tried to open it. As I suspected, it was locked.
Osric dropped his voice almost to a whisper.
‘Politics here are dangerous. Today Husayn is an ally of the governor of Barcelona. Tomorrow he may switch his allegiance to Barcelona’s most bitter enemy.’
I recalled what old Gerard had told me of the in-fighting among the Saracens and why the king had sent me to Hispania.
‘Osric, I’m going to need your help more than ever before,’ I said, speaking softly in case anyone was listening outside the door. ‘I need to learn whether the wali is genuine in seeking the king’s help against his enemies.’
‘I’ll keep my ears open,’ murmured Osric. He seemed to have regained his usual careful poise and began unpacking our luggage. I explored our new quarters. Beyond the living area was a sleeping room and then a small marble-lined wash room. There towels had been laid out. A wall alcove held a display of jars containing various creams and on a wooden stand was a large metal basin. I dipped my finger into it. The water it contained was hot.
‘If this is to be our prison, it’s a comfortable one,’ I said, returning to the main room where Osric had opened an inlaid chest and found a store of clean clothes in the Saracen style. I held up one of the garments for inspection. It was a long gown of fine wool with an embroidered edging. I sniffed. It had a pleasant slightly musty smell.
‘What’s that?’ I asked.
‘Kafur, a perfume to keep the garment sweet and the insects away. It’s also used as flavouring in cooking.’ Osric allowed himself a grim smile. ‘Too much kafur in your food is fatal, and there is no known cure.’
‘I doubt the wali is planning to do away with me just yet,’ I said. ‘We’ll get on with translating the
