The Black Rood (42 page)

Another variety of fierce and loathsome creature infests the stinking waste heaps outside the walls, and throng the gates of Cairo, preying on the unwary: beggars. At first I was moved with Christian pity and charity at the appalling sight of them. God have mercy, there were so many—blind and dumb, halt and lame, leprous, maimed, deaf, starving, naked, and sick. My soul quailed before their misery. But the hostile and belligerent bearing of these unfortunates quickly drove out all compassion. Like jackals they prowl the crowds looking for victims, hobbling pathetically or dragging their wizened and mangled bodies along the streets, bleating out their pitiful, and practiced, wails of woe. Although I was a prisoner and had nothing at all to give, that did not stop them from descending upon me, grabbing and snatching at my clothes with their withered hands, mewling and bawling their pitiful cries. God forgive me, I soon learned to ignore them and, like the guards, moved quickly through the shabby ranks, pushing aside any who were stubborn enough to stand in the way, turning a deaf ear to their shrieks, and hurrying on.

Anxiety over my impending fate did not survive beyond a few hundred paces inside the gates. For the city was not only larger, noisier, and more crowded than any I had ever seen, it was also more fabulous in every way. Instantly, my sun-dazed senses were overwhelmed and submerged beneath the dizzying inundation of sight and sound—and smell—for the slops and refuse of the street dwellers are allowed to stew in the sun and infuse the air with noxious and pestilential odors.

While the smells steal the breath away, the sounds buffet and batter: the beggars with their insistent cries, the street merchants with their shrill demands, dogs barking, children screeching, the press of the populace, talking, shouting, calling to one another—a thousand voices clamoring at once. The resulting welter of confusion is dizzying as it is deafening.

And the sights! Cait, in the space of a few dozen paces beyond Cairo's gates you will see more extraordinary things than most people see in their entire lives. Wherever the eye happened to light, some new and startling view presented itself. I saw men and women of wealth swathed head to foot in the most startling robes—the color of which changed with every movement through all the shifting, radiant hues of the rainbow. I saw copper-domed mosqs covered with gleaming Persian tiles so that they looked as if they had been spun of peacock-colored glass.

And the people, Cait, were the most unusual to walk under God's wide heaven. The colors of their skin ranged from black as dark as midnight shadow, through browns of every hue from the deep rich tones of walnuts, baked earth, and old leather to the fair pallor of fine parchment. Their shapes and sizes were no less various. I saw men as tall and gaunt and black as ebony pillars, and others small as half-grown children. The fairest of all were the Egyptians themselves. Fine featured, with high noble brows, straight white teeth, and rich black hair that glistens in the sun, they stand erect and move with unhurried grace, gazing upon the world with quiet amusement in their dark, almond-shaped eyes. They say they are descended from gods of old, and you only have to look at them to believe it. A more handsome race you cannot imagine.

To move about the city is to confront wonders on every side. There is more color, more noise, more
everything
to be found on the streets of Cairo than anywhere else under the sun. Hanging from upper windows I saw gilded cages with birds as big as ravens, but more brightly colored than kings, long-tailed and hook-beaked, with feathers scarlet and green, jade blue, white, and yellow. I have no idea what they
were or whence they came, but they screeched like the
bhean sidhe
to burst the ear. There were dogs unlike any I have seen before or since: lean and slender, narrow beasts with long, thin faces, hollow haunches and muscled shoulders, almost as big as wolfhounds, but sleek and fine-footed for running in the sand.

Also, though it was a while before I noticed them, cats. Once I began to see them, however, I was astonished at the numbers. There were very multitudes of the creatures, and they were everywhere. Not a shadow in the city, but you did not see the glint of a yellow eye looking back; not a tree, not a market stall, not a doorway, nor window, nor ledge, nor wall, nor rooftop where a cat did not sit, or walk, or stretch itself.

The crooked streets swarmed with every variety of merchant and seller known—some working from stalls, others carrying their wares stacked on their heads, or dangling from their arms—and every last one shouting to make himself heard above the din. Here a candlemaker walked with hundreds of candles attached by their wicks to a long pole; there a butcher shouted for custom with rings of sausage looped around his outstretched arms; next to him, a carpenter balanced four chairs on his back; and over here, an ironmonger jangled examples of the various chains he could make—and more: goldsmiths, gem dealers, slave merchants, and every kind of food vendor ever known.

Any space on the street, large or small, became a veritable marketplace for vendors to tout for business. I saw carts heaped high with hairy coconuts, others with mounds of sweet black dates, and still others with persimmons, or pears, lemons, almonds, or green bitter quinces.

People thronged these impromptu markets, or
bazaars
as they are called, eagerly bargaining with the merchants so that the din was a stupendous uproar. Through the tumult scampered lithe, brown children, darting around the legs of their elders, contributing to the havoc with shrill squeals and shouts. Barefoot ragged youths darted quickly here and there and, more than once as I witnessed with my own eyes,
relieved unwary passersby of the burden of any unattended purses or belongings.

Our procession snaked through the throngs, passing one exotic quarter after another—including one filled with tiny houses—the only quiet corner of the entire city, I think, and I soon learned why: the stench arising from this place gave me to know that at very least a great calamity had befallen those who lived there. The powerful odor of death hung like an unseen cloud above the silent streets. Yet, save for a few black-robed men ambling idly around the deserted streets, there was no one about.

“Ah, the city of the dead,” Wazim told me when I asked him. “Many Egyptians still hold to the old ways, believing they must feed and house their ancestors in the afterlife.”

The caliph's men paid no heed at all to the commotion around them, but passed through it with heads high, looking neither right nor left, as if the riotous tumult was so far beneath them as to be invisible. Because of the crush of people and the narrowness of the streets, it took the better part of the morning to reach our destination: a palace of stone that looked as if it might have been hewn in a single piece from the heart of a mountain.

In the dazzling heat of a midday sun, the pale ocher-colored stone blazed like faded gold. Flags of red and blue waved fitfully on tall standards as we passed up the long ramp toward the gates which were made of pierced and gilded iron. Four tall black men with spears and the skins of lions on their shoulders guarded the entrance. At the envoy's approach, the gatemen opened the gleaming doors without a word; the baggage train entered the palace precinct, and I passed into my opulent prison.

S
TILL DAZED FROM
the heady journey through the streets of Cairo, our baggage caravan passed through a maze-work of doorways, corridors, walls, and pathways, and arrived at an inner courtyard, there to wait in the sun while the envoy disappeared into one of the many rooms fronting the yard—a pleasant expanse of green grass and small trees of many varieties, all of them meticulously clipped and arranged to show their best features. Peacocks preened in the low branches and paraded in the sunlight, and white doves fluttered around a pool of clear running water. Flowering shrubs, many in gigantic earthenware pots, filled the air with a delightful scent and attracted the lazy hum of bees.

This paradise was bounded by royal residences on three sides; a high, vine-covered wall enclosed the fourth side. Each of the royal apartments and chambers featured a balcony—a roofed, but otherwise open platform affixed to the outer upper floor and surrounded by a wooden railing. These balconies are common in the arid East, for they allow one to escape the heat of the day and enjoy any passing breezes. In the city, I had seen many such balconies, some with elaborate screens of wood; those overlooking the inner courtyard were open, however, so that the residents might enjoy the beauty and calm of the garden below.

As we stood waiting in the sun, I saw a large, very fat man
in a golden robe and turban appear at the railing of a nearby balcony; he paused a moment to take in the sight of us, and then ambled away again. A few moments later, I was conducted with the rest of the baggage into a small, wood-paneled hall across the courtyard where this same man was waiting to receive the gifts in the caliph's name.

He balanced his more than ample girth on a stool at a small table with a square of the peculiar thin Egyptian parchment before him, and the bearers brought the items one-by-one to be entered into his account. I watched as both the gold-bound box containing the embalmed head of Prince Bohemond, and the Black Rood, were duly recorded and borne away with the rest of the treasure—where, I could not say.

Then it was my turn. He looked up from his list, passed his eyes over me, and smiled. “Ah,” he said, and rose to his feet. Speaking first in Greek and then in Latin, he asked which of the two languages I preferred.

“Latin, if you please, my lord.”

“Of course,” he replied. “My name is Amir Abu Rafidi,” he told me, and explained that he was the caliph's official katib, a position of authority in which, as overseer of the inner palace servants and all the other scribes, counselors, and courtiers, it had fallen to him to receive the gifts which the Caliph of Baghdad had sent. As I was among these gifts, the amir was obliged to take account of me, and he hoped I did not mind this small formality. “I am told that you are a nobleman whose chances of ransom have declined to the point of hopelessness,” he said.

“On the contrary,” I replied, “I am ever hopeful my friends will come for me. I suspect, however, that moving almost continually from one destination to the next since my capture has made the task more difficult.”

“I see,” he replied. “I am also told that you are a spy who has been condemned to death by the Khalifa of Baghdad. Is this true?”

“Not entirely,” I replied. “While it is true that the khalifa ordered me to be executed, it is not true that I am a spy.”

He smiled at my reply, his fleshy jowls wobbling. A
cheerful man, and easily amused, I could see he bore me no malice. “It would be a rare man who readily owned such perfidy.”

I agreed, but insisted that it was true nevertheless.

The amir returned to the table and looked at the blank expanse of parchment before him. I could see that he was trying to decide what to write. Gently lowering himself onto the little stool, he folded his arms and rested his chin in his palm, tapping his fingers against his cheek. He looked up into the air, and then down at the table again. Then he rose and walked around the room, hands folded behind him; he looked at me, and said, “You are a nobleman.”

“I am, indeed.”

“That makes it all more difficult, you see.”

“I am sorry.”

“No, no, think nothing of it.” He quickly reassured me. “We must all take the rough with the smooth.”

He returned to his place and took up the quill; he dipped it in the ink, and then hesitated, his hand hovering above the parchment. He glanced at me thoughtfully. “Ah!” he said, as if discovering the solution to a long-vexing problem.

Dipping the pen once more, he began to write, his hand describing an elaborate flourish as he finished. Laying aside the pen, he picked up the parchment—the odd stuff was so thin, the light from the open doorway shone through it and I could see the strange characters he had written on the other side; holding it before his face, he squinted his eyes and grunted with satisfaction. Then, rising and moving to the door, he called out loudly, and returned to his stool.

A few moments later, the call was answered by the appearance of a little brown man in a long, flowing white garment. Fine featured, with skin like a polished nut, he wore a small white cap atop his close-shaved head. Taking a step into the room, he bowed and stepped lively to the table where he stood looking at me with bright interest.

“Khalifa al-Hafiz is away from Cairo for the foreseeable future,” Abu Rafidi told me. He dipped the pen and added a few amendatory strokes to what had been written. “Only he can decide your fate.” He blew on the wet ink to dry it. “So
until the Khalifa returns, you will be given a room in the palace.”

He lay aside the pen once more and, lifting a hand to the white-robed servant, he said, “This is Wazim Kadi; he will be your—ah,” he paused, searching for the right word, “your jailer, let us say. He will attend to your various needs while you reside in the palace.”

“I am to remain a prisoner?” I asked.

“You are to be our…” he hesitated, “our
guest
, let us say. At least, until the khalifa returns.”

“Forgive me for asking, my lord amir,” I said, “but when is the khalifa's return expected?”

“Only Allah knows,” the katib replied, “and Allah keeps close counsel.” He smiled pleasantly. “At least, he does not confide in Rafidi. Come now, Wazim will take you to your room and make you comfortable.”

Thus began my friendship with Wazim, the worthy Saracen jailer who has rendered me invaluable service time and time again in a thousand errands large and small. It was Wazim Kadi who provided me with an endless supply of quills and ink with which to write, and who first introduced to me the queer parchmentlike stuff called
papyrus
. The Egyptians make it from the tall puff-topped reeds that grow everywhere along the river's edge; tough, yet light, and with the ability to be rolled up tight, this papyrus is in many ways superior to hide parchment—save in one important way: a slip of the pen cannot be rubbed out. Unlike parchment, where the odd blot or misplaced letter can be carefully scraped away to reveal a fresh layer beneath, any mistakes made on papyrus are there forever.

Despite the differences of race and faith, I could not have asked for a better servant. Unfailingly kind and thoughtful, Wazim Kadi has watched over me like a very angel—much like Padraig, in his own way, and I will miss him.

And now, dearest Caitríona, heart of my heart, I must conclude my long and, I fear, far too indulgent missive. What started as a simple letter of farewell has grown to a book. As I look over the work I have done, it pleases me for the most part. If not for the assurances of the caliph that it will one
day find its way to you, I would have despaired long ago. But the Saracens are trustworthy; once honor is invoked, they will dare death and beyond to make good a promise.

The end, whatever that shall be, is near. A short while ago, I began hearing cries and shouts of alarm in the corridors and courtyards of the palace. These have intensified, and just now I caught a faint whiff of smoke through my open window. Wazim, who promised to bring word about what is happening, has not returned and I cannot think that a good sign. If this tale is to be completed, I fear it must be by another hand. I am content.

I will close with a prayer for you, and for all those who come after, that in virtue you will find wisdom…and in wisdom, peace…in peace, contentment…in contentment, joy…in joy, love…in love, Jesu…and in Jesu, God and life eternal. Amen.

Farewell, my Cait, my soul. Until we meet in Paradise.