“If you drive me from your garden, my enemies may take me, and if they do, I shall be strangled.”
“These enemies of whom you speak? Who are they?”
Ah, the shrewdness of it! I was fairly trapped, but the risk was one I must accept. Perhaps I stood in the garden of an enemy, of one with allegiance to those who sought me.
No matter, I had trusted to honesty thus far. I would persist. I must stake all, and hope that emotion would rule rather than political favor. “Prince Ahmed is my enemy, as is ibn-Haram.”
She moved slightly, to see me better, I guessed, for she was still in darkness. “To have such enemies you must be more than a mere Celtic adventurer. I had not heard that Prince Ahmed was—ah?”
She paused as if remembering.
“Prince Ahmed? Are you the one then? The one who spent a week with Prince Ahmed’s bride? If so, you are the toast of Córdoba.”
She paused. “What is it you want?”
“Sanctuary until I am rested. A bath. Clothing, if it can be obtained. I can stand being hungry but not unclean.”
“Step into the light.”
I did so. “See?” I said mockingly. “I am dirty, I am ragged, but I am a man.”
“The story of your escape is repeated at every gathering in Córdoba, Seville, and Cadiz.”
She stepped into the light. She was small, deliciously shaped. She indicated a door. “Accept what I am giving. Demand more and I shall call the guards.”
I bowed. “Thank you, Princess. I am most grateful.”
“What has happened to your face?”
Briefly, I explained, but only the part about returning to the house, being struck down, and left for dead.
She asked but few questions, but each was to the point. Her manner puzzled me. This was no wartime widow, nor yet a wife. Her questions were those of one skilled in obtaining information.
When I dropped over the wall I’d have been pleased to find only a corner where I could sleep in security, to be on my way in the morning, but there was mystery here. Her eyes held a calculating expression that had nothing to do with my physique.
Women in the Moslem worlds of Spain or the Middle East were not restricted and had attained eminence in the field of letters. Many had attended universities and had a liberty unbelievable to Christian Europe. With all the talk of chivalry among the Franks, women were considered mere chattels.
The house in which I found myself was not large, yet showed every evidence of affluence. A robe was thrown over a marble bench when I emerged from the bath, and I donned it. A moment later she returned and without a glance at me, placed a bundle of clothing on the bench.
My face was still too tender to shave, but I trimmed my beard in the Moslem fashion and dressed myself. The clothing was the plain but substantial clothing of a man of means, of quality but unobtrusive. There might be five thousand in Córdoba who would dress in similar fashion.
She awaited me in a small room that adjoined her living area, and on the table there was tea, bread, fruit, and a few slices of cold meat and cheese. Her name was Safia. While we ate she questioned me about my activities, and I told her of my escape from the galley, of my studies, my imprisonment, and my flight.
Safia was older than I, older than the girls I had known, and it was obvious her interest was not in any minor escapade. Quite simply she told me she had plans with which I might help, and that might be profitable to me.
She indicated a pile of rugs and pillows on the floor. “You may sleep there.”
“Of course. Where else?”
Her eyes narrowed a little. This woman had a temper. “We will talk in the morning.”
Again, from the sands of despair I had salvaged the water of well-being. The future remained in doubt, but I had eaten, drunk, bathed, and was freshly clad. Beneath me, when I finally lay down, was a bed not too soft.
Safia, my lady of the fountain, had the body of a siren, the face of a goddess, and the mind of an Armenian camel dealer. What ideas she had I could not surmise, but Córdoba was a place of intrigue, an art in which the Arab mind was uniquely gifted.
Was she an Arab? A Berber? A Jewess? I could not guess, nor had she given me the slightest hint or clue. Her few questions and comments when I related my story gave evidence that she was well aware of what was happening in Spain, and there was no doubt she was involved somehow, in some way.
No doubt I was to be involved also. No doubt I was a tool to be used, but a tool that would be careful of his own interest, and his own life. My fingers felt for my dagger. At least, I had that. Tomorrow, with luck, a sword.
In the meantime there was sleep.
20
Córdoba was a universe, a universe in which revolved many planets, each isolated to a degree from all others. Now, following the night meeting in the garden, I inhabited one of those planets.
My world was made up of those who worked, as I now did, for the Society of Translators. Those and the few shopkeepers I met in the daily round of my new life. It needed but a word from Safia to take me to a hearing from the scholars.
My excellent handwriting satisfied them, but then it was requested that I read aloud and translate from works both Latin and Arabic. On the table was a volume of the Canon of Avicenna, known here by his proper name, ibn-Sina. As I had studied it previously, my translation was satisfactory. They gave me the task of copying the Index of Sciences compiled by al-Nadim in 988.
Each daybreak I arose, dressed sedately, and walked through the streets to the library. There I was among older men, far more interested in the matter of the manuscripts before them than the personalities of their fellow workers.
In the evening I walked home through a park, occasionally sitting down to read under the trees. During all this time I saw few people, none whom I knew. My work was painstaking yet fascinating. Two months passed in this quiet endeavor. My trained memory absorbed facts easily, skipping all that was unnecessary, but avid for that information that might be of use.
My command of Arabic improved, as did my knowledge of both Greek and Latin, and from Safia I was learning Persian. As the streets were dangerous for me, I avoided those where I might encounter someone whom I had known, but my hours were such that the chance was slight.
Despite my initial confidence, Safia had not found me irresistible. In fact, if she was aware of my maleness at all, it escaped me. This made our relationship simple yet quite pleasant.
That she possessed a mind quite out of the ordinary was immediately obvious, also that she was engaged in some occupation that required secrecy. It soon became apparent, although she told me nothing, that she was the center for many sources of information. Little happened in Córdoba of which she was not aware, nor in Seville, Toledo, Malaga, or Cadiz.
The fact that our relations remained as simple as they were was in part due to the daughter of an innkeeper near where I lived. We had passed each other on the street occasionally, never speaking, but mutually aware. She was a full-bosomed lass with dark Moorish eyes ringed with black lashes, and as I have said, we often passed each other. And then there was a day when we did not pass.
My childhood training in Druidic lore had given me memory and the habit of learning, and for me to copy a book was for me to know it. Among other things I found in the library was a veritable storehouse of maps, many ancient and long out of date, some very new. Some of these were the portolans used by merchant mariners in navigating, trading, living along the coasts. The best of these I copied on bits of parchment, and soon I had a packet of charts of my own.
Then one day John of Seville visited the library and spoke to the various translators. When he greeted me as an old friend, there was a subtle change in the atmosphere. In the cloistered stillness of the library, among rolls of parchment, my big shoulders must have seemed out of place. Despite my efforts at maintaining a subdued profile, it was obvious I was a man of the out-of-doors, of the sea, and the battlefield. John of Seville was a noted scholar, and to be his friend was to command respect.