“You have lived an eventful life, Mathurin,” John suggested, his eyes twinkling.
“I was not aware it had attracted attention.”
“You have made enemies, but you have also won friends.”
“Friends? I have no friends.”
“Am I not your friend?”
“I am honored, but I scarcely believed you would remember. But other friends? I know nothing of them. The one friend I thought I had was he who betrayed me to my enemies.”
“But when you escaped, was there not a horse waiting for you?”
“You know of that? Then who am I to thank?”
“I am not at liberty to say. Let it suffice that somebody believed you were too good a man to die in such a way, at such a time.
“Someone,” he added, smiling, “who believed in your somewhat unique abilities to believe that given a chance you could escape.”
No more would he tell me. He asked about my work and was impressed when I repeated pages of an ancient manuscript. “I envy your memory. It was training, you said?”
“For generations, on my mother’s side of the family, there were Druids. They were the masters of our history, lore, and ritual, all committed to memory. I do not know if a good memory can be inherited, but we all had such memories, and then there was the training—”
“Yes?”
“I cannot speak of it. Only this I can say. It is a method of using the mind as one uses a burning glass. If one focuses the sun’s rays through such a glass, the heat becomes intense and will start a fire. With us it was a matter of focusing the attention, so that what we saw once was ours forever. Although I must say, repeated readings are a help.”
After the visit of John of Seville, I found myself included in small gatherings of the translators when they met away from the library, so in a small way I became a part, a listening part, of that great city.
Often I heard of Valaba, the beautiful woman I had seen in a coffeehouse with Averroes. Her home, it seemed, was a gathering place for beauty and intellect.
In the library I read translations of Heraclitus, Socrates, Plato, Empedocles, Pythagoras, and Galen. Hunayn ibn-Ishaq, who translated Hippocrates and Galen, had also translated Plato. I made several copies of each of these works, for at first I was given more copying to do than translation.
Then I was given a book to translate from the Persian, The Qabus Nama, written by Kai Ka’us ibn-Iskander, Prince of Gurgan, in 1082. It was a book of advice to his son, considering all aspects of his life as a prince and as a man.
In his chapter on enemies, I came upon this passage: Ever remain aware of your enemy’s activities, secret or otherwise; never feel secure against his treachery against you, and consider constantly ways in which you may outwit or defeat him.
My eyes lifted from the page. How could I be sure ibn-Haram or Prince Ahmed did not know of my presence? How could I be sure I was hidden from them simply because I stayed away from old acquaintances?
Thus far I had not followed the advice of Kai Ka’us. My enemies had acted against me, not I against them. Should I give thought to preventive warfare? And to securing my own position, for was I not vulnerable?
Thus far I had trusted to my blade, my strength, and my luck. It was insufficient. I must build defenses, and the only defense possible was that offered by influential friends. I had none.
Could I not spy out his position? Discover his intentions? Duban had told me ibn-Haram was a supporter of Yusuf but was himself ambitious for power.
So then, I needed friends; I needed information; and if not able to defeat my enemy, I could at least elude him.
My face had healed; my strength returned. New blood seemed to flow in my veins. The coffee shops were beyond my small income, but there were other shops to which I might go and drink sherbet and listen to the idle talk.
Desperately, I wanted a sword, but dressed as a scholar, I must proceed carefully not to excite curiosity.
On a warm day I found myself in a remote bazaar and was glancing at some sandals while actually studying the swords in an adjoining booth. They were fine weapons of Damascus and Toledo steel.
Suddenly, a man stopped almost beside me and chose a scimitar from among those exposed for sale. He tried the balance of the weapon, whipping it through the Persian manual with skill. I started to move away when suddenly he spoke. “Here, Scholar, try your hand. Would you not say this was a fine weapon?”
I knew that voice. It was Haroun.
Keeping my face averted, I said, “I know little of weapons, emir. I am a mere student.”
He spoke in a lower tone. “Do not play with me, Kerbouchard. I know you.”
Looking directly into his eyes, I said, “I have had little reason to trust my old friends.”
“Because of Mahmoud? He was always jealous of you, and when Aziza showed interest in you rather than him—he is very vain, you know.”
“And you?” I asked bitterly.
“I am still your friend,” he replied calmly, “if you will have it so. Did I not let you pass at the gate?”
“You knew me?”
“Not at once. Only after you had passed. It was your walk. I dared not speak to you, for the soldiers would have been curious. After that I looked for you but could find you nowhere.”
We went to a cubbyhole of a place to drink sherbet and talk.
He wore the uniform of one of Yusuf’s crack cavalry regiments. He was a square-built man of great physical strength and was maturing rapidly under the harshness of the military training. Less agile in conversation than Mahmoud, he never spoke without thinking.
Haroun was one of those calm, relaxed men who are capable of tremendous outbursts of dynamic action. I knew the type well, for my father had been such a man. “You have plans?” he asked.
“To learn, and to learn more. To find if my father lives, and then to see more of the world. I have thought of India.”
“I, too, have thought of it, but who knows anything of India?”
“I know of it.”
“You?”
“There are books. Arab ships sometimes sail there, and there is a route through the desert.” Looking around at him, I said, “My destiny is there, Haroun. I feel it.”
He arose. “Perhaps one day we will meet there, or we might go together.” He gripped my shoulder. “It has been good to see you. Like the old days.”
He stepped outside into the evening. “And Mahmoud? Do you see him?”
“Mahmoud is an important man now. He is close to Prince Ahmed.”
“I think of him,” I said, “but there are others who come first.”
“Be careful,” he warned, “you tread upon loose sand.”
“One thing more. Do you know the name Zagal?”
“He commands many soldiers, and rules a taifa. Is he your enemy, too?”
I told him the story of Sharasa and of Akim. Until now I had believed the attackers had been men sent by Yusuf; now I discovered Zagal was a minor ruler of one of the smaller principalities into which Moorish Spain was divided.
“It is nothing,” I said. “I would simply like to know if she fares well.”
“From what you have said I imagine wherever she is, she will be doing well.” He smiled. “If you attempt to protect all the girls you meet, I foresee an active life.”
We parted, but I felt better. It was good to know Haroun was still my friend. However, I had not told him what I was doing, and I wandered about to make sure I was not followed before going home.
It was that night I told Safia of my father, and that despite reports of his death I believed he still lived. She asked me a number of questions about the galley, its crew, and where he had been bound. Then his age, description, and any scars or marks upon his body. “You should have told me sooner, but no matter. It is possible I can learn something about him.”
Before I could ask her how she could possibly get such information, she handed me a key. “Go to this place.” She described it. “You will find four horses. Look at them and decide if they have speed and strength. Then I wish you to take one day each week for the next four weeks and buy supplies for a trip.”
“You are going away?”
“We are going. I told you I might have need of you.” She turned to look at me. “Mathurin, if I have need, it will be a desperate need. I want nothing spoken of this. Do not go near the horses by day, and when you go, be sure you are not followed.”