“When?”
“When I will. You seemed to be a man of enterprise, and it was such I have needed. Is your friend Haroun to be trusted?”
“I am sure of it.”
She smiled at my surprise, for I had not mentioned his name to her. “It is my business to know. It is yours to be ready to help me as I have helped you. One day soon, I shall have to leave this city quickly.”
“You have only to speak.”
“Please do not misunderstand. I have done what was necessary, and you came offering your services.”
“And I shall not withdraw them.” The scent of jasmine was heavy in the garden, and I thought of that night, months ago, when I came over that wall, hungry and in rags, in a city filled with enemies. Yes, I was in her debt.
Moorish Spain was a hotbed of intrigue, and plots were forever developing across the Strait of Gibraltar in North Africa, the homeland of the Berber. In Navarre, Castile, and Leon their rulers looked south toward the luxury of Andalusia with envy.
Realizing time was short, I intensified my study. Medicine and military tactics held first place, but navigation, history, philosophy, chemistry, and botany I studied also. The key to success in Arab countries of the time lay in none of these. The Arab is by nature a poet. His language is filled with poetry and wonderful sounds, so much so that even state papers were written in poetic form, and the extemporaneous poet was the most sought after of all men.
The Qabus Nama had a chapter of advice on the writing of poetry. Whether the son of the Prince of Gurgan profited by his father’s advice, I did not know, but I did. The prince had died a hundred years or more before my time, but his advice was still good.
One by one I checked escape routes from Córdoba, and I became familiar with the hours of closing the gates, and which guards were most strict or casual. From time to time I shared a bottle with those who would drink, for most Moslems would not.
Sometimes I frequented the low dives, making the acquaintance of mountebanks, jugglers, troubadours, and even thieves. I listened to the storytellers in the bazaars, thinking this might someday be of use. I practiced with the lute, and here or there I dropped a coin in a hand, or bought a meal.
It became known among them that I was the Kerbouchard who had sold the galley and who escaped from the castle where Prince Ahmed had me imprisoned. Bits of information came my way. Ibn-Haram had gone to North Africa. Prince Ahmed had still no son.
No longer was I employed at the great library, for Safia wished me ready to move at a moment’s notice, yet the library was open to me, and the scholars welcomed me. Safia supplied me with money, and the fact that I was earning the money removed my reluctance at accepting it. There were elaborate catalogues listing the books of the library, some of which were illustrated with great beauty, bound in aromatic woods and embossed leather inlaid with gems.
Among the books that came to the library were some written on the bark of trees, upon palm leaves, among bamboo or the wood of trees cut in thin slices. Others were written on animal skins, bones, thin plates of copper, bronze, antimony, clay, linen, and silk. Papyrus, leather, and parchment were common. Some were in tongues none of us could translate, such as those from Crete or Thera or Etruscan ruins.
There were scholars at the library who read in Sanskrit, in Pali, Kharoshthi, and even the ancient Kashmir script, Sarada. Day after day I buried myself in my work, and now that I no longer was engaged in copying or translation, my studies went further afield, for I delved into that great storehouse of manuscripts untouched and unread.
One night Safia came to the room where I slept. “I have news.”
“News?”
“Your father may yet live.”
“What?” My heart was pounding.
“His galley was sunk off Crete, but he or somebody who resembled him was taken from the sea and sold into slavery.”
“Then I must go to Crete.”
“He is no longer there. He was sold to a merchant in Constantinople.”
My father was alive!
“I must go.”
Safia shook her head. “It would be foolish. Those who discovered this are making further inquiries. When I have news, you shall have it.”
Filled with impatience, I had yet to wait. Safia was right, of course. To dash off without further knowledge would be to set myself adrift once more. First, I must know what merchant bought him and if he was still the owner, or if he had sold him, to whom?
I had waited this long. I could wait longer. I would have to trust that Safia would not fail me just as I would not fail in my duty to her.
21
Where Safia procured the horses I did not know, but all were of the Al Khamsat al Rasul, the five great breeds superior to all other Arabian horses. Two were Kuhaila, one a Saglawi, the last a Hadbah. Only the third horse was a stallion, the first two and the last were mares, preferred by the Arab.
They were handsome animals, and the groom who cared for them was a desert Arab, a deaf mute. Obviously, the horses were his life and could be in no better hands, but I took time to caress them and become acquainted, feeding each a few fragments of naida, a confection made by soaking wheat for several days, allowing it to dry, then pounding it into cakes.
After visiting the horses a second time, I left by a roundabout route so that I might not be followed, and I discovered myself in the corner of a bazaar where there were several karob and wine shops. Hurrying past, I was stopped by a cool but familiar voice.
“If you wish to know, ask Kerbouchard!”
The voice was that of Valaba.
Turning, I saw her standing in the entrance to a wine shop, two young men beside her. She wore the Byzantine costume affected by some of the fashionable women of Córdoba, a tunic of pale blue that reached to her ankles and a mantle of dark blue embroidered with small Moline crosses of gold.
“Kerbouchard,” she said, “knows the far regions of the world. Ask him.”
One of the young men, slender and pale, merely glanced at me, taking in my rough student’s clothing. The other, a big, loose-jointed young man with mildly amused eyes, was more interested.
“We were speaking of the earth. Is it true that some Christian theologians believe the world to be flat?”
“Theologians,” I said, “should go to sea. The roundness of the world is proved every time a ship disappears over the horizon.”
Valaba turned toward the interior of the shop. “Kerbouchard, it is good to see you again. Will you join us? I would have you tell us of the lands beyond Thule.”
“Beyond Thule?” The tall young man put his hand on my shoulder. “Are there such lands?”
“They are a mystery only to scholars and writers of books. Fishing boats go there each season. I am a Celt, from Armorica, in Brittany. Fishing boats have sailed to those far lands from our isle of Brehat since before memory. Nor were they alone. Basque and Norman boats have been there also, and those from Iceland.”
“Tell me of those lands.”
“That I cannot. Our boat went for fish, and the land is remote, its people savage. When we caught our fish we came home.”
The fair-skinned young man was bored. He was also haughty. His look was disdainful. “A fisherman? In a student’s clothing?”
“We are all fishermen after a fashion,” I said. “Some fish for one thing, some for another.” I smiled at him. “Tell me, what are you fishing for?”
He stared at me, shocked at my reply. Before he could speak, Valaba said gently, her eyes showing her amusement, “You do not understand, Roderick. Mathurin Kerbouchard is Count Kerbouchard. In his country it is customary that all boys learn the way of the sea.”
The title, of course, was nonsense, although it had been said there were such at some bygone time. The rest of what she had said was simply the truth. I wondered how she knew so much. Or had she merely surmised? Titles had never impressed me. They were given to the servants of kings. I knew one who got his by helping the king on with his trousers each morning, or whatever he wore. We Kerbouchards were servants to no man. My father often said that he knew of no king with a family half as old as his own. Not that the age of the family was important, many an old tree bears bad fruit.