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-panelled 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, counsellors, 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 parchment-like 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 Caitriona, 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 honour 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.