Together we walked through the entrance and into a small, intimate courtyard paved with fine, pink gravel. A double line of carefully tended ornamental shrubs led towards the slim white pillars of the portico to the main building. Husayn accompanied me up a short flight of marble steps and into the antechamber. His house was built as an open square and through an archway ahead of me I observed another courtyard, even larger than the first. Flowerbeds bordered a long, rectangular pool. In the centre of the pool rose a jet of water which fell back, making a pleasant splashing sound. Like the phenomenon of a black man, it was the first time I had ever seen a fountain.
‘You will forgive me if I leave you in the care of my steward,’ said the wali. ‘After such a long absence I have much to discuss with my councillors. God willing, we will dine together after evening prayers.’
He moved away to join two grave-looking men, both wearing high Saracen bonnets who had been hovering in the background. The elderly steward escorted Osric and me along the colonnaded gallery that surrounded the central courtyard. At the far end he turned to his left and, opening a door, showed us into a set of rooms. Our panniers and saddlebags had already been placed inside. The steward bowed formally and withdrew, closing the door behind him. I heard a click.
I gazed about me, overawed by the level of comfort. High glazed windows let in daylight and made the room bright and cheerful. The walls were covered with tiles painted with patterns of flowers, blue on white. The plaster ceiling was intricately moulded into geometric shapes that had been subtly picked out in muted shades of red and green. Rich carpets were spread on the floor and draped over low couches. A lantern crafted from perforated copper hung by a chain from the ceiling. On a low table a tray with a bowl of fruit, a jug and porcelain cups had been placed. By comparison, Carolus’s private apartments in Aachen were a cowshed.
Osric had paused, as if reluctant to step further into the room.
‘I once lived in a house like this,’ he said quietly, his voice full of a wistful sadness, ‘though not so large or opulent. My father was a well-known doctor.’
I turned to him in surprise. It was the first time he had ever mentioned his own family.
‘I studied to follow in his profession. But he died of a fever he caught from one of his patients and, in my sorrow and anger at life’s whims, I decided I wanted nothing more to do with medicine. I chose to go to sea as a merchant and, as you know, was wrecked on my very first voyage.’
There was such aching distress in his face that an impulse made me say, ‘Would you like to return to that life when this is over?’
He thought for a moment, considering his reply, and then shook his head sadly.
‘It would be all but impossible. These are not my people, and there is no place for me among them. You should realize that Saracens can be as different from one another as Greeks are from Franks, or Saxons from Romans.’
I went across to the door and tried to open it. As I suspected, it was locked.
Osric dropped his voice almost to a whisper.
‘Politics here are dangerous. Today Husayn is an ally of the governor of Barcelona. Tomorrow he may switch his allegiance to Barcelona’s most bitter enemy.’
I recalled what old Gerard had told me of the in-fighting among the Saracens and why the king had sent me to Hispania.
‘Osric, I’m going to need your help more than ever before,’ I said, speaking softly in case anyone was listening outside the door. ‘I need to learn whether the wali is genuine in seeking the king’s help against his enemies.’
‘I’ll keep my ears open,’ murmured Osric. He seemed to have regained his usual careful poise and began unpacking our luggage. I explored our new quarters. Beyond the living area was a sleeping room and then a small marble-lined wash room. There towels had been laid out. A wall alcove held a display of jars containing various creams and on a wooden stand was a large metal basin. I dipped my finger into it. The water it contained was hot.
‘If this is to be our prison, it’s a comfortable one,’ I said, returning to the main room where Osric had opened an inlaid chest and found a store of clean clothes in the Saracen style. I held up one of the garments for inspection. It was a long gown of fine wool with an embroidered edging. I sniffed. It had a pleasant slightly musty smell.
‘What’s that?’ I asked.
‘Kafur, a perfume to keep the garment sweet and the insects away. It’s also used as flavouring in cooking.’ Osric allowed himself a grim smile. ‘Too much kafur in your food is fatal, and there is no known cure.’
‘I doubt the wali is planning to do away with me just yet,’ I said. ‘We’ll get on with translating the Oneirokritikon until I’m called for the evening meal. I have a feeling that the wali will want to talk to me about it.’
Washed and changed into a gown, I sat down cross-legged on a cushion to use the low desk the wali provided for his guests. There was a metal stylus in place of a quill, and though the inkpot was familiar there was neither parchment nor vellum, only leaves of what looked like pale stiff fabric.
‘What’s this?’ I asked, holding one up to the light to examine it more closely. I could see what looked like matted fibres in the material.
‘Old rags soaked in quick lime, then washed and pounded together and dried into a sheet you can write on,’ explained Osric.
‘It doesn’t feel very durable,’ I said dubiously and wrote out a trial sentence. The tip of the stylus scratched and skipped on the rough surface but the result was legible.
Osric resumed his place in the Book of Dreams where we had left off our translation, and we settled down to work. We had reached the last few pages of the book by the time the light began to fade, and not long afterwards we heard the call to evening prayer and then a knock on the door. The chief steward was outside, waiting to escort me to dine with the wali. To my surprise, I saw that the meal was to be in the central courtyard, in the open air despite the winter chill. Carpets had been spread under the arches of the colonnaded gallery, lamps and cushions for two people arranged, and a row of lanterns lit and placed along the marble rim of the pool. The reflections shimmered in the ripples radiating from the fountain which was still sending up its jet of water. Above, the dark immensity of a cloudless sky was full of stars.
Husayn was waiting to greet me. He had changed into a pale-grey robe edged with gold brocade and when he stepped forward into the light of the lamps I saw he had refreshed the black eye-lining and his lip colour. He looked relaxed and self-assured, very much the master in his own home.
‘It is such a fine night I thought we should dine in traditional style,’ he said.
I took my seat on to the carpet. To my surprise it felt warm. I laid my hand on its surface to make sure. Husayn noted my interest.
‘We have to thank Zaragoza’s early rulers for installing a system of sending hot air beneath the floor tiles as well as leaving us with strong city walls and a never-failing water supply,’ he murmured, a subtle reminder of his city’s strength to resist attack.
The wali was a gracious and attentive host. A relay of servants brought out the trays of food, and he explained in careful detail how each dish had been prepared: lamb baked within a coating of olive oil, salt and turmeric; rice flavoured with saffron and then a handful of dried and chopped jujube mixed in; sherbet prepared from the juices of crushed pomegranate and orange. So many of the names and tastes were new to me that I almost failed to notice the alcachofa roasted in oil that the wali had remembered to order from his kitchen.
‘Nearly everything you have eaten this evening was produced within a day’s journey of Zaragoza,’ he said contentedly as we finished the meal. He gestured for the servants to clear away the remains of our feast. A plate of dried figs was set down between us, along with a silver ewer of water and a bowl so that we could wash our hands. Then the attendants collected up the nearest lamps and withdrew, leaving only the lanterns around the pool and, close to us, a single lighted wick floating in a small earthenware bowl of scented oil. The wali waited until we were alone, then he turned towards me. His face was in shadow making his expression inscrutable. I sensed that he was about to broach the main topic of the evening.