He glanced at it. ‘The shell from a cardamom seed.’
‘Cardamom?’
‘A spice, from India. It’s used for flavouring food.’
I flicked the shell away casually, held the bag upside down, and shook it. Nothing fell out.
There was a sudden buzz of excitement from the men examining the bloodstained cloak and we hurried over to see what was causing the fuss. One of the camel drivers was holding out his hand. On the grimy palm were four gold coins.
‘He found them sewn into the hem of the cloak,’ said Abram, listening to their excited chatter.
‘Advance payment for setting loose our animals,’ I said bitterly. ‘Ask if we can take a closer look.’
Abram spoke to the caravan leader and one by one the coins were handed to him so that he could examine them, watched suspiciously by the camel men.
‘Can you learn anything from them?’ I asked the dragoman.
He shrugged. ‘Not really. They’re the caliph’s coinage, local money – and more than a humble camel driver could earn in a year.’
He gave the coins back and we accompanied the group to the thorn bushes to see what they had found. It was a man’s body, part eaten by wild animals. Flies were already gathering on the mangled flesh. There was little to glean about him except that he had been of slight build, with delicate hands and feet, and probably in his early thirties. Except for his sandals and a torn undershirt, nothing survived of his clothing. What he had looked like when alive was difficult to imagine. The hyenas had chewed off most of his face.
Chapter Fourteen
BAGHDAD
*
I had never imagined that Baghdad would be so vast, or so hot. The breeze that filled the sails of the merchant ship that brought us from al-Qulzum had kept us agreeably cool during a trouble-free five-week voyage, so the scorching July heat of the caliph’s capital was all the more stunning.
‘It must be the largest city in the world,’ I remarked to Osric holding up my hand to shield my eyes from the blinding white glare of the sun. In Basra, now three weeks behind us, Abram had arranged for our remaining animals to be transferred to an upriver barge, and it was from the Tigris that I was getting my first impression of the caliph’s extraordinary capital. It was huge. Docks, quays, residences, boatyards, gardens, workshops, warehouses and steps for washing laundry lined the banks. In the distance an enormous green dome seemed to float above the low houses of the sprawling suburbs shimmering in the haze.
‘Baghdad is a thousand years younger than Constantinople but already twice its size,’ put in the dragoman, with more than a hint of pride.
I gave him a sideways glance. Abram was no longer the quiet and self-effacing guide I had known previously. He imparted his knowledge of the caliph’s realm in a manner that was close to patronizing. I ascribed the change in him to a sense of relief that our long journey was almost at an end. I felt the same.
‘Two generations ago this place was nothing more than a riverside village,’ he continued. ‘Haroun’s grandfather, Caliph Mansour, picked the site, brought in the architects and city planners, and paid the wages of the masons, bricklayers, carpenters and other builders. A canal was dug to bring Tigris water to where the mud bricks were made.’
Abram nodded towards a riverside mansion. It appeared to have been abandoned. The boundary wall was crumbling, the garden overgrown, and the building itself was beginning to disintegrate. On either side of it the large houses were in perfect condition, trim and neat.
‘Baghdad is built of mud brick, sun dried or oven baked. Quick to build, almost as quick to disintegrate. That palace probably belongs to a court high official, and he’s found somewhere else he prefers to live. He’s simply walked away.’
‘And left it behind?’
The dragoman shrugged. ‘Why not? Baghdad is constantly expanding. Thousands of people arrive here every month from the countryside. Land speculation is on a massive scale. A grove of palm trees given by the caliph to a court favourite ten years ago when it was on the edge of town is suddenly worth hundreds of thousands of dinars as the site for new housing.’
‘And everything depends on the caliph’s whim?’
‘Nearly everything.’ Abram turned to me, his tone sharper. ‘Make no mistake. You are about to encounter the richest, most profligate, open-handed, and luxury-loving court on the face of the earth. A place where a singer whose sentimental song tugs at the caliph’s heartstrings might receive a gift of enough pearls to fill his mouth. Or a poet writes a few successful lines and suddenly finds himself the owner of a house and servants so that he can spend the rest of his life at ease.’
‘What happens to those who incur the caliph’s anger?’
‘If you get to meet Caliph Haroun in person, take a look at the grim-faced man always standing a few paces behind him. He’s known as “the blade carrier of his vengeance” – the palace executioner. Last time I was in Baghdad it was a man named Masrur.’
The broad surface of the Tigris was swarming with water traffic. Barges, lighters, freighters and rafts rode the current loaded with their cargoes. With little or no wind, many were being moved with long sweeps or towed behind rowed boats. Passenger ferries shuttled from one side of the river to the other. Fishermen hung their lines from small skiffs and set and hauled nets. Pleasure craft had colourfully striped awnings under which their occupants sat on cushions, relaxing while hired boatmen or slaves worked the oars. Every few minutes yet another boat would emerge from the mouth of one of the small canals that joined the river and take its place in the throng.
‘We’ll be landing very soon,’ warned Abram. ‘We’re nearly at the first of the three pontoon bridges that cross the river. I doubt that the bridge keepers will open up the bridge to let us pass.’
In Basra, Abram had met with customs officials and impressed on them that we were gift-bearers from the King of the Franks to the Commander of the Faithful. We had been promised every assistance, but opening a pontoon bridge and disrupting the city traffic was too much to expect.
‘How far to where we can house the animals and find our own accommodation?’ I asked.
‘I expect we’ll be allocated space inside the Round City itself. That’s the caliph’s personal precinct.’
One of the minor officials assigned to escort us from Basra was already coming along the deck towards us. Two assistants followed, carrying a large chest between them. They set down the chest and threw back the lid to reveal a store of neatly pressed garments made of fine white cotton. Walo and I had already taken our example from Abram and Osric and were wearing loose-fitting Saracen clothing suitable for such stifling weather. But our garments were travel-stained and crumpled, and it was a pleasure to put on the local costume – loose trousers and a wide-sleeved long shirt with pockets. Everything was crisp, clean and newly laundered. The official also insisted that we put on an additional over-gown of white cotton. This too was required of anyone who passed in through the gates of the Round City. Finally, we had to select our headgear because it would be considered uncouth to go about bare headed. Osric was comfortable with a dazzling white turban and from his own baggage Abram produced a white skullcap. Walo and I hesitated. Neither of us were expert in winding a turban around our head, or keeping it there. So the official issued us with small neat caps shaped like pots, around which he wound and then pinned in place a length of white cloth. The caps felt strange, but were sufficient to satisfy local custom.