‘I wonder if it would be possible to check something that Artimedorus wrote?’ I asked.
Musa swung round to face us. ‘Of course. You read Greek?’
I shook my head, and thought it wiser not to say that Osric and I had once had our own copy, and still kept a few pages. ‘I had a couple of dreams on the journey here. They might be significant. Perhaps the Oneirokritikon can offer an explanation.’
‘What were they?’ asked Musa.
‘I dreamed of a man covered with bees and, in another dream, someone was climbing inside the body of a dead elephant.’
It took Musa some time to find the first reference, then he read out: ‘“To see a man covered in bees, who is not a farmer, is to foretell his death.” ’
I was aware of the accusing glance that Osric flicked in my direction.
Musa was leafing further through the book. Then he read, ‘ “If one dreams of a person breaking the skin and entering the body of a dead elephant it means that person will one day derive great riches.” ’
He closed the book. ‘The problem with the Oneirokritikon is that far too many of the explanations deal with making or losing money. Very Greek . . .’ He gave a throaty chuckle.
He replaced the Oneirokritikon on the shelf. ‘And naturally the author covers himself against mistakes.’ He thought for a moment and then quoted, ‘“A dream that comes through a gate of horn is false; a dream that comes through a gate of ivory is true.” ’
His fleshy shoulders moved in a dismissive shrug. ‘What on earth can that really mean?’
He reached down another volume from further along the same shelf. ‘I don’t suppose the librarian would approve, but we have an hour or so before he comes to collect you – why don’t I illustrate how astrology is more reliable than dreams when indicating the future?’
He brought the large, heavy book across and opened it on the desk.
From where I sat I could see that the page was covered with columns of numbers, various symbols and drawings with lines and circles that vaguely recalled the geometric patterns in the courtyard.
‘I’m no expert like old Yakub outside. I just dabble in these things. But if you tell me some of the key dates in your journey I may be able to put together a simple prediction of how it will end. For a start, I need to know the date when you started on your journey. Also the dates and places of your births.’
Osric and I provided the information as best we could, and Musa carefully wrote it down. He then spent a long time turning back and forth the pages of the great book and making calculations on a sheet of parchment. Finally, after a good twenty minutes, he sat back. ‘Interesting,’ he said. ‘I’ve calculated – very roughly, you understand – the star signs, the houses of the planets, mansions of the moon, both on your birth dates and when you began your journey, how the constellations varied along your path, and the timing of your arrival here.’
‘What are your conclusions?’ I asked. I was sceptical of the accuracy of such a method, but impressed by the amount of mathematical calculation. It seemed more arcane and intricate than merely dreaming.
‘According to the astrology, your journey is not yet over. There will be more hardship, some disappointment and death, but – finally – great happiness. Life will change back to where it began.’
I was mildly disillusioned. Musa’s predictions were hardly less ambiguous than the Oneirokritikon.
Behind us came the sound of the door opening, then the librarian’s reedy voice announced that our escort had arrived and was waiting to bring us back to our lodgings. We got to our feet and thanked Musa for his help.
I avoided looking at Osric as we left the building. We had gone only a few yards before he asked in a low voice, ‘Sigwulf, why didn’t you tell me that your dream of two wolves and Walo covered with bees is an omen of his death?’
There was an uncomfortable pause as I struggled to find the right words. ‘You forget that the Book of Dreams also states that madmen achieve what they set out to do, which is why I thought Walo should travel with us.’
When my friend did not reply, I added lamely, ‘Walo has proved to be our lucky mascot, essential to our embassy. Thanks to him, the ice bears have reached Baghdad, not to speak of the gyrfalcons.’
Osric stopped abruptly and turned towards me, his eyes searching my face. ‘And if this costs him his life?’
‘My dream with the bees was nothing to do with his impending death,’ I said firmly. ‘As I told you, a bear is called a “bee wolf” in the Northlands, and the dream was fulfilled the day Walo crawled into the cage and sat between the two bears without being harmed.’
Osric looked only half persuaded.
‘Walo was rejected by his family, struggling to survive, teased and mocked by strangers,’ I concluded. ‘Whatever happens to him now must be better than if we had left him behind in Aachen.’
My friend managed a slight nod, as if to accept my reasoning but, as we walked on in silence, I felt that the foundations of our mutual trust had shifted slightly.
*
Nadim Jaffar kept his word. A servant called at our lodgings the following morning with a message that our private audience with the Commander of the Faithful would take place later that day. He also brought two sets of black clothes, so it seemed that Abram was not expected to attend. Indeed, we had seen little of our dragoman since he had obtained permission to find accommodation with his co-religionists outside the Round City. His role as a guide was largely redundant. Whenever Osric and I stepped outside, a guide was loitering in the street. Doubtless an employee of Jaffar’s barid, sent to keep an eye on us, he insisted on accompanying us everywhere, showing us the sights. At the caliph’s lion enclosures we had learned that Osric’s information had been correct; we counted thirty of the beasts in captivity.
‘No avenue of lions held on chains, I hope,’ I joked nervously to Osric as we put on black silk shirts and long gowns, black trousers and belts, black slippers and tall, narrow hats made of straw and covered with black felt stitched with black brocade.
My hat was nearly the length of my arm, and threatening to topple sideways. Osric came across to straighten it. ‘It would be tactful to wrap the bestiary in a length of black cloth before presenting it to the caliph,’ he suggested.
I selected a spare black turban and wound it around the precious volume.
Soon after midday, the same man who had brought us to Nadim Jaffar’s garden arrived to bring us to our meeting with the caliph. Instead of leading us towards the great dome of the central palace as I expected, he took us in the opposite direction, out of the city by the north-east gate and towards the river. We negotiated the narrow streets of a residential quarter and came to an imposing gatehouse flanked by brick walls too high to see what lay on the other side. Guards searched us, unwrapping the bestiary, and checking that it was not hollowed out to conceal a weapon. Beyond the gatehouse we emerged onto a broad, open terrace a hundred yards in length and built along the river front. It gave a spectacular view over the Tigris with its constant movement of boats across to the array of grand houses lining the far bank, and – a little downstream – the main city pontoon bridge. Overlooking this lively scene was a handsome palace in the Saracen style. Tiled domes gleamed turquoise in the late afternoon sun. Bands of polished marble – dark red, black and green – emphasized the symmetry of the rows of arched windows along the façade. The main entrance was framed by slender marble columns and high enough for a man to enter on horseback. This, our guide informed us, was the Khuld Palace, the Palace of Eternity, and here the caliph would receive us.
Veering off to one side, he took us to a side entrance half hidden by a screen of delicately carved stonework. Here he left us with a chamberlain waiting with two assistants, and they accompanied us down a long deserted corridor, past a line of closed doors. Tiled walls threw back the clack of our footsteps on the marble floor and, with our escort in such close attendance, we might as well have been prisoners on the way to their cells. The difference was the all-pervading scent of rosewater that perfumed the air. We were hurried up two flights of steps and then along a gallery that looked down on a large antechamber where small groups of black-clad men were standing and waiting, possibly for an audience with the caliph. There was no way of telling whether they were courtiers or officials. They did not look up, and it was clear, too, that our escort did not want us to be seen.