The Father of Locks Read online

  “Now you have discovered my secret. But you will be the last human being ever to do so.”

  The jeweller’s daughter watched, helpless, as the door slowly closed. Then the darkness was complete.

  This much I can tell you. Only God knows all.

  One

  The Tale of the Thief in the House of Wisdom

  It was a Golden Age.

  As a nightmare fades in the mind of a man blinking awake, so the dark days of violence and bloodshed seemed scarcely real now that peace dawned across the Land of Islam. From the flood plains of the Nile to the bitter deserts beyond the Oxus, the Abbasid dynasty had prevailed over its foes. And all true believers bowed the knee to the young and handsome Khalifah, the Successor to the Prophet of God, the Commander of the Faithful: Harun al-Rashid, the Righteous One.

  Of course the Holy War against the Unbeliever went on, as it would until the Day of Judgement. Every summer the warriors marched to war against the Christians of the Roman Empire. But they were civilised people, the Romans, People of the Book, and it was a civilised war that was waged against them, in the Golden Age. There would be raids across the border, some minor scuffles and sieges, a few small towns would change hands. Then the combatants would exchange prisoners, and everyone would return home to tend to their harvests.

  The Roman Empire was like the serpent that continues to writhe after being cut in two, still dangerous but slowly bleeding to death. Its western half had long since rotted into anarchy. Even the city of Rome itself had fallen, and the empire that bore its name was ruled from New Rome, or Konstantinopolis as it was sometimes known.

  There were those who said, in the markets and bath houses, that Christianity rose again in the west. They said that a yellow haired barbarian called Karlo sought to subjugate the warlords and have himself crowned Emperor in Old Rome. However, to most true believers, he was no more real than the monsters or spirits with which storytellers frighten children.

  The glory of the Golden Age was made manifest in the Khalifate’s glittering capital. The great city of Baghdad was a mere quarter of a century old, and bristled with the arrogance and pustulence of youth. Everywhere it shucked its seed, proliferant and unchecked. Every day new citizens arrived, drawn by the lure of power, wealth and opportunity. Not only true believers but Jews and Christians and Mazdaists came, from Athens and Aswan and Samarqand, from the banks of the Indus and from the Kingdom of Yemen beyond the Empty Sands. Artisans and artists, doctors, astronomers and scribes, whores and mystics, peasants and princes, schemers and dreamers, the hopeful and the hopeless came to Iraq to bathe in the light of the Golden Age.

  To the south of the city lay the suqs of Karkh, the bustling markets that sprawled over a square mile of land. Trade was brisk, and Faruz the Costermonger strained to hear his customer over the pitching and haggling of the other stallholders. As he leaned across to listen, he did not notice the slight figure who slipped three apples from his barrow and hid them under his patched tunic. No matter. Faruz had already made fifteen dirhams that week. If his business continued to thrive, he might be able to take a second wife before winter came. The thought of lying between two women, each competing to please him, made him smile. Even for a simple dealer in fruit, it was a Golden Age.

  The thief in the patched tunic, a young man of some fifteen or sixteen years, headed north through the crowded streets, picking his way over the wheel ruts and the donkey shit, scampering across boats to traverse the canals that blocked his way, ignoring the shouts of the bargees. Ahead loomed the walls of the City of Peace, the height of seven men. The youth leaned against a well, munching one of the apples, and watched the traffic through the Kufah Gate.

  The City of Peace was the germ from which Baghdad had grown so rapidly and violently. The Righteous One’s grandfather, al-Mansur the Victorious, had himself marked its limits, trailing ashes behind him as he traced a two mile circle on the ground. Then he had oil poured on the ashes and the circle set alight, so that his vision leapt into life, a city of fire in the night.

  This infamously thrifty man, who commanded an empire but darned his own robes, spent twenty tons of gold on making his dream a reality. A hundred thousand craftsmen laboured for four years to create the perfect metropolis on the banks of the Tigris. Now Baghdad lay at the crossroads of the world.

  In the shadows of the walls of al-Mansur’s Round City, the young thief contemplated the soldiers of the Guard. He watched as they stopped and quizzed incomers, before the heavy wooden door slid up into the gatehouse and granted admittance. He caught glimpses of the iron armour beneath the black robes, glinting in the sunshine. He studied the heavy swords hanging by their thighs. These were no cheap thugs like the Shurta, the City Police, who were mostly recruited from the gutters, and would be committing crime if they were not paid to prevent it. The men in black were highly trained soldiers, the Khalifah’s personal regiment.

  Their function was not to defend against foreign invaders, here at the heart of the empire. The greatest threat to the Khalifah came from within; fanatics and assassins were a constant menace. Yet even that danger was subdued in the Golden Age. The revolution that swept the Abbasids to power had almost wiped out the Umayyad clan, who had reigned for a century before them. Only the young prince Abd al-Rahman had escaped, and he was now struggling to establish a tiny kingdom at the edge of the world, in the land called al-Andalus.

  Inside its borders, the Land had recovered from the fevers that had convulsed it and threatened its very existence. Now it stretched like a cat, luxuriating in the ease and fecundity that came with peace. The dissidents and heretics, the Alids, the Kharijites, the Zindiqs: all were silent, or at worst confined to shabby small conspiracies of desperate men.

  Nonetheless the Guard patrolled the circumference of the City of Peace, and buildings and market stalls crowded the base of its walls. Anyone attempting to scale them, even after dark, would be quickly spotted. The thief must find another way in.

  While he mused, a father and his son passed by. Ishaq was excited. It was his eleventh birthday, and his father was taking him to visit his uncle Musa. Musa was not a real uncle, but his grandfather’s cousin. However he was very rich, and they always ate well when they visited him. Since his mother had died, and they had moved from Ukhaydir to the new city, there had been many days when there was no food on the table, and Ishaq went to bed hungry.

  Ishaq’s father Ibrahim did not share his excitement. He pretended he was nervous, but in truth he felt guilty. He would have tried to prepare the boy for what was to come, if he could have found the words. Instead he gave a thin smile and gripped his hand tightly. Life had been hard since they came to Baghdad. Uncle Musa could open doors in the capital, help him to a post in the civil service. From the moment the old man described Ishaq as beautiful, Ibrahim knew he had no choice. For some there were sacrifices to be made, to be a part of the Golden Age.

  The ragged young man threw the apple core away, and stepped forward. The flow of traffic through the gate had been disrupted by a fat man in a red turban trying to drive a train of mules into the city. The animals, having halted while their owner negotiated with the guards, were reluctant to start moving again. Slaves ran around whipping the beasts and shouting, while those waiting to gain entrance cursed and spat.

  The young man saw his chance. He worked his way through the throng and put his shoulder to a mule’s behind, slapping its flank. A slave boy looked at him quizzically, but the youth winked and tossed him an apple. The boy accepted the bribe solemnly and said nothing.

  With much complaining the beasts lumbered back into motion. They trudged through the long passageway under the outer wall, and across the open ground that led to the inner fortifications. The second wall was even higher than the first. Its massive iron gates had been found on the site of an ancient city. No craftsman of the present day could have forged them, even in a Golden Age; and it was said that Jinni had created them by magic, at the command of Sulayman ibn Dawud, King of t
he Jews.

  The youth slipped through in the wake of the procession, then dodged away as they passed through the second gate. He crouched in the shadows and considered his next move.

  Beggars were forbidden in the City of Peace, and his tattered clothes would soon attract unwanted attention. Besides, his appearance was unusual in other ways. Beneath the dirt and suntan it was apparent that his skin was pale, almost white. This unearthly pallor made his dark eyes all the more striking. He needed to find a refuge until sunset.

  The building across the street was modest by the standards of the Round City. Its portal was of plain wood, studded with black metal. Above the door, however, was an alcove, decorated with brightly painted stucco.

  There was nobody around. The youth scampered across the street and leapt up, grabbing the edge of the alcove. With a strength that seemed unlikely in his slender arms, he hauled himself up and slithered into the recess. Here he was invisible to all but the most assiduous observer below. He pulled out the last of the apples and settled down to wait.

  Inside the building Muti’a inhaled carefully. She needed enough breath to carry her through the long first phrase, but not so much that her voice became strained. The slave girl opened her mouth, and hit the first note with an easy purity that even she herself found thrilling.

  This was perhaps the most important song she would ever sing. If she could persuade Ali ibn Isa that she was worth the twenty thousand dinars that was her asking price, she could look forward to a life of comfort. The Khalifah’s friend was a man of culture, who appreciated artistry and treated his musicians well. Besides, the gossip was that his sexual demands were straightforward, and that he was quickly satisfied. Muti’a was hopeful that that part of her duties would be not too onerous. Even for women, or at least for a few lucky ones, the reign of Harun al-Rashid could be a Golden Age.

  Outside the last rays of the sun warmed the youth in his hiding place. Rather I should say, warmed me; for I remember the cool stone on my back, and the crisp sweetness of the stolen fruit as I bit into its flesh. I must confess that I was that pale thief – yes, I was young once, however strange that seems now. I find it hard to believe myself. Yet how many of us, as we look back to our past, really recognize ourselves in those callow, distant adolescents whose decisions have set the course of our lives?

  You may be cross with me, perhaps, and feel that I have deceived you. You may ask, how could I have known the names of the costermonger, of the boy and his father, and of the singing girl, let alone their innermost thoughts? I could not, of course; and I did not. But what I say is true, nonetheless. I am al-Rawiya, the Teller of Tales.

  As twilight fell I slipped from my perch and dropped to the ground. If my presence in the Round City during the daylight hours was risky, after dark it was potentially lethal. I flitted between the grand buildings, bare feet almost silent on the dirt. Fortunately the only other denizens of the evening streets were rowdy groups of men with lanterns, whose noise and light gave me warning of their approach. It was easy to duck into cover as they passed by.

  Inside its walls, the City of Peace was not infested with the shanties that pullulated in the suburbs. Here there were only mansions and masjids, built by wealthy men to flaunt their importance. I knew that these strongholds guarded gold and jewels far beyond any hoard I had ever seen; but it was wealth of a different kind that I sought. I ventured on, until the Palace of the Gilded Gate came into view.

  The Gilded Gate lay at the heart of the Round City, just as the Round City lay at the heart of Baghdad; and Baghdad itself at the centre of the world. The Umayyads had ruled from Dimashq, close to the holy cities of Makkah and Madinah. By moving his capital east, al-Mansur had not only distanced himself from the old regime, he had changed the very nature of the Khalifate. Here, in the fertile Black Lands between the rivers, far from the savage deserts where God spoke to his prophets, was the very womb of civilisation. Here the first city had been built, the first laws written down, the first canals dug. Here the brooding passion of Arabia met the haughty hedonism of Persia. The two cultures scrapped and coupled like mating dogs, and from this clash was begotten the Golden Age.

  The primacy of the Gilded Gate was now purely symbolic. The Khalifah himself no longer lived there, preferring to make his home in Blissful Eternity, his pleasure palace by the Tigris. Yet the vast dome of al-Mansur’s citadel, a hundred cubits high and one thousand across, still dominated the city, watching over the Ummah, the Family of Islam, like a stern but protective father. But it was power of a different kind that had tempted me to risk my life. My destination lay elsewhere.

  In the light of the waxing moon it was hard to find my way. The streets and alleys twisted deceptively, and all the buildings began to look alike. The crude map, sketched onto parchment, that I drew from my tunic was hard to read. I tried to keep the dome in sight, navigating by it as if by a star, and after a long, nervous hour I found the place I sought.

  It was a plain, square edifice, distinguished only by a slender tower, like a minaret, at the far end. Amid the ostentation of the Round City it looked like the ugly, stunted runt of the litter. But the name over the door, painted in elegant calligraphic script, spoke to me of magic and wonder: The House of Wisdom.

  The door was locked and the windows shuttered, but I planned to use a different entrance in any case. I skirted the building until I reached the base of the tower. Then I began to climb.

  The City of Peace was for the most part constructed of costly materials, marble, glass, sandstone and alabaster. The House of Wisdom, in contrast, used the same dried mud bricks as the poorer houses beyond the circular walls. This made my ascent much easier. My toes wriggled into tiny crevices, my fingers scraped away mortar to find a better grip. Before long I was high enough above the street to crack my bones if I fell. However, I was also high enough that when a man passed by below, I remained unnoticed.

  If he had looked up, he would have seen me, clinging like a lizard twenty cubits up the wall. But he did not, and he walked on. To stay still was harder than to move, and my fingers ached as I tried to hush my breathing. I started climbing again before he was even out of sight, hands shaking with the effort.

  I could not stop again, and I could no longer look down. Finding the holds, testing my weight, battling the pain and the urge to ease it by just letting go, took all my concentration. If anyone else passed, I would have to take my chances.

  At forty cubits my fingers at last felt the ledge of a window. However this was the moment of the greatest danger. I tried to pull myself up, and found that my muscles had frozen. I had to hang for a moment, find a still point amid the agony and fear, then move slowly and by small stages until I could grip the sill with both hands. Finally I heaved my aching body through the window, and tumbled onto the timbered floor inside the tower.

  For several minutes I lay there in the darkness and silence, enjoying the relief and the sensation of being alive. Then I sat up and looked around.

  The room was circular, occupying the full width of the tower. Opposite me was a hole in the floor, that must lead to a staircase or ladder. At first I thought the wall that curved round the room was panelled in wood. When I got to my feet and looked closer, I saw that the panelling was in fact hundreds of hinged doors. Each was around the height and width of my hand.

  I traced my finger across one of the doors. It was marked with three symbols. It had been a few years since I had seen such letters, but as I traced them with my finger the learning came back to me. For a moment I was a child again, studying the strange shapes with Hermes the Kritan, and their names sounded like an incantation: Alpha. Beta. Gamma.

  Every door had a different combination of three Greek letters. I selected one with the symbols Sigma, Alpha, Pi, and examined it carefully. Below the Greek letters was a row of different signs. Recognising these required a more difficult and painful remembrance, but in time it came to me. It was a Latin alphabet, but with most of the letters missing.

&
nbsp; I checked a number of doors, and found that although the Greek symbols were different on each, the Latin letters always followed the same sequence:

  C D I L M V X

  When I touched one I found that it receded slightly into the wood. There was a sound of delicate metalwork shifting inside, a sound I was familiar with from years of picking locks. The symbols, then, formed some kind of password, granting or denying access to the mystery within, to the secrets that had drawn me half way across the world and into terrible danger. But what was the key that would open the box?

  Something about the Latin letters tugged at my memory, something that linked the symbols selected. Then it struck me. They were not letters at all, but numbers. C was one hundred, D five hundred, and so on. I recalled that Greek letters also had numerical values, although these did not change according to position. In the Latin system a numeral coming before a larger number was subtracted from it, not added to it. So VI was six, five plus one, but IV was four, five minus one.

  I was close to unravelling the knot. I returned to the first door I had inspected. If I remembered the Greek system correctly, Sigma was two hundred. Alpha, the first letter, was of course one, and Pi was eighty. Two hundred and eighty one.

  I turned my attention to the Latin numerals. Two hundred was CC: I pressed the letter “C” twice, carefully. Eighty became “LXXX”, fifty and three tens. Last, I touched the letter “I”, once only, to represent the final digit. My fingertips knew the lock had been sprung before the door slowly swung open.

  It was too dark to see inside the compartment. Groping in the hole made my fingertips itch, and I half expected to feel the sharp prick of a scorpion tail, but instead I touched a cylinder of odd, soft material.