The Father of Locks Read online

  Carefully I drew it from the cavity, and took it over to the window to examine it in the moonlight. It was a scroll, but felt like no parchment I had ever encountered. It was lighter, more flexible, and rustled as I unfurled it. Memories of the Greek language were now flooding back, as I read the words on the scroll:

  “Phainetai moi kisos isos tieoisin …”

  “To me he seems the equal of God,

  that man who sits with you,

  his face so close to yours

  that he can taste the sweetness of your voice …”

  It was true, then. Here, in the tower of the House of Wisdom, locked away even from the scholars who were admitted to the library below, were hidden the lost books of the ancients. With this theme, and denoted by the letters Sigma Alpha Pi, what I held in my hands had to be the work of Sappho of Lesbos. If so, the words I was reading had been written over two thousand years ago.

  Sappho, a Greek aristocrat who had lived on the island of Lesbos in the White Middle Sea, was one of the most important figures in the history of poetry. Her passion for both men and other women drove her to pour out her feelings in verse, to use the forms of sacred hymns to speak of longing, lust and loss; to become the very first poet of love. However, her work had all but disappeared, surviving only in fragments.

  The scroll that I held now could not be two millennia old, though. The miraculous substance on which the verse was scribed was clean and white. I recalled other rumours, of secret techniques imported from China, by which rags were transformed into a new kind of parchment, called paper. If the medium was new, that meant that the lost books were not only being preserved, but transcribed, copied.

  My heart was beating faster than it had when I was scaling the wall. Somewhere, within the room, must be the text I sought, the one that I had risked my life for the slightest chance of reading. I began to scour the panels for the combination I needed: Alpha. Rho. Iota.

  So rapt was I in my search that I did not notice the walls grow brighter, as a glow emerged from the hole in the floor. It was only when I heard footsteps on the stairs that I realised someone was coming.

  Quickly I shoved the scroll back into its place. I looked around the room, but there was nowhere to hide. My hands seemed to hurt at the very thought of it, but I had no choice. I climbed back through the window, and hung from the sill.

  I contemplated working my way back down the tower, but the descent would be even harder than the climb. For the first time it occurred to me that I had made no plan to escape from the House of Wisdom, had never thought past the moment when I would behold the occult texts. Then a voice from above interrupted my despairing thoughts.

  “So, my young friend, you can hang there until you drop, and shatter your skull on the street below. Or you can come back in here and face me. Which is it to be?”

  Two

  The Tale of the Eunuch, the Wazir and the Chief of Police, which includes, The Marvellous Adventures of Ismail al-Rawiya

  As I dragged myself back into the room two pairs of hands helped me. However, their intent was not benign, and once I was inside they handled me roughly. I could not see who pinned my arms behind my back, but when the man in front of me spoke I recognised the voice that had addressed me earlier.

  “Well, lad, this is a strange place for a thief to ply his trade.”

  He was a heavily built man of middle age, holding a burning torch. I guessed that he had once been physically powerful but the muscle was now turning to fat. His robes were splendid, dyed orange and green and embroidered with gold thread. The impressive effect was marred, though, by the pustules that peppered his face, as if the acne of adolescence had become a lifelong affliction. His voice was the high-pitched croon of the eunuch.

  The pimpled man looked at me as if waiting for me to speak, but he had asked me no questions and I was not inclined to give answers. He huffed at my silence and said to my unseen captor:

  “Bring him.”

  I was forced over to the hole in the floor and thence to the staircase. Along the way I caught glimpses of the man who was holding me. He looked like a northerner, perhaps a Khazar. I assumed he was a slave, a bodyguard, judging from the long sword that hung from his side. Certainly he was strong, and I did not resist him.

  At the bottom of the stairs a heavy door stood ajar. We passed through it into a short corridor, and the pimpled eunuch locked it behind us with a golden key. He pushed open another door ahead of him, through which we emerged into the main library of the House of Wisdom. Here the Arabic scrolls stood on wooden shelves, row after row filling the huge hall. When he closed the portal through which we had entered, I noticed that it seemed to form part of the wall, complete with shelving. From inside the library it was invisible, unless one knew where to look.

  However I had little opportunity to examine these wonders before I was shoved outside. For the first time I considered attempting an escape. If I could slip from the Khazar’s grasp, I was confident that I could outpace the two bigger men. Unfortunately he tightened his grip, and my wrists were sore by the time our short journey through the empty streets had come to an end.

  We arrived at a great house not far from the Gilded Gate. Its facade was ornate, and the broad doors swung open at our approach. Somebody was watching for the return of the master.

  Once inside, servants rushed to attend to the eunuch. They escorted us through the vestibule to a courtyard, and across a fragrant garden. At the far end was a room, with a roof and three walls but open on one side to the cool, perfumed air.

  In this pleasant snug were two men, sitting on farsh rugs. Slave girls knelt at their feet, with golden goblets of wine and platters of fruit. The atmosphere was relaxed, but the men reeked of power. One was a sharp faced Arab with a steel-grey beard, the other, younger man, a lean, handsome Persian in his early thirties. It was he who greeted my captor.

  “Here comes the Speckled One! Have you found the text which proves me right? And do you have the thousand dinars which you owe me in consequence?”

  Then he noticed me, and rose to his feet.

  “In the name of God! What apparition have you brought to astound us, Salam? Is this pale urchin a spirit, that you have summoned as a witness in your cause?”

  The eunuch, whom he had called Salam, and also the Speckled One, mimed that he was out of breath, and sat down on a third rug. He signalled to a slave for wine, which he slurped theatrically before speaking.

  “It is a curious tale, mighty Wazir, and one that I thought might amuse you. As I approached the House of Wisdom, I heard a rattle, as if dust were raining down the side of the building. I looked up, to see this strange creature scaling the tower like a fly. While I watched, he disappeared through the window into the Chamber of the Ancients.

  “Since I had Ilig with me, and knew the thief to be alone, I had no hesitation in ascending the tower and apprehending the creature. He appears to be human, but has spoken not a word. What shall we do with him?”

  The Persian seemed amused by the situation. Salam had called him Wazir, meaning minister of state. It was possible this was a nickname, but the cool authority with which he spoke suggested he really did hold that high rank.

  “His courage and skill, in reaching the Chamber, seem to be matched only by his misfortune. What ill luck that our wager should take you to the library after dark, just in time to catch him; and worse luck that he should be caught by a man who happened to be entertaining both the Wazir and the Chief of Police!”

  The old Arab, whom I assumed must be the Police Chief, snarled impatiently:

  “Why do you waste our time with this nonsense, Salam? The boy is a thief, cut off his hands and throw him out on the street to bleed to death.”

  The eunuch gestured. Two slaves seized hold of my arms. This freed the bodyguard Ilig to step away and unsheathe his sword. I had held my peace while I watched where my destiny led me, but I had to speak now, or haemorrhage my life in the gutters of the City of Peace.

  �
��The Sharia states that two eyewitnesses must swear an oath before the amputation of hands. Since I took nothing from the tower, there has been no theft, and can be no witnesses.”

  This pronouncement was followed by a stunned silence. Then the hush was broken by howls of laughter from the Wazir. His hilarity seemed to enrage the Police Chief further.

  “You dare to quote the Sharia to me! Do you know who I am, boy? I have been appointed to keep the peace by the Khalifah himself, the Commander of the Faithful. In this town I am the Sharia.”

  The slaves stretched my left arm till my shoulder cracked, and I felt the cold touch of the Khazar’s sword on my wrist as he aimed his blow. He raised his weapon to strike, and I cried out:

  “Would that I could save myself, and save you, from this waste!”

  The Wazir leapt forward, and seized the bodyguard’s wrist. He was no longer laughing, and his face was so close to mine that I could smell his minted breath as he spoke.

  “Tell me where those words come from, boy. Or I let him cut.”

  “The Ode of Tarafah, my lord. From the Mu’allaqat, the Seven Hanging Odes of the Jahili.”

  He stepped back, but signed for Ilig to put his sword away.

  “Ibn Zuhayr, with your permission, I would like to question this miscreant further.”

  The Chief of Police nodded sourly. The Wazir sat down on his farsh and contemplated me, while the Speckled One gulped his wine.

  It had been an insane gamble, but I had nothing to lose. And, praise be to God the All-Knowing and All-Powerful, it was, after all, a Golden Age, and a ragged youth could catch the attention of the masters of an empire by quoting poetry. And the masters of an empire would recognise that poetry, because for them there was no purpose to the empire and the power and the wealth if they could not surround themselves with beauty and brilliance, and the poetry they knew meant as much as the swords they commanded and the women they fucked.

  And that was really how it was.

  “The Chamber of the Ancients is a hard place to penetrate. Surely, you could have risked less and gained more by burgling some wealthy merchant?”

  This was not the right question, and I gave no answer, making the Wazir work to understand, even though it annoyed him.

  “What then, boy, gave you the wings to scale the tower? What were you after?”

  This was the right question.

  “I wanted to read the “Peri Poietikes” of Aristutalis.”

  The handsome Persian face was immobile for a moment. Perhaps his eyes widened very slightly. Then he shouted with laughter, falling backwards and beating the floor with his fists. Ibn Zuhayr, the Chief of Police, did not join his merriment, but seemed resigned that the matter had spiralled out of his jurisdiction. Salam the Speckled One, who I gathered was the least important of the three, decided it was politic to join in the joke, and shrieked his eunuch titters.

  At last the Wazir calmed himself, and, wiping his eyes, addressed me again.

  “Oh, the solemn gravity of youth! Very well, boy, I am intrigued. What is this sprite with white skin and black eyes, that wears rags and risks his life to read Greek philosophy? If you tell me who you are and where you are from, I may spare your hands.”

  And so I did.

  The Marvellous Adventures of Ismail al-Rawiya

  I do not remember my original name, the one my parents gave me. Perhaps they never bothered. From somewhere comes the word Mau, but you should call me Ismail.

  I was born in a land called Kernu. I could not tell you where it is. Later, when I found my way to civilisation, I saw maps, charts of the whole known world. My birthplace did not appear on them.

  Kernu was beyond the world, and felt like it too. It was cold, and battered by fierce winds, and constantly raided by someone called the Wolf King. Living was thin. My earliest memory is of scaling the cliffs by our home to gather samphire and steal gulls’ eggs, while my father yelled at me below. I think I could climb before I could walk.

  My father was a Christian priest. Holy men of the western church are required to be celibate, although I am living proof that they do not always observe their vows. Whether he was expelled from his order I could not say, but I remember very little praying, and a great deal of drinking and cursing.

  He did at least teach me some hymns, in the brief periods of geniality between hangover and violence, and to read and write a few words. When I could escape from him, I would sit alone on the clifftop, singing to myself, and I was happy. I think I may have learnt songs from my mother too, but my memories of her are uncertain. Do I truly recall that soft voice comforting me, or is it only my yearning? She died when I was very young. I suspect my father was responsible for her death, one way or another.

  Most of my childhood in Kernu seems like a dream, but the incident that snatched me from that life is as sharp as yesterday. I can see the brown skins of the strange men standing in our hut, hear their guttural shouts. I can feel the strong arm around my waist as they carried me away. I must have been about five years old.

  I do not know how much of the argument I understood at the time, and how much I discovered later, but the strangers were traders from distant Nekor. Somehow they had found their way to Kernu in search of tin, which was mined in the region. As they did not speak the local tongue, they had been brought to my father, who communicated with them in fractured Latin.

  He promised them tin, and took in payment jugs of wine, a luxury almost unknown in savage Kernu. He got as far as borrowing a cart with which to take the wine inland, so that he could trade with the miners. But when the brown-skinned men returned a month later, the cart was still at our door, there was no tin, and a great deal of the wine had gone.

  They were understandably angry, and told him they would take me instead, and sell me as a slave, to recoup their losses. My father made some effort to protect me. He swung a fist, but he had been drinking himself blind every day for a month. The trader ducked his blow contemptuously, and kicked him in the stomach. The last time I ever saw my father he was on his knees retching. It was a comfortingly familiar pose.

  My new owners were brothers, Shahid and Shahib. Once on board their ship they threw me in the hold, and set sail immediately, in case my father roused his neighbours against them. (It seems unlikely that he took the trouble, and if he did, they would not have come to his aid.) The traders were rough but not unnecessarily cruel. I had the impression they did not really know what to do with me.

  Being knocked about was normal for me, and I adjusted to my new environment with equanimity, finding a place out of the way where I could curl up to sleep. The next morning when the brothers awoke I was singing.

  My childish voice was high and sweet, and the sound delighted Shahib, who was very fond of music. When he approached me I shrank away from him, but through gestures he encouraged me to sing more. By our next landfall they had come to treat me more as a pet than a captive; like a songbird in a cage. They decided I would fetch more money in the civilised lands of the south, and when they journeyed on I was still on board the ship.

  And so it continued as we meandered along the coast of Frankia. They were an odd couple, the brothers. It was years before I realized that most merchants dwelt in comfortable houses, only setting out to trade in the calm seasons. Shahid and Shahib lived almost entirely on their dhow, wandering aimlessly on the outermost fringes of the world, following rumours of opportunity and their own whims. There was talk of a family back home in Nekor, but the tone was not affectionate.

  Shahid was the older, a lean, taciturn man who bossed and fussed over their dispirited rabble of a crew. Shahib was plump and childlike. It was he who gave me the name Ismail. When they had struck a big deal, Shahid would bring a whore onto the ship, as a treat for himself and the crew. Shahib would disappear onto the land. On one such occasion he was chased back by angry peasants, and we had to weigh anchor hurriedly, chucking the whore overboard as we sailed away. By then I could follow their conversation, but not enough to
understand what exactly it was that Shahib had been doing with the goat.

  They were kind to me in their way, kinder than my father had been, and they kept putting off the day when they would sell me. I was young enough to learn quickly, and by the time we reached the Straits of Gibel Tariq I spoke only Arabic. My original language was lost to me, save for scraps and echoes.

  They seemed reluctant to enter the White Middle Sea. They were not sociable men, and were happier haggling with barbarians than conversing with their peers. However, the crew had been depleted by desertion and disease. I made myself useful scrambling around the rigging, but they needed fresh men.

  I was at the top of the mainmast when I noticed the sinking ship. Even in the rolling swell I could see how it listed to one side, and pick out the waving sailors on board. Shahid wanted to leave them to their fate, saying that they were probably Christians anyway. Shahib, on the other hand, insisted that God would punish us if we did not help our fellow seamen. His argument appealed to the superstitions of the crew, and unusually his will prevailed.

  We changed our course, and soon could hear the grateful shouts from the stricken craft. The Christians dived into the water as we approached. We threw ropes over the side to allow them to clamber up onto deck. That was when they pulled out their weapons.

  Ironically, it was because we had been far from civilization for so long that we fell for the trick. There were no pirates in the wild Western Sea. The crew fought like maniacs, but to no avail. Shahib fell to a sword which pierced his plump flesh. Shahid’s brain was crushed by a cudgel.

  I was taken prisoner, and that night I understood for the first time how fortunate I had been in the Nekorite brothers. The pirate captain claimed me as his prize, and in his cabin he raped me at knifepoint. He was careless, though. Perhaps he thought he had nothing to fear from a child. As soon as we came within sight of land, I slit his throat with his own knife while he slept. Then I squirmed through the porthole and dropped into the sea.