‘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.