Abram and I made our way to where the leader of the caravan was surrounded by several camel drivers. They were passing the torn cloak from hand to hand, talking among themselves in local dialect.
‘They are fairly sure that it belongs to the man who ran away,’ Abram translated for me.
Streaks of dry blood on the dusty ground were signs of a struggle. A line of scuffmarks led towards the distant thorn bushes.
‘I’d say the lions got him as well, poor wretch,’ said Abram. ‘Then the aurochs came along and offered a better meal and they abandoned the corpse and went after larger prey.’
An empty water skin lay among the stones close to where the cloak had been found. A few paces farther on was a cheap cloth satchel with a shoulder strap.
I picked up the satchel and looked inside. It contained half a flat loaf of bread, a lump of mouldy cheese and a handful of dates. More than enough to sustain a man for a day’s walk to al-Qulzum. I took out the food, set it aside on a flat rock, and checked the satchel again. There was nothing that might give a clue as to the identity of the owner; no money, no document. I put my hand inside and felt around. A cloth divide separated the interior, and my fingernail snagged on something lodged in a seam. I picked it out and held it up to show Abram. ‘Do you know what this is?’
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.