‘Baghdad is built of mud brick, sun dried or oven baked. Quick to build, almost as quick to disintegrate. That palace probably belongs to a court high official, and he’s found somewhere else he prefers to live. He’s simply walked away.’
‘And left it behind?’
The dragoman shrugged. ‘Why not? Baghdad is constantly expanding. Thousands of people arrive here every month from the countryside. Land speculation is on a massive scale. A grove of palm trees given by the caliph to a court favourite ten years ago when it was on the edge of town is suddenly worth hundreds of thousands of dinars as the site for new housing.’
‘And everything depends on the caliph’s whim?’
‘Nearly everything.’ Abram turned to me, his tone sharper. ‘Make no mistake. You are about to encounter the richest, most profligate, open-handed, and luxury-loving court on the face of the earth. A place where a singer whose sentimental song tugs at the caliph’s heartstrings might receive a gift of enough pearls to fill his mouth. Or a poet writes a few successful lines and suddenly finds himself the owner of a house and servants so that he can spend the rest of his life at ease.’
‘What happens to those who incur the caliph’s anger?’
‘If you get to meet Caliph Haroun in person, take a look at the grim-faced man always standing a few paces behind him. He’s known as “the blade carrier of his vengeance” – the palace executioner. Last time I was in Baghdad it was a man named Masrur.’
The broad surface of the Tigris was swarming with water traffic. Barges, lighters, freighters and rafts rode the current loaded with their cargoes. With little or no wind, many were being moved with long sweeps or towed behind rowed boats. Passenger ferries shuttled from one side of the river to the other. Fishermen hung their lines from small skiffs and set and hauled nets. Pleasure craft had colourfully striped awnings under which their occupants sat on cushions, relaxing while hired boatmen or slaves worked the oars. Every few minutes yet another boat would emerge from the mouth of one of the small canals that joined the river and take its place in the throng.
‘We’ll be landing very soon,’ warned Abram. ‘We’re nearly at the first of the three pontoon bridges that cross the river. I doubt that the bridge keepers will open up the bridge to let us pass.’
In Basra, Abram had met with customs officials and impressed on them that we were gift-bearers from the King of the Franks to the Commander of the Faithful. We had been promised every assistance, but opening a pontoon bridge and disrupting the city traffic was too much to expect.
‘How far to where we can house the animals and find our own accommodation?’ I asked.
‘I expect we’ll be allocated space inside the Round City itself. That’s the caliph’s personal precinct.’
One of the minor officials assigned to escort us from Basra was already coming along the deck towards us. Two assistants followed, carrying a large chest between them. They set down the chest and threw back the lid to reveal a store of neatly pressed garments made of fine white cotton. Walo and I had already taken our example from Abram and Osric and were wearing loose-fitting Saracen clothing suitable for such stifling weather. But our garments were travel-stained and crumpled, and it was a pleasure to put on the local costume – loose trousers and a wide-sleeved long shirt with pockets. Everything was crisp, clean and newly laundered. The official also insisted that we put on an additional over-gown of white cotton. This too was required of anyone who passed in through the gates of the Round City. Finally, we had to select our headgear because it would be considered uncouth to go about bare headed. Osric was comfortable with a dazzling white turban and from his own baggage Abram produced a white skullcap. Walo and I hesitated. Neither of us were expert in winding a turban around our head, or keeping it there. So the official issued us with small neat caps shaped like pots, around which he wound and then pinned in place a length of white cloth. The caps felt strange, but were sufficient to satisfy local custom.
By the time we were correctly dressed, our barge was slanting towards the western bank where a group of dock-workers was already waiting. Mooring ropes were thrown and made fast, the barge scraped against the quay and the labourers swarmed aboard.
‘Please make sure that the ice bears are kept out of the sun,’ I said to their overseer. After the months of practising the Saracen tongue with Osric, I could make myself understood.
Madi and Modi were in a very sad condition. Walo had done his utmost to keep them healthy. He had fed them their favourite foods, given them plenty to drink, doused them with water almost hourly during the heat of the day. But the sapping heat had taken its toll. Both animals were emaciated. There were great hollows in their flanks. Their fur was lacklustre, a dingy yellow, and they spent hour after hour, slumped on the floor of their cage, barely moving, taking shallow breaths.