The Black Rood (43 page)

U
NABLE TO FORCE
open the door, I stood at the window and looked out at the dull red bloom spreading across the night sky. There were fires in the city, and I could hear, like the sighing moan of a fretful wind, the eerie ululation of thousands of voices, shouting, screaming, crying. The smell of smoke was stronger now, and I guessed that, once begun, the flames would quickly race through the narrow, tight-crowded quarters, leaping street to street until the whole city was alight.

I was beginning to think what I might do if the flames should come to the palace, when I heard the scrape of a key in the lock; I turned as the door opened, and Wazim Kadi appeared, his face smudged with dirt and soot; his long tunic was filthy and soaked through with sweat. He was bleeding from a cut on the side of his head, and panting for breath.

“Wazim!” I started toward him. “What has hap—”

Glancing over his shoulder, he motioned me to silence and then beckoned me to him with a frantic gesture. “We must hurry, Da'ounk,” he said, his voice a raw, urgent whisper.

Taking up the bundle of papyri I had prepared using one of my siarcs to wrap it, I slipped the loop of a strap over my shoulder, and moved to join him at the door. “Lead the way.” I left the room without looking back.

He led me quickly along the corridor and then down a flight of steps to another corridor below, along this, and out
into the small inner courtyard overlooked by my window. He started away again into the darkness, but I took hold of his arm, and said, “Wazim, wait! Tell me what is happening. Where are we going?”

“It is very bad,” he said, shaking his head. “There is no time. We must hurry.”

“Tell me.”

He turned, features dark, eyes glinting in the lurid glow seeping into the sky. “The people are rioting,” he said. His voice trembled. “Many have been killed. They have set fire to the great bazaar, and the khalifa has fled to the citadel. We must hurry if we are to escape.”

“The soldiers, Wazim—where are they?”

“Some are protecting the khalifa,” he said. “Most have been sent to quell the rioting.”

“What about the palace? Are there any soldiers here?”

“A few. Not many.” He pulled on my hands. “Come, this way. We must hurry to the river. Your friends—they are waiting for you.”

“My friends—you mean Padraig?” After so long a time, I could scarce credit the words. Could it be true at last? “Padraig is here in Cairo?”

“Yes, him—and the others. Yordanus Hippolytus is with him, and some others. They have a ship. Come, they are waiting.” He made to dart away again, but I held him firmly.

“There is something I must do first.”

“No, please, Da'ounk. There is no time. The soldiers might return at any moment. We must be gone from the palace before they discover I have set you free. I told your friends I would bring you. They are waiting at the quay. We must hurry.”

“I cannot leave yet,” I insisted. “I need your help, Wazim. Now, listen carefully.” I gripped him by both shoulders and looked into his face. “On the day I was brought here, some treasures came with me—gifts for the khalifa.”

“Gifts?” he said, growing fearful. “Do not think about such things. We must go now.”

“You know what I'm talking about,” I replied, trying to
maintain a calm and reasonable tone. “The gifts sent by the Khalifa of Baghdad. What happened to them?”

“They might have been taken to the treasure house,” he allowed, “but it—”

“Take me there,” I commanded. “Take me to the treasure house.”

“It is impossible! We cannot go there. It is locked very tight and the caliph only holds the keys. The treasure house cannot be opened.”

“If you will not help me, I will have to find it myself.” I made as if I would go off alone.

“Yordanus paid me to deliver you safely to the ship. How am I to do that if you will not come with me?” He snatched at my sleeve. “Please, Da'ounk, it is very dangerous to remain here any longer.”

The urgent pleading in his tone warned me. “Why?”

“They are saying the Fida'in are in the city,” he confessed. “They may be in the palace even now. If they find us they will kill us. We must leave while we can.”

“Soon. First, the treasure house.”

He rolled his eyes and drew a deep breath, but saw it was no good disagreeing any longer. Muttering dark oaths, he led me across the small courtyard and into another of the facing buildings, along a corridor and out again, into the large garden courtyard I saw when first I arrived at the palace. Quickly, quietly, we proceeded along an unseen pathway in the darkness, skirting one building and another, and coming by furtive means to a very large, many-floored edifice set apart from the main wing of the palace and surrounded by a flowering garden.

We stopped at the edge of the garden and hid beneath a low-growing tree. The garden was planted with night-blooming flowers which filled the air with a sweet and heady fragrance, so strong it got up in my nostrils. I stifled three sneezes, and decided it was time to move along. There was no one about that I could see, and there were no signs of life in any of the buildings surrounding the yard.

“This is the treasure house?” I wondered. Although there
were no windows on the ground floor, the upper floors contained wide and generous balconies, most of which were screened, but a few of which were completely open, allowing access to anyone who could make the climb.

“This is the
hareem
,” Wazim replied. “It is the most protected place in the entire palace, with soldiers keeping watch day and night.” The reason, he explained, was that the hareem, as it was called, was where the female members of the Caliph's family—wives, concubines, and daughters—had their residence.

“I do not see any soldiers,” I pointed out.

“They have taken the royal family and fled to the citadel.”

“Where is the treasure house?”

“It is under the hareem,” Wazim said. “Below the ground, you know?” As Wazim spoke these words, I recalled my midnight meeting with the Caliph and his unexpected entrance by way of the hidden tunnel.

With admirable efficiency, the treasure house had been constructed beneath the hareem so the same soldiers might guard all the caliph's various treasures at the same time. There were no lights showing in any of the windows, and the huge building was silent. “This way,” I said, starting toward the entrance.

Although the guards were gone, the door was barred, and the bars were secured with large, iron boxlike locks which required the use of keys to open. “You see,” whispered Wazim, creeping up behind me. “They are locked. You cannot get in. We will leave now.”

“There must be another way in.”

“There is only this way,” Wazim maintained. “It is the hareem. There is no other way.”

“Because it
is
the hareem,” I contended, “there
must
be another way.” Although I knew little of such things, it seemed to me unlikely that the caliph would wish his visits to his various wives to be known by one and all throughout the palace. I reckoned that, as with the private audience chamber behind the throne room, there must be another, less conspicuous entrance to accommodate his visits.

I looked around the square at the surrounding buildings.
There were two long ranks of storerooms, one to the left and one behind the hareem; a wing of the palace enclosed the third side, and on the fourth side, a low building with four funnel-topped domes along the roof. “What is that?” I asked.

“The kitchen and ovens for the hareem.”

I started toward the building. “You will find nothing there,” Wazim said, scuttling after me.

At first look, it appeared he was right. The long, low room was empty, the large, square hearth bare, the ovens cold. There were a few loaves of bread lying on a table, and some pears in a basket, but I could see nothing else in the dark interior. I went in, and felt along the raised rim of the hearth. “What are you doing?” said Wazim. “They will find us. Let us go from here, my friend.”

In a moment, I found what I was looking for: a pile of straw used for kindling to start the fires. I took up a handful and bunched it in my fist, then leaned over and reached out into the center of the hearth and swept away the top layer of ash to reveal a few glowing coals beneath. Holding the bunch next to the coals, I blew gently on the straw and was soon rewarded with a pale yellow sprout of flame. Soon the rest of the bunch was alight and, holding it up, I quickly searched the room for a candle, finding three; I lit one, stuck one in my belt, and gave the third to Wazim, and told him to stand by the door and keep watch. “Warn me if anyone comes into the garden,” I said.

By candlelight, I made a thorough search of the kitchen, pausing only to tear one of the loaves in half and cram bits of it into my mouth. It was stale, but edible, and I resumed my search as I chewed. I searched around and between the ovens, and found a small doorway leading outside through which fuel for the hearth and ovens could be brought in. I went outside and found myself in a closed-in area stacked with wood, bundles of twigs, and straw. Cupping my hand around the flame, I moved along behind the row of ovens, and came upon a wooden cover on the ground between two of them. Lifting the cover, I held my candle into the void and saw a short flight of steps leading down.

I removed the cover quietly and set it aside, then fetched Wazim. He took one look at what I had found and said, “It is the ash traps—for cleaning the ovens. There is nothing here.”

Ignoring him, I moved down the steps and found that he was right. A brick rampart ran along the back of a dressed stone wall, forming a large box to catch the ash falling through the oven grates above. A walkway in front of the rampart allowed the cleaners to remove the ash; at one end of the walkway was a small opening for air to feed the fires from beneath, and at the other end of the walkway, a door.

I called Wazim to follow me, and proceeded to the door. Lifting the latch, I opened the door and stepped through into the cool, damp darkness of a great, cavernous room. I heard the liquid drip of water splash in the distance. “It is the cistern for the hareem,” Wazim announced upon joining me. His voice echoed from unseen walls. “Come, there is nothing here.”

“But there is,” I told him. “Look.” Raising my candle, I held it close to the wall to reveal a torch in an iron sconce beside the door. I took it up, lit it from the candle, and the resulting flame revealed a short walkway forming a ledge alongside the basin of the cistern. At the end of this walkway there was another door. “This way.”

The door opened onto a small room which served to connect two corridors, one to the left, and one to the right. As we were now beneath the hareem, I imagined one corridor or the other must lead to the treasure house. While thinking which to try first, a sharp tapping sound came from some distance away down the corridor on the right-hand side: three taps, followed by a short silence, and then three more.

Wazim heard them, too, and pulled on my sleeve. “Someone is down here,” he whispered desperately. “They will find us if we stay any longer.”

“Stay close,” I said, and started down the corridor. It was a low, vaulted passage of brick and stone; I held the torch before me and crept quietly along, listening to the rhythmic tapping which grew louder the farther we advanced. A line of small openings ran along the top portion of the tunnel;
no larger than a man's hand, I could feel cool air moving through these openings as I crept past.

The passage ended a few score paces along, joining another, larger tunnel, which angled sharply down. The tapping sound was louder here, and I could hear something else—it sounded like voices, but too muffled and indistinct to make out what they were saying. Drawn on by these sounds, I descended the passageway, Wazim trembling behind me, tugging insistently at my sleeve and urging me away with every step.

We soon arrived at another juncture; I could see it for the faint flickering of torchlight on the brickwork several score paces directly ahead of me. The rhythmic tapping had become a steady thudding pound, punctuated by grunts and mutterings.

“Stay here,” I said. Handing the torch to Wazim, I slipped the strap on the bundle of papyri from my shoulder and handed that to him as well. “I will see what is ahead.”

He made to object, but I waved him to silence, and pointed to the spot on the ground where he was to plant himself, and then crept forward alone. As I neared the end, I could see that a heavy iron grate sealed the opening. I lay down and squirmed forward the last few paces on my stomach and, looking between the thick bars of the grate, peered around the corner and into the adjoining corridor beyond.

By the smudgy light of half a dozen torches scattered around them on the ground, two men with short axes were hacking at a timber door. The door, however, was bound with thick iron bands and was resisting their best efforts. The men were Arabs, dressed in black with dark brown turbans, and were unlike any I had ever seen among the caliph's soldiers or bodyguard. Their determined expressions and relentless hammering gave me to know that I had indeed found the treasure house.

I edged back from the grate and was about to withdraw until I could devise a plan for getting rid of my unwanted fellow thieves, when someone called out. The two stopped working and for a moment the passage became silent. Curious, I crawled back to the grating. The two had downed their
axes and were talking to someone who had joined them. The third man remained out of sight beyond the edge of the corridor, and although I could not see who it might be, something about the sound of the voice held me.

From the way the thieves were complaining and gesturing to the door with their inadequate axes, I guessed they were bemoaning their lack of success to an impatient superior—who apparently had little sympathy for their troubles. For, as I lay watching, one of the black-turbaned thieves offered his axe to the newcomer, indicating that he should try the door himself.