Enoch's Device (28 page)

They soon found themselves passing the magnificent spired structure they had seen from the river. It was the most splendid building Ciarán had ever seen. Palm trees fanned out above its crenellated surrounding walls, whose horseshoe-shaped archways stood on slender pillars inlaid with mosaics of red and gold. A montage of interlacing ribbons and geometric shapes wove their way over every remaining detail of marble and stone. The central structure, with a conical roof rising high above the outer wall, was flanked with turrets and a slender minaret with three tiers of pillared balconies.

“Whose palace is this?” Alais asked.

Isaac smiled. “No, not a palace. It is the Great Mosque—a Muslim church.”

Ciarán glanced at Dónall, who was clearly awestruck at the sight. It was hard to imagine a cathedral anywhere in Europe approaching such grandeur.

They continued past the Great Mosque, up a main street, passing narrow side streets and plazas filled with merchants’ tents. They turned down several smaller streets—enough to give Ciarán the impression that he was in some type of maze—until they reached a neighborhood of whitewashed houses, which Isaac said was the city’s Jewish quarter. It was nothing like the cramped Jewry of Poitiers. These houses were large and sided in stucco, with flowering vines spilling from boxes beneath each windowsill. The air smelled of bluebells and lilacs, and gardens and courtyards could be seen behind many of the homes.

Looking around him, Dónall said, “Your people seem quite welcome here.”

“We pay a tax called a
jiyza,
” Josua explained. “Upon payment, the Moors are bound by their laws to protect us.”

“But it is because of the Moors’ tolerance,” Isaac added. “To the Moors, both Christian and Jew are considered ‘people of the Book,’ because, like the Moors, they trace the origins of their faith back to Abraham. Traditionally, we are respected here.”

Ciarán thought about Prior Bernard and Canon Frézoul—small wonder the Jews had such an affinity for the Moorish lands.

No sooner had they arrived than a group of bearded men hurried to welcome them. Isaac introduced the monks to his cousin Abir ben Hillel. He resembled the rabbi, though taller and fleshier and with a beard less flecked with white. Abir’s three sons, like Isaac’s two nephews, ran the Córdoban side of the family’s mercantile business. The sons had gracious wives, who offered the travelers a meal of tangy white cheese, flat bread, and grapes. The wives also offered the travelers warm baths and, more astoundingly, the Jews’ own bedrooms. Ciarán and Dónall, who were used to sleeping on floors and pallets, tried strenuously to decline, but their hosts insisted.

After the meal, Isaac spoke with his cousin and then shared their conversation with Ciarán and Dónall. The rabbi’s eyes were sparkling. “Abir knows someone who could get us into the bowels of the great library—a poet named Khalil al-Pârsâ. He is a Persian who has influence with the caliph, who controls the library.”

“Perfect!” Dónall said, beaming. “So this poet performs for the caliph?”

“Not quite,” Isaac said. “For the caliph’s mother. He was her lover.”

Ciarán’s eyes grew wide. “The same woman who was mistress to Al-Mansor? Is the man
mad
?”

“My cousin tells me this poet is accustomed to taking risks,” Isaac said.

A wry smile had spread across Dónall’s lips. “Then he sounds like just the man for the job.”

“Abir has promised to send for him,” Isaac replied.

“Well done,” Dónall said. “But while we’re waiting, I’d like to see this great library.”

“Then follow me,” Isaac said, “for the Bride of Andalusia awaits us.”

Ciarán glanced at Alais. “I want to go, too,” she said.

Eli bounded toward them. “I can show you around,” he said eagerly.

Alais flashed the young Jew a fond smile. Ciarán felt a momentary pang, though it faded quickly, for he had grown fond of the curly-haired first mate and knew that any affection Eli had for Alais was harmless. Besides, Ciarán reminded himself, he was still a monk, and a monk had no room for jealous thoughts of a woman—even though that was proving more difficult than he had ever imagined.

Under a late-afternoon sun, the five of them set out from the Jewish quarter. Ciarán glanced around for any sign of the storm clouds that had followed them up the river, but saw none. Perhaps the demons still lingered at the horizon but had not followed the monks into Córdoba. Ciarán pulled the silver talisman from the neck of his habit. The sun glinted off its surface.

“Tuck that back in,” Eli murmured. “The Moors forbid Christians and Jews from displaying symbols of their religion.”

Ciarán did as Eli bade him, and glanced at a passing Moor to make sure he hadn’t noticed. “Thanks,” Ciarán said, grateful now that Eli had tagged along.

From the Jewish quarter, they headed back in the direction of the Great Mosque and soon found themselves in a marketplace. The market occupied a large plaza and spilled over onto several adjoining streets. Striped merchant tents cramped the center in a chaotic labyrinth of narrow aisles, while the shops of artisans and craftsmen surrounded the plaza’s perimeter. There were silversmiths and coppersmiths, ivory carvers and glassblowers, tanners, carpet weavers, and sellers of colorful trinkets of every sort. The smells of sizzling meats, spiced stews, and warm bread mixed with those of animals, sweat, and sweet perfumes and frankincense. The merchants’ tents harbored an array of strange creatures: birds of green, red, and blue, several of which could speak Arabic words, and one that even cawed out insults in Latin; snakes that danced rhythmically to their handlers’ flutes and oboes; and, most marvelous of all, hairy childlike beasts, some of which wore skullcaps and tiny vests, looking like miniature versions of their merchant owners.

Amazed, Ciarán and Alais watched the hairy creatures. “What are they?” Ciarán asked.

“They’re called monkeys,” Eli said, smiling at the foreigners’ amusement. “They bring them over from Africa, and they are said to run wild on the Pillars of Hercules.”

“They’re so humanlike,” Alais noticed aloud.

“They make lots of noise,” Eli said. “And some bite.”

“I think they’re adorable,” she said, watching a monkey take payment for a vendor of silk scarves.

Dónall and Isaac walked over from the tent of a physician peddling treatments for a long list of maladies.

“Ah, Lad!” Dónall said in an exuberant tone. “Imagine, the practice of medicine—real, Arabic medicine—available to anyone! And not administered by some grimy-handed leeching monk, but the doctor was a woman! And a Jew, no less! Never in all my years have I seen such enlightened practices!”

Emerging from the bazaar into the maze of narrow streets, they zigzagged along the streets and alleyways until they found themselves in another plaza, dominated by an enormous building that must have been a fortress or palace built on the remains of some earlier structure. Columns of Greek and Roman design supported its many parapets, while the outer walls—like the Great Mosque, made of marble—displayed Moorish archways and geometric mosaics. Towering above the outer wall was a central edifice with a domed roof and scores of windows and balconies on every side, each framed by graceful archways. Only the nearby mosque exceeded its grandeur.

“Here it is,” Isaac announced, “the great library of Córdoba.”

Ciarán’s jaw went slack. “That’s a
library
?”

Isaac smiled broadly. “There is more knowledge within her walls than in all France.”

“And I thought the library at Fleury was big,” Dónall murmured.

“What’s going on?” Alais asked, noting a large crowd gathering around the library’s steps. From the crowd, a crier yelled in Arabic. Voices responded, yet Ciarán could not tell whether they were shouts of anger or unity, or both. Men and women descended the library steps to stand at the edge of the crowd. Others gathered on balconies.

“This does not look good,” Isaac said.

“Maybe we should go,” Eli offered.

A tendril of smoke rose from the center of the crowd, and Ciarán hurried toward it.

“Careful, lad,” Dónall said, trying to keep pace.

The smoke thickened, and some men shouted angrily while others cried out in protest. Near the center of the crowd, four bearded, black-robed men, turbaned and stern-faced, surrounded a raging bonfire. The oldest of them, a severe-looking man with a white beard, shook something in the air. Then, with a vehement cry, he cast it into the flames.

Ciarán felt a sinking in the pit of his stomach. The object was a book.
The entire pyre was made of books!

The crowd roared, and the parchment crackled as it burned. One of the black-robed men threw another tome into the flames, and as the cries of the crowd grew more violent, the older man read bitterly from one of the tomes.

“Why?” Ciarán asked.

Dónall grabbed Ciarán by the shoulder, pulling him back.

“But . . . who would burn books?” Ciarán asked, still stunned.

The fire claimed another book, then another, cast by the dour black-robed men, to the cheers of the impassioned mob.

“We must leave now,” Isaac implored.

Ciarán backed away, but his gaze remained on the pyre. All that knowledge, all that glorious work by authors, copyists, and illuminators—precious gifts of civilization,
gone.

*

The black-robed men, according to Isaac, were called imams, clerics of the Muslim faith. Yet the rabbi had no explanation for their barbarism outside the library. “The imams have never acted in such a way,” he said. “Al-Hakkam devoted his life to those books. His library was a shining beacon in the darkness of Europe. The imams never opposed his wishes.”

“Then why would they burn precious books?” Dónall asked as they entered Abir’s home.

“Because the imams have become fanatics,” replied a bronze-skinned man sitting with Abir at his table. The stranger, who spoke fluent Latin, peered at them through keen eyes set in a comely face with a well-groomed beard. “They interpret Islam through a viewpoint of intolerance and hatred. So if you’ve come here seeking the treasures of Al-Hakkam’s library, I fear you are too late.”

Ciarán gave Dónall a concerned look.

“Forgive him,” Abir said gruffly. “Despite his famously eloquent tongue, he often speaks bluntly. Meet Khalil al-Pârsâ.”

Khalil wore a blousy silk shirt and black pantaloons striped with gold, and a finely crafted curved scabbard and sword hung from the sash at his waist. He tipped a cup in greeting toward the monks and took a long drink, then plucked an olive from a small bowl.

“Why was this allowed to happen?” Isaac asked.

“There was a time in Córdoba when books were more prized than jewels, or even the caress of a beautiful woman,” Khalil said. “Yet now the fanatics fear that books spread heresy. It is the intellectuals, who do not bow to the their extreme views, that they truly fear. Al-Mansor allows this, because he needs the imams to maintain his power. But I promise you, their ways shall be the downfall of great Córdoba.”

Dónall bit his lip pensively. “Do the imams know where the rarest books are held?”

Khalil shrugged. “Al-Mansor has legions of spies. But can I say for certain? No.”

“Then there’s still hope,” Ciarán said.

Khalil took another sip from his cup. “Why don’t you tell me what you are looking for?”

“We’re not certain,” Ciarán replied. Dónall gave him a hard look, but he went on. “In France, we found a copy of a lost book of scripture, which had been referenced in a work by one of the paladins of Charlemagne. The book mentioned a great and glorious device . . .”

Ciarán’s words trailed off as Khalil’s expression, so confident a moment before, melted into astonishment. “Charlemagne?”

Khalil set his cup on the table and rose from his chair.

“This thing you are looking for—by chance, is it known as Enoch’s device?”

S
eeing the astounded faces all
around him, Khalil explained, “It is referenced in a poem by Faris al-Basir. You may know him as Fierabras.”

Ciarán had never heard the name. He glanced at Dónall, who studied the poet intently.

“One of Charlemagne’s paladins,” Dónall said.

“Fierabras was a Moor who converted to Christianity in the service of your famous emperor,” Khalil replied. “He was a warrior poet—very much my inspiration despite his religious conversion. He typically wrote of the beauty of women or the passion of battle, lamentations for fallen friends, and the deeds of great men. But he penned one curious poem about this device you mentioned, belonging to Enoch. I have never understood what it meant, but I always wondered.”

“What did it say?” Ciarán asked.

“It has only three lines.” Khalil recited from memory:

In Virgo’s seed of Charlemagne’s line, and Enoch’s device where the answer lies, in the whisper of breath, or all hope dies.

Ciarán and Dónall stared at each other. “Those lines come from Maugis’ book,” Ciarán said.

“Of course!” Dónall said, as if struck with a revelation. “Maugis would have shared the secret with his peers.”

Khalil’s eyes narrowed. “Maugis d’Aygremont, another of Charlemagne’s paladins?”

Dónall nodded. “Maugis had a theory, just like the riddle in your poem. It speaks to the purpose of Enoch’s device.”

“But what
is
this thing?” Khalil asked.

Dónall raised an eyebrow. “The answer to that question, hopefully, lies within your caliph’s great library.” He let the statement linger. “Can you get us in?”

Khalil turned and plucked another olive from the bowl. “This is a perilous time to go hunting for rare books.”

“We will need access to the secret collection,” Isaac told him.

Taking the carafe, Khalil refilled his cup and drained it before speaking again. “You are convinced that Al-Hakkam’s library contains the answer to the riddle of Fierabras’s poem?”

“If any library in Europe does,” Isaac replied, “it is this one.”

“So,” Abir asked, “will you help them?”

Khalil tapped an index finger to his bearded chin, and a shrewd smile spread across his face. “I owe you many favors, my friend, and I must admit that I have longed to know the meaning of that poem. In the morning, I will go to the palace and see if the sultana can get me the access your cousin desires.” Khalil paused, eyeing Ciarán. “But I shall take him with me. She fancies young men—the sight of this northern boy may please her.”

Alais flashed Khalil a bitter look, and Ciarán felt his face go warm.

“Maybe this one, too,” Khalil said, looking Eli up and down.

Eli’s eyes grew wide, though Isaac was beaming. “Good,” he insisted. “By all means, take the boys. They must be good for something besides eating and taking up space!”

So it was decided. Khalil made arrangements with Ciarán and Eli to leave in the morning for the palace, where they would seek an audience with Subh, the sultana of Córdoba. Khalil thanked Abir for the food and drink and bade his friends farewell.

After he had left, Dónall said to Ciarán, “You think this is fate again, don’t you?”

“Either that or good Irish luck,” Ciarán replied.

*

The next morning, Khalil al-Pârsâ rode up to Abir’s house on a gray stallion, leading two black geldings behind him. Wisps of white cirrus streaked an otherwise blue morning sky, and already the air was pleasantly warm. Ciarán glanced at Eli. “No sign of the demons,” Eli said.

Ciarán nodded warily. “Let’s pray it stays that way.”

“Look at you two,” Khalil said from astride his mount. He wore a white silk turban with a long gray feather clasped by a jeweled pin. His curved sword hung at his side. “You are like two eager pups. But how do you know I’m not leading you into the lions’ den?”

Ciarán grinned. “I’d tiptoe through a lions’ den to get into that library.”

“This device is that important to you?” Khalil said, raising a brow.

“You could say that—our lives may depend on it.”

The Persian eyed them shrewdly. “Then we best get going, he said,” gesturing toward the two Arab geldings.

*

The palace of Medinat al-Zahra stood several leagues outside the city, at the base of a mountain that Khalil called the Hill of the Bride. Once they left the city gates, Khalil, Ciarán, and Eli found themselves alone on the road. “How is it,” Khalil asked, “that two Irish monks and a rabbi are looking for an object described by one of Charlemagne’s paladins nearly two hundred years ago?”

“Isaac says the Jewish mystics have searched for it for centuries,” Ciarán explained. “But there are other men looking for it now—rivals of Dónall.”

“How desperate are these rivals to find it?” Khalil asked.

“Desperate enough to have killed for it.”

Khalil frowned. “So that is why your lives may depend on finding it?”

“In a way,” Ciarán replied, unsure whether to trust the Persian with theories about the prophecy. He glanced at the curved sword that hung at Khalil’s side. “Why do you wear that?”

“I have my enemies, too. And, I’ve found that artistry with a sword, just like artistry with a pen, is good for the soul—and for keeping it united with the body.”

For a while they rode in silence. As they passed a hillside lined with shrubs of lavender, Ciarán asked Khalil how he came to know the sultana of Córdoba. “Through my art,” Khalil replied. “As I earned a reputation as a poet, rulers throughout Al-Andalus would invite me to perform for them. In time, they brought me before Al-Mansor. He sponsored competitions among poets, in which two men would challenge one another to see whose verse was more elegant and whose wit more biting. For a time, these were wonderful affairs that made men like me quite wealthy. But they also introduced me to the more influential
women
in Córdoba. And that is how I met Subh.”

“Is it true they call her Aurora?” Eli interjected.

Khalil nodded. “Because she is as beautiful as the dawn. She was a Basque, a Christian at the time, who became a slave to Al-Hakkam and soon became his favorite. Of course, Al-Hakkam’s true interests lay with boys, shall we say, so in the bedchamber he had her dress as a boy and called her Ja’far.”

Eli snickered, and Ciarán’s eyes grew wide. “Really?”

“To Al-Hakkam, she was like a songbird, a treasure to be displayed. But she gave him a son, who is now our caliph, and, in doing so, became the most powerful woman in Córdoba.”

“What is she like?” Eli asked.

“Very much like a tigress: beautiful to behold, but deadly when provoked.”

Concern gathered in Ciarán’s brow as he recalled Khalil’s comment about the lion’s den. “Is she the only way we can get access to the great library?”

“Only Talid, the caliph’s librarian, has access to the places you wish to go,” Khalil explained. “And Subh is one of the few with access to Talid.”

“Who are the others?” Ciarán asked.

“The caliph, of course, but he is a recluse. I do not know if Al-Mansor has access, but if so, I suspect that the secret collection you seek has already burned in the streets.”

Ciarán sensed bitterness in Khalil’s voice. “You disdain Al-Mansor.”

“The feeling is mutual, I assure you.”

“Did he dislike one of your poems?”

Khalil shrugged. “Let’s just say I was unwilling to flatter him as much as one of my opponents, so the Illustrious Victor sent me to one of his prisons.”

“For
losing a
contest
?” Ciarán asked.

Khalil smiled. “Better than losing my head.”

Ciarán’s eyes widened. “He would do that?”

Khalil nodded. “He is especially fond of doing that to Christians.”

As they rode, Ciarán mused that the last thing he wanted to do was cross the king of the Moors.

“Look,” Khalil announced after some time. “We are nearly there.”

From their new vantage point, Medinat al-Zahra looked more like a city than like a palace. It consisted of a number of structures built across three ascending terraces, each surrounded by high turret walls. On the first terrace, a minaret rose skyward amid a structure resembling a smaller version of the Great Mosque. Palms and cypresses hung over the crenellated walls, climbing each tier to the top, where a many-pillared edifice stood crowned with a golden dome that blazed like a jewel in the sun.

“Amazing,” Ciarán said, shaking his head.

“I’ve only seen her from the river,” Eli added. “Never would I have imagined . . .”

“How many people live there?” Ciarán asked.

“About thirty thousand,” Khalil replied.

He could hardly believe his ears. “All serving the caliph?”

“There are thousands of slaves, attendants, and guards, as well as the caliph’s harem.”

“Évrard says he has a thousand concubines,” Eli said.

Khalil raised a brow. “Try
six
thousand.”

Ciarán’s jaw dropped.

“Under our law, a man can have only four wives. But he can have relations with all the female slaves he possesses. His is a rather large harem.”

Ciarán could not shake this thought as they approached the palace gates. There, Khalil spoke in Arabic to the guards, bearded men who wore turbans of rich fabric, hauberks of polished mail, and curved swords slung from their leather belts. After taking Khalil’s blade, the guards summoned a man named Najah, who held the title “keeper of the wardrobe.” A tall, bare-chested man with a sash of fine purple cloth draped over his left shoulder answered the summons. His chest and arms were clean-shaven, as were his head and face. Through kohl-lined eyes, he regarded them with a severe expression.

Najah addressed Khalil in Arabic, speaking in a sharp tone, while Khalil replied in a gentler manner. Their exchange lasted longer than Ciarán expected, and the longer it went, the more concerned he grew that they might never gain admission to the palace.

Eli leaned toward Ciarán and whispered in Latin, “Khalil is talking his way inside.”

“Who is this man?” Ciarán whispered back.

“One of the palace eunuchs,” Eli replied. “You know, they’re missing some things below the belt, but their treacheries are legendary.”

“What do they do here?” Ciarán asked.

Najah glared at them crossly. “We are servants of the caliph,” he responded in perfect Latin, “and guardians of his harem.”

Ciarán exchanged a sideways glance with Eli, whose face was glowing.

“Follow me,” Najah snapped, “and obey my every command.”

Khalil shot Eli and Ciarán a reproachful glance. He was clearly annoyed that they had talked about the eunuch in his presence.

Najah escorted them through horseshoe-shaped archways into corridors as wide as city streets. More bare-chested men, and also veiled women, moved among marble buildings decorated with mosaics of geometric design, and floral motifs of acanthus and vines. After leading them through a bewildering series of turns and archways, the eunuch took them up a wide flight of steps flanked by Romanesque pillars, to another golden archway. From there, they entered the most magnificent garden Ciarán had ever seen. Ornate fountains spouted water into shimmering pools surrounded by flower beds, fruit trees, and palms. Short-cut grass carpeted the entire terrace, and rosemary and jasmine scented the air. And all around this manmade eden, exotic animals roamed: graceful, long-necked beasts that Khalil called
giraffas;
birds of red, green and blue; and small creatures that looked like sleek goats and hopped like rabbits over streams filled with huge yellow and orange fish. Ciarán could scarcely believe his eyes.

“Do they come from around here?” he wondered.

“You truly are from the edge of the world,” Khalil said, nudging him along. “They come from Africa.”

Najah led them down a stone pathway and up another flight of steps, through the gateway to the palace’s topmost terrace. From there, he took them through a more private garden with orange trees, flowering vines of jasmine, and a central fountain that trickled water from the mouths of great stone fishes. At the far end of the garden, another arch framed the entrance to another of the palace’s structures. “Wait here,” Najah commanded before departing through the archway.

“When we see her, let me do the talking,” Khalil said.

Ciarán nodded. After a short time, Najah reemerged. “The sultana will see you now,” he told them.

Leaving the eunuch there, Ciarán and Eli followed Khalil through the archway into a dim parlor lit by oil lamps. A divan laden with pillows sat in one corner, and a sprinkling of flower petals dotted the tiled floor, filling the room with the scent of lilacs. Long drapes covered what appeared to be the entrance to a balcony fronted by a half-dozen slender columns, and a curtain of beads hung across the far end of the parlor. In the shadows, the beads parted, and a lithe figure emerged.

Ciarán’s breath caught. The sultana’s face, still beautiful and only subtly touched by age, was framed by long, shimmering hair the color of spun bronze. Golden earrings like teardrops dangled past her cheeks, and a necklace bearing the shape of a heron rested in the naked valley between her breasts. The outline of her nipples pressed through her silk sheath dress, and Ciarán felt an unexpected warmth stirring in his loins.

“Subh,” Khalil said to her, bowing slightly.

“Khalil,” she answered in a sensuous voice. She wrapped her slender arms around his neck and brought her lips to his. Ciarán’s heartbeat quickened as she added to her first kiss.

“You must visit me more often,” she said, brushing Khalil’s cheek with her lips. “I am lonely. Ever since I turned my son against him, Al-Mansor has kept us prisoner in the palace.”

Khalil looked at her fondly. “I shall be more diligent with my visits.”

She strolled toward Ciarán and Eli, her eyes aglow. “Who are your friends?” She patted Eli on the chest. Then her fingers caressed Ciarán’s shaven face. “This one’s a northerner, too. But he looks like a priest,” she said with a frown. “Alas.”