Tim Severin - The Book of Dreams

With a slight shake of his head, Alcuin brought his attention back to the present.

‘If the king thinks he can discover the intentions of the Saracens through your dreams, so be it. But I believe he is badly mistaken.’ Suddenly he was briskly efficient. ‘If we are to send an army across those mountains and into Hispania, we require intelligence on the conditions of the road, where to obtain water and pitch camp, the danger points where we might be ambushed, and so forth. All this you can observe as you travel with the Saracens.’

‘The king has already made a spy of me,’ I said gloomily.

‘So when you are not dreaming, keep your eyes open.’

‘And what do I do with this information when I have it?’ I asked.

‘You write it down and include it with the official reports that our two ambassadors will be sending back to us here in the chancery whenever possible.’

‘And if I am discovered or my despatch is intercepted?’ There was no need for me to add that such a discovery would discredit the embassy in the eyes of their hosts and probably lead to my arrest. I had no idea how the Saracens dealt with spies they caught, but it was unlikely to be a pleasant experience.

A hint of a smile appeared on Alcuin’s face.

‘Let me give you something.’ He led me to a small side room which had the appearance of being his personal office. One wall was lined with shelves holding neatly folded vestments, writing supplies of pumice, paper, quills and an ink horn. He took a small box down from an upper shelf.

‘You can use this,’ he said. From the box he took out a flat wooden disc about six inches in diameter.

‘Caesar’s Wheel,’ he said. The disc had an inner and outer ring. Both were marked with letters of the alphabet. Alcuin rotated the outer ring so that the letters were displaced against one another.

I grasped the principle.

‘I use the wheel to code my report. If I want to write an A, for example, and the A lies opposite the letter F, that is what I write.’

He gave a nod of approval.

‘Correct. It won’t fool an intelligent observer, but someone who scarcely knows how to read would be puzzled, especially if they are more accustomed to the Saracen way of writing.’

It occurred to me that anyone who could read both Saracen and Western script would be no fool, but I said nothing.

Alcuin returned the device to its box.

‘To make matters a little more challenging for anyone who tries to decipher your code, we will vary the offset. Taking the letter A on the outer ring as your reference, I suggest you offset it differently at the start of each sentence you write, according to a sequence based on a single word.’

‘What is this key word?’ I asked.

‘Something you can easily remember.’ There was a hint of a twinkle in his eye. ‘Why not Oneirokritikon? That should keep them guessing.’

He was about to hand me the box when I asked, ‘Have the ambassadors been told that I will be acting as a spy?’

He shook his head.

‘They will know only that they must give your despatches to their courier who in turn will hand it on to me. The courier, of course, will be bringing only a verbal report to His Majesty. Neither of his envoys is comfortable with pen and paper.’

‘Who are these two envoys?’

Alcuin’s reply shook me to the core.

‘The king has selected Ganelon and Gerin.’

‘Ganelon! That devious reptile!’ Hroudland let out a string of oaths. ‘The king must be out of his mind sending him with the Saracens. There’ll be double-dealing and lies. The only person who will come out of it unscathed will be Ganelon, that slimy bastard.’

My friend was falling-down drunk when I finally located him and told him my news. It was late afternoon and he was lolling with Berenger on a bench in the changing room of the thermae. The water in the pool was pleasantly warm even in mid-winter, and the count sometimes went there to swim and then carouse with his close companions. The baths, being some distance from the main palace, were a place to go for heavy drinking sessions as the king was known to discourage drunkenness.

Hroudland waved his cup, slopping the contents.

‘Patch, you couldn’t have a worse travelling companion,’ he announced, slurring his words.

‘He can’t be that bad,’ I protested.

Even intoxicated, Hroudland still had the look and manner of the handsome aristocrat despite the flushed face and owlish expression.

‘Don’t you believe it. Ganelon will always try to save his own skin. He tried to get the king to send me with the Saracens. Serve him right that he’s been given the job instead.’

‘I don’t understand.’ The sight of Hroudland helpless and groggy made me uncomfortable.

‘The journey to Barcelona could prove to be a suicide mission. The Saracens turn against you, and you’re done for.’ Hroudland drew his finger across his throat and made a gurgling sound. He swayed on the bench and would have slipped off it if Berenger had not caught him and held him upright.

Hroudland belched and rose to his feet. He staggered forward and threw an arm around my shoulders and hugged me to him. Judging by the smell of his breath he was drinking hot red wine flavoured with blackthorn berries.

‘Poor Patch, this may be the last time I see you. You will come to visit me in Brittany, won’t you?’

Embarrassed, I pushed him away.

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

Berenger, who was more sober, explained: ‘The king has appointed Hroudland to be the new Margrave of the Breton March. He leaves next week to take up his post.’

‘So, Patch, you ride off to the sunshine, and I’ll be heading for the rain and drizzle of the west,’ said Hroudland.

My friend’s melancholy was contagious. All of a sudden I felt depressed. I knew I would miss Hroudland. I valued him as a confidant and comrade.

‘I’ll have Gerin for company. He’s being sent to Hispania as well,’ I said.

Hroudland swayed back and hiccupped.

‘Pity the king didn’t think to send him to Brittany with me. Gerin gave Offa a hand with sorting out his neighbours.’

It was the first time that I had heard any reference to link Gerin to Offa since Osric had told me that one of Gerin’s servants was curious whether I had ever been at Offa’s court. But I had no chance to ask any questions because Hroudland had begun taking off his clothes.

‘Come on, Berenger! Time for another swim,’ he said with another drunken hiccup. ‘We won’t have thermae in Brittany. Let’s make the most of it.’

I turned away dejectedly. I had not got over my dread of the murky green waters of the pool, and I had to go and find Osric and tell him to be ready to leave early next morning.

That night was my last in Aachen for many months and it was filled with foreboding. I had great difficulty in falling asleep, and when I did so I dreamed that I was on the side of a strange and barren mountain. It was in near-darkness and Hroudland was with me. Together we scrambled down the steep slope, descending at breakneck speed, careering off rough boulders, bruising hands and knees as we slipped and fell, then getting back to our feet and hurtling onward. Dragons with armoured scales flew around our heads and from clefts in the rocks sprang loathsome creatures that snarled and showed their fangs. I awoke drenched in sweat and wondering if the Book of Dreams could explain such grotesque fantasies.

One thing was certain: I would take the Oneirokritikon with me to Hispania so that Osric and I could finish the translation. I needed Artimedorus’s writings to help me to spy into the minds of the Saracens as King Carolus had instructed.