Tim Severin - The Book of Dreams

Here, taking us unawares, the Saracens abruptly announced one morning that they would be going their different ways. Suleyman al Arabi, the Wali of Barcelona, was to continue straight ahead, taking the coast road direct to his own country. The governor of Heusca would accompany him. Husayn, the Wali of Zaragoza, intended to turn aside and use a different route home through a mountain pass further west.

We had spent the night in the hamlet that had sprung up at the fork in the road. It was a poverty-stricken place of small houses built of loose unmortared stone, their wooden roof tiles held down with heavy rocks. Ganelon, Gerin and I hurriedly met in a disused building on the central square to discuss the change of plan. Judging by the smell and the droppings underfoot, the place was used as a sheep shed.

‘We have to decide whether to stay together or divide,’ Ganelon announced.

‘We should stay with Suleyman. He’s their leader,’ said Gerin. Throughout the journey he had been his usual taciturn self and had barely exchanged a dozen gruff sentences with me.

Ganelon turned to me.

‘What do you think?’ he asked.

I was surprised to be consulted. Ganelon had treated me as some sort of unwanted addition to the embassy ever since we had set off from Aachen. I recalled my instructions from Alcuin that I was to gather information on the possible routes for an army to enter Hispania.

‘What do we know about the different roads the Saracens will take?’

‘The coast road to Barcelona is well travelled. I have not heard anything about the road through the mountains which Husayn proposes,’ Ganelon told me.

‘Then I will go with Husayn,’ I said promptly. Ganelon studied me for a long moment, his eyes watchful, and I wondered if he knew or had guessed the reason for my choice.

‘I’m for Barcelona,’ Gerin confirmed.

There was a sudden burst of some foreign language from outside. The words sounded angry. One of the Saracens was shouting, probably chasing away a villager who had got too close to their panniers and saddlebags. The Saracens were likely to set out at any moment.

Ganelon came to a quick decision.

‘If Sigwulf is prepared to accompany Husayn to Zaragoza, he can rejoin us in Barcelona in, say, three weeks’ time. I’ll check with the Saracens that they agree to this arrangement.’

As we hurried out into the village square, Osric was standing beside the stone water trough in the centre of the village, talking with Gerin’s servant.

‘Ganelon and Gerin are accompanying Governor Suleyman to Barcelona, and we’ll be taking the road through the mountains with Husayn, direct to Zaragoza,’ I told him.

Osric waited until Gerin’s servant was safely out of earshot before replying.

‘I’m glad to hear it,’ he said softly.

I gave him a sharp look. There had been no hint of trouble on the journey. No one had attempted to harm me. I was beginning to think that the mushroom poisoning and the attack in the forest were unrelated accidents, or that whoever wished to hurt me had been left far behind.

‘What makes you say that?’

‘I’ve learned a little more about Gerin.’

‘He has no reason to do away with me,’ I said.

‘He sells his sword to whoever pays him. King Offa hired him during a border quarrel with the Welsh. Gerin served as leader of a war band.’

I recalled Gerin’s expertise with lance and javelin.

‘How long ago was that?’

‘Maybe five or six years ago.’

‘Poison is not his style; an arrow in the back, maybe.’

‘Gerin was present at the hunt and also at the banquet,’ Osric reminded me.

Out of the corner of my eye I saw Ganelon walking across the square to where the Saracens were clustered. They were tightening their saddle girths, getting ready to depart.

‘There’s something more. Ganelon has already had a private meeting with Husayn,’ he said.

That startled me.

‘Do you know what was discussed?’

‘No, Gerin’s servant was up early, tending to a horse with saddle sores. He saw Ganelon go and return. The meeting lasted less than an hour.’

There was a flurry of activity on the far side of the square. The Saracens were mounting up. A gaggle of villagers surrounded them, some begging, others holding up lumps of hard cheese and strips of dried mutton, hoping for a sale. Now we were in the borderlands, we were having to purchase our own supplies.

‘Everything’s arranged,’ Ganelon shouted at me. ‘I’ll see you in Barcelona in three weeks’ time! Go with God!’ He hurried to where Gerin and the rest of our group were already mounted and circling their animals, preparing to head off. Osric and I had to grab the reins of our own horses and hold them back to prevent them joining the others. After three weeks on the road our animals had become used to travelling together.

I watched my comrades clatter out of the village at a trot. Gerin still rode like a cavalryman on campaign. He sat square and upright in the saddle, his plain red shield bouncing against his horse’s flank, with his long heavy sword slung across his back. The handle projected above his left shoulder like a cross.

Deep in thought, I turned my attention to the Saracens who had stayed behind. Four of them were sitting quietly on their horses on the far side of the square, the hoods of their riding cloaks pulled up against the chill air. They were waiting for Osric and me to join them.

‘Greetings, fellow travellers,’ said the nearest Saracen in good Latin as we approached. He was a little older than me, perhaps in his early twenties, plump and expensively dressed. From his air of confidence I presumed that I was being addressed by Husayn, Wali of Zaragoza. This was the first time I had seen him close up and face to face. He had a clear olive skin and large dark eyes made even darker by the application of black dye around them. He had also painted his small, delicate mouth. His lips were a striking shade of pink. If I had not known that he had just ridden across Frankia in less than three weeks, I would have mistaken him as being effeminate.

‘Ambassador Ganelon tells me that you wish to accompany me to Zaragoza. I look forward to your company, so let us be friends,’ he said.

‘Your Excellency is to be congratulated on his excellent command of my language,’ I answered diplomatically. I was thinking that Husayn’s Latin was so fluent that Ganelon would not have required an interpreter at their private discussion.

The wali smiled delicately, showing small, even white teeth.

‘Then we shall be able to converse as we ride.’

‘Does Your Excellency know how long the journey will take?’ I asked.

‘A week at the most. We are fortunate there is so little snow this year.’

Husayn, his curiosity evident, turned his gaze on Osric.

‘Your Excellency. This is Osric, my servant. He has been with me for many years,’ I explained.

Abruptly the wali switched into what must have been the Saracen tongue and asked Osric a direct question.

There was an awkward pause as Osric looked across at me. I nodded.

When Osric had finished his reply, the wali treated me to another of his engaging smiles.

‘Now it is you who must be congratulated. Your servant tells me that you are a good master, and he is happy to serve you. Come, let us get started!’

Thankfully, riding in company with Husayn was less gruelling than what had gone before. The young wali rode at a steady walk so that I could match the pace of my gelding to his mount and he encouraged me to ride by his side. He asked many questions about my life and later, when I ran out of answers, we continued together in companionable silence, the white-capped mountains gradually coming closer and the land wilder and less inhabited. Recalling Hroudland’s comment that the Saracens could turn nasty and cut my throat, it occurred to me that no one would be any the wiser if it happened in these remote borderlands. Yet I sensed no threat from the Wali of Zaragoza. Husayn was courteous and friendly and, as it turned out, also very devout. Whenever we stopped for him and his people to say their prayers, they took a long time. This gave me a chance to dismount and wander away from our little group under the pretence that I needed to stretch my legs. Then, privately, I wrote down my observations for Alcuin.