Musa mopped the sweat off his glistening scalp with a length of cloth. ‘And until recently I would have agreed. But our archivists have turned up reports of similar animals.’
‘Like the griffin in the Book of Beasts?’ I asked.
‘Nearly so. Our texts from India contain several references to a giant bird called a Garuda, large enough to seize an elephant in its talons. We also have a mention from China, of a huge bird known as a Peng. Interestingly, it is said to fly south each year to an unknown destination over the ocean.’
‘To the land of Zanj?’ I suggested.
‘Let me show you on a map.’ Musa lumbered over to a wall where hung a circular sheet of thin flat metal some two feet across. He unhooked it and laid it on the floor beside his low table.
‘This,’ he said, leaning over and prodding the centre of the sheet with a thick finger, ‘is where we are now, in Baghdad.’
The surface of the sheet was incised with interlocking and irregular shapes. It took me a moment to work out that each shape represented a country. I presumed that what was written inside each shape in Arab script was the country’s name.
Musa’s finger moved to a large empty space. ‘This is the sea southward from Baghdad. And here,’ he touched a curved line to one side of the space, ‘is the coast of Ifriquia.’
The stark lines of the map brought to mind the geometrical patterns in the central courtyard of the library. It was an interesting way of seeing the world.
‘Each year,’ explained Musa, ‘half a dozen of our shipmasters set out as a trading squadron. They sail south along that coast, stopping off at various beaches. They drop anchor and wait for the locals to come out to them to barter, buy and sell. There are no real ports.’
‘Have any of the captains ever gone further than the land of Zanj?’ I enquired.
‘The shipmasters are fearful of being left stranded. It’s a question of the winds. For four months a year the wind blows from the north, then there’s a brief lull, and afterwards the wind blows from the south. If a ship goes too far, it may not be able to get back in the same season.’
The big man returned the wheel-shaped map to its hook on the wall, and came back to his desk. I concealed my disappointment. The map was so worthless for practical purposes and I remembered how useful Abram’s itinerarium had been.
‘Have the captains made any charts from their voyages to Zanj?’ I asked.
‘I’m afraid not. They rely on star books.’ The big man gave a breathy chuckle. ‘As I said when you told me about your dreams of the future, our preference is to look to the skies for guidance.’
*
Al-Ubullah, a roadstead and port adjacent to Basra, was where the trading ships were fitting out for the annual voyage to the land of Zanj. Jaffar’s staff arranged for Osric, Walo and me to stay there in a merchant’s house while we waited for the shipmasters to complete their preparations. It was a fine, substantial building made of whitewashed coral blocks, part storehouse, part residence, with large double doors that led from the street into a central courtyard where the owner stacked his trade goods. Al-Ubullah was not as bakingly hot as Baghdad, but the sea air was more humid and stifling, and we sweltered as the days dragged by. Sulaiman, the shipmaster whom Nadim Jaffar assigned to take us to Zanj, was a gnome-like figure, all skin and bone and with a rim of straggly white beard around his jaw. I put his age at approaching sixty but he had the bright eyes of a four-year-old and the sprightly energy to match. He invited Osric and me to inspect his vessel lying at anchor just off al-Ubullah’s waterfront. The place echoed to the sounds of vessels being prepared for long-distance voyages: the work chants of dock gangs handling heavy cargo, the thump of mallets as rope workers spliced cables, the rasp of saws, and the long-drawn-out creak and squeal of wood on wood as spars were hoisted, checked and then lowered again, rubbing against their masts. There were smells of new-cut timber, foreshore rubbish, charcoal cooking fires and the fish oil smeared on hulls.
Sulaiman led us down into the dark gloom of the hold of his ship, clambering across a newly loaded cargo of sacks of dates.
‘Not a single stitch broken after more than fifty years,’ he said, pointing to the inside of the hull.
When my eyes adjusted to the dark, I saw that the planks were held together with thick cords, and similarly fastened to the ribs of the vessel. There were no nails.
I thought back to how Protis’s ship had sprung a leak and foundered, and wondered what would happen if the cords burst. Sulaiman’s vessel would disintegrate, the planks dropping away like the petals of a dying flower in autumn.
The shipmaster prodded a rope fastening. It was black with age. ‘Soaked in coconut oil every season. It will see me out my lifetime,’ he assured us. Tucking up his loincloth he scurried up the ladder and back on deck so nimbly that Osric and I lagged far behind him.
‘When do we set sail?’ I called after him, as we emerged into the bright sunlight. ‘My companions and I are ready to leave whenever is convenient for you.’
‘We leave on the mawsim for Zanj,’ he said firmly, folding his legs under him as he sat down cross-legged on a tattered scrap of carpet on the stern deck. He gestured at us to join him.
‘The mawsim?’
‘The correct day of departure. I’ve sailed to Zanj more than a dozen times on the appointed day, and come back safely,’ he answered.
‘And when is this mawsim?’
‘The end of the first week of October.’
‘Can we not leave earlier?’ I was eager to get the expedition over with as quickly as possible.
‘We sail in company with others.’ He gestured to the anchorage where three or four merchant ships, similar to our own, lay with their crews hard at work on mending sails and rigging.
‘And how long before we reach Zanj?’
‘A month or two, depending on the wind and the speed of our business. Nadim Jaffar agreed that I can stop at the usual places along the coast and trade.’
He gave me a sideways, conspiratorial look. ‘If your interpreter could help out, it will reduce the time spent on these stopovers.’
I mumbled something about being prepared to assist in any way I could.
The shipmaster wanted a more definite undertaking from me. ‘The further we travel along the coast, the more difficult it is to deal with the locals. We bargain in a mix of Arabic and the regional languages. Misunderstandings arise. They take time to untangle.’
‘My interpreter will help out as best he can,’ I promised.
Sulaiman burst out in a cackle of sheer delight. ‘Not he . . . she!’
I blinked in surprise.
The shipmaster rocked back on his haunches, still chuckling, ‘So you haven’t heard the rumour. Your interpreter is to be a woman, and what a woman!’ He rolled his eyes.
‘I look forward to meeting her,’ I said frostily. This was the first time I had heard that Jaffar was making such an unusual arrangement, and I felt put out.
Suddenly the old man became serious. ‘I do not mean to sound ungrateful or frivolous. Nadim Jaffar has been most thoughtful in providing such an interpreter. Very few are fluent in the languages spoken along the coast -’ he paused, ‘and she cost him a very great deal of money.’
I decided it was time to turn the subject back to the practical arrangements for our voyage. ‘How far beyond Zanj are you prepared to take us?’
‘I have given my word to Nadim Jaffar that I will not turn back until my ship is as far south of Zanj as Basra is from Baghdad,’ he said.
‘And how will you know that?’ I asked. ‘I had understood that these are uncharted waters.’
The shipmaster reached into the pocket of his grubby gown and pulled a small, thin rectangle of wood, about an inch by two, with a cord through its centre. ‘When this tells me so.’
He put the end of the cord between his lips, held out the tablet at arm’s length to stretch the cord, and closed one eye. He held the position for a moment, then spat out the cord and grinned at me, showing worn brown teeth. ‘Beyond Zanj I will have to find a different star, of course, probably Farqadan.’