Stateless (30 page)

Da'oud considered Zakki's words for a long moment before speaking. ‘And what makes you think, Doctor, that we did not know of the things you tell us?'

At this, Da'oud stood and left the room. The interview was over.

Once outside and on the busy street, Zakki found himself caught up in a stream of people funnelling toward the marketplace. Lost in the crowd, he pondered what Da'oud had said to him and he thought of the way in which Hadir ibn Yussuf ibn Gibreel, vizier to the Abbasid Caliph, had sought him out. There were many Jews in Baghdad. So why had he been given the task? Was it to stop a war and save the life of a holy boy, or was there something else behind Hadir ibn Yussuf's words?

Two days passed before Hadir sought out Zakki again. He was walking from the House of Wisdom after another frenetic day of trying to understand the minds of Greek doctors long dead. Zakki was lost in thought when he felt a tap on his shoulder. Startled, he turned and saw Hadir behind him. But this time was different, this time the Vizier was alone and unaccompanied by his guard.

His voice came as a whisper. ‘Did you see the imam? Did you give him my words?'

Zakki swallowed hard. ‘No.'

Hadir's eyes narrowed.

Zakki explained. ‘I saw the imam's uncle. I spoke to him. I gave him the warning.'

Anger flared in Hadir's face. ‘Da'oud? But you were to speak only to the boy! I gave you clear instruction that you were only to speak with the imam. Why did you disobey?'

Zakki cowered. He was many different people – a man of learning, of thought, of medicine – but he was not a man of conflict.

‘I did what I could,' he stammered. ‘They would not let me see him.'

‘Fool of a man! You have no idea how much damage you've done.'

Zakki closed his eyes, almost as if expecting a blow. But Hadir had turned on his heels and paced away. On impulse, he reached to his throat and grasped the ancient seal at his neck to steady his nerves.

The following day, even though the hall at the House of Wisdom was full of scholarly shouts and groans and moans and the occasional sudden laughter of discovery, Zakki found time to sit with Hussain of Damascus, a scholar in the theology of the Koran.

Zakki's mind had been swirling since the encounter with Hadir and the threat to his family drew his thoughts away from his work. Ultimately, Zakki found the words to ask Hussain what he knew about the Vizier to the Caliph of Baghdad.

Hussain shrugged his shoulders. ‘Little is known about him but he is not the sort of man who you should either befriend or whose enemy you should become. He's the sort who will not see you as he walks past you, yet is your best friend when he is in need of your services. It's said of him that he came here to
Baghdad twenty or so years ago, as a merchant with trading connections deep into Asia, as far as China along the Silk Road. He sought out the Caliph's father, Muhammad ibn Harun al-Amin, who was beset by problems. There was war with the Byzantines in Syria and Anatolia, and many of the governors of the provinces were breaking away and forming their own caliphates.

‘The Caliph's coffers were being drained and so when Hadir came and told the Caliph's Vizier how he could provide a stream of great wealth because of his connections with the caravanserai and the traders who he could persuade to pass through this city instead of Damascus, he was elevated to advise the Caliph. And that's when the whispers began . . .'

Hussain looked around the hall as if to check no one was listening, but the act seemed superfluous given the din of debate all around them.

‘They say Hadir quickly undermined the Vizier and took his place within the year. Since then, he has sat at the left hand of the Caliph.' Hussain shrugged and opened his hands, palms out. ‘And again we have become a wealthy and prosperous city. So it would seem Hadir knows what he's doing, even if he had to destroy the wealth and happiness of some people along the way.'

Zakki listened carefully to what his friend told him, and asked his next question softly, so that he couldn't be overheard. ‘You say the left hand of the Caliph. Who sits at his right hand?'

‘The imam, leader of those who follow the way of the Shi'ites.'

‘And if the Vizier, Hadir ibn Yussuf, asked a favour of me, in order to do some good in the city, what would you think of that?'

The scholar looked at his Jewish friend and thought for a moment before speaking. ‘I would ponder his words. I would
reflect on his request. I would look at the city of Baghdad and all that is within its walls. I would look at the wealth that the Vizier has acquired in just a few short years, and then I would wonder not what good it would do for the city, but what good the favour would do for Hadir . . .'

One hour west of Ras Abu Yussuf

1947

A
lthough his head was no longer aching, he still didn't have the strength to keep up with Mustafa. Yet his excitement threatened to overwhelm his common sense and he half ran, half walked down the steep gorges.

Shalman had intended to return home the previous day but then Mustafa decided to trust him sufficiently to tell him about the caves in a secluded valley, far away from roads or even tracks taken by goatherds or shepherds. He wasn't well enough for an archaeological expedition, but Shalman had been so excited by the coins that Mustafa decided to take the risk. The caves were not far from where Shalman had fallen and were, according to Mustafa, where he had found the Roman coins.

As they made their way there, Mustafa told Shalman of the other things he had seen in the area – stones of ancient houses and shards of pottery – and these thoughts excited Shalman, and even made the headache recede a bit.

They had reached the remote and out-of-the-way gorge within an hour after setting off from the village, and from the top of the rise they could see the towering buildings of
Jerusalem far in the distance. Yet because of the folds of the hills in between the gorge and the mountains on which Jerusalem was built, this valley was invisible unless one was standing on its very edge looking down. It was so narrow, little more than a deep scar on the landscape, that it was easy to miss.

Even from the top of the rise, Shalman could see the entrances to a number of caves. There was little disturbance of the vegetation around them and no sign of tracks or footpaths leading in their direction. This fuelled his excitement that this place hadn't been explored recently – perhaps even for hundreds, if not thousands, of years – and Shalman doubted that many people ever had reason to come to this area.

Though it was difficult terrain and Shalman kept slipping and sliding on the scree, he and Mustafa quickly reached the bottom of the valley and stood in the gorge looking upwards at the steep sides; from the bottom where he stood, only a strip of sky was visible. Yet Mustafa was correct: even a cursory glance showed him that there had once been buildings standing here. It was perfect protection for the ancient inhabitants: far enough from major roads to be ignored by the Romans, yet close enough to Jerusalem to enable them to purchase supplies and trade when needed with only a day's journey. Shalman looked closely at the layouts of the buildings, and it soon became apparent that they were too small to have been dwelling places.

Pointing out the circumference, and possible internal structures, Shalman told Mustafa, ‘I think that these are temples.'

‘Temples? They're too small. They're tiny.'

But Shalman shook his head, and said, ‘The whole area might have been a necropolis, a burial site from ancient times. I've read about such places in Greece and Egypt and Turkey, but I didn't think that they existed in ancient Israel.'

‘But the caves in the foothills of the mountains north of Jerusalem were the burial places of the ancient Jews. Not here . . .'

Mustafa was right. The burial locations had been decreed by Kings Solomon and David and, like so much in ancient Israel, was a ritual born of pragmatism – the southerly wind blew the smell of decay away from the city.

Shalman looked at Mustafa curiously. ‘How do you know these things?'

Mustafa shrugged. ‘A man must know the land on which he lives.'

Shalman had little time to consider the words of his companion before a sound caught his attention. Mustafa shaded his eyes with his hand as he lifted his head toward the sound coming from the sky.

‘It's a plane.' said Shalman and grabbed Mustafa's wrist, pulling him out of the open space of the gorge and towards the caves and small temple ruins.

The sound grew louder still until finally a British Spitfire fighter plane roared into the gorge. Shalman pulled Mustafa down to the ground beside him and watched as the aircraft thundered past them at very low altitude.

‘British air patrol. They're looking for weapons smugglers.'

Mustafa pulled back from Shalman, whose hand was still on his arm, and Shalman could not help but feel his companion still looked at him with an edge of distrust.

‘They are looking then for your people,' said Mustafa and it was true. The manufacture and flow of ammunition and arms to Lehi through underground networks and secret factories in remote kibbutzim was key to their struggle against the British. And in the wake of bombings and attacks on their major command structures, the British army had stepped up its patrols, road blocks and searches.

Shalman saw the plane disappear as it rose sharply into the air and away from the valley, the sound of its engines receding and bringing a semblance of peace back to the landscape. But
then he saw it bank to the right, its curved wings sweeping up towards the sun and arching around to return and sweep back down the valley once more.

‘Do you think they saw us?' asked Mustafa.

‘Let's not find out . . .' He stood to a low crouch and put a hand out to help Mustafa to his feet. ‘A Jew and an Arab together out here? They'll think we're conspiring.'

There was no time to laugh as the Spitfire wheeled about and dived back down the valley. Mustafa and Shalman dashed towards the open recess of a small cave and slipped inside to the cool, dry dark.

Their hearts pounding, they waited for the roar of the plane to grow as it passed overhead, and then diminish as it found the valley empty of life.

The cave seemed bare save for where the roof had collapsed, probably through earth movement or an earthquake, and debris had accumulated floor to ceiling.

They sat there looking out to the narrow space of sky they could see through the cave entrance and listening out for the plane to move on.

They waited for a couple of minutes. They could still hear the plane but could not gauge how near or far it was from the rock cave. But then silence, a biblical silence of the aeons, returned to the landscape.

As though the Spitfire had been an irritant, rather than a deadly weapon of war, Shalman reverted to a previous conversation. ‘You said you wanted to go to university in Lebanon. Why not Jerusalem?'

Mustafa raised an eyebrow. ‘A Jewish university?'

‘There's nothing to say you couldn't.'

Mustafa just laughed.

‘I could tutor you,' countered Shalman and in the moment he was unsure of why he said it or even thought it was possible.
Was it guilt? Was it a debt he felt needed to be paid to the enemy who had saved him from the vultures?

‘I will,' Shalman insisted. ‘I'll tutor you. I'm coming top of my year. When I learn things, then I'll teach them to you.'

Mustafa burst out laughing. ‘You're a crazy Jew. You know that, don't you?'

‘You have to be a little crazy to be Jewish.'

But Mustafa's mirth quickly faded and he asked softly, in a voice full of earnestness, ‘Why? Why would a Jew do that for an Arab?'

It was a simple question, and an obvious one, but still Shalman was struck by it.

‘I don't know. Why did an Arab save a Jew's life? I could have died out there; the vultures, the sun, the crack on the head. You saved me.'