They ate, and when the appetites of the officials and their men were met, I-along with the other servants-was given to eat of several of the dishes, and found them strange to my taste, but not overly disagreeable. One or two contained a potent spice which produced heat in my mouth and warmed me so that the sweat stood out on my forehead. I thought I might swoon, but the feeling passed.
While eating, the eparch and the amir talked. Alas, I was not close enough to hear what they said, but they seemed to find the measure of one another quickly, and were not displeased with what they found. The eating and talk continued in a leisurely way until there came the sound of someone wailing outside the tent. The voice droned on in an undulating chant, and we all fell silent to hear it, save the amir, who rose, bowed to the eparch, spoke a word and departed. His men followed him, leaving only the servants and translator behind.
"Please," said the young man, "my lord Sadiq begs to be excused as it is his hour to pray. But you are his honoured guests and you are welcome to remain as long as you wish. Eat and drink your fill."
The eparch rose and said, "You will convey our thanks to your lord, and tell him that we have enjoyed ourselves in his company. It is with deepest regret that we must leave."
We left the camp and returned to the city, and to the governor's house where the eparch began preparations for receiving the Arabs.
This, then, began my first acquaintance with the Muhammedans, who, I promptly learned, were not pagans, as I had first supposed, but a people who worshipped the same God as Christians and Jews, and, like them, revered the Holy Word. They knew somewhat of Jesu, but, like the Jews, did not hold him to be the Christ. Nevertheless, they were extremely devout, and very exacting in their ways and lived according to a set of laws laid down in a book, the Qur'an, written by one called Muhammed, a mighty prophet indeed. The chief tenet of their belief was, as I came to understand it, complete and utter submission to the will of God, a state which they called islam.
That night, as I lay in my bed, in the palatial house in Trebizond, I dreamed again.
In the between-place where waking and sleeping meet, I found myself standing in darkness. The features of the room could not be seen, but it was cool and damp, and I could hear shouts and cries of men echoing, as if at a distance, along stone corridors. The room where I stood was foul with the stink of urine and excrement, and acrid smoke.
I did not know how I came to be there, nor what sort of place it was. Nor could I recall how long I had been in this room-if room it was. But I heard the cries of men all around, and it seemed to me that I was waiting, and perhaps had been waiting a long time for someone to arrive, though why…I could not say.
I became aware of some other presence in the room. I raised my eyes and saw a man standing before me. This man was of the brown-skinned race, and stood glaring at me, his arms folded across his chest, as if offended by the sight of me.
"If you please," I ventured, "why am I here? What have I done?" As I spoke these words, it came to me that I was a captive in prison.
"Silence," replied the man. His voice was command itself. Unfolding his arms, I saw that he clutched a book-roll in his hand. He thrust this at me and said, "Read it out."
Taking the scroll, I unrolled it and began to read-though the words felt strange in my mouth, and sounded odd in my ears. I read, spilling these alien words into the darkness of the room, until the brown-skinned man shouted, "Enough!"
He then snatched the book-roll from my hands, saying, "Do you understand what you have read?"
"No, lord," I replied.
"And do you not realize where you are?" he asked.
"Of that I am far from certain," I told him. "But it seems a kind of prison. Am I a captive, then?"
The brown-skinned lord laughed at me. "A prison?" he chuckled. "Does this truly appear a prison to you?"
With that, he clapped his hands and I was no longer standing in a damp, stinking room in the dark. Indeed, I was sitting on a gold-brocaded cushion in a room larger than a hall. Ranged before me were trays of food, and I wore robes of finest silk.
"Eat," directed the man. Again, it was a command, and no kindly invitation. "Take your ease."
I reached towards the nearest tray to take up some food, for I was suddenly overcome with a powerful hunger. As I stretched my hand towards the tray, I caught sight of my wrist extending from the sleeve of my robe. The flesh of my wrist was red and scarred. I pulled back my hand and looked at it, then examined the other wrist-it was scarred as well, but I had no memory of how those scars could have come there.
