"Only this: obtain freedom for my friends, and we will help you stop Nikos and renew the peace."

He waited, expecting me to say more. "What else do you require?"

"That is all."

"Freedom for your friends?" wondered Sadiq, surveying me dubiously. "Nothing else? You must hate this Nikos more than I suspected."

I felt my stomach tightening into a knot of anticipation. "Can it be done?"

"Allah willing, it might be arranged," the amir replied, tapping his chin thoughtfully. "But let us understand one another: if I achieve this feat, you will go with me to Byzantium and aid me in restoring the treaty?"

"We will do whatever you ask," I vowed.

"Then we must pray the khalifa is in his right mind today," Sadiq replied, making his decision. "If you like, I will inform Kazimain that the wedding must be delayed a little."

"Thank you," I said, "but I will tell her myself."

"As you wish." Sadiq rose to his feet. "You must excuse me," he said, "there is much to be done-and quickly." He clapped his hands, and Faysal appeared as out of nowhere. "I have an urgent message for the wazir," he said. "We require an audience with the khalifa at his earliest convenience-today. Go!"

To me, he said, "Rise up, Aidan. If my new advisor is to accompany me, he must be arrayed like royalty."

The amir led me to another room where his clothes were kept in sandalwood chests. He chose a new robe and cloak for me, then summoned servants to come and prepare me for my audience. "Make him appear a nobleman," he commanded as he left the room. "For today this man must stand before the khalifa!"

When they had completed this task, Faysal came in carrying a bundle wrapped in blue silk. "For you, Aidan," he said. "The amir wishes you to have this."

I opened the bundle to reveal a knife of the kind the Irish call a daigear, but unlike any I had ever seen: all silver and gold of the most wonderful craftsmanship, worked into fantastic leaf-and-tendril designs and studded with rubies, emeralds, and sapphires. The blade, however, was of a metal called steel, and sharper than the cut of the keenest razor. I could hardly take my eyes from the knife long enough to thank Faysal.

"All Sarazen noblemen wear such a knife," he said. "It is called Qadi."

"Judgement?" I wondered. "Why that?"

"Because," said Faysal, taking the treasure and tucking it into my belt properly, "a man must sometimes rely on his own hand for justice, and when Qadi speaks, arguments cease."

Stepping away, he pronounced me an acceptable likeness of an Arab nobleman, and said, "Now you are ready to meet the khalifa. May Allah grant you favour in his sight."

The Caliph of Samarra was sitting under a fig tree in the palace arboretum. He had, it was explained, been sitting under the tree for five days, awaiting inspiration from the angel Gabriel for the completion of a poem recently begun.

"Perhaps," Wazir Tabataba'i suggested discreetly, "your business with the khalifa would be more auspiciously conducted another day."

"All business should be conducted in gardens under fig trees," countered the amir. "The world would be a far better place. We will be happy to greet the khalifa in his garden."

"As you will." The black-turbaned wazir bowed graciously, but I perceived a note of warning in his tone. He turned and led us through the vast, empty reception hall, his dark blue robe billowing behind him like a sail, his soft-slippered feet silent on polished green marble floors.

We walked through one enormous room after another, passing beneath blue-painted domes as big and deep as the heavenly skybowl; some were even pierced by thousands of tiny star-shaped holes to imitate the night sky. Tall pillars upheld these domes, and the grand, shapely arches. The walls of some of the rooms were covered with blue-and-green painted tiles; others were painted red or warm ochre, and decorated with gold-leaf peacock plumes. Along the walls there were chests and boxes-and in several rooms, throne-like seats-of exotic woods inlaid with gold and silver and pearl. And everywhere were rugs and carpets of the most cunningly intricate design and colour. We passed one room where the ceiling was covered with red-striped cloth that hung loosely down from a central timber pillar, so that the room entirely resembled a tent.

The wazir then led us along a wide corridor of onyx columns and out into a walled garden with a fountain in the centre, through this to an iron scroll-work gate and into the arboretum, or tree garden, where dwelt his master, awaiting divine inspiration.

I felt slightly foolish and out of place: my clothes were far more extravagant than anything I had ever worn; the turban made my head feel several times too large and dangerously unsteady; the oil on my moustache kept getting onto my lips, making them feel slippery and strange; the knife hilt dug into my hip bone, and I greatly feared wounding myself by bending over too quickly. In all it was, I suppose, a necessity, but I would have been far more at ease and confident if less had been made of me.

But the amir, having insisted on this course, had departed, leaving me to the expert ministrations of his servants. First, I had been stripped naked and washed with scented water poured from a tall, slender ewer into a huge brass bowl in which I was made to stand. My hair, long now and without a trace of tonsure anymore, was dressed with perfumed oil, and my skin as well. Then, one after another, various coloured tunics were brought and tried until they settled on one to match the red robe and cloak the amir had chosen. Next I had been given a wide black belt which wrapped my waist four times, and a pair of soft black leather boots. A long narrow strip of creamy white cloth became a turban, the end of which was secured with a ruby pin. It was as they were finishing that Faysal had entered carrying the Qadi-knife. Thrusting the blade through a fold in my belt, Faysal pronounced me ready and I was conducted to the courtyard where Sadiq was waiting.

Two milk-white horses stood in the yard and the amir was watching his grooms saddle the wonderful animals. At my approach, he turned and his handsome face brightened with genuine pleasure. "Ah! A very Prince of Persia! Please, do not let Kazimain see you, or she will never allow you out of her sight."

"Do you think me ready to stand before the khalifa?" I asked.

"My friend," intoned Sadiq seriously, "were you going to meet Allah himself, you could not look any finer. Now then, when was the last time you sat a horse?"

"I cannot remember."

Sadiq frowned. "I thought as much…" Turning abruptly, he called to one of the grooms. "Jalal! Take Sharwa away. Bring Yaqin instead." To me he confided, "You will find her more to your liking."

The stableman left the courtyard on the run leading one of the white horses-only to return some moments later, leading a pale grey mare with a black tail, mane, and forelegs. The sunlight on the animal's coat made it look silky. "Ah, yes," sighed the amir appreciatively. "She is a wonder, this Yaqin." He stepped to the horse and patted her smooth neck, and motioned for me to do the same. "Here, Beautiful One, is my friend Aidan," he said, speaking softly into the horse's ear. "He is a good fellow. Do not disgrace him, please."

As if in answer to the amir's request, the mare tossed her head up and down, and nuzzled Sadiq's neck. "Later," the amir said, scolding lightly, "if you behave yourself, you shall have a fig." To me, he said, "She has developed a liking for honeyed dates as well."

We watched the stablemen go about saddling the horses; they accomplished their work deftly and efficiently, handling the horses with polite firmness. "It is a sin," observed Sadiq idly, "to mistreat a horse." He clearly enjoyed his horses, and lavished great affection on them. "A very great sin. One of the worst."