Our procession snaked through the throngs, passing one exotic quarter after another-including one filled with tiny houses-the only quiet corner of the entire city, I think, and I soon learned why: the stench arising from this place gave me to know that at very least a great calamity had befallen those who lived there. The powerful odour of death hung like an unseen cloud above the silent streets. Yet, save for a few black-robed men ambling idly around the deserted streets, there was no one about.

'Ah, the city of the dead,' Wazim told me when I asked him. 'Many Egyptians still hold to the old ways, believing they must feed and house their ancestors in the afterlife.'

The caliph's men paid no heed at all to the commotion around them, but passed through it with heads high, looking neither right nor left, as if the riotous tumult was so far beneath them as to be invisible. Because of the crush of people and the narrowness of the streets, it took the better part of the morning to reach our destination: a palace of stone that looked as if it might have been hewn in a single piece from the heart of a mountain.

In the dazzling heat of a midday sun, the pale ochre-coloured stone blazed like faded gold. Flags of red and blue waved fitfully on tall standards as we passed up the long ramp towards the gates which were made of pierced and gilded iron. Four tall black men with spears and the skins of lions on their shoulders guarded the entrance. At the envoy's approach, the gatemen opened the gleaming doors without a word; the baggage train entered the palace precinct, and I passed into my opulent prison.

Still dazed from the heady journey through the streets of Cairo, our baggage caravan passed through a maze-work of doorways, corridors, walls, and pathways, and arrived at an inner courtyard, there to wait in the sun while the envoy disappeared into one of the many rooms fronting the yard-a pleasant expanse of green grass and small trees of many varieties, all of them meticulously clipped and arranged to show their best features. Peacocks preened in the low branches and paraded in the sunlight, and white doves fluttered around a pool of clear running water. Flowering shrubs, many in gigantic earthenware pots, filled the air with a delightful scent and attracted the lazy hum of bees.

This paradise was bounded by royal residences on three sides; a high, vine-covered wall enclosed the fourth side. Each of the royal apartments and chambers featured a balcony-a roofed, but otherwise open platform affixed to the outer upper floor and surrounded by a wooden railing. These balconies are common in the arid East, for they allow one to escape the heat of the day and enjoy any passing breezes. In the city, I had seen many such balconies, some with elaborate screens of wood; those overlooking the inner courtyard were open, however, so that the residents might enjoy the beauty and calm of the garden below.

As we stood waiting in the sun, I saw a large, very fat man in a golden robe and turban appear at the railing of a nearby balcony; he paused a moment to take in the sight of us, and then ambled away again. A few moments later, I was conducted with the rest of the baggage into a small, wood-panelled hall across the courtyard where this same man was waiting to receive the gifts in the caliph's name.

He balanced his more than ample girth on a stool at a small table with a square of the peculiar thin Egyptian parchment before him, and the bearers brought the items one-by-one to be entered into his account. I watched as both the gold-bound box containing the embalmed head of Prince Bohemond, and the Black Rood, were duly recorded and borne away with the rest of the treasure-where, I could not say.

Then it was my turn. He looked up from his list, passed his eyes over me, and smiled. 'Ah,' he said, and rose to his feet. Speaking first in Greek and then in Latin, he asked which of the two languages I preferred.

'Latin, if you please, my lord.'

'Of course,' he replied. 'My name is Amir Abu Rafidi,' he told me, and explained that he was the caliph's official katib, a position of authority in which, as overseer of the inner palace servants and all the other scribes, counsellors, and courtiers, it had fallen to him to receive the gifts which the Caliph of Baghdad had sent. As I was among these gifts, the amir was obliged to take account of me, and he hoped I did not mind this small formality. 'I am told that you are a nobleman whose chances of ransom have declined to the point of hopelessness,' he said.

'On the contrary,' I replied, 'I am ever hopeful my friends will come for me. I suspect, however, that moving almost continually from one destination to the next since my capture has made the task more difficult.'

'I see,' he replied. 'I am also told that you are a spy who has been condemned to death by the Khalifa of Baghdad. Is this true?'

'Not entirely,' I replied. 'While it is true that the khalifa ordered me to be executed, it is not true that I am a spy.'

He smiled at my reply, his fleshy jowls wobbling. A cheerful man, and easily amused, I could see he bore me no malice. 'It would be a rare man who readily owned such perfidy.'

I agreed, but insisted that it was true nevertheless.

The amir returned to the table and looked at the blank expanse of parchment before him. I could see that he was trying to decide what to write. Gently lowering himself onto the little stool, he folded his arms and rested his chin in his palm, tapping his fingers against his cheek. He looked up into the air, and then down at the table again. Then he rose and walked around the room, hands folded behind him; he looked at me, and said, 'You are a nobleman.'

'I am, indeed.'

'That makes it all more difficult, you see.'

'I am sorry.'

'No, no, think nothing of it.' He quickly reassured me. 'We must all take the rough with the smooth.'

He returned to his place and took up the quill; he dipped it in the ink, and then hesitated, his hand hovering above the parchment. He glanced at me thoughtfully. 'Ah!' he said, as if discovering the solution to a long-vexing problem.

Dipping the pen once more, he began to write, his hand describing an elaborate flourish as he finished. Laying aside the pen, he picked up the parchment – the odd stuff was so thin, the light from the open doorway shone through it and I could see the strange characters he had written on the other side; holding it before his face, he squinted his eyes and grunted with satisfaction. Then, rising and moving to the door, he called out loudly, and returned to his stool.

A few moments later, the call was answered by the appearance of a little brown man in a long, flowing white garment. Fine featured, with skin like a polished nut, he wore a small white cap atop his close-shaved head. Taking a step into the room, he bowed and stepped lively to the table where he stood looking at me with bright interest.

'Khalifa al-Hafiz is away from Cairo for the foreseeable future,' Abu Rafidi told me. He dipped the pen and added a few amendatory strokes to what had been written. 'Only he can decide your fate.' He blew on the wet ink to dry it. 'So until the Khalifa returns, you will be given a room in the palace.'

He lay aside the pen once more and, lifting a hand to the white-robed servant, he said, 'This is Wazim Kadi; he will be your-ah,' he paused, searching for the right word, 'your jailer, let us say. He will attend to your various needs while you reside in the palace.'

'I am to remain a prisoner?" I asked.

'You are to be our…' he hesitated, 'our guest, let us say. At least, until the khalifa returns.'

'Forgive me for asking, my lord amir,' I said, 'but when is the khalifa's return expected?'

'Only Allah knows,' the katib replied, 'and Allah keeps close counsel.' He smiled pleasantly. 'At least, he does not confide in Rafidi. Come now, Wazim will take you to your room and make you comfortable.'