other.
‘Indeed, Your Majesty,’ he said.
The sultan twisted the royal signet ring on his left hand round a full turn.
‘Then go back to the tenth year in the reign of the Caliph Harun ar-Rachid, to the great citadel of Baghdad, and bring me the imperial ring.’
The clockmaker took a step backwards.
He touched a finger to his Adam’s apple, at the point where he imagined the executioner’s axe would fall.
‘A great challenge, Your Majesty,’ he said coldly.
The sultan smiled at the corner of his mouth.
‘Off you go, then,’ he said.
With a deep sigh, the clockmaker stepped up into the chair, the hoopoe still tweeting against the sound of the mechanism. Adjusting the dials, he checked the pressure on a pair of gauges, and pressed a button in the middle of the instrument panel.
With the bird chirping in terror, the machine shuddered and spluttered to breaking point.
Then it vanished.
The sultan’s eyes widened; he was too shocked to speak.
Where the machine had so recently stood, was a patch of slimy blue jelly.
The sultan inspected it from a distance.
‘How dare he sully the royal Court,’ he said.
Clinging to the velvet seat, the clockmaker’s body was displaced across time, reconstituted at the last moment, as it reached the tenth year of Harun ar-Rachid’s reign. The first sound to touch his ears was the little hoopoe. He smiled.
‘Thank God it is still alive,’ he said.
The clockmaker was about to step out of the chair when a party of imperial soldiers marched up, grabbed him, and trussed him in chains. As for the machine, it was loaded onto a cart and taken away, the hoopoe chirping wildly in fright.
As the city of Baghdad slept below, the prisoner was taken to a tower in the citadel complex, with a view out over the Tigris. Beaten and bruised, he was hung up on a cell’s wall, a bucket of animal blood hurled over him for good measure.
The jailer, who doubled as a torturer and sometimes executioner as well, held up a pair of pliers and grinned a toothless grin. He was a vile and putrid example of manhood, one who derived pleasure from wielding authority.
Preparing himself for the agony of torture, the clockmaker said a prayer to the Master of all Jinn.
As he did so, the jailer stepped forward, his pliers splayed apart and ready for use.
‘Open your mouth,’ he grunted. ‘And we’ll get down to work.’
At that moment, there was the sound of leather boots rasping on stone. An officer from the royal guard had climbed the steps to the tower, and was racing down through the cell block.
Banging on the reinforced iron door, he ordered the jailer to open up.
‘Get him down at once!’ the officer shouted. ‘I have orders to take the prisoner!’
The jailer’s face fell. Lowering his trusty tool, he asked:
‘And who might have signed these orders?’
‘The Caliph Harun ar-Rachid himself!’
The clockmaker was unchained and, the next thing he knew, he was in the throne room on his knees.
Reclining on a voluminous gilded throne before him was the Caliph Harun of A Thousand and One Nights .
A vizier swept through the chamber, whispered in his master’s ear, and melted away into the shadows. Narrowing his eyes, the Caliph remained silent for a long while.
Eventually, in a slow and deliberate voice, he spoke:
‘I have come to understand that you were discovered with a mechanical device.’
The Caliph touched the arm of his throne in a signal. A curtain was lowered at the far end of the hall, revealing the clockmaker’s chair.
His eyes fixed in terror to the floor, its inventor cocked his head up and down in affirmation. So fearful was he, that he dared not look up at the Caliph’s hands, checking them for the signet ring.
‘Your Excellence,’ he babbled, his voice barely audible. ‘Yes, I created the machine.’
‘And what purpose does it serve?’
The clockmaker said nothing, terrified of being executed on the spot as a sorcerer.
The Caliph, master of the known
‘Indeed, Your Majesty,’ he said.
The sultan twisted the royal signet ring on his left hand round a full turn.
‘Then go back to the tenth year in the reign of the Caliph Harun ar-Rachid, to the great citadel of Baghdad, and bring me the imperial ring.’
The clockmaker took a step backwards.
He touched a finger to his Adam’s apple, at the point where he imagined the executioner’s axe would fall.
‘A great challenge, Your Majesty,’ he said coldly.
The sultan smiled at the corner of his mouth.
‘Off you go, then,’ he said.
With a deep sigh, the clockmaker stepped up into the chair, the hoopoe still tweeting against the sound of the mechanism. Adjusting the dials, he checked the pressure on a pair of gauges, and pressed a button in the middle of the instrument panel.
With the bird chirping in terror, the machine shuddered and spluttered to breaking point.
Then it vanished.
The sultan’s eyes widened; he was too shocked to speak.
Where the machine had so recently stood, was a patch of slimy blue jelly.
The sultan inspected it from a distance.
‘How dare he sully the royal Court,’ he said.
Clinging to the velvet seat, the clockmaker’s body was displaced across time, reconstituted at the last moment, as it reached the tenth year of Harun ar-Rachid’s reign. The first sound to touch his ears was the little hoopoe. He smiled.
‘Thank God it is still alive,’ he said.
The clockmaker was about to step out of the chair when a party of imperial soldiers marched up, grabbed him, and trussed him in chains. As for the machine, it was loaded onto a cart and taken away, the hoopoe chirping wildly in fright.
As the city of Baghdad slept below, the prisoner was taken to a tower in the citadel complex, with a view out over the Tigris. Beaten and bruised, he was hung up on a cell’s wall, a bucket of animal blood hurled over him for good measure.
The jailer, who doubled as a torturer and sometimes executioner as well, held up a pair of pliers and grinned a toothless grin. He was a vile and putrid example of manhood, one who derived pleasure from wielding authority.
Preparing himself for the agony of torture, the clockmaker said a prayer to the Master of all Jinn.
As he did so, the jailer stepped forward, his pliers splayed apart and ready for use.
‘Open your mouth,’ he grunted. ‘And we’ll get down to work.’
At that moment, there was the sound of leather boots rasping on stone. An officer from the royal guard had climbed the steps to the tower, and was racing down through the cell block.
Banging on the reinforced iron door, he ordered the jailer to open up.
‘Get him down at once!’ the officer shouted. ‘I have orders to take the prisoner!’
The jailer’s face fell. Lowering his trusty tool, he asked:
‘And who might have signed these orders?’
‘The Caliph Harun ar-Rachid himself!’
The clockmaker was unchained and, the next thing he knew, he was in the throne room on his knees.
Reclining on a voluminous gilded throne before him was the Caliph Harun of A Thousand and One Nights .
A vizier swept through the chamber, whispered in his master’s ear, and melted away into the shadows. Narrowing his eyes, the Caliph remained silent for a long while.
Eventually, in a slow and deliberate voice, he spoke:
‘I have come to understand that you were discovered with a mechanical device.’
The Caliph touched the arm of his throne in a signal. A curtain was lowered at the far end of the hall, revealing the clockmaker’s chair.
His eyes fixed in terror to the floor, its inventor cocked his head up and down in affirmation. So fearful was he, that he dared not look up at the Caliph’s hands, checking them for the signet ring.
‘Your Excellence,’ he babbled, his voice barely audible. ‘Yes, I created the machine.’
‘And what purpose does it serve?’
The clockmaker said nothing, terrified of being executed on the spot as a sorcerer.
The Caliph, master of the known
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