Abdulla Aziz was the wealthiest and most popular merchant in Kashmar, thanks to his frequent journeys to Baghdad in the west and Herat in the east, not to mention his fairness and generosity. His personality was as big as his corpulent stature. The saying, ‘larger than life,’ could have been invented for him.

Hussein called on the gentle giant as he was preparing to set off in a westerly direction with his massive caravan of camels and waggons. The two men had grown up together before their lives diverged in pursuit of their greatly differing callings.

Hussein dedicated his life in service to Zoroaster and his family, while Abdullah worshipped the Dinar, good food, and his young Harem. Their camaraderie remained strong by virtue of one’s respectful tolerance of the other’s passions. Abdullah had contributed half of the ill-fated ransome for the tree, which Hussein was returning.

“Good morning my friend. How is the reconstruction going?” Abdullah greeted Hussein.

“Good day to you, big man. We’re all doing our best with what we have.” Hussein handed the leather saddle-bag to his friend.

“Please, Hussein. Let it be my contribution to the building works. It’ll be a far better use for it than lining that infidel’s purse.” Abdullah held up both hands.

“Thank you Abdullah. The town, as usual, is in your debt.” The Magus placed the bag in the portico and heeded Abdulla’s gesture to enter. The merchant clapped his hands twice and ordered tea and cakes from the instantly emerging servant and bid his friend to sit.

“What can I do for you? I’m sure you didn’t come here to return the money,” Abdulla settled his colossal bulk onto the cushions.

“As usual, you are very perceptive. I have come to ask a favour of you.” Hussein replied, wondering how his friend would get up from his prone position.

“If it’s within my limited ability, consider it done,” Abdulla returned.

“Thank you Abdullah. Shahid is intending to journey to Samarra and I wondered if he could travel with you as far as Baghdad?” Hussein crossed his legs and placed his hands on his knees. He studied the swarthy features of his old companion, each one in proportion to his size. His mass of curls sprung from beneath his silk smagh folded the Arab way. He had the nose of his father, an Arab merchant, like the bill of a desert eagle. His eyes and mouth, nevertheless, were his mother’s, a Persian princess. The former as green as a freshly cut emerald and the latter as full and red as the silk cushions which surrounded him. All were framed in a thick black beard.

Memories revisited Hussein of the overweight young boy of mixed blood who was constantly bullied. He would take many a beating for standing up for Abdullah, something his friend never forgot.

“Isn’t it about time Shahid put his feet up? It can’t be good, gadding about the country in one’s nineties,” Abdullah remarked to his friend.

“Unfortunately, I have no say over what the stubborn old fool does with his time,” Hussein returned, masking his admiration for Shahid and his anticipation for news of Soraya.

“What are his intentions this time? Is he still trying to drill some sense into that dullard Princess Amira? He’s wasting his time, she’s a lost cause,” chuckled the merchant, shaking his head.

“I have no idea of his intentions, other than to meet the poet, Alí ibn al-Jahm,” the Magus replied.

“Ah, that madman? I wouldn’t cross the street to meet him, let alone a week’s trek to that god forsaken city. They say he predicted the murder of the Caliph.” Abdullah drew his fingers across his throat in a slicing motion. “I suspect he was involved in it, if you ask me.”

“Yes, he’d hated the Caliph since that crucifixion incident.” Hussein concurred.

“I’m not surprised. Mad or not, I couldn’t stand a day and a night naked, tied to a cross,” Abdullah chuckled. Hussein closed his eyes but, try as he might, he could not visualise that scene.

“May I take that as a yes? I can inform the old man and allow him to pack some things,” Hussein intervened in the merchant’s levity.

“Of course! He can ride in my wagon and share the sleeping quarters with my wives. I’m sure they’ll take good care of him,” Abdulla’s hilarity moved up a notch as he roared with laughter like a bear with a salmon.

“Thank you my friend. I’ll tell him on my return.” The servant brought the tea and a plate piled high with sweet treats. Abdullah poured the aromatic beverage and handed a glass to his friend. He then proceeded to gorge on the cakes, politely rejected by Hussein. Flakes of golden pastry decorated his beard.

“I will be departing at first light, the day after tomorrow. The journey will be five days, I don’t like to rush things,” the giant said, brushing the errant flakes from his whiskers.

Both men indulged in tea and nostalgia for the remainder of the visit. When they’d exhausted their reminiscing, Abdullah clapped his hands three times and two burly servants appeared. He raised his arms and each man took one, pulling the colossus to his feet.

“Remember, my friend, first light, two days hence. He must be prompt or he’ll be walking to Baghdad,” Abdullah gave Hussein a bone-crunching hug which was accentuated by his laughter.

“Don’t worry. I’ll deliver him myself,” Hussein returned, gasping for breath and checking the integrity of his rib cage.