“In the month of Intense Heat a corpse was found at Misr with all the flesh stripped off for food, and its legs tied like a sheep trussed for cooking…

“When the poor first began to eat human flesh, the horror and astonishment that such extraordinary meals aroused were such that these crimes formed the topic of every conversation. No one could stop talking about them. But eventually people grew accustomed…”

His quill stopped scratching the papyrus page, dry.

He moved to dip it again to complete the thought. Then the image of the woman with the roast child hung about her neck, being brought before the Commandant under the falling sun just yesterday, impinged on his thinking. Two hundred brutal lashes administered by Ibis—who, being an executioner, and having that awe about him associated with his blood-soaked cloak, was the Commandant’s favorite lash wielder—failed to make her confess to her crime. Recalling her face he could not place even a vestige of humanity—no sign of any human faculties. Her eyes were dead. Then, as Babyrs pulled her roughly, to lead her away, she expired on the spot. In all his years of doctoring he had not seen a less consequential death—not a whimper, a rattle, a smile, or any sign that her spirit had been there to take flight in the first place.

‘The Baby of the Lilies had all of the serenity and humanity that these flesh-eaters do not. The vultures spirited him north, toward the marsh. He will be there along the Tannic Road, in the bosom of the dying Nile, in The Garden of The Deceiver. The cure to this affliction lies there surely. If only I could be reunited with the Baby and have Beadra raise it as my own, I might come to know his peace.’

His manuscript forgotten, swan quill in hand, a gift from poor returning Ibrahm, Abd al-Latif was off, pacing calmly down the hallway, past Shamballah Ali who forever red his copy of Sina’s book, over and over again, one second to a line, 16 lines to a page, like an inquisitive breeze turning the pages of an open codex. He walked through the curtained doorway to the women’s quarters where Beadra and the Horseman’s Wife—whose baby had been mesmerized and spirited away by the birds—were occupied with the flesh-house baby, the Last Baby of Cairo he was being called, who had been delivered by the mysterious black woman.

The Last Baby looked up to him, in that un-childlike adult way that the Baby of the Lilies had, content to be with its adopted mother, who fawned over it. The baby gave her such joy that she did not need to be weaned from the opium paste, but quit accepting it on her own, suffering no ill-effects.

‘Would that I knew such serenity. Would that I did not require opium thrice daily to keep at bay the shadows of night.’

“Mother, he is perfectly contented. I see no need for a parting examination. The Commandant has sent for a trusted girl to serve as your nurse, and you will remain here under his protection until your husband returns from service.”

The woman rose and half-hugged him with her shoulder, smiling demurely from behind her veil, possessing the peace of mind that negated the need for words. He caressed the baby’s bald head, nodded to Beadra, and addressed the loyal slave girl of whom he was becoming ever more fond, “My work is done here. The Sultan has dispatched me to Bagdad. I have some botanical and zoological work to conduct along the Tannic Road before we strike across the Sinai. We must also be on our guard for opportunities to nurse pilgrims in distress. The remainder of the artisans and countrysiders have been striking out for Syria. The road will be one of tribulations. But when I settle in Bagdad, I will have need of a domestic staff, and a matron to head that staff. I am to advise the Caliph on public health matters.”

It was quite unusual to waste this level of detailed statement on a slave. But the Horseman’s Wife was so enamored of her new baby still that she gave scant notice. Abd al-Latif spoke deliberately and at length in order to assess the responsive expressions—if any—on the face of his unveiled slave girl.

She smiled a smile that broadened as he spoke, which made him think that perhaps she might like him, which was oddly of importance to him. Of course he would never admit his desire to be liked by her in the company of others, rude, or of good status.

‘Yes, she is receptive. It is time to set the course.’

“You shall go veiled henceforth, and begin listening to Ibrahm recite from the Holy Koran, for you shall not remain in Christian squalor.”

Beadra’s mouth made an ‘O’ of surprise, and melted into a smile of happiness. “Yes Master al-Latif.”

‘That is as much as I dare. My intention to civilize her does not necessarily have to be interpreted as my intention to—well, best not admit that even to myself. It might show.’

“Beadra I shall see to my books and patients. Introduce the new nurse to Our Good Mother here, and then supervise the packing of my things. Ibrahm has already begun I think.’

‘Walk off with dignity—haughty; be haughty so she does not sense your yearning.’

He glided across the tiled floor as if on air and barely noted his passage of the courtyard on the way to his apartment, where he would don travelling robes and turban for the first time in more than a year.

It was time.