The Endless Golden Dunes

Chapter 8: The Enlistments

SALMAN

Salman was reading a book. He sat upon a chair in the library and had an open copy of mathematical texts in front of him. He flipped through the pages, reading the texts, analyzing the diagrams, and trying to spot something that would arouse a special interest. Eventually, he closed the book and looked around. There were glassless windows on the walls. Wooden shelves were the majority residents in the place, even though there were people as far as Salman could see. Texts, scrolls, illustrations, everything was here. If this library was so great, Salman could only imagine what it would have been like to visit the Library of Alexandria.
  
A young man with a white turban and kameez that reached to his ankles showed up. Thrown upon his shoulder was a leather bag. He sat next to Salman. When he set down the bag on the floor and Salman heard a thunk! It was the sound of books. The man must have been a scholar in training.
  
‘I am assuming you are new to Baghdad?’ he asked. He had some kind of accent that Salman didn’t manage to recognize.
  
‘You saw me coming?’ Salman asked.
  
‘No. I have just never seen you before.’
  
‘I could say the same for you.’
  
‘Shall you tell me your name?’
  
‘Tell me yours, and maybe I will tell mine.’
  
The student smiled.
  
‘You are quick-witted,’ he said. ‘I think the world needs more people with a mind like yours. Nonetheless, you can call me Akbar.’
  
‘Akbar? I have never heard that word being a name for someone. “Great”, it means.’
  
‘I am aware of that. But see, from where I come from, it is normal.’
  
‘From where, then, do you come from?’
  
‘Away east, from India.’
  
Salman’s eyes widened. Never had he seen someone from India.
  
‘Why do you come to Baghdad then?’ he asked.
  
‘The same reason as everyone else. I thirst for knowledge.’
  
‘Oh, right.’
  
‘Now that I have told you of where I am from, do you not think it is fair that you tell me of where you hail from?’
  
‘An obscure town from the west, some leagues away from here.’
  
‘Ah, Yaqub is the town’s name, is it not?’
  
Salman gaped at Akbar.
  
‘How in the world do you know that?’
  
Akbar shrugged.
  
‘Lucky guess, I suppose.’ He said.
  
Salman continued to look at Akbar. He expected him to say something more. Mercifully, he still had much to tell.
  
‘I want to give you something.’
  
From his bag, he pulled out something. He moved aside the book Salman was reading and set the thing in front of him. Salman looked at the cover. It was just plain leather. There was nothing on it. No title. He opened it and leafed through its pages. It was in Arabic. Thank Allah.
  
‘What is this about?’ Salman found himself asking.
  
‘“The Art of War” by Sun Tzu. I brought it from China. Translated it myself.’ He added proudly.
  
Salman grimaced a bit at the title. Why was such a book given to him? Nevertheless, he had to be polite. If one were to give you a gift, you should accept. He nodded towards Akbar.
  
‘Thank you.’ He said.
  
‘I have read that thing a thousand times already. It is filled with quite a bit of wisdom. It is not only about war, though, it also tells us how to live one’s life.’
  
‘But we have the Qur’an for that, do we not?’
  
‘The Qur’an tells us of the complete way of life. It has all the knowledge, yet you still read other books on knowledge, right?’
  
Salman blushed in embarrassment. He felt like an ignorant fool.
  
‘It is refreshing to hear another person’s perspective. That is all I am saying. Read it, and you will see what I am speaking of.’
  
Salman nodded and he closed the Art of War.
  
‘I want to tell you something as well. A story, if you will.’
  
Salman looked at Akbar. A story? Perhaps he could do with that.
  
‘I used to know a man. Babar his name was. He was what you would call an ideal person. But he always craved for something: approval. He could impress a whole city, but he couldn’t seem to impress his own father. He would have an achievement. He would show it to his father, but he would just shrug and say something inaudible.
  
‘One day, Babar had enough. He wanted his father’s approval. So, he went to a tournament. It was not a professional one, but rather one that was best described as “rogue”. He died during jousting. His father cried over his son’s grave, saying that he shouldn’t have gone this far for his approval.’
  
The story suddenly turned Salman’s spine cold. Not because of how tragic the end was, but because he could mildly relate to it. He managed to shake that feeling off him.
  
‘Why are you telling me this?’ Salman asked.
  
Akbar gave that shrug of his.
  
‘I don’t know; it just seemed appropriate.’
  
‘Why did you think that?’
  
‘Every little thing has a purpose, and each thing’s purpose is different. I believe that my words also have a role to play in something.’
  
‘Or it might just be useless?’
  
The student smiled.
  
‘That can also be the case, but I like to be optimistic.’
  
There were sounds of marching outside. Salman peered at the nearest window in hopes for some hints.
  
‘It’s the army.’ He heard Akbar say.
  
‘Should they be–’
  
When Salman turned around, Akbar was gone. What remained of him was the copy of the Art of War. Salman stared with wide eyes. What in the world?
  
There were the neighs of horses. Salman decided that he should ignore this peculiarity and go outside to see what was happening.