Their fears had been momentarily allayed by the expected arrival of grain from upper Egypt and everyone was scraping by as best they could. On that particular day, however, a major caravan from Syria had just arrived in town, making it increasingly difficult to find anything to eat. Stirred up by the presence of so many foreigners, a great crowd had surged towards the public granaries in the old city – the last resort in the case of famines. The tenth part of every harvest is stored there in huge bins whose towering walls were built under the reign of Amru. The conqueror of Egypt had decreed that these granaries be left roofless so that the birds might partake of their share of the harvest. This pious injunction had always been respected, for it did little to diminish the reserves and seemed to bring good luck to the city. But on that day, upon hearing the people angrily clamouring for grain, the employees responded that great flocks of birds had descended upon the granaries and eaten everything up. This disclosure convinced the crowd that disaster was imminent; panic spread through the city.

‘Why was I not apprised of these things?’ Hakim said to himself. ‘How is it possible that something this prodigious should have occurred? The stars would have given me some sort of warning. And yet not even the pentacle I drew shows any trace of disturbance.’

As he was mulling these questions over in his mind, an old man in Syrian attire approached him and said:

‘Lord, why not give them bread?’

Hakim lifted his head with a start and fixed his leonine eyes on the stranger, convinced that the latter had seen through his disguise.

The old man was blind.

‘You must be mad,’ said Hakim. ‘How can you address such words to someone you cannot see, someone whose footsteps you have merely heard in the dust!’

‘All men,’ said the old man, ‘are blind to God.’

‘You are addressing God?’

‘I am addressing you, Lord.’

Hakim reflected for a moment and then his mind began to reel again as it had under the effects of hashish.

‘Save them,’ said the old man, ‘for you alone are the Power, you alone are Life, you alone are the Will.’

‘Do you think I can just create grain out of nothing right here and now?’ Hakim replied, troubled by vague intimations.

‘The sun cannot shine through clouds; it must first disperse them bit by bit. You are still veiled by the cloud of the body in which you have deigned to come down to earth, a body that can only muster mortal strength. Every creature is governed by the law of things decreed by God. Only God obeys his own self-proclaimed law. The world shaped by his cabbalistic arts would immediately disintegrate if he faltered in his will.’

‘It is clear to me,’ said the caliph as he tried to regain his senses, ‘that you are nothing more than a beggar. You have recognized me beneath my disguise, but you are merely engaging in crude flattery. Here is a purse of sequins; now leave me alone.’

‘Lord, I have no idea who or what you might be, for I only see with the eyes of the soul. As for this gold, I am adept at alchemy and can make as much gold as I need. I shall distribute the contents of this purse to your people. Bread is expensive, but in this good city of Cairo gold can get you anything.’

‘He must be some necromancer,’ said Hakim to himself.

Scrambling to pick up the gold coins strewn on the ground by the old Syrian, the crowd rushed towards the ovens of the nearest baker. The going price of bread that day was one gold sequin per okieh (two pounds).

‘Ah! So that explains it,’ said Hakim. ‘Now I understand! This old man, who comes from the land of wisdom, recognized me and spoke to me in allegories. The caliph is the image of God; I must therefore mete out punishment like God.’

He made his way to the citadel, where he located the chief watchman, Abou-Arous, who was privy to the secret of his disguises. He ordered this officer and the executioner to follow him as he had on several previous occasions, for like the majority of Oriental princes he was partial to summary justice. Having led them to the shop of the baker who had been selling bread for its weight in gold, he said to the chief watchman, ‘This man is a thief.’

‘Shall we nail his ear to his shop shutters?’

‘Yes,’ said the caliph, ‘but first cut off his head.’

At the prospect of this unexpected festivity, the people formed a merry circle in the street while the baker vainly protested his innocence. The caliph, wrapped in a black abbah that he had donned at the citadel, seemed to be performing the duties of a mere cadi.

The baker was on his knees; as he stretched out his neck, he commended his soul to the angels Monkir and Nekir.4 At that very moment, however, a young man pushed his way through the crowd and rushed over to Hakim, displaying a silver ring set with stars. It was Yousouf the Sabean.

‘Spare this man,’ he shouted, ‘for my sake.’

Recognizing his friend from the shores of the Nile, Hakim remembered his promise. He made a sign; the executioner backed away from the baker, who sprang to his feet in joy. Hearing the murmurs of disappointment in the gathered crowd, Hakim whispered a few words into the chief watchman’s ears. The latter issued the following proclamation:

‘The sentence is suspended until tomorrow at the same hour.