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The Pillars of Bosra

We stayed a few days in the town of Bosra, in the Levant. It was a city carved out of solid rock: domes, brackets, and pillars of ancient stone, roosting on the fringe of the desert like the she-camel of the prophet Salih, and the cool air that passed through its pillars bore the murmurs of fear and disquiet. Its stores were occupied with trading and bartering between the caravans of the Arabs of the Peninsula and the Levantines: woolen garments, buttermilk, and carpets, while the caravans bought grains, pulses, receptacles, fabrics, and perfumes. I heard them haggling with a trader from our caravan over two bottles of heavy perfume distilled from Byzantine roses.

There were only a few bookstores in Bosra. The curious, welcoming eyes of the booksellers tempted me to divest myself of some of the books in my possession and barter for some of theirs. However, their marketplace was sleepy and lacked customers: most of what I found there was in Surianese, of which I only spoke a few words. I also feared to show them my books lest they languish long on their shelves, for everyone in this city had turned away from books, busy mourning the fall of Aleppo into the hands of the Byzantines, and the Muslims’ inability to defend it. They feared that the hand of Byzantium would extend to Bosra in the Levant, the presence of the Fatimid wali in Damascus notwithstanding. But what could a small force there do against the crashing waves of the Byzantine army?

Most of those who passed by the city went to see the Byzantine ruins on its outskirts, including a great circular structure with dozens of concentric tiers of stone seats within, carved out of rock. Between the seats had sprouted plants and thornbushes. Opposite the seats was a raised stone dais, surrounded by pillars. The people of Bosra called this place “the Byzantine playhouse.” I found no Byzantines there, only flocks of sheep, grazing on the wildflowers and gamboling about its seats. I sensed a great dignity in the place: there was something awe-inspiring about these great tiers and the high boxes surrounding them on the edges. Some of the pillars were topped with carvings of fearful or shouting faces, as though they were wailing or warning of some danger. Upon some of the seats, strange letters had been carved, or perhaps numbers. I found some builders coming to fill mule-drawn carts with stones from the playhouse looking at me oddly as I stood on the lower tiers of the raised dais and yelled, “O dwelling place!” and listened to the echo of my voice as it rang off the curved walls and the graduated seats. The walls captured my voice, magnifying it as though a thousand throats called out with me.

“Do not disturb the demons of the Byzantines,” a voice told me. “They may follow you and destroy you.”

I whirled around, startled. The Daylamite caravan owner was there, together with some of the guards of the caravan. I had formed a stronger bond with him, and he had warmed to me when he heard some of my song and poetry recitation, and he kept asking me to raise my voice in song to help his camels along in return for two bottles of valuable perfume he selected from his stock. Because I could not tell the difference between poor and good perfume, I left the choice up to him. To tell the truth, in this, he was an honest man: when Shammaa of the House of Wael used to be visited by the grooming women from Khadrama to sell their perfumes, she insisted that it be aged, thick, and dark; the bottles that the Daylamite gave to me were so.