by Harold Lamb
It was finished now, and he had kept his word. To do it he had come to Dion, and taken it.
“Faith,” he said to the priest, “there is no more to say.”
Where Love comes First
AYESHA was fourteen years old. So old that she thought people should cease calling her a child and admit that she was a woman.
She cared for a herd of black goats, and she was slim and active as a goat herself, with a mop of dark hair and defiant eyes. For four years she had worn a veil, and she knew that when she made her way through the village of the Bakhtiari tribe heads turned after her.
She had no protector except her father—her own mother being dead—and here among the nomads of the southern mountains she understood that a woman needed a protector. A man of some kind, with authority.
For the present she had to obey her numerous stepmothers, lugging their younger children around, and going off to root up thorn bush when they screamed at her that fuel was needed. Also when the evening smoke rose up over the huts, she carried the water jar to and from the well. At times, of course, her father brought her white Russian sugar and silver armlets from the Isfahan bazaar.
Of late her father had neglected to bring Ayesha sugar, or silver armlets. The herds of the Bakhtiari had been thinned by a bad winter. In other years, with the melting of the snows on the heights of the Karatagh behind the village, the tribe had migrated to their summer pastures. Through the pass of the Stone Riders, to the higher altitudes, following the grass. For generations they had migrated, fighting off enemies and raiding strange villages. But this year the Persian government had ordered them to remain in their village and to surrender their arms.
“When the Bakhtiari yield up their rifles,” Ayesha’s father said, “there will be no snow on the Karatagh.”
And he laughed deep in his throat. Already the grass around the village was turning brown. The camels grazed on thorn bush, but the horses grew lean. By midsummer the grazing would fail, and they would have to sell horses and sheep in the towns to buy food. Still, they had their rifles—heavy Troklinis and long Lee-Enfields, old, but useful.
Often at night Ayesha listened to his muttering among other graybeards by the hearth. She was accustomed to hunger, and to talk of war.
“Ai,” she whispered to the tawny kitten that shared her bed, “perhaps before then he will come."
He was no less a person than a hero. With a head of flame, riding a swiftpaced horse with a stolen saddle, and with such authority in his voice that even the graybeards would bow before him like slaves. Ayesha could not read her own name, but she had listened to the blind poet of the nomads telling of old kings and their glory, and she knew what a hero should be.
She whispered to the drowsy kitten, pulling the embroidered quilt over both of them to keep out the reek of wood smoke. In a chest under the bed Ayesha had a dress embroidered like the quilt, with her small store of silver trinkets.
But her greatest treasure was in the vanishing place, up in the ravine of the Stone Riders. The sides of this ravine were red limestone, and near the top on each hand figures had been carved in the stone, figures of horsemen galloping after lions. And even the blind poet could not say how long the Stone Riders had stood there. At rare intervals venturesome travelers made the ascent of the Karatagh to look at the rock carvings. Ayesha liked to graze her goats on the slopes of the ravine, where she could watch the caravans coming over the pass.
BY CHANCE she found the vanishing place. She chased one of the silky-haired, nimble goats into a cleft behind gray tamarisk brush—into a square doorway, choked with débris. So she found herself in the tomb that no archeologist had ever discovered. She knew it was a tomb because it contained a great stone box ornamented with tiny figures like the Stone Riders of the outer ravine. The lid had been taken off the sarcophagus, and the body had disappeared.
Still, Ayesha knew it had been the body of a great khan, buried here with his wife in the time when the Stone Riders ranged the mountains. Because when she returned to the tomb with a candle she found some strange objects in a heap of rubbish—a necklace of thin, beaten gold in shape like a half-moon, long earrings of coral weighted with gold, and a diadem that still sparkled
with amethysts and sapphires. There were also some broken beads which she strung on a cotton cord. The gold was dull and stained, but unmistakable to the touch. Often Ayesha would slip into the tomb and put on these ornaments of a long-dead queen. Curled up on the marble lid, staring at the miniature marble warriors, she imagined herself the favorite of a mighty khan, who would sing love songs at her feet. She dared not show her treasures in the village, knowing that they would be taken away from her at once.
When she left the tomb she hid the precious things carefully in the rubble pile with the candle, being afraid of the eyes of Barak.
He did not resemble a hero, and he made her angry. An antelope hunter with no more than a shaggy Turkoman pony, a well-worn rifle and a sleeping carpet to his hand, Barak had a silent pride in him, and her father spoke of him with respect because he took the lead when the Bakhtiari went on a raid. When the unmarried girls danced in the beaten field when the harvest was in, Barak would rein his pony through them, mocking them. Whole days he would sit on the height above the pass, watching for enemies. At times he would come down to water his pony by Ayesha’s goats, saying only two words: “Hai, batche!—Ha, child!”
But Ayesha had worn a veil for four years and considered herself no longer a child. Once, going down to the village, she limped, pretending that she had hurt her foot, hoping that Barak would offer his pony to ride on. Barak had come after her indeed, at a gallop, his rifle tossing behind his headcloth. He had laughed loud—“Ha, child!”—and had galloped through her goats, scattering them over a half mile of countryside. She felt hot and angry when she thought of that. And she suspected that Barak had discovered her tomb, although he said nothing.
Early in the summer, when even the goats had begun to suffer from bad grazing, Ayesha discovered her hero. She found him camped within revolver shot of the village, with the Bakhtiari brats staring at him in wonder. Ayesha forgot her dignity—forgot everything except the tall figure in white shirt and riding boots moving about the luxurious tent, among opened packs. The last gleam of sunlight struck full upon his red-gold head.
“Ha, child,” he called to her. “Mind thy black devils!”
She had forgotten the goats, which had invaded the stranger’s camp, nosing nto packs and bundles of fodder. The red hero laughed as he kicked them off, until Ayesha arose and began to stone them into obedience with dignity.
“He is not an Inglis sahib,” her father explained that night. “Nay, an Amrikai is he, come to look at the Stone Riders and make pictures of them with a picture machine. He is a seeker.”
“WHAT seeks he?” Ayesha presumed to ask.
“Broken pottery and sword blades out of the earth—old and useless things. Yet he comes in a bad hour.”
Her father was silent, pondering. The Bakhtiari did not wish to be visited just then, even by an American archeologist who had nothing, palpably, to do with the government or the road police. But since he had come alone, it was necessary to treat him as a guest. And the law of hospitality might not be broken among the nomads.
“What is his name?” Ayesha asked.
“It is Gre-goree.”
Softly she repeated this, so that the sound would be familiar. The next day, paying no heed to the commands of her stepmothers, she went off before sunrise with the goats to the ravine of the Stone Riders. For hours she watched the red-headed stranger photographing the rock carvings. But he paid no attention to the slender, veiled figure.
That evening when she retired to bed with the gray kitten she cried a little in her sleeve—quietly, so that the men who were whispering about the fire should not hear her. Ayesha was not at all patient. Nor was she inclined to admire from afar a man she loved.
“Tomorrow,” she t
hought, rubbing the kitten’s ear, “he will speak to me. I am no longer a child, and he will speak to me.”
JOHN GREGORY, explorer and amateur archeologist, prowled over the detritus in the ravine. He felt both excited and exasperated. These rock carvings had been photographed before, by men who had discovered nothing else in the ravine. But twenty-five hundred years ago, when the riders had been hewn out of the rock, there must have been a town or a tomb here in the ravine. For one reason, a world-old caravan route passed through the ravine. And he had noticed fragments of marble in the rubble underfoot. Whereas in his trip through the Karatagh he had seen no trace of marble elsewhere.
Perhaps the foundation of a palace—a palace of Darius or Xerxes the great king—lay a dozen feet under the surface of the detritus, although it would be a thankless task to dig for it blindly. Perhaps somewhere along the cliff there were inscriptions. Perhaps—he stopped in his tracks and gasped.
Out of a cleft in the cliff appeared a girl, unveiled, among a mass of black goats. The dark flood of her hair was combed back from her forehead and she wore the necklace of gold, the shining diadem and beaded coils of a king’s favorite. A favorite of the great king who had ruled this land twenty-five hundred years ago. Gregory shut his eyes against the sun’s glare, and opened them again. She was still there. He went closer and examined the jewelry with unbelief that changed to sheer amazement. In one case of the Baghdad Museum he had seen such ancient gold-work—nowhere else.
“I’ll be—” He changed to fluent Persian— “From what place did these things come?”
The girl seemed to be meditating. In reality, frightened and delighted, she was watching him from under long lashes. Then she glanced up and down the ravine and at the opposite height. Barak was not to be seen. She beckoned Gregory and slipped back into the cleft, pointing to the dark entrance of the tomb. Gregory dived past her, and shouted aloud.
IT WAS a tomb of the Achaemenian period, a royal tomb of the age of Xerxes. Falling to his knees, he ran his hand over the marble figures. Yes, the sarcophagus was as old as the tomb. . . . The Persian government would never let it out of the country, but he could take photographs—now.
Ayesha curled up in a corner and watched avidly while he set up his camera on the dark side of the sarcophagus and adjusted the focus.
“Now there will be yunani—magic.” He held up a small glass globe that seemed to be full of silver leaves. Ayesha’s lips parted expectantly, while he did something to the camera. Then she screamed in fear.
A sudden, blinding light filled the tomb and vanished. Gregory laughed and caught her in his arm when she dashed at the door.
“Aib neh darad,” he exclaimed. “There is no harm. See, it is as it was.”
She was like a wild bird, pinioned. Still struggling toward the sunlight, she turned her head fearfully, and her tangled hair brushed his cheek. Her heart throbbed against his arm and he thought that she was indeed lovely as a king’s courtesan. The excitement of his discovery was still heavy upon him, and swiftly he leaned down to kiss her lips.
Ayesha stood still. “What is that good for?” she asked.
“Well—” he did not know what to say in Persian. For Moslems do not indulge in kissing as much as Westerners. “It is a custom, a greeting to a beautiful girl.”
“A custom of the Amrikai, O Sarkar?”
“Yes, of the Amrikai, and many other people.”
“Good. But what meaning has it? The customs of the Amrikai I do not know.” Ayesha had found her tongue suddenly.
“A man does it sometimes when he wishes a girl for a wife.”
“Do it again.”
AYESHA seemed very content. Her dark eyes glowed, and the scent of dried flowers was in her hair. When the archeologist questioned her, she chattered about her discovery of the head jewelry. He wondered whether the men who had looted the sarcophagus long ago, after breaking down the door of the tomb, had missed the gold ornaments, or if one of them had hidden the things away and had been unable to return for them. But Ayesha’s mind was on other matters.
“Why do you shave your chin and not your head, O Sarkar? Why have you no servants to wait upon you? Do the women of the Amrikai wear veils when they go out from their houses? Are they very lovely, with red-gold hair?”
“No one could be lovelier than you, Ayesha.”
He gave up any idea of taking more photographs that afternoon. Instead, while the girl curled up near him, he let his eyes run over the magnificent marble figures. He told her the story of the great king who had fought with Iskander—with Alexander of Macedon. Ayesha listened eagerly. It was the familiar hero tale the blind poet sang, of the god-like conqueror of the golden hair. And it seemed to her that the tall stranger was such a man. The blood rushed in a warm flood to her throat and heart, and her eyes half closed.
Gregory had to force himself to talk. A touch of magic had transformed the ravine of the Stone Riders, banishing the centuries, bringing treasures within reach of his hand. Except for her dress, this Bakhtiari girl might have been a Greek or high-bred Persian of that elder day. The clear line of forehead and nose and the fresh firm lips were those of a statue. He knew that some of these mountain tribes traced their descent from the Greeks.
And the diadem! It fitted her perfectly. Yet it should go to a museum. How could he buy it from her? She probably knew nothing about money—her world was limited to the village. But what could he give her in exchange?
“You like them, O my Sarkar?” She had an uncanny way of guessing his thoughts. “Good. I will wear them all when we go down. Look, it is nearly dark and no one will see.”
WITH his camera slung to his shoulder Gregory descended the ravine, while Ayesha walked happily at his side. She had rounded up her goats and moved slowly so that they could follow. The last glow of sunset stretched along the plain below them and darkness hid the village.
At his tent Ayesha disappeared to put her charges in the pen. But she was back almost at once helping him to build a fire. In the flickering light she seemed changed in reality to another being. She smiled when he stared at her, and the smile crept from her lips into her eyes that were like jewels of darkness.
“O child,” he said at last, “will they not punish you for taking off the veil?” “The men are not here, and my father’s other wives punish me anyway. But now they cannot punish me.”
He remembered that while there had been plenty of spectators of his evening meal the two previous nights, he had seen no one this evening. And he wondered why Ayesha had discarded the veil before him.
“Also,” she observed contentedly, “I am not a child. I am a woman.”
“Nay, thou art a child.”
She tossed her head, and the beads jingled. Deftly she helped him prepare dinner. But she took her share a little to one side and ate with her back turned to him. Then she washed the dishes, examining them curiously. While he filled and lighted his pipe she explored the tent, examining the narrow army cot dubiously, and finally coming to rest on the carpet beside him.
Obediently she lifted her head when he studied the goldwork upon the moonshaped necklace, but she did not wish to talk. A pulse throbbed in her throat, and the blood that darkened her cheeks clouded her clear eyes. Suddenly she sprang away and vanished into the night.
“What is it?” he called after her, receiving no answer. He half rose to follow, and then swore at himself. Now that she had gone, he missed her. Calling himself several kinds of a fool, he went into the tent, flung himself down on the cot, and picked up a book restlessly.
Without a sound Ayesha reappeared. She carried a gray kitten under one arm. “Malikeh was hungry—she did not understand.”
Gregory let the book fall and sat up. The girl searched the tent until she found an empty box with canvas folded in it. Pushing the kitten into the box, she came over to the cot. “Now, O heart of my heart,” she whispered, “I am no longer afraid. I will not run from thy house again.”
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He stroked her head, his fingers passing through the flood of her hair. “But,” he whispered back, “you must go from my house.”
She looked up, startled, unbelieving. “Nay, am I not thy woman? Wilt thou not have me—Gre-goree?”
Then far off a rifle cracked—first one and then several. Ayesha lifted her head curiously. Going to the entrance she flung back the flap.
Torches and lanterns flickered through the village, outlining human figures running from hut to hut. Farther down the slope the flashes of guns split the darkness.
“What is this?” Gregory asked.
Ayesha brushed the wind-tossed hair from her eyes. “This evening at sunset,” she said, “my father and the others were down at the Isfahan road. They went to—to find some rice and wheat. Now it must be that the road police are following them. I heard them making plans by the fire in my father’s house—”
Almost before Gregory realized what was happening the whole village was in motion up the hill and past the tent. The torches had been flung down, the lanterns extinguished as soon as they reached the road.
Ayesha was trembling with excitement. “Ai, they are going away from the village. But I—but I—”
Red bursts of flame stabbed the darkness, and bullets cracked through the air overhead.
IN a half hour lights showed again. The pursuers had dismounted in the village. Gregory saw stocky men in khaki uniforms. They carried carbines, and wore cartridge bandoleers over one shoulder. So they were regular cavalry, not road police. The light came from a burning house, into which the soldiers flung bundles of straw from time to time. Some of them, still mounted, were driving in cattle. Heavy clouds hid the line of the heights.