The Walking Drum

by Louis L'Amour

  He held the scimitar awkwardly and not like one accustomed to swordplay, yet he was an agile and powerful man. The fury in him might work to my advantage. There was little room for maneuver, yet I advanced another step, working a little to his left, studying his position.

  My father, a skilled fighting man, always told me to notice the position of a man's feet, for if a man can be taken off-balance he can be beaten. There is a limit to how far a man can reach without shifting his feet.

  Behind me now I could hear Sharasa's hoarse, frightened breathing, and I knew I was fighting for her life as well as my own. If I threw myself at his legs, I might throw him, yet the edge of that blade could sever a finger or a hand, and if he sprang back as I moved in, he could run me through. Suddenly, he leaped, slashing wickedly. Only just in time I sprang back, and the tip of the blade just missed me. I made to dive at him as the blade swept past, but he was quick and shifted ground.

  He lunged then, the blade at arm's length. With the palm of my hand I slapped the flat side of the blade as it thrust at me, knocking the point out of line with my body. Instantly, I stepped in, hooking my right leg behind his leg and smashing him under the chin with the butt of my palm.

  He grunted with pain, and tripped by my right leg, he fell backward. Thrown hard to the sand, he landed on his back. Promptly, I kicked him under the chin and wrenched the scimitar from his loosened grip.

  He sprang up, staggered, and would have lunged at me, but I slapped him alongside the skull with the flat of the blade. He fell to the sand, and for an instant I was tempted to finish him off.

  "No, Mathurin! No!"

  I drew back, for I had no desire to kill him. "All right, he shall live, but we must go."

  Returning to my horse, I finished dressing and strapped on my dagger and the scabbard of the scimitar. I took Sharasa up beside me, and we rode back to the farm. We rode swiftly, and my usual awareness was dulled by the events of the afternoon and the dangers in facing Akim. Dropping Sharasa to the ground, I swung down and started through the door. I shouted for Alan and stepped through the door into a room filled with soldiers.

  Akim was sprawled on the stone floor, bathed in blood. At least two of the attacking soldiers had been killed, and others nursed wounds. That much I glimpsed before a wicked blow struck me across the head, and I fell, striking the floor on my face.

  In a moment of slipping consciousness I heard someone say, "Leave him to burn. Take the girl, but gently. She will make a fit present for Zagal."

  With all my will I struggled to move, but could not. A wave of darkness engulfed me, and through the darkness I heard the crackle of flames.

  19

  HEAT BLASTED MY face; smoke rolled over me. My eyes opened to find crackling flames within inches of my head. Rolling over, I struggled to rise, only to fall headlong. Still too weak to rise, I crawled through the smoke to the door.

  Twice I collapsed; twice I started again. My head was heavy as a cask; my mind would not work. Fighting toward the air like an animal, groaning with effort and only half conscious, I somehow reached the outside.

  For days I lay around in a daze. The ruins finally stopped smoking, and I managed to bury the remains of Akim and those others who had been killed. Alan was gone, so was Sharasa.

  My horse had been taken, and even my poor jacket with the gems sewn into the seams had been taken or thrown away. My dagger had been inside my shirt and unseen. It was all that remained.

  Fortunately, they had not found the cave near the well where the goat's milk and cheese were kept. There also was some wine. My clothing was filthy. Some had been charred by the flames, and I had no outer robe. My turban had kept me from being killed by the blow but had suffered in consequence.

  At the edge of the well I sat drinking cold goat's milk and munching cheese, reflecting on the misfortunes that attended me. Surely, the old gods must have cursed me to have each move end in disaster.

  I was alone. The nearest city was miles away over rough country infested by brigands, many of whom would kill for the sheer pleasure. Aziza was lost to me, and now Sharasa.

  My face had been horribly blistered by the flames, but owing to the treatment I had given, methods learned during my study of medicine, it would heal, I believed, without leaving a scar. But meanwhile, the skin was tender, and my beard had grown greatly. It would be long before I dared shave or even trim my beard.

  No one in Córdoba would know me now. My elegance was gone. Shabby, half starved, ugly with beard and healing scars on my body, I looked more the beggar than a student or a gentleman. All I possessed, aside from what I wore, was an old blanket found in the stable.

  Mahmoud? Ah—Mahmoud! He deserved my attention, and I was determined to see he received it in full measure. Finding an old waterskin, I cleansed it as well as possible, then filled it with goat's milk. Wrapping up a cheese, I started upon my way. It would be a long walk to Córdoba.

  A week later I sat upon the old Roman bridge that crossed the Guadalquivir to Córdoba. It was an ancient bridge built in the days of Augustus, repaired only recently.

  The day was hot and sultry. Along the high road passed an unending stream of people, camels, donkeys, and carts going to and from the city. Footsore and exhausted, I stumbled to my feet and joined the procession, walking toward the city that had given me so much, and had taken so much from me. Yet it was a city I could not yet leave.

  Money, decent clothing, and weapons I must have. The burns, the blow on the skull, and privation had left me weak, and I tired quickly. There was the beginning of a plan shaping in my brain. The crews of my father's ships had been men from many lands, and I had grown up speaking a variety of tongues, none of them well, but since then I had become proficient in Arabic and improved in both Latin and Greek. A sailor from my father's crew had come from Miletus, and there were several others from Greek islands. Often they had told me stories, and the smattering of their tongue I had acquired had been added to aboard the galley. There was in Córdoba a branch of the Caliph's Society of Translators and it was in my mind to try there for any task, no matter how small.

  First, I must have clothing. No better hiding place could be found than among scholars, and it would provide a chance to learn, to have access to books. My studies until now had taken no definite trend, nor was I planning that they should. Knowledge might be power, but it was also the key to survival. My knowledge of navigation led to my escape from the galley; my small knowledge of medicine helped to heal my burns.

  Even in a comparatively small city, and Córdoba was a large one, a man can lose himself by choosing another way of life. Within cities there are islands of people who had no communication outside their own island. It has even been surmised that people cannot know more than a certain number of people with comfort, which some believe has led to the classes in a society as well as to the exclusiveness of groups. If I chose one of those islands remote from those I had known, I might live as isolated as in another country.

  Before me the gate yawned. Several soldiers loitered nearby. My skin tightened, my heart began to throb. This was the moment of danger. Forcing myself, I walked on, keeping my eyes to the road. My flesh crawled as I drew abreast of them, but then as I stepped through the gate, I heard a familiar voice.

  "The check must be thorough. Until the Caliph ceases to search the mountains, we must beware of brigands who might seek to hide within the city."

  It was Haroun! It was the voice of Haroun!

  Stealing a glance, I saw him in the uniform of an officer and sitting a fine black horse. So he, too, was among my pursuers! He had never been as close to me as Mahmoud, although there had been a sort of quiet friendship between us. The moving line was carrying me past, but I glanced back again. It was a mistake.

  Our eyes met; for an instant our gaze held. In his eyes there was first surprise, then puzzlement. He started toward me, but a cart drawn by four oxen pulled between us, and his path was blocked. When I looked back again he had turned away.
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  Hunger gnawed at my vitals. The only thing of value I possessed was my dagger, which was also the last tie with my father and my home. Finally, I could walk no more, and I sank down with my back against a building. The sun was warm; the air, filled with fragrances. Oranges, melons, grapes were being sold about me, yet I starved. Voices were lifted in argument; whips cracked; wheels rumbled over the pavement, and there was the pleasant aroma of coffee from a stall nearby. Exhausted, my head tipped forward, and I slept.

  Awakening, I was chilled to the bone. The sun was gone, and the bazaar, empty. My sleep seemed not to have rested me, and my bowels were a void where hunger growled. My muscles had cramped and stiffened; my face was sore, and there was nowhere to turn. In despair, I looked about me.

  Why was I such a fool? If I were a prisoner, they would at least feed me. Or would I be strangled at once?

  Gloomily, I stared around the bazaar, scattered with fruit skins, drifted leaves fallen from the trees, and all the usual debris left by traders. Soon the sweepers would come, and after them, the lamplighters.

  My dagger held release. I could die.

  Die? But I was Kerbouchard, the son of Jean Kerbouchard the Corsair! Had I not started to find my father and seek my fortune? Was I a coward, to quit so soon? I, who had ridden out of Cadiz, my cloak sewn with gems?

  There were smells about me, but the worst was the smell of my own unwashed body, of my stale clothing. I started to rise, glimpsing behind a booth an orange, fallen from a stand nearby. My eyes went to the orange and then to the booth's owner, who was preparing to leave.

  Strolling over, I picked up the orange, but the man turned to me, glancing from the orange to me. "It is mine. Give it to me, or pay me."

  "I am hungry," I said.

  He shrugged. "So? Pay me. Then eat."

  "I have no money."

  The skin on his face tightened. He eyed me with open contempt. "Give me the orange, and be gone."

  The dagger was in my waistband. If I drew the dagger, the orange might no longer be so dear to him, yet there were soldiers at the far end of the market area, and he had only to lift his voice.

  "You accept not the word of Allah?" I asked gently. " 'To eat thereof, and feed the poor and the unfortunate'?"

  "Allah has his troubles, I mine. Pay me. If Allah wills you to be fed, then you will be fed, but not by me."

  Staring, I brought all the intensity of my gaze upon him. As I advanced a step, he involuntarily retreated. "There is no god but Allah," I said, "but there are devils."

  He liked not my words and took a step back, glancing right and left as if for escape. "There are devils," I said, "and there are curses." Lifting my hand, I pointed a finger at him and began to mutter in my own Breton tongue a phrase or two of Druid ritual, but nothing to do with curses.

  His features went stiff with horror. I had forgotten how lately these people had come from the desert where savage gods ruled and superstition was the order of the day.

  "No!" he lifted his hands as if to shield himself. "Take the fruit and go!" Seizing a small clutch of bananas he thrust them at me. "Take these also, but go. I am a poor man. I have done no harm. I did not know. I thought ..."

  Jerking the bananas from his hand, I glared at him, then strode away, inwardly pleased at my good fortune. Truly, there was power in the word.

  Walking along, I ate the bananas and the orange as well. It was overripe and not to my taste, but it was food. Then I rinsed my hands in a fountain and dried them on my shirt. With food in my stomach my mood expanded. I began to think of a place to sleep.

  If curses were to be the answer, I could invent horrendous ones, but there must be simpler solutions. Why should I lie in a cold and dusty street when I might rest my head on the shoulder of some wealthy widow looking for solace? Yet if such there were, they would not look with favor upon me in my rags.

  There is, after all, an atmosphere that hangs about success that is favorable to the breathing of beautiful women. No doubt this follows some law of physics, some aspect of feminine instinct or of feminine laws of survival. Despite my tattered clothing and bruised body, I still had my wits. Somewhere, somehow, I would find a bed.

  The last of the day was gone, the side streets were shuttered and closed, becoming caverns of darkness, empty of life. There were lighted streets in Córdoba, but upon these walked the young men of fashion, roistering soldiers, men out upon the town. Many of these had I known, but none could I count as friends. I could beg, a few coins, perhaps?

  No, not the son of Kerbouchard. My feet strayed into a narrow alley between two high walls of baked clay, beyond one of them I heard a feminine voice, softly singing. A haunting song of love sung by a lonely voice. Beyond, the sound of falling water.

  My eyes estimated the wall. It would not do to be caught in the women's quarters of a Moslem house. Men had been killed or castrated for less.

  However I leaped, catching the top of the wall, swinging up to lie flat atop it. Had the music missed a beat? The fingers throbbed the strings of the qitara, and the plaintive voice lifted again. The words yearned with memories of the desert, dunes, and palm trees, of the black tents of the Bedouin.

  The song's words hung inquiring into the night; the water fell in a fountain, and there was a heavy smell of jasmine, a sense of delightful coolness after the day's heat. Swinging my feet over, I dropped to the ground, and the music of the strings whispered away and faded, leaving only the memory of sound.

  Feet shuffled by in the street I had quit only in time, and I looked about me, feet apart, hands on my hips. "Who are you, and what do you want?"

  There was a difference in the tone, not that of a frightened girl nor of a woman of the harem. There was unexpected assurance, a voice accustomed to command. My refuge lay in frankness.

  "I am a man without money, a man with many enemies. My only food in days was a little fruit in a market, nor do I have a place to sleep.

  "However, despite my garb, I am a man of honor, a warrior, and a son of warriors, a man who can sail a ship, compose a rhyme, discourse upon the laws of men and nations, fight a duel, or treat a wound."

  "Leave this garden at once, by the way you came. If I am forced to call my slaves, they will kill you."

  "There is no deliverance from a destiny decreed by Allah," I said with my tongue in my cheek, "but surely it cannot be my destiny to be sent to starve by one so lovely? If I am here, it was only because of you, of your voice, of the song you sang. Your song called to me. I had no will but to answer."

  Taking a step nearer, I said, "You see in me a Celt, the son of Kerbouchard the Corsair, a wanderer, a man without home, family, or lands, but if you have use for a sword, I know the blade."

  "You must go."

  Did I detect a softening of resistance? A relenting? A suggestion of growing interest? Man's greatest advantage in the battle of the sexes is woman's curiosity. She was in the shadows, beyond the reach of my eyes, yet the voice was of a woman both young and well-bred.

  "If you drive me from your garden, my enemies may take me, and if they do, I shall be strangled."

  "These enemies of whom you speak? Who are they?"

  Ah, the shrewdness of it! I was fairly trapped, but the risk was one I must accept. Perhaps I stood in the garden of an enemy, of one with allegiance to those who sought me.

  No matter, I had trusted to honesty thus far. I would persist. I must stake all, and hope that emotion would rule rather than political favor. "Prince Ahmed is my enemy, as is ibn-Haram."

  She moved slightly, to see me better, I guessed, for she was still in darkness. "To have such enemies you must be more than a mere Celtic adventurer. I had not heard that Prince Ahmed was—ah?"

  She paused as if remembering.

  "Prince Ahmed? Are you the one then? The one who spent a week with Prince Ahmed's bride? If so, you are the toast of Córdoba."

  She paused. "What is it you want?"

  "Sanctuary until I am rested. A bath. Clothing, if it can
be obtained. I can stand being hungry but not unclean."

  "Step into the light."

  I did so. "See?" I said mockingly. "I am dirty, I am ragged, but I am a man."

  "The story of your escape is repeated at every gathering in Córdoba, Seville, and Cadiz."

  She stepped into the light. She was small, deliciously shaped. She indicated a door. "Accept what I am giving. Demand more and I shall call the guards."

  I bowed. "Thank you, Princess. I am most grateful."

  "What has happened to your face?"

  Briefly, I explained, but only the part about returning to the house, being struck down, and left for dead.

  She asked but few questions, but each was to the point. Her manner puzzled me. This was no wartime widow, nor yet a wife. Her questions were those of one skilled in obtaining information.

  When I dropped over the wall I'd have been pleased to find only a corner where I could sleep in security, to be on my way in the morning, but there was mystery here. Her eyes held a calculating expression that had nothing to do with my physique.

  Women in the Moslem worlds of Spain or the Middle East were not restricted and had attained eminence in the field of letters. Many had attended universities and had a liberty unbelievable to Christian Europe. With all the talk of chivalry among the Franks, women were considered mere chattels.

  The house in which I found myself was not large, yet showed every evidence of affluence. A robe was thrown over a marble bench when I emerged from the bath, and I donned it. A moment later she returned and without a glance at me, placed a bundle of clothing on the bench.

  My face was still too tender to shave, but I trimmed my beard in the Moslem fashion and dressed myself. The clothing was the plain but substantial clothing of a man of means, of quality but unobtrusive. There might be five thousand in Córdoba who would dress in similar fashion.

  She awaited me in a small room that adjoined her living area, and on the table there was tea, bread, fruit, and a few slices of cold meat and cheese. Her name was Safia. While we ate she questioned me about my activities, and I told her of my escape from the galley, of my studies, my imprisonment, and my flight.