The Walking Drum

by Louis L'Amour

  Safia was older than I, older than the girls I had known, and it was obvious her interest was not in any minor escapade. Quite simply she told me she had plans with which I might help, and that might be profitable to me.

  She indicated a pile of rugs and pillows on the floor. "You may sleep there."

  "Of course. Where else?"

  Her eyes narrowed a little. This woman had a temper. "We will talk in the morning."

  Again, from the sands of despair I had salvaged the water of well-being. The future remained in doubt, but I had eaten, drunk, bathed, and was freshly clad. Beneath me, when I finally lay down, was a bed not too soft.

  Safia, my lady of the fountain, had the body of a siren, the face of a goddess, and the mind of an Armenian camel dealer. What ideas she had I could not surmise, but Córdoba was a place of intrigue, an art in which the Arab mind was uniquely gifted.

  Was she an Arab? A Berber? A Jewess? I could not guess, nor had she given me the slightest hint or clue. Her few questions and comments when I related my story gave evidence that she was well aware of what was happening in Spain, and there was no doubt she was involved somehow, in some way.

  No doubt I was to be involved also. No doubt I was a tool to be used, but a tool that would be careful of his own interest, and his own life. My fingers felt for my dagger. At least, I had that. Tomorrow, with luck, a sword.

  In the meantime there was sleep.

  20

  CÓRDOBA WAS A universe, a universe in which revolved many planets, each isolated to a degree from all others. Now, following the night meeting in the garden, I inhabited one of those planets.

  My world was made up of those who worked, as I now did, for the Society of Translators. Those and the few shopkeepers I met in the daily round of my new life. It needed but a word from Safia to take me to a hearing from the scholars.

  My excellent handwriting satisfied them, but then it was requested that I read aloud and translate from works both Latin and Arabic. On the table was a volume of the Canon of Avicenna, known here by his proper name, ibn-Sina. As I had studied it previously, my translation was satisfactory. They gave me the task of copying the Index of Sciences compiled by al-Nadim in 988.

  Each daybreak I arose, dressed sedately, and walked through the streets to the library. There I was among older men, far more interested in the matter of the manuscripts before them than the personalities of their fellow workers.

  In the evening I walked home through a park, occasionally sitting down to read under the trees. During all this time I saw few people, none whom I knew. My work was painstaking yet fascinating. Two months passed in this quiet endeavor. My trained memory absorbed facts easily, skipping all that was unnecessary, but avid for that information that might be of use.

  My command of Arabic improved, as did my knowledge of both Greek and Latin, and from Safia I was learning Persian. As the streets were dangerous for me, I avoided those where I might encounter someone whom I had known, but my hours were such that the chance was slight.

  Despite my initial confidence, Safia had not found me irresistible. In fact, if she was aware of my maleness at all, it escaped me. This made our relationship simple yet quite pleasant.

  That she possessed a mind quite out of the ordinary was immediately obvious, also that she was engaged in some occupation that required secrecy. It soon became apparent, although she told me nothing, that she was the center for many sources of information. Little happened in Córdoba of which she was not aware, nor in Seville, Toledo, Malaga, or Cadiz.

  The fact that our relations remained as simple as they were was in part due to the daughter of an innkeeper near where I lived. We had passed each other on the street occasionally, never speaking, but mutually aware. She was a full-bosomed lass with dark Moorish eyes ringed with black lashes, and as I have said, we often passed each other. And then there was a day when we did not pass.

  My childhood training in Druidic lore had given me memory and the habit of learning, and for me to copy a book was for me to know it. Among other things I found in the library was a veritable storehouse of maps, many ancient and long out of date, some very new. Some of these were the portolans used by merchant mariners in navigating, trading, living along the coasts. The best of these I copied on bits of parchment, and soon I had a packet of charts of my own.

  Then one day John of Seville visited the library and spoke to the various translators. When he greeted me as an old friend, there was a subtle change in the atmosphere. In the cloistered stillness of the library, among rolls of parchment, my big shoulders must have seemed out of place. Despite my efforts at maintaining a subdued profile, it was obvious I was a man of the out-of-doors, of the sea, and the battlefield. John of Seville was a noted scholar, and to be his friend was to command respect.

  "You have lived an eventful life, Mathurin," John suggested, his eyes twinkling.

  "I was not aware it had attracted attention."

  "You have made enemies, but you have also won friends."

  "Friends? I have no friends."

  "Am I not your friend?"

  "I am honored, but I scarcely believed you would remember. But other friends? I know nothing of them. The one friend I thought I had was he who betrayed me to my enemies."

  "But when you escaped, was there not a horse waiting for you?"

  "You know of that? Then who am I to thank?"

  "I am not at liberty to say. Let it suffice that somebody believed you were too good a man to die in such a way, at such a time.

  "Someone," he added, smiling, "who believed in your somewhat unique abilities to believe that given a chance you could escape."

  No more would he tell me. He asked about my work and was impressed when I repeated pages of an ancient manuscript. "I envy your memory. It was training, you said?"

  "For generations, on my mother's side of the family, there were Druids. They were the masters of our history, lore, and ritual, all committed to memory. I do not know if a good memory can be inherited, but we all had such memories, and then there was the training—"

  "Yes?"

  "I cannot speak of it. Only this I can say. It is a method of using the mind as one uses a burning glass. If one focuses the sun's rays through such a glass, the heat becomes intense and will start a fire. With us it was a matter of focusing the attention, so that what we saw once was ours forever. Although I must say, repeated readings are a help."

  After the visit of John of Seville, I found myself included in small gatherings of the translators when they met away from the library, so in a small way I became a part, a listening part, of that great city.

  Often I heard of Valaba, the beautiful woman I had seen in a coffeehouse with Averroes. Her home, it seemed, was a gathering place for beauty and intellect.

  In the library I read translations of Heraclitus, Socrates, Plato, Empedocles, Pythagoras, and Galen. Hunayn ibn-Ishaq, who translated Hippocrates and Galen, had also translated Plato. I made several copies of each of these works, for at first I was given more copying to do than translation.

  Then I was given a book to translate from the Persian, The Qabus Nama, written by Kai Ka'us ibn-Iskander, Prince of Gurgan, in 1082. It was a book of advice to his son, considering all aspects of his life as a prince and as a man.

  In his chapter on enemies, I came upon this passage: Ever remain aware of your enemy's activities, secret or otherwise; never feel secure against his treachery against you, and consider constantly ways in which you may outwit or defeat him.

  My eyes lifted from the page. How could I be sure ibn-Haram or Prince Ahmed did not know of my presence? How could I be sure I was hidden from them simply because I stayed away from old acquaintances?

  Thus far I had not followed the advice of Kai Ka'us. My enemies had acted against me, not I against them. Should I give thought to preventive warfare? And to securing my own position, for was I not vulnerable?

  Thus far I had trusted to my blade, my strength, and my luck. It was insufficient.
I must build defenses, and the only defense possible was that offered by influential friends. I had none.

  Could I not spy out his position? Discover his intentions? Duban had told me ibn-Haram was a supporter of Yusuf but was himself ambitious for power.

  So then, I needed friends; I needed information; and if not able to defeat my enemy, I could at least elude him.

  My face had healed; my strength returned. New blood seemed to flow in my veins. The coffee shops were beyond my small income, but there were other shops to which I might go and drink sherbet and listen to the idle talk.

  Desperately, I wanted a sword, but dressed as a scholar, I must proceed carefully not to excite curiosity.

  On a warm day I found myself in a remote bazaar and was glancing at some sandals while actually studying the swords in an adjoining booth. They were fine weapons of Damascus and Toledo steel.

  Suddenly, a man stopped almost beside me and chose a scimitar from among those exposed for sale. He tried the balance of the weapon, whipping it through the Persian manual with skill. I started to move away when suddenly he spoke. "Here, Scholar, try your hand. Would you not say this was a fine weapon?"

  I knew that voice. It was Haroun.

  Keeping my face averted, I said, "I know little of weapons, emir. I am a mere student."

  He spoke in a lower tone. "Do not play with me, Kerbouchard. I know you."

  Looking directly into his eyes, I said, "I have had little reason to trust my old friends."

  "Because of Mahmoud? He was always jealous of you, and when Aziza showed interest in you rather than him—he is very vain, you know."

  "And you?" I asked bitterly.

  "I am still your friend," he replied calmly, "if you will have it so. Did I not let you pass at the gate?"

  "You knew me?"

  "Not at once. Only after you had passed. It was your walk. I dared not speak to you, for the soldiers would have been curious. After that I looked for you but could find you nowhere."

  We went to a cubbyhole of a place to drink sherbet and talk.

  He wore the uniform of one of Yusuf's crack cavalry regiments. He was a square-built man of great physical strength and was maturing rapidly under the harshness of the military training. Less agile in conversation than Mahmoud, he never spoke without thinking.

  Haroun was one of those calm, relaxed men who are capable of tremendous outbursts of dynamic action. I knew the type well, for my father had been such a man. "You have plans?" he asked.

  "To learn, and to learn more. To find if my father lives, and then to see more of the world. I have thought of India."

  "I, too, have thought of it, but who knows anything of India?"

  "I know of it."

  "You?"

  "There are books. Arab ships sometimes sail there, and there is a route through the desert." Looking around at him, I said, "My destiny is there, Haroun. I feel it."

  He arose. "Perhaps one day we will meet there, or we might go together." He gripped my shoulder. "It has been good to see you. Like the old days."

  He stepped outside into the evening. "And Mahmoud? Do you see him?"

  "Mahmoud is an important man now. He is close to Prince Ahmed."

  "I think of him," I said, "but there are others who come first."

  "Be careful," he warned, "you tread upon loose sand."

  "One thing more. Do you know the name Zagal?"

  "He commands many soldiers, and rules a taifa. Is he your enemy, too?"

  I told him the story of Sharasa and of Akim. Until now I had believed the attackers had been men sent by Yusuf; now I discovered Zagal was a minor ruler of one of the smaller principalities into which Moorish Spain was divided.

  "It is nothing," I said. "I would simply like to know if she fares well."

  "From what you have said I imagine wherever she is, she will be doing well." He smiled. "If you attempt to protect all the girls you meet, I foresee an active life."

  We parted, but I felt better. It was good to know Haroun was still my friend. However, I had not told him what I was doing, and I wandered about to make sure I was not followed before going home.

  It was that night I told Safia of my father, and that despite reports of his death I believed he still lived. She asked me a number of questions about the galley, its crew, and where he had been bound. Then his age, description, and any scars or marks upon his body. "You should have told me sooner, but no matter. It is possible I can learn something about him."

  Before I could ask her how she could possibly get such information, she handed me a key. "Go to this place." She described it. "You will find four horses. Look at them and decide if they have speed and strength. Then I wish you to take one day each week for the next four weeks and buy supplies for a trip."

  "You are going away?"

  "We are going. I told you I might have need of you." She turned to look at me. "Mathurin, if I have need, it will be a desperate need. I want nothing spoken of this. Do not go near the horses by day, and when you go, be sure you are not followed."

  "When?"

  "When I will. You seemed to be a man of enterprise, and it was such I have needed. Is your friend Haroun to be trusted?"

  "I am sure of it."

  She smiled at my surprise, for I had not mentioned his name to her. "It is my business to know. It is yours to be ready to help me as I have helped you. One day soon, I shall have to leave this city quickly."

  "You have only to speak."

  "Please do not misunderstand. I have done what was necessary, and you came offering your services."

  "And I shall not withdraw them." The scent of jasmine was heavy in the garden, and I thought of that night, months ago, when I came over that wall, hungry and in rags, in a city filled with enemies. Yes, I was in her debt.

  Moorish Spain was a hotbed of intrigue, and plots were forever developing across the Strait of Gibraltar in North Africa, the homeland of the Berber. In Navarre, Castile, and Leon their rulers looked south toward the luxury of Andalusia with envy.

  Realizing time was short, I intensified my study. Medicine and military tactics held first place, but navigation, history, philosophy, chemistry, and botany I studied also. The key to success in Arab countries of the time lay in none of these. The Arab is by nature a poet. His language is filled with poetry and wonderful sounds, so much so that even state papers were written in poetic form, and the extemporaneous poet was the most sought after of all men.

  The Qabus Nama had a chapter of advice on the writing of poetry. Whether the son of the Prince of Gurgan profited by his father's advice, I did not know, but I did. The prince had died a hundred years or more before my time, but his advice was still good.

  One by one I checked escape routes from Córdoba, and I became familiar with the hours of closing the gates, and which guards were most strict or casual. From time to time I shared a bottle with those who would drink, for most Moslems would not.

  Sometimes I frequented the low dives, making the acquaintance of mountebanks, jugglers, troubadours, and even thieves. I listened to the storytellers in the bazaars, thinking this might someday be of use. I practiced with the lute, and here or there I dropped a coin in a hand, or bought a meal.

  It became known among them that I was the Kerbouchard who had sold the galley and who escaped from the castle where Prince Ahmed had me imprisoned. Bits of information came my way. Ibn-Haram had gone to North Africa. Prince Ahmed had still no son.

  No longer was I employed at the great library, for Safia wished me ready to move at a moment's notice, yet the library was open to me, and the scholars welcomed me. Safia supplied me with money, and the fact that I was earning the money removed my reluctance at accepting it. There were elaborate catalogues listing the books of the library, some of which were illustrated with great beauty, bound in aromatic woods and embossed leather inlaid with gems.

  Among the books that came to the library were some written on the bark of trees, upon palm leaves, among bamboo or the wood of t
rees cut in thin slices. Others were written on animal skins, bones, thin plates of copper, bronze, antimony, clay, linen, and silk. Papyrus, leather, and parchment were common. Some were in tongues none of us could translate, such as those from Crete or Thera or Etruscan ruins.

  There were scholars at the library who read in Sanskrit, in Pali, Kharoshthi, and even the ancient Kashmir script, Sarada. Day after day I buried myself in my work, and now that I no longer was engaged in copying or translation, my studies went further afield, for I delved into that great storehouse of manuscripts untouched and unread.

  One night Safia came to the room where I slept. "I have news."

  "News?"

  "Your father may yet live."

  "What?" My heart was pounding.

  "His galley was sunk off Crete, but he or somebody who resembled him was taken from the sea and sold into slavery."

  "Then I must go to Crete."

  "He is no longer there. He was sold to a merchant in Constantinople."

  My father was alive!

  "I must go."

  Safia shook her head. "It would be foolish. Those who discovered this are making further inquiries. When I have news, you shall have it."

  Filled with impatience, I had yet to wait. Safia was right, of course. To dash off without further knowledge would be to set myself adrift once more. First, I must know what merchant bought him and if he was still the owner, or if he had sold him, to whom?

  I had waited this long. I could wait longer. I would have to trust that Safia would not fail me just as I would not fail in my duty to her.

  21

  WHERE SAFIA PROCURED the horses I did not know, but all were of the Al Khamsat al Rasul, the five great breeds superior to all other Arabian horses. Two were Kuhaila, one a Saglawi, the last a Hadbah. Only the third horse was a stallion, the first two and the last were mares, preferred by the Arab.