Riders of the Steppes

by Harold Lamb

  "The Sidi will strike a great blow when he goes against the Franks," boasted the warrior.

  "True. The slaying of infidels is pleasing in the sight of Allah. And yet—and yet, the master of Aleppo has grown too great for Aleppo. It may be that he will also strike a blow for himself at Constantinople, and thou and I may yet serve Sultan Ahmad instead of Sultan Mustapha."

  The janissary muttered and handed back the pipe stem after wiping it with his sleeve. Glancing around cautiously, he leaned over Michael to whisper:

  "Then our backs would be strengthened—we would have a wiser head to lead the faithful. No man is as crafty as—the Wolf's Ear."

  "Perhaps it is written."

  "Aye, he is ghazi."

  "In the hills there was talk of this and that. Some said Sidi Ahmad had been seen in Egypt, others that he had gone upon the sea for some purpose. He hides his thoughts."

  "Allah, those were lies." The janissary opened his beard in a soundless laugh. "Sidi Ahmad has kept to the Wolf's Ear, like a squirrel to its nest. For months he has not mounted his horse. I have seen it."

  The old Arab puffed at his pipe thoughtfully.

  "When you look at a stone do you see a mountain? When you watch a horse can you answer for its master? Sidi Ahmad is one among ten thousand; you say he is here, and I must have dreamed by hashish when I beheld him riding like the devil of the air when the moon was last full."

  "You must have dreamed, waggle-beard."

  Michael was pleased that no one had word of the Cossacks as yet—if indeed they were nearing Aleppo. The two fell to talking of the riches of Sidi Ahmad, the Arab with an eye to thievery probing shrewdly at where the treasure was kept in the castle. But the soldier was cautious here.

  "Where, if not under the hand of the wazir, the treasurer?"

  "You are doubtless a captain of many. Only yesterday it is said that the wazir collected a new tax from the suk, the marketplace. Allah alone knows how heavy are the money bags of Sidi Ahmad. The wazir must be tormented with doubt if the treasure is guarded by men—surely he has hidden it, while Sidi Ahmad was absent."

  "Fool! The pasha has not left the Wolf's Ear. Gold dinars and costly jewels are to be his sinews. With them he can buy swords and swordarms."

  "True. And yet I have not counted more than a score of guards about the tower that is called the Wolf's Ear."

  "Few can be trusted. And now—the Peace!"

  The janissary rose a little unsteadily and swaggered off. When Michael turned over to ease his cramped limbs he beheld the son of the thief squatting in the shadows, inspecting the most valuable of the daggers that the warrior had worn in his belt. The old man nodded approvingly and returned to the gentle sputtering of his pipe.

  Buyers in the suk were few, because every householder was busied in laying out the best of his rugs and hangings in stall and balcony to prepare for the festival.

  Some felt of Michael's muscles, as he stood, naked to the waist in the glaring sun above the two Arabs who knelt at ease. But they passed on after learning the price of the Frankish slave. Others stared curiously at his strange hat and long boots, and walked on to where women were offered. Michael saw dark-haired Armenians, and statuesque Georgians, with many Persian maids standing near him; these waited patiently, until a trade was made, then followed their masters off the square with the passivity of animals. Michael preferred to watch the riders that trotted by along the street leading to the castle gate.

  His attention was drawn back presently by the crying of some Spanish girls, taken—he heard related—by a raid of corsairs on the coast of that country. Their mother had just been sold to a stout Turk, who was berating the slave merchant for the uproar caused by the children. Michael saw the trader strike the girls with his staff, and, instinctively he took a step toward them: Then, recollecting his plight, at a snarl from the Arab he turned back.

  But not before the eye of a tall sheik, wrapped to the cheekbones in the folds of his white robe, had fallen upon him. The newcomer strode over to Michael and studied him for a full moment.

  "At what price is this one offered?"

  The Arab called a thousand greetings upon the stranger and said that it was no more than two hundred dinars, that Michael had an excellent disposition, was strong as a horse, and—

  "He has been a galley slave."

  The stranger pointed to the thick wrists and gnarled arms of the cavalier.

  "A hundred is enough, the tax to be paid by you—"

  "O blind and small-of-wit—"

  A powerful hand freed itself from the folds of the other's dress and the Arab's face changed visibly as he saw a seal ring on the thumb before his eyes.

  "O father of blessings—"

  "Deliver him to my men."

  The stranger moved on, leisurely, with his long stride and was lost in the throng. Meanwhile a group of armed servants closed around the cavalier after paying the Arab his price, which he took dourly enough now that the man of the seal ring was gone.

  But Michael did not move. Down the street came a clash of cymbals and a shouting of guards, pushing the crowd back. Those around him rose to peer at the commotion, and a joyful shout from the street was echoed in the market place. A body of janissaries moved into view, escorting a splendid white camel on which a canopy of carpets half concealed the slender form of a woman.

  "Way for the messenger of the mighty, the merciful Mustapha, Protector of Islam, Sword of Mohammed! Way for the distinguished aga and the gift he brings!"

  So cried the soldiery, and the rabble roared in glee when the handsome noble on a blue-veined Arab barb—he who rode directly before the camel— began to cast handfuls of silver coin over the uplifted heads. Michael noticed that the aga sat his high-peaked saddle like a rider born, that his turban was sewn with pearls, and the fringe of his kaftan glittered with gold thread.

  "Allah's blessing upon the giver! Ten thousand welcomes to the aga, the victorious, the youthful lord, El Kadhr."

  So cried the multitude, and Michael's eyes sparkled. The man who came as the sultan's messenger was Demid.

  His beard had been clipped short and parted in the middle, after the northern fashion, but no other disguise—save the garments, plundered perhaps from some caravan on the way—was needed, for the face of the Cossack chief was lean, the dark eyes slanting—a heritage from some Tatar ancestor. His attire was that of a Turkoman chief and his manner, composed and slightly contemptuous, bore out the part.

  Michael turned his attention to the rider on the camel. Lali had been furnished new garments, but the poise of her head was unmistakable although she was heavily veiled. Before her walked the two blacks, once more at ease despite their scars. Well for Demid, thought Michael, they were mutes. They had a tale for the telling!

  Yet now they stalked proudly, aware of their importance—two eunuchs of the imperial court, unmistakable as such.

  Alone, in that great throng, the cavalier did not call out. He could have made Demid hear, for the cortege passed within stone's throw. But to signal to the Cossack before those hundreds of vigilant eyes would be to place the chieftain in jeopardy at once. Michael remained silent, smiling a little as he understood the trick by which Demid had entered Aleppo. He had merely taken the place of the aga, who had been slain on the galley—the officer who had had Lali in his charge. But Ayub and the other Cossacks were not visible, and Michael wondered what part they were to play.

  "The Sidi will have a warm welcome for this bringer of gifts," spoke up someone near him. "It is said that El Kadhr had a wolf's fight with a band of unbelievers in the hills and overthrew them, after all but these few of his men were slain."

  A savage shout gave token of the joy of the Moslems at this feat of the aga, and Michael, listening, grew thoughtful. In this way Demid had explained his lack of escort; the janissaries he must have picked up near the city. But, successful in passing the gates of Aleppo, where no other Christians were suffered to enter except as slaves, he was now in the cent
er of a fanatical mob that would tear his limbs apart at a slip of the tongue or a false move.

  All at once Michael was aware that Demid had seen him. The gaze of the aga had passed over the slaves and lingered a second on the cavalier. Tossing some silver toward the clamoring Arab younglings he rode on without a sign of recognition.

  Another moment and he checked his horse where the multitude at the road leading up to the castle held up the cavalcade. Stooping he spoke swiftly to one of the officers of the guards, handing the man at the same time a purse from his girdle.

  The janissary made a sign of obedience, looked around at Michael and made his way back to the suk. Swaggering as one who had just been noticed by the messenger of the sultan, he approached the Arab.

  "How high is the bidding for this Frank?" he asked curtly.

  The desert man fingered his beard thoughtfully, and seeing no loss in talk, drew the soldier a little aside from the Turkomans who were still staring after the envoy.

  "Three hundred gold pieces, to you, my friend, and the tax on you. You have seen how docile he is—"

  "I have here two hundred and twenty dinars. It is yours for the slave. The lord from the imperial city has given me command to buy this dog. The Frank crossed his glance with the aga, and perhaps made a spell upon him. So the lord from the imperial city has selected me to buy him, in order that he may be slain and the spell rendered of no account. The aga, El Kadhr, is a hater of the Nazarenes, as a man should be."

  At this Michael's pulse quickened, for covetousness darkened the Arab's eyes, and he schemed palpably to avail himself of the new offer. The

  guards observed that Michael was standing by them, but took no notice of the merchant.

  "Surely you have more than that in the purse," objected the desert man. "I saw the aga hand it to you. Is it not all for this Frank? The envoy is open of hand."

  "By my beard, it is not so. And the tax is on you—"

  "B’illah! What do you say?"

  Inwardly cursing their quarreling, Michael listened to their rising voices in a feverish suspense.

  "Allah! What words are these words. The door of bidding is closed!"

  The leader of the Turkomans swung around and grasped Michael's shoulder.

  "Dog of an Arab! Saw you not the wazir's ring?"

  The desert man flung up his arms with a groan.

  "Aye," he muttered to the puzzled janissary. "A dweller in the Wolf's Ear saw fit to claim this slave for a fourth of his value. I have eaten wrong-dealing—"

  "Which you will spew out again, father of thieving!" growled the Turkoman, and made a sign for his companions to close around Michael.

  As they moved off Michael saw the janissary stop to curse the desert man, and then—well aware of the danger of crossing an official of the castle—stride away toward Demid. He had not gone far before a lithe, tattered figure stole after him, and stumbled over his heels. The blade of a knife flashed, and the purse which the soldier had tied to his girdle dropped into the hand of the son of the Arab.

  Michael, despite his disappointment, could laugh merrily at this. The butt of the Turkoman's spear smote his cheek, splitting the skin.

  "O caphar, unbeliever, you can work your spells in the darkness under the Wolf's Ear. Hasten, for you will have an audience with your master."

  So it happened on the day of the festival in Aleppo that the man with the signet ring passed into the gate of the palace wall, and after him Demid and his charge, and upon their heels, in a sad strait indeed but no whit disheartened, Sir Michael of Rohan.

  IX

  The Voice of Darkness

  A night and a day Michael waited for the interview with his new master. The chamber in which he had been confined without food was bare except for two hemp ropes suspended from the beams of the ceiling and ending in slip-nooses about a yard from the floor. Under the ropes lay two lengths of bamboo, tough and pliable. Under the bamboos was a thick veneer of dried blood—the mark of the bastinado, in which a prisoner was strung up by the ankles and beaten with the bamboos upon the soles of his bare feet until exhausted nerves gave way and he confessed, or lied to save himself.

  At the end of the time a door opened and two armed negroes entered with cresset torches, signing for Michael to advance to the black square of the open portal. But on the threshold they stayed him, and he made out a figure in the shadows beyond.

  This was a thin, stooped form draped in striped silk. A form with a beak of a face and a pinched mouth, seeming to droop under the weight of a massive green turban set with emeralds.

  "The Sidi ibn Ahmad," grunted one of the slaves, "would have speech with thee."

  Michael bowed and stood at ease, sniffing the odor of musk and opium, while two large eyes considered him.

  "O Frank," said the Moslem sharply, "where are the kazaks?"

  It startled Michael more than a little that this man should be aware he spoke Turki, and had knowledge of the raid of the Cossacks.

  "Who knows," he replied musingly, "if not Allah?"

  "You do."

  "That is not true."

  "Bah! Offspring of swine, the Sidi has eyes that can pierce beyond the hills. A band of kazaks rode toward Aleppo. Where did you leave them?"

  "If you can see through the hills, then you can see them. I know nothing."

  "Dog of an unbeliever! You were in their company. What plans had they formed when you were taken from them?"

  If, Michael thought, the pasha of Aleppo could not see beyond the Caucasus, he must have ears in every bazaar in Asia Minor. And this was close to the truth, for the man in the doorway was well served by spies.

  "The chief of the kazaks," went on he of the turban, "is like a falcon, striking far from home. But where are his men?"

  Michael, wondering if Demid's disguise had been pierced, only shook his head. Demid had been careful to say nothing of his plans to any one.

  The man in the door snapped his teeth angrily and motioned to the guards to string Michael up. As they moved to do this, a high voice whispered something from the darkness behind the dignitary, who hesitated and drew back.

  "We will not wheedle you like a woman. You have until the midmorning prayer of the morrow to make up your mind to confess. When that time comes if you do not speak you will be drawn on the stake—" he paused, the pinched lips curving with relish—"by horses."

  "Nay, not that!" cried Michael, starting.

  "Aye, unbeliever. Prepare to taste maul ahmar, the bloody death."

  The slaves drew back and the door closed, leaving him to the shadows of the torture chamber and the contemplation of the bastinado ropes that now seemed luxurious compared to the fate in store for him. He wondered who the unseen speaker had been—for who would countermand an order of Sidi Ahmad, within the palace?

  "Perhaps a woman," he reasoned.

  To be drawn on a stake by horses, before a throng of watching Turks! Michael gritted his teeth. Hanging was better, and yet—and yet, he would not play the part of a coward. If he could make up a false tale—but instinct warned him that the pasha was not to be hoodwinked.

  "Ah, if they would put a blade in my hand, it would be a blessed thing."

  He thought longingly of Demid, and the chance of having a weapon smuggled in through the grating of the window. Demid had tried to get him free, and speak with him—had taken a daring chance—but the Cossack could not know where he was confined.

  "What a lad he is! God save him!" thought Michael admiringly, and wondered what plan the Cossack meant to follow.

  Demid had done as he promised Ibnol Hammamgi—had passed openly through the gate of Aleppo and the wall of the castle, into the Wolf's Ear.

  Perhaps Lali, who seemed to know all things, had an inkling of where the pasha kept his treasure; perhaps the singing girl could find out. Michael had reasoned that the treasure would lie in the tower or under it. He was quick of wit and he had noticed that the janissaries who brought him had turned over their prisoner to the personal sla
ves of Sidi Ahmad at the tower door.

  He had used his eyes and had a fair idea of the plan of the palace, which was much like that of a medieval castle in England. At the rear a sheer cliff some twenty feet high rose from the slope of the hill. Above this were the terraced gardens of the palace itself, protected on the other three sides by a wall of solid marble blocks, too high to climb, too massive to beat in.

  The road that led up to this wall from the alleys of Aleppo passed through the single gate of ironbound teak. Seen from the suk this gate seemed to be the eye of a wolf, the palace its skull, and the tower its ear.

  The palace itself was small, forming three sides of a courtyard. The embrasures of the dungeon, set with iron bars, looked out upon the cedars and olive trees and the pleasant fountain of the courtyard. Michael could see no more than the tops of the trees and the spray of the fountain, for the opening was a spear's length over his head.

  It seemed to him that the torture chamber was the base of the tower, as the walls were of massive black basalt and the columns supporting the ceiling were thick as buttresses, instead of the slender pillars of Arabic design. In fact the grim, black tower with its rounded cupola was like nothing else in Aleppo. Perhaps it had been built centuries ago for an astrolo-ger—certainly it served to guard Sidi Ahmad from assassins.

  All at once Michael stiffened where he sat in a corner of the torture chamber. A slight sound had reached him, the muffled gritting of iron against stone. Often before when the chamber was in darkness he had heard this sound, but now he was aware of a breath of stale air that passed across his cheek.

  As quietly as possible he rose to his feet, with an effort, for long fasting had sapped his strength. Too clearly to be mistaken he now heard the tinkle of a guitar, and a swelling voice, high and plaintive.

  From afar I watch for thy coming,

  “O my lord! ”

  These were the first words of Lali's song and the sound of it came through the embrasure overhead. Michael felt for the heavy ropes that hung near at hand, put his foot in one of the loops and drew himself up by his arms until he could see out into the court.