Riders of the Steppes

by Harold Lamb

  Sidi Ahmad was giving a feast near the pool. Cresset torches held by motionless slaves revealed a company of Turkish officers, in colored silks and velvets, kneeling on carpets, listening to the song of the girl. Beside the host was Demid, the stem of a hubble-bubble in his hand.

  Lali sat a little apart from the other slave girls, behind a screen of palms, and Michael noticed that, even while she sang for the pasha, her glance went to the Cossack. At the end of her song, while the guests were smiling and praising her to the slender Turk, Michael ventured to call to her softly.

  "Daughter of Macari, a boon I crave of him who shared bread and salt with me—a sword from him, passed through this grating. Give him that word."

  Lali, rising, half turned her head toward the embrasure. Then, without response, she walked slowly to the feasters, adjusting her veil as she did so. The master of the palace gave command for a silver-sewn robe of honor to be brought her, and, receiving it, she bowed her dark head to the carpet. The officers of the janissaries and the dignitaries of the city lifted their hands and voiced courteous praise, for the grace of the girl could not be veiled.

  "Hair blacker than the storm wind!"

  "Eyes like a gazelle, softer than pearls—"

  "Nay, she walks like the wind of dawn among the flowers!"

  The host, sitting back in shadow himself, motioned Lali toward his slaves and leaned forward to present a costly gift to Demid, a scimitar of blue steel, chased with gold. Michael groaned under his breath, for Lali had not ventured near Demid and he remembered that now the singing girl had been given to Sidi Ahmad, and it would be mortal offence for Demid to exchange a word with her.

  Then a voice from near at hand spoke laughingly—

  "O watcher of the feast, is there no ease for thy hunger?"

  Michael looked down into the gloom of the torture chamber and slid to the floor. The speaker seemed to be within the wall.

  "Tell Sidi Ahmad what he seeks of you, and go unharmed from Aleppo on the morrow."

  "Who are you?"

  "A prisoner like yourself, until my time comes. Aye, I have fled from daggers that would pierce these walls."

  Now was Michael aware of the truth that an elusive memory had been whispering to him. He knew the man who spoke from the wall.

  "You are Captain Balaban, the Levantine!" he cried.

  A pause, broken by a low, amused laugh—

  "Nay, unbeliever, I am Sidi ibn Ahmad."

  Grim was the palace of the Wolf's Ear, and dark the passageways beneath. Michael, hearkening to the lisp of lutes in the garden overhead, strained his eyes to make out the man who spoke to him, yet beheld only a black square where a secret door had opened, away from the torture chamber. In this opening stood Captain Balaban, erstwhile captive of the Cossacks, and the gloom of the dungeon was not more forbidding than the whispering glee of his high-pitched voice.

  Michael bethought him of several things: the talk of the Moslems in the caravansary—that Sidi Ahmad had been on a journey from the Wolf's Ear. And the warning of Ibnol Hammamgi that the pasha kept his face hidden when he was in Aleppo. Also, he remembered the high honor accorded the Levantine when the man escaped to the Moslems of the corsair.

  How better could Sidi Ahmad protect himself from assassins than by taking another name, and allowing one of his officers to pose as pasha during his absence?

  "O dog of an unbeliever," went on the amused voice, "do you doubt my word? Would you see the signet ring of a pasha that I kept on a cord about my neck when I ventured among the Cossacks who guard the Christian frontier, to learn their strength? Or shall I summon my wazir who sits now on the carpet of honor in my stead—he who questioned you at my bidding?"

  He clapped his hands and somewhere behind him a door opened, letting in a glow of candles. Michael saw that a section of the stone wall had been swung back upon its sockets, revealing a stair leading down past the dungeon. On a landing of this stair stood Balaban, robed in an Arab's cloak.

  "Aye," the Moslem said, "I bought you of the thief in the suk and cheated him out of his profit—for you may be worth more than the price I paid. Verily, my word, a while ago, sentenced you to the stake—if you are fool enough to turn from my service."

  He lifted a hand significantly.

  "My word can save you from the stake. Consider this, O Nazarene: my star is rising in Asia, and men flock to me. Soon the green standard will be carried from Bagdad to Moscow, and I shall ride before the standard-bearer. Eyes serve me in hidden places and lips whisper in the Wolf's Ear; but my eyes have shown me the weakness of your peoples, who flee from the sea before the corsairs."

  "Can your eyes find Demid and the hand of Cossacks?"

  "Yes, by Allah! Demid sits at the feast over our heads. Alone, on the frontier his spirit is daring. Age the Cossack a bit and he would work harm, but now he is a fledgling flying before his time. I shall cut him down after you are staked."

  Michael's heart sank, and his weariness grew upon him, for, indeed this man seemed to know all things.

  "Consider again," the Levantine went on, fingering the scar upon his cheek, "that the Cossack drinks his fill without thought for you."

  "A lie, that! Demid would strike a blow for me if he knew my plight."

  A calculating light came into the Moslem's narrowed eyes.

  "Insh’allah, that we shall see. I shall bid the young hero to watch your torture on the morrow, and you will see that he stirs not—not so much as a hair of his beard. But I can put a sword in your hand, and give you a golden name. Aye, you may not lack a pashalik if you will acknowledge Mohammed, and turn to the true faith. One thing I ask, that you make clear where the bull Cossack and his dozen are hidden, for until now they have escaped my search."

  "I shared bread and salt with them."

  "Bah—what is faith? A word that dies on the lips. Lali, the young witch, sold you—I know not why. What faith do you owe her lover?"

  "The word of Michael of Rohan!"

  With that the cavalier stiffened his muscles and leaped at the man who mocked him. His body shot into the open door, but his cramped limbs were sluggish and Balaban, stepping back, brought down the flat of his blade upon Michael's skull. Searing flames shot through the vision of the little man, and then—darkness.

  X

  The Zineh of Aleppo

  When the middle of the morning came, and a captain of janissaries flung open the door of the prison, Michael walked forth steadily. He kept his head back, and by an effort of will stiffened his knees against trembling. Hunger that had been an agony, left him and he did not feel weak; but, coming out into the glare of sunlight on the uppermost terrace, just under the castle wall, he was conscious of sweat starting out all over his limbs.

  In the center of the terrace the blunt end of a ten-foot stake had been sunk into the earth at an angle, leaving the sharpened end projecting along the surface of the grass. Near at hand, slaves held the bridles of two Arab ponies, while others attached ropes to the breast-strap.

  About this cleared space the guests of the night before sat on carpets in the shade of olive and lemon trees; officers of the guard strolled around, swaggering, some with hawks on their wrists, for the latticed windows of the palace hid the women of Sidi Ahmad—soft-limbed girls of many races whose lustrous eyes would brighten at the spectacle of the torture.

  Here and there negroes placed trays of sherbet and sweetmeats before the watchers, and Michael heard voices crying wagers—how long would he endure before crying out. Beyond the low line of foliage, he beheld again the white minarets, the gold and purple domes of the Moslem city, and, like an echo upon the breeze came the faint cry of the caller to prayer:

  Allah is the only god; and Mohammed is his prophet. . . prayer is good . . . the hour of prayer is at hand . . .

  A drone, as of multitudinous bees, arose from the streets below, where hundreds of worshippers were facing toward Mecca.

  The spectators on the terrace arose and salaamed. The bird-like ma
n— who acted the part of Sidi Ahmad—had appeared in the shadows under the trees, and with him Demid. The Cossack left his host and strolled over to inspect the stake and the horses. Michael's gaze flew to him and lingered, while, absently, he noticed that Demid wore two swords, his own and the scimitar of honor bestowed by the master of the feast the evening before.

  This struck Michael as strangely ridiculous.

  "Two swords—and one man—one sword too many, I'faith!"

  He wagged his head, and a chuckle arose in his throat. The guards looked at him askance, and a mameluke in a fur-tipped khalat strolled over to stare his fill at the victim of the maut ahmar.

  "A comely dog," the dark-faced warrior from Egypt muttered, caressing a gold chain at his throat, "but too lean in the limb—his bones will crack like a chicken's. I have seen—"

  He confided, low-voiced, to one of the Turks what he had seen in the way of torture visited upon other Nazarenes. Michael's voice croaked.

  "Yah khawand, a word with yonder noble, El Kadhr. I who go to the Severer of Life ask it."

  "Will you confess the hiding-place of the pig kazaks?"

  Michael shook his head, not caring to trust his voice again. He wished to warn Demid that Balaban was in Aleppo and that Balaban was Sidi Ahmad; but when he took an uncertain step forward toward his friend, nausea seized on him.

  "Wine!" he whispered. "A cup of wine before the ordeal."

  "To hear is to obey!"

  The janissary whispered something to one of the palace slaves, who presently fetched a silver goblet from the courtyard. Michael seized it and raised it to his lips with a hand kept steady by the utmost effort of his will.

  Within the cup was vinegar.

  Michael quivered and hurled the silver goblet at the Moslem who had tricked him, and the mameluke smiled, beholding his musk-scented companion soaked with the vinegar.

  "Eh, there is a devil in this prince of unbelievers! Nay—" as the other, red with rage, strove to draw sword—"this Frank is to be spared for the fate that awaits his kind."

  Perceiving the attention of the throng on him for a second, the warrior of the khalat made a mock salaam before Michael.

  "I pray your honor's honor to ascend the throne prepared for you. Ho, Moslems, give heed to this dog-coronation!"

  A ripple of mirth passed over the savage faces, and merciless eyes fastened on the prisoner. Pleased with his own wit, the mameluke leaned forward to pull the stubble of beard that had grown on Michael's chin.

  "Will you go forward to the stake, or shall I bid the palace wenches hither to whip you on?"

  For a second the thought of angering the soldier—provoking him to use his sword—came to Michael. But then he was aware that by going to the stake he might speak to Demid, who had recognized him before now.

  Michael crossed himself, and, followed closely by a janissary and the mameluke, walked up to the stake. Now he saw that Demid's face was tense, and that the Cossack's eves were smoldering even while he stood with folded arms.

  A high-pitched voice, rife with amusement, floated from one of the palace windows.

  "Where are the kazaks, O Nazarene?" Sidi Ahmad asked.

  Michael halted and from very weariness leaned on the stake, while the slaves pulled forward the ropes attached to the horses.

  "Here is a Cossack!"

  It was thus that Demid spoke for all to hear, and answered the question of Sidi Ahmad. And before his lips closed on the words, his two swords were out of their sheaths. Michael never knew how the blades were drawn so swiftly, because he did not see Demid's left hand drop to the hilt of the scimitar on his right side, and the other hand to the sword of honor, on his left hip.

  Nor did Michael see which blade it was that struck off the head of the mameluke, sending it rolling over the grass. But he did notice that one of the scimitars struck down the weapon the janissary drew, and then passed across the silk vedt of the Moslem warrior. The curved blades seemed only to stroke the man, but its razor edge severed the abdominal muscles and left the janissary dying on his feet, still staring in blank amazement.

  Demid whirled on the slaves and struck one down; the remaining Moslem took to his heels, but tripped and fell, such was his dread of the steel that had taken the lives from three in thrice as many seconds.

  "Two swords—one man," Michael muttered, still in a half stupor.

  For a brief moment the Cossack and the cavalier stood alone by the stake, but already men were recovering from their amazement and rising to their feet under the trees. Sidi Ahmad, the clever, had indulged his whim to test Demid a trifle too far, and the Cossack knew how to use the minute of time that was worth more than the treasure of Sidi Ahmad to him.

  "Can you stick to a horse's back?" he cried at Michael who was stumbling toward him. "Grapple the mane, but stick!"

  With that he gave his comrade a hoist up, to the nearest pony. The other horse had shied at the smell of blood, but Demid ran to him, caught the dangling bridle, and glanced over his shoulder.

  "On your faces, dogs," he roared at the oncoming guards. "A Cossack ataman rides through you. On your faces!"

  He pointed to the prostrate forms around the stake and a shout of anger answered him. Perhaps the rage inspired by his challenge hampered the effort of the Moslems on the terrace to get near, perhaps no one cared to be the first to step into the path of Demid's horse. They had grouped toward the road leading to the gate, and hither Demid started, taking the rein of his pony in his teeth.

  But almost at once he swerved from his course, caught the rein of Michael's horse in one hand that held a sword and beat both beasts with the flat of the other blade. They struck into a short-paced trot, and passed between the in-running guards. Demid's sword flashed on either side, steel striking against steel, and one man fell.

  The ponies lengthened their stride, guided by the superb horsemanship of the Cossack, and broke through the foliage of the terrace edge, taking the jump to the garden below, almost unseating Michael as they did so. Demid steadied his friend and headed toward the roadway, which was here unguarded. They reached it before their pursuers could come down from the upper level, and Michael saw that the gate in the main wall was open before them.

  A shout from above brought out the warriors who had been squatting in the shade of the wall, but at that distance no command was heard clearly and no man thought to try to stop the notable El Kadhr, who galloped through the gate and down into the marketplace.

  Old is Aleppo, mother of cities and father of thieves. Time has brought to its streets in turn the changing peoples of the earth, the Indian, the Parsi, the triumphant Israelite—saints and pharisees, princes and lepers— and the conquering Moslem. Each built upon the ruins of the other, and made of the city a labyrinth where alleys ran underground and bathing wells were the cisterns of former palaces. And where the caravans came, thither came the thieves.

  Hither had come the old Arab who had stolen Michael of Rohan, and the boy Hassan, the Arab's son.

  At midmorning they were sleeping in their cubicle in the serai of the desert men, sleeping with one eye open, because the boy had cut a purse not long before from a soldier who might bring an accusation against them— and they had no desire to face a Turkish khadi, a judge who might have a memory for past crimes, and who would certainly have an itching palm. Also, they wished to lie low before venturing out that evening to join the procession of the Guilds, when quarrels and purses might be picked.

  So the curtain was drawn across their compartment, but the weasel ears of the boy Hassan heard the trumpets blare from the direction of the palace.

  "Allah," he muttered, yawning and spitting, "has caused something to happen. The trumpets have called for the city gates to be closed."

  Horses' hoofs thudded in the alley underneath and entered the arcade of the caravansary's shops, and passed on after a fragmentary pause. Both Hassan and his father, however, heard boots on the stone steps that led up to the gallery of the inn, and presently their
curtain was snatched aside and two men entered, the leader being the Nazarene slave whom they had sold to the Turks. Michael had guided Demid to the only place of refuge known to him.

  Demid strode across the chamber and jerked the old thief to his feet by the beard. The Arab's whiskers bristled, like an angry cat's, and he grasped at his weapons, when he recognized his assailant and hesitated.

  "O Aga, what is this? It is not fitting to put the hand of violence upon the beard of age—Ai, spare the boy, O captain of men!" Hassan had started to knife Michael in the ribs and Demid bruised the lad's wrist with a backward slap of his scimitar. "Verily, the youth is of tender years, and, without guile. What wrong have we done?"

  "Enough," whispered Demid curtly, and proceeded to disarm the desert man by undoing his girdle and letting the various knives and handguns fall to the floor.

  "Off with your garments."

  "What madness is this?" The Arab looked anxiously at Michael, who had caught Hassan by the throat. The plight of the boy affected him more than the danger to himself, and, after a shrewd glance into the set face of the Cossack, he peeled off the hooded cloak, shirt and loose trousers.

  Demid bade Hassan strip to his shirt, and kicked the weapons of the Arabs into a comer. Standing between his prisoners and the entrance, he cast off his own valuable garments and the Arab's eyes glistened on beholding the jewel-sewn folds of the turban and the cloth-of-gold girdle.

  When the Arab was naked, Hassan almost so, and the two fugitives clad in their clothing, Demid adjusted a veil about the lower portion of Michael's face, and turned to study the old man who without weapons and cloak looked very much like a shorn lion.

  "Hearken, O father of trickery," he said quietly. "It is for you to cover the road of our flight with the dust of discretion. You have no love for Sidi Ahmad, and I am his foe."

  "Then you are a fool, because within these walls you cannot escape him," retorted the thief frankly, adding that the gates were closed.

  "No more can he escape me," assented Demid, and even Hassan choked with astonishment. "You are the gainer by my garments, but wear them not abroad or show them, lest you be put into a shroud."