by Harold Lamb
She lifted her head and cried one word, and the hall rang with the approval of her chieftains. Fifty swords were snatched forth and raised overhead, and the warders at the door, taking heart from the sight, began to clash their axes against their shields. Rusudan stood up, and the Georgians cried her name until she stretched out her hands to them, tears in her eyes.
“Thus,” observed Della Trevisani at Hugh’s ear, “is the pagan Khan answered. You will perceive, my Frank, that it means war.”
Rusudan summoned her women and swept from the hall, and at every step the warriors cheered her. Though Hugh watched the girl’s every motion, she ignored his presence, and shrewd Trevisani saw the knight’s lips tighten.
“Ha, my Frank, a firebrand, that royal child. The constable makes the decision, but it is for Rusudan that these mountaineers would willingly be hewn in pieces—or boiled and salted down, for that matter.”
Meanwhile the constable approached the envoy.
“No need of delay,” he said curtly. “If the Mongol ventures into the mountains he will be driven out by our swords.”
Hugh lifted his hand.
“My lord,” he responded slowly, “God give you fortune of your choice. You have spoken bravely—and heedlessly.”
“Rusudan hath spoken, and the nobles have echoed her choice. Messer Frank, you will bear our answer hence on the morrow.”
“Lord Prince,” he said bluntly, “men say you are wise in battle. The Horde is not like other foes. Is the answer yours—or a young girl’s, echoed by her henchmen?”
The broad chin of John the Constable thrust out and his powerful hands gripped the ax.
“By the tomb of Tamar—it is mine! What would you, Frank?”
“This! I have seen the host of the Moslems melt away before the onset of the Horde. Take thought, my lord Constable, for your villages and the lives that are in your charge.”
“Now, by all the saints!” John the Constable laughed harshly. “Doth a warrior cry truce?”
“Ay, so.” Hugh folded his long arms on the hand-guard of Durandal and looked into the faces that pressed close to him—like his own, bearded and scarred and weather-worn. “Messers, many days have I spent in the Horde. And I know there is a mighty power in the Mongol onset. They reck not of death, nor do they yield them captive. They seek no war with ye, but mean to find a way through the mountains. I say to ye, wait—for two days or three—and do not answer out of hand.”
When this was interpreted by the Genoese, the men murmured anew.
“Truce with pagans is not to be thought upon!”
“A renegade! Look that he play not the part of a spy!”
“ ’Tis said he was a warrior of the Cross. He bears no sign upon him—no device upon shield or shoulder.”
But the regent of Georgia smote the flat of his battle-ax against the table.
“Ho, in three days shall the Khan be answered fittingly! And you, Sir Conscience Keeper, will know our mind.”
In a corner tower of the donjon Trevisani and the Greek ambassador burned low their candles, sitting late over a board of chess.
The eyes of the Genoese played restlessly over the miniature warriors of ivory and ebony, wandered to the curtains of the door, to the flickering candles, and swept ever and anon over the dark and lean countenance of Choaspes the strategos, the general of the eternal Emperor. Choaspes was strategos of the Caucasus region, the eastern frontier of the Greek Empire. And the edge of his white silk cloak was dyed so deep a scarlet that it looked more like the imperial and forbidden purple.
“Your high Excellency,” observed Trevisani, pushing forward one of the tiny horsemen that were the pawns, “is listless this night.”
“By the wreath and the belly of Bacchus,” murmured the Greek, “I am colder than a Hyrcanian tiger, if ever there were such a beast.”
He drew a sable wrap over his shapely shoulders and cursed the brazier that gave out, as he truthfully said, more smoke than smell, and more smell than heat.
“To think, Messer Antonio, that my galley is laid up at the Golden Chersonese, with fat Philipo killing flies and drinking my best Cyprian, his only worry the price of slave girls at Tanais and the vagaries of the dice box. He always was unlucky, but now he hath all the best of it.”
Choaspes had the full throat, the curling lips, and the level eyes of a Greek, but the ruddy color under his swarthy skin bespoke Persian blood. He was rather proud of his slender hands, which were adorned with rings of matched opals.
“The Chersonese,” he sighed, “would be gay just now with the New Year’s feasts, and I hear the Emperor is there to take the mud baths.”
“The health of his eternal Magnificence is not of the best?”
“By Hercules no!”
“Ah, but is not your Excellency’s illustrious family the Comneni, who are the bulwark of elder Rome and the empire itself in Asia? If a successor to Theodore Lascaris—may he live for ten thousand years!—is to be chosen—”
“It will be in the Chersonese, my dear Messer Antonio, where no doubt the very knowing princes are this minute—” he smiled at the merchant—“attending the sick man. A bulwark, Messer Antonio—and I felicitate you upon the apt simile—is never crowned.”
“And still, your Excellency will reflect that a bulwark is venerated when it stems a flood.”
“Of course. Theodore Lascaris sits on the throne of the Cæsars because he cut to pieces an army of Seljuk Turks two years ago.”
Antonio della Trevisani surveyed the slumbering servitors and smiled.
“At Antioch? I seem to remember that some hundreds of Frankish crusaders won that victory for the eternal Emperor. None of them lived to tell of it.”
Choaspes’s glittering hand moved over the board and shifted his king from an ebony to an ivory square, safe from the attack of the Genoese bishop.
“Ehu! One lived, but not to tell of it. We sought him and hunted, and a Syrian traced him as far as Jerusalem. There was a price of one thousand bezants on his head, but even the Jews never unearthed him.”
“Why the price on his head?” Trevisani was interested.
Choaspes fingered the goblet at his elbow and sipped a little wine.
“Eh, we are exiles here among the barbaros, you and I, Messer Antonio. Boon companions, you might say. Still, though two years have passed—” he smiled—“let us say that his most compassionate Majesty desired to reward this solitary Frank fittingly, this young Norman, who was, as I remember, most wayward and daring as an offspring of Mars and Diana—assuming that Diana ever had offspring.”
“A thousand bezants,” quoth Messer Antonio, fingering his lip, and not perceiving that the Greek had led the talk skillfully from his own political ambitions and the possible death of the Emperor. “A goodly sum—”
“That was never paid.”
“A foolhardy youth. Well, the Frank who has found sanctuary in the Mongol Horde is quite the opposite—stoic and cautious.”
“Too stupid to lie and too stubborn to keep silence. The other ventured rashly against the Seljuks with his eight hundred barbarians, whereby all but he, the leader, left their bodies on the field.”
Choaspes knew well enough that the eight hundred crusaders had died because Theodore Lascaris, the Greek Emperor, had sacrificed them; but he did not intend to admit as much to the merchant.
“A bold man is usually honest,” commented the Genoese, who was a judge of character, as all money-lenders must be. “What does your Excellency think of his warning?”
“Ask the Sibyl—ask the astrologers. These Georgian mountaineers are barbarians; the Mongols, savages.”
“And horsemen. Is it not true that cavalry cannot maneuver in mountain passes?”
“True, Messer Antonio.” Choaspes laughed and sipped again of his wine. “At least, if I am denied the solace of the Golden Chersonese, I shall be amused by the coming battle.”
Trevisani breathed an inaudible sigh of relief. Though the strategos was an exquisit
e, a fop in dress, a cynic in philosophy, he understood thoroughly the waging of war.
“Your Excellency,” ventured Trevisani, “must appreciate the urgent necessity of keeping the Mongols out of—the Empire.”
“I do. The gods have arranged the matter beautifully. Ehu, the fire-eating Georgians will destroy the man-eating Mongols.”
It was the duty of the strategos to watch the passes of the Caucasus and to keep his finger on the pulse of the Georgians. The day was long since past when the legions of Pompey and Justinian had made their camps in the shadow of the mountain girdle of Tiflis.
“Our interests lie together in this,” murmured the merchant. “John the Constable must not make truce with the invaders.”
The strategos raised his eyes.
“Our interest?”
“You promised him the aid of the Empire,” observed Trevisani. “How?”
The strategos bent over the chessmen. He had no armed strength with him at Tiflis, and little at Trebizond, the nearest Greek port. In various wars the Georgians had served under the standards of the Empire, loyally, because the Holy City of Constantinople was still the Mecca of their faith. Nevertheless, Georgia was a kingdom and jealous of its liberty.
“Ask, in the Chersonese,” he said slowly, and Trevisani sank back in his chair. It was not well to inquire too closely into the secrets of the Emperor.
“And yet,” resumed the strategos, “here in the Caucasus a child has done my work for me. The chit Rusudan has fired the blood of these mountaineers. She is old enough to delight in the love of men, and too young to dread the sting of wounds.”
Trevisani glanced at his companion shrewdly.
“Eh, a tearing little beauty! Her eyes have not missed you.”
“But they, my good Comptor, are not yet the eyes of a woman. And she is a mere bundle of whims and—affection. She hugs the flea-ridden hunting dogs and sheds tears with the Gypsy wenches.”
“And still, she is beautiful—” Trevisani wagged his long head knowingly—“as shining gold.”
“A poor simile. Say, rather, pallid, edged steel that wounds when you grasp it.”
“Eh—eh!” Trevisani filled his goblet and stood up. “I yield the game to your Excellency. My king is lost. Let us empty a cup—to success.”
“To victory,” smiled the strategos, “for—the Emperor.”
He thrust back his chair and reached for the flagon of wine. Even as he did so, a gust of icy air entered the embrasure, and the candles flickered, dying to pinpoints under the blast. Silver crashed and tinkled on the chessboard, and when the candles flared up again the two men saw the flagon on its side and red wine flooding the miniature battlefield.
“A fair portent!” cried the merchant. “Here is blood among the pawns.”
But Choaspes, drawing clear his cloak from the dripping wine, shivered a little.
“These accursed winds!”
Trevisani, taking up a candle, withdrew; and no sooner had the merchant reached his own chamber than he felt in the wallet at his girdle and drew forth a roll of thin parchment no larger than his finger. Over this he bent eagerly, tracing out the delicate Syriac writing.
To the merchant Antonio at Tiflis, greeting. Know, most generous patron, that I, Rabban Simeon, have met with the man you were seeking in the Eastern caravan roads. Know that he is without doubt the Frank whose death is desired by the eternal Emperor. He is to be recognized by his yellow hair, his gray eyes, and the straight sword he bears. The search was long; the reward to be bestowed by your generosity is certain. I send this by the hand of Daim, the Circassian horse dealer, who has been promised ten dinars.
This missive had reached the worthy Della Trevisani at the last harvest time. Since then he had heard no more from the Syrian physician, who had been seeking patiently for news of the wandering crusader.
“One thousand pieces of gold,” the Genoese murmured. “And now this Frank hath come to Tiflis. But the proof of his death must be sure. Either his head—or he must be taken to the Emperor a captive.”
And Messer Antonio fell to musing. It was not a simple matter to cut the head from the stalwart shoulders of this Frank who was, besides, serving as ambassador of the Khan. Messer Antonio did not wish to see Sir Hugh return to the camp of the Mongols. He decided to tempt the crusader to journey with him to Trebizond, and to take ship for the Chersonese. Once on shipboard he could be disarmed and chained and so brought to the Emperor.
“Though time presses,” he reflected, “if the Emperor lies ill.”
He rolled up the parchment and sought his couch, well content. He was even more pleased two days later, when a rumor in the town assured him of the constable’s final answer to the Khan. It had been sent down the valley, this answer, in a basket. And the basket held the severed heads of the two Mongol envoys who had been detained outside Tiflis. Messer Antonio now saw his way clear to claim the thousand pieces of gold.
CHAPTER XXI - THE WIT OF MESSER ANTONIO
RUSUDAN was restless, and this morning her maids exasperated her until she dismissed them all and snatched up an ermine coat, a green silk kerchief, and a pair of shapely morocco boots. The kerchief she bound around her head, knotting it loosely over one ear, and the boots she slipped on with the ease of long practice. Though there was a mirror of polished bronze near the door of her chamber, she did not pause to glance into it. But Rusudan looked bewitching, and this was because she was excited. Her eyes grew deeper and wider, and a halfsmile of anticipation touched her lips. The silver heels of her boots clinked merrily on the flagstones of the outer hall.
Rupen of Kag, who had come to Tiflis that morning, was waiting to greet her, and with him she talked earnestly for half the turning of the sand glass in the antechamber.
“Send Messer Antonio to me,” she demanded. “Nay, go and seek him and bid him come to me upon the wall.”
Having rid herself of the Prince of Kag, she went more slowly to the balcony overlooking the great hall, and thence by a dark flight of steps to a certain stretch of the parapet between the two gate towers of the donjon. Here, from the courtyard below, she had often seen the Frank standing.
The door of his chamber opened out upon this part of the wall. And Rusudan, seeing no one here, glanced beyond the wall, down the valley.
It was a clear morning, and every detail stood out against the snow—the gray dome of the great Malaki church beside the castle, the deep gorge to the left where the icebound Kur wrestled and tore itself free over the rapids by the lower town. And the twisted streets, sprinkled with red roofs, with ancient stone walls and the bell towers of chapels—all far beneath the castle wall.
Tiflis was in truth the Gate of the Caucasus, and the castle was the key of the gate. To the right rose a cliff of brown limestone, and across the gorge of the Kur its very twin, a thousand-foot ridge that was dwarfed by the more distant forested slopes rising into the clouds. And above the clouds Rusudan could see the summits of the loftier ranges.
Here, at the castle, the valley narrowed to a gut. Below, it widened steadily, until the Kur appeared to be no more than an inanimate gray serpent stretched in the snow.
To Rusudan the sight was as familiar and as beloved as the icy wind blasts that flushed her cheeks and tore at the mass of her dark hair under the kerchief. Before the door of the Frank’s chamber she hesitated a moment, and mocked ceremony by knocking upon it vigorously.
The door opened, revealing the crusader, his sheathed sword in his left hand.
“Ai,” cried Rusudan, “do you always bear a weapon?” And then she made shift to speak in the lingua franca that she had picked up from the Greeks. “Sir Hugh, I greet you well. It is time for you to go upon the snow road.”
“Is the constable ready to reply?”
“Yesterday he sent his answer.” Anxiety darkened the blue eyes of the girl, and she motioned the knight to come closer. “It is over—finished. Now you are free to go on to the sea, and the ports of Frankistan. You must go—now!”<
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Hugh shook his head gravely.
“Nay, Princess Rusudan, I shall bear the answer of your lords to the Mongols.”
“But the—answer is sent, down the valley.” She stamped upon the hard-packed snow impatiently. “Oh, you are very stupid, Sir Hugh of Taranto. Messer Antonio told me your name. He is ready to depart for Trebizond with a caravan of linen cloth and ivory. He promised he would take you.”
She turned to greet the merchant, who had drawn near and stood waiting to be summoned.
“What message did John the Constable send?” Hugh asked bluntly, and the Georgian lifted her head proudly and not a little defiantly.
“War—without truce or any mercy!”
The crusader nodded.
“My horse has been brought into the castle. Now I must ask your leave to depart to the Horde.”
Rusudan’s expressive eyes looked a volume of questions.
“But why? The caravan would take you, Sir Frank, to your folk. You have been seeking a way out of the pagan land. Why would you ride back?”
And Messer Antonio, whose lean brown face betrayed nothing at all, glanced at the crusader sharply.
“Because, my lady, it was the order of Subotai Bahadur that I should return to the Horde.”
“And do you, a knight of the Cross, obey the commands of a pagan lord?”
“He released me from the Horde, bidding me come back. That shall I do, taking with me the Mongols who await me in the lower valley.”
Rusudan and the merchant were silent, and presently the girl went to the parapet and stood looking down upon a swarm of sparrows that clamored around the niches in the gray stone.
“Is it your wish to leave Tiflis?”
And Hugh made answer gravely.
“Ay, so.”
Rusudan whirled around and faced him angrily.
“Know, then, that your pagan comrades have been sent to their Khan. But I will not suffer you to leave Tiflis—nay, though it is an ill place, and bleak and barren, and its people barbarians.”