Durandal

by Harold Lamb

Theodore’s lips were drawn back from his teeth, and foam dripped from his mouth.

  “Kallinos! Daim! Choaspes! They have poisoned me.”

  The officers and slaves were staring at him, mouths agape. The glow of sunset had faded from the room, and the purple canopy turned from crimson to a dim black.

  “Ai!” cried the domastikos, wringing his hands. “Your sacred Clemency—your supreme Magnificence—”

  He tried to make the Emperor lie down, with fumbling, ineffective movements. In the corridors women were wailing, and more people pressed into the room.

  “In this day the righteous and unrighteous shall number their deeds—” the murmur of the Moslem reached Rusudan’s ears.

  Then Theodore thrust the domastikos aside and pulled himself to the edge of the couch, the sweat running from his head, his body jerking with cramps.

  “The torturers!” he gasped. “Make the girl speak. She brought wine—she knows!” And he pointed at Rusudan.

  “She would not taste of it!” screamed a woman slave.

  “The barbarian hath slain the Emperor,” cried the domastikos loudly. And the women, who had long been jealous of the favor shown Rusudan, echoed his words in shrill voices.

  After that there was more tumult outside the room, but those around the couch kept silent, listening to the heavy breathing of the man who wore the imperial purple. A change had come over Theodore; his eyes were sunken and heavy. He lay prostrate, and his hands kept pushing at the silk covering as if he would raise himself up. Rusudan found herself speaking, very slowly:

  “I am guiltless. The wine was given me by this child, who is innocent.”

  “Thou didst not taste it!” the domastikos mocked her.

  “The Arab saw. The poison was in the food, not the wine.”

  No one answered her, and she saw that many of the guards were gazing at her curiously. Rusudan thought that Abu Bekr had known nothing of the plot and that others, unseen, had put the poison in the strongly seasoned curry. Theodore had been very weak.

  Hands grasped her shoulders, slid down to her wrists, and she felt a leather cord touch her skin. With all her strength she struggled to free her arms and then to tear herself loose and run to the balcony, to escape the torture by leaping into the sea.

  The hands tightened, pressing into her flesh, and the cord was drawn fast. An arm reached around her, slipping the cord about her knees, which were bound and lashed to her wrists. Then she ceased struggling and lifted her head.

  “Confess—tell who gave you the poison,” demanded the captain of the guards.

  “She will not speak—now,” retorted the domastikos. “She is stubborn.”

  “No woman can endure the pain,” muttered the Greek officer in the silvered mail, biting his lips. “Better that she named the assassins.”

  “I know nothing,” cried Rusudan, “for I was seized by traitors and brought among you. Ask of the men who have watched their lord dying and have taken thought only for the torment of a captive.”

  “Begin,” said the domastikos dryly.

  An iron band was slipped over Rusudan’s head, and she felt it clasped close upon her hair. She made no effort to see the man who held her; instead she turned her head toward the Greeks, and though there were shadows under her eyes and her lips trembled a little, she spoke to them clearly.

  “I will be avenged, and the sword that strikes you down will know no mercy!”

  Impatiently the domastikos made a sign. Rusudan felt no pain, and she stood very still. The hands moved around her head, and the iron creaked. Then two tiny points of steel pressed into her temples behind the eyes. The girl’s body stiffened, and she cried out.

  “Again!” a voice demanded.

  The points of steel turned slowly, boring through the skin, and blood dripped into her lips. Agony surged into every nerve, and she strained forward. The arms of the torturers caught her and held her upright. They pulled away the strands of damp hair that had caught in the screws when she struggled.

  “Again!” commanded the domastikos.

  But Rusudan did not hear his voice. She lay unconscious in the arms of the torturers, and the domastikos turned his attention to the figure on the couch. Then for the first time one of the men who held Rusudan spoke.

  “He is dead.”

  There was a stir around the couch. Someone laid a hand on the face of Theodore Lascaris, and the unseen women wailed anew. But a tumult arose in the great courtyard, and scarcely a moment had passed before a name was shouted by many throats.

  “Choaspes! Choaspes reigns! Long life to the Emperor!”

  The officers in the death chamber exchanged glances, anxious, suspicious, or exulting. No one touched a sword, and the domastikos, who had watched their faces to good effect, held up his arms.

  “The army has chosen the successor to Theodore. Who is better than the scion of the Comneni?”

  When no one answered, he turned briskly to the guards nearest him.

  “Look to that woman. Take the irons from her, or she will not gain her senses. Then begin with the torture again until she confesses.”

  The Greeks were pushing from the room. The domastikos thrust his way among them, his cap askew on one ear, his face flushed. No one paid any attention to the body on the couch except the giant black who still kept his post, breathing heavily.

  Running down the marble stairs, the domastikos forced his way through the guards who were grouped around Choaspes. The strategos was mounted, and the cloak over his shoulders was purple edged with gold that gleamed in the torchlight. Bending down, he listened to the whisper of the domastikos—

  “May your Magnificence live for ten thousand years—”

  Choaspes spoke impatiently, and the chamberlain nodded.

  “It is finished—all. The Arab was cast from the rock.”

  “And you have—a captive?”

  “The gods were kind! Theodore himself cried out to torture her.”

  “Who?”

  “Rusudan.”

  Choaspes started, then was silent a moment.

  “The little Gypsy! By the throne of Bacchus! Well, she was a barbarian.” His eyes quested through the court, searching faces. “The Bulgars and Goths in the other wing of the palace have held out against us. They are surrounded and will be cut down. Trevisani holds the plaza, and his galleys the waterfront. The mob is wild and knows not what to shout. Toss silver freely among them and they also will cry, ‘Choaspes!’ ”

  He gathered up his reins that were heavy with silver-work and tassels. The charger he bestrode, a white Dalmatian, edged sidewise and snorted, sensing the excitement of the throng of men. Already that evening Choaspes had ridden him through most of the Chersonese, giving orders to his sympathizers and broaching wine kegs for the mob.

  But Choaspes listened to the clatter of steel and the hoarse outcry in the barracks by the gate courtyard. The barbarians who served Theodore had seen their leaders bound and led away, and had taken to their weapons. In a few moments the fighting lessened, and a Greek lieutenant came to report that the way was clear for the new Emperor to ride into the city.

  Then Choaspes gave command for the trumpets to sound. He was exceedingly anxious to win over the thousands in the port before some of his cousins might form a faction against him.

  Of Rusudan he did not think again save that it would be diverting to watch the torture of the young girl. It was necessary, now, she should be made to confess that she had given the poison, and Choaspes never questioned necessity.

  CHAPTER XXXI - THE SALUTE TO THE KHAN

  SIR HUGH thrust his way through a growing crowd until he came within sight of the wall that barred the approach to the palace, and no one tried to oppose him, because all the Chersonese was hastening toward the plaza and the waterfront and this same gate at the land end of the promontory. Besides, after a glance at the crusader, men were at pains to make way for him.

  So he reached the first tower and pressed forward until he could see within t
he gate itself. The massive doors were pulled back and wedged in place by a mass of shouting humanity. A double line of Greek guards with plumed helmets and gilded shields were trying to keep the mob out of the roadway. And up the road companies of armed men were passing into the city streets—Nubians with long bronze shields, grinning in the torchlight; darkfaced Rumanians on restless horses; and men-at-arms in the livery of the Comneni.

  Arslan and his ten warriors had managed to keep behind the crusader by dint of curses and drawn swords, and now they gazed at this parade of an emperor’s soldiery, bewildered and uneasy.

  It was no easy matter to find out what was happening.

  “The beacon was seen in the hills,” a perspiring seaman explained to Sir Hugh, and others contradicted him at once.

  “Nay, a village is burning.”

  “There were three lights—by the eyes of the gods, a portent!”

  “Thou hast licked the cup o’ermuch, Paulo. The Emperor is dead, I say.”

  But even the most drunk of the throng realized the truth when Choaspes walked his horse under the lifted portcullis of the gate, and the guards shouted his name. There was muttering among the townspeople, and an oath from the seamen. Dread impelled them to shout with the soldiers, but there was a real roar of enthusiasm when the nobles following Choaspes flung handfuls of silver and gold among them.

  “Glory to the Christ-loving monarch! May he live for ten thousand years!”

  “Hail, the Comnenus!”

  “Choaspes, our kind lord.”

  At the same time the crowd began to surge and try to follow the nobles. Sir Hugh grasped Arslan’s shoulder.

  “The gate is open,” he said quickly, “but ten thousand men are awake and armed. If Subotai has come he will have no more than a thousand. Go and find horses. Go swiftly to the highroad beyond the town and warn him. Take this for a token.”

  He ripped the falcon tablet from his throat and thrust it into the Mongol’s hand.

  “I am going to the palace.”

  Arslan and his ten melted into the hurrying throng, and the crusader strode to the postern gate and caught the attention of the sentry by whirling him around with steel-meshed fingers that bruised his flesh.

  “Is Theodore dead?”

  “Ay, by poison.” The man twisted, and grew subservient when he could not free himself. “May it please your Mightiness, the barbarian girl Rusudan gave the poison.”

  For an instant the gray eyes under the dull steel of the helmet were blank, and then the Greek beheld them blaze with sudden anger. He reached for his sword, and the crusader’s other hand crushed his wrist.

  “What have they done to her?”

  “She has been given to the torture.”

  Sir Hugh flung the Greek against the granite wall, and before any others could stay him he kicked open the postern and stepped through it, swinging it shut behind him.

  The guards on the other side paid little attention to an armed man running toward the narrow road that led to the palace. Choaspes’s following had passed under the gate, and the motley throng that pressed on the heels of the soldiers made way promptly for the crusader, who had drawn his long sword and had cast away the sheath.

  Out on the narrow ridge there were groups of servitors who hurried toward the shore anticipating loot, and such of them as bore torches turned to look after Sir Hugh. Unexpected things were happening in the Chersonese that night, and it was not wise to ask questions. Occasional torches guided him along the road where a false step meant a plunge down the bank into the water. He ran swiftly, drawing deep breaths and thrusting forward the weight of the heavy weapon.

  It was a quarter of a mile out to the first gate of the palace. Presently he forced himself to walk slowly until he could breathe evenly and the pulse ceased to hammer at his throat. Before him was the lighted portal of the wall, and he knew he would have need of all his strength if he would reach Rusudan.

  In the entrance courtyard no one looked at him because the guards and slaves were busy stripping gold armlets and bits of silver work from the bodies of the Goths and Bulgars who had resisted the new Emperor and now lay outstretched on the tiles, their braids of hair bloodsoaked.

  Sir Hugh paced through the corridors and turned into a long hall lined with statues on black marble pedestals. Here he halted, uncertain, until he sighted the fountain in the glow of oil lamps that burned in bronze tripods at either side the wide stair that led to the far wing of the palace. He went toward the fountain and found himself in the open central court facing two spearmen who were filling goblets from an opened keg, their bowed iron shields laid aside.

  “What man art thou?” one of them hailed him.

  He turned in his stride, and they caught up their spears, drawing back before the fury that twisted his lips and scarred his brow.

  “O fools,” he laughed, “to ask!”

  He slashed down with the sword, splintering the spear shafts, and, stepping forward, slew one with a cut over the breastplate.

  The other fled, and the crusader picked up one of the heavy shields, thrusting his arm into the leather loops.

  Eunuchs in green and blue robes and black slaves had gathered at the head of the stair when they heard the clash of weapons. When Sir Hugh leaped up the marble steps two javelins flew down at him, and these he caught on the shield. The creatures out of Asia shrilled at him, standing their ground until he cut right and left with the massive blade of Durandal.

  The slaves screamed and fled as if from death itself, but the long-limbed warrior in mail ran one down, seizing him by the throat.

  “Where is the captive, Rusudan?” he asked, and repeated the question in Arabic.

  The slave pointed, voiceless, down a corridor to an open door. Sir Hugh’s fingers tightened on his throat and then released him, and the slave fell to the floor.

  Over the threshold of Theodore’s chamber the crusader stepped silently. One glance showed him Rusudan lying on the silk carpet, the dark tangle of her hair spreading over her throat and breast. Beside her rested a brazier, and before this a pallid man in stained leather was sorting over little iron rods, thrusting them into the glowing coals to heat.

  Sprawled on the floor, or standing behind the torturer, eight Greeks watched with avid eyes, until one glanced toward the door and, beholding the man in mail with the five-foot blade bared in his hand, sprang up with a warning cry.

  “ ’Ware ye!”

  The crusader sprang in on them, and the mighty blade of Durandal flashed in a wide circle. The first Greek was dashed against the couch, his light, silvered mail rent, and his body hewn from throat to thigh. The torturer, looking up, was struck between the eyes and rolled and slid along the carpet as Sir Hugh wrenched his weapon from the crushed skull.

  This instant’s delay gave the seven a chance to cover themselves with their shields and rush in. But the crusader leaped aside and slashed, and leaped away again, as an Arab fights, striking and warding at once.

  No time for the point—the edge of Durandal bit through the gilded leather shields of the guards, through the light steel rings, and smote them to the floor. Their weapons clashed on him as he whirled, glancing from the ever moving shield or the lowered helm of tempered steel.

  Three of them lay lifeless, though Sir Hugh bled from shoulders and thighs. The other four gripped him close, one man clutching his knees and another his sword arm.

  He dashed his shield into the face of a Greek who advanced on him with lifted ax. He raised his right arm, drawing up the guard who clung to it until the man’s feet cleared the floor. Lifting high the point of Durandal, he brought the massive ball of the pommel down on the helmet of the Greek who held his knees.

  A blade struck his throat, rasping against the tight-drawn coif, and he staggered against the wall. The edge of his shield he thrust under the chin and the snarling lips of the warrior who had fastened on his sword arm, and the man gave back.

  “Satan is in him!” gasped one of the surviving three. />
  Until now there had been not a moment’s respite, but when the Greeks saw the bodies of their comrades motionless on the great carpet they howled and ran to the doors and clattered down the corridors.

  Hugh knelt at the side of Rusudan and placed his hand on her breast. He stroked with clumsy, quivering lingers the dark spots on her temples and drew back the disordered tresses from her throat, seeking for wounds. His lips moved soundlessly as he clasped her hand and found it warm and supple.

  Springing up, he lifted a clenched fist and shook it at the tiled dome that gleamed above him.

  “She lives! Dear Seigneur God, she lives yet!”

  And, beside himself with joy, he sent his deep-throated battle shout down the echoing halls.

  The lifeless eyes of Theodore Lascaris—he who had hunted the crusader out of Jerusalem into the barren land—were turned upon a scene of carnage and of untold happiness. Rusudan, reviving, stirred and looked up into the drawn face of the man she loved and felt his arm under her shoulders.

  Her eyelids quivered and opened wide. She lifted a weak hand and touched his cheek and dry, hot lips.

  “My Lord Hugh—”

  And beholding the brazier so near, and the body of the torturer, she caught at his hand. Because pain still racked her and the dread of the last hour had not loosed its grip upon her, she wept.

  “Dear God—that I should bring you to death!”

  But when men appeared in one of the doors, whispering and staring at them, and the crusader, arising, took his sword in hand, she laughed, seeing the Greeks draw back.

  “Gurgaslan” she cried softly. “My lion, they fear thee.”

  No others came, and presently the crusader found the doors and embrasures empty of faces. He went to the balcony and heard nothing moving. Then for a while he considered, frowning.

  “There is no good in waiting. Little Rusudan—” and he smiled at her—“there is hope in going forth. Be the end what it will—’twill come the sooner.”

  Rusudan raised her head and pressed her lips to his, and whispered against the mail coif.

  “Let us go forth—so it be together.”