Alhazred

by Donald Tyson

  I had untied Martala and unveiled her face shortly before boarding. There had been no reason to continue with the subterfuge that she was my prisoner once the ship left the dock at Fustat. What the ferryman had told Critias I did not know, but both he and Fatima seemed to regard Martala as my servant and lover. It might have been expected that the wife of the captain would show disdain for the girl, but instead she displayed affection in her quiet way, smiling at Martala and even speaking to her. Martala returned her warmth, and spent much of the meal on her feet helping with the serving.

  As we sat drinking wine after our meal, I asked the question that had concerned my mind since boarding. The language at the captain’s table was Greek.

  “How far do you plan to sail up river before putting in to a port?”

  “We sail to Thebes, and from there to the Cataract.”

  “How long will it take us to reach Thebes?”

  Critias shrugged to show that it was not a matter in his control, then looked at his mate.

  “What do you think, Hannis?”

  “If the winds favor us all the way, four days,” his long-faced mate said after a moment of silent calculation.

  Hannis was a curious contrast to his master. A full head and shoulder taller, his face and skull appeared to have been compressed on the sides and narrowed. He sat hunched over the table, his back rounded to bring his eyes down to the same level as ours. He had almost no eyebrows, merely small tufts of black hair directly above his dark eyes, and his beard was so thin as to be transparent. Around his head he wore a single rope of linen that might have been dyed red at some point in the distant past, but was now a sun-bleached pink.

  “The winds won’t hold, since they never do.” Critias turned to me. “Five days, if we are fortunate.”

  My heart fell. The dark man had said that the minutes of the poison had been extended to days, but how many minutes were there? I had no way of knowing the rapidity of its usual action, or how greatly Sashi had inhibited its working.

  “Must we stop at Thebes? I would be willing to compensate you, were you to sail past directly to the Cataract.”

  Critias and his mate stared at me. They both broke into laughter at the same moment.

  “Forgive me, Alhazred,” Critias said, patting my arm in a companionable way and grinning. “If we didn’t stop at Thebes, we couldn’t unload that part of our cargo destined for that port. Unless that cargo is removed, we will not have enough room on the decks to take on all the goods we intend to receive at the Cataract. We would have to throw the Thebes cargo into the river. It would be very costly.”

  “I can pay your costs.”

  His eyes widened slightly, and the smile slipped from his lips.

  “You must be a very wealthy man. Even so, no, it is impossible.”

  From his tone, I saw the futility of argument and let the matter lie. Perhaps I could hire a faster boat at Thebes. My eyes wandered past the man who worked the tiller to a white triangular sail on the river behind us. A smaller and more maneuverable craft was bound to be able to out speed a great ship laden with cargo. Had I possessed the forethought, I would have hired such a boat at Fustat, but it had been imperative to escape from the city before we were hunted by the Order of the Sphinx.

  Critias looked over his shoulder at the object of my attention. He continued to regard the small boat. Hannis turned on the bench and the two of them sat with their backs to us, watching the sail.

  “What do you think he’s playing at?” Hannis muttered.

  “What does it matter? There can’t be more than three or four men on such a small boat.”

  For another minute they watched the little craft as it tacked. Critias turned to drink from his tin cup, and seemed to remember that I was sitting at the table.

  “What is so interesting about that boat?” I asked mildly.

  “Whoever’s piloting it is a fool, or up to no good,” Hannis said before his master could speak. He scowled, and the little furry dots of his eyebrows descended close to his eyes.

  “He’s been behind us all morning,” Critias explained.

  “He’s faster than this ship, isn’t he?” Martala said, watching the sail over his shoulder.

  “Much faster. He should have overtaken us long ago.”

  “Is he following your ship?” I asked, trying to keep my voice casual.

  “Who knows? I don’t see why he would, since it can gain him nothing.”

  For an hour after we left the table, I sat on the rail near the stern and watched the little boat. Martala busied herself helping the captain’s wife with her cleaning, and seemed to have forgotten the craft, but now and then her eyes darted back and searched the river until she found it. She stared at it for a few moments before going on with her work. As the sun crawled across the heavens into the west, and the boat continued to pace the ship with unvarying monotony, I lost interest and amused myself by examining the cargo.

  Much of it was cloth brightly colored and coiled in huge bolts around woven reed spindles. There were many large amphorae of wines and oils, mirrors, strings of beads, wool rugs, iron axes and spades. Most of the cargo consisted of manufactured things that were utilitarian rather than of fine workmanship. This was not to be wondered at, since we were bound for barbarian lands where even the simple furnishings and tools of a city such as Alexandria would be regarded as precious possessions. The deck was crowded, but enough space had been left between the bound piles to permit progress through the maze they created. Bales of dried spices scented the air and almost overpowered the stench from below.

  I paused beside the open forward hatch, listening to the rhythmic creak of the oars in their locks. None of the seamen paid any attention to me. It was too dark to see into the opening. Some wayward impulse made me climb down the steep stair into the hold. The moist heat and choking stench enveloped me like a damp blanket that has been warmed beside the fire. I stopped at the base of the stair and blinked as my eyes adjusted to the gloom.

  The galley slaves were ranked two abreast on either side of the ship. They sat on benches naked or wearing soiled clouts around their hips, chained at the ankles. Sweat gleamed on their backs and dripped from their beards. A man who was a slave, to judge by his lack of clothing, moved along one bank of oars with a bucket and a dipper and gave each rower a drink in turn. They drank without pausing in their work or removing their hands from the oars, which swung back and forth with the regularity of a pendulum. A slave master, unsatisfied with the pace, called out for attention and used the butt of his short lance to beat time on the walkway that ran between the benches. The oars swung marginally faster in their locks.

  The slaves who sat forward of the hatch, and who faced the stern of the ship, saw me descend the stair and continued to watch me with curiosity rather than hostility in their expressions. They did not seem in ill health. Here and there a wet cough rose above the sounds of the oars. Most of the backs were unmarked by the whip, and their bones were covered with muscle and fat. There was no conversation between the rowers. Either they were forbidden from speaking, or they had said all they wished to say, and heard all they wished to hear, from their bench mates long ago.

  One of the overseers noticed me and approached with mingled hostility and impatience.

  “This is no place for an honest man,” he barked in Coptic. “Best get up on deck where you belong.”

  “I am Mohammedan,” I told him mildly. “I walk where I please.”

  Even in the dimness of the hold, I saw the color leave his cheeks. He stepped backward and bowed awkwardly.

  “Forgive me, lord, I did not see your face. You may remain as long as you wish. How may I help you?”

  “I have seen enough.”

  Resisting the urge to smile, I turned away and ascended the ladder. Being a member of the ruling race in a captive nation
had its advantages, and I saw no reason to deny myself their benefits.

  The sun painted the sky with red and orange and reflected from the sliding water of the river as it settled below the western hills. I went to the sleeping place I had been given and found that Martala had already unrolled the rug between the high piles of textiles. The space was as close to private as any place on a ship could ever be. We stood unspeaking at the far end against the rail and watched the sunset fade into night, and the stars begin to emerge.

  “How are you feeling?” the girl asked after full dark had fallen.

  “Normal.”

  This was not entirely true. My heart was beating faster than was natural, and my body felt warm. There was no pain, but I sensed its presence. In some way Sashi shielded me from it. I wondered how long she would be able to continue doing so with success. My neck where the tainted little saber had entered was swollen and tender to the touch. Reflexively, I raised my hand to my throat.

  “Let me see,” Martala said, a mothering tone in her voice.

  She pushed my hand aside and drew apart the collar of my coat. She frowned and said nothing.

  “What?”

  “It looks like the sting of a wasp. It’s white around the wound, then red in a ring.”

  I shrugged and turned to the rail. Leaning as far out as I could, I tried to catch sight of the little white triangle. Either the boat had ceased to follow us, or it was hidden behind the mass of the ship. The lingering glow in the western sky and the starshine gave sufficient light to see the river. It was by this pale illumination that Critias or his first mate would navigate until the round face of the rising moon provided a more reliable guide. Somewhere on the distant, reed-hemmed bank, a beast grunted, and water splashed.

  My sleep was peaceful, untroubled by dreams, until the sweet countenance of Sashi came gliding towards me through the darkness, wearing an expression of concern.

  There is danger, Alhazred. You must wake.

  I started and caught my breath, then slowly opened my eyes and breathed deeply. The moon cast her silver beams over the wall of cloth bolts before me. I heard Martala sigh in her sleep at my left side. Apart from the ever-present creak of ropes in wooden blocks and the splash of water on the bow, the ship was silent.

  Closing my eyes, I waited until Sashi approached where I could see her.

  What is the danger? I asked in my thoughts.

  I know not, my love. I sense some threat approaching. It is very strong.

  After the alert the djinn had given in my hotel room at Memphis, I knew better than to disregard her concern. I drew up my legs and pushed myself slowly to my feet, trying to move soundlessly. The girl remained asleep. Not bothering to put on my coat or boots, I went in my surwal and shirt to the rail and scanned the side of the ship in both directions, then walked around the stacks of cloth that bordered our sleeping place. One of the crew passed down the central walkway without seeing me in the shadow, intent on some task of his own. I peered around the edge of the cloth bales and saw the tall form of Hannis at the tiller of the ship. He had his eyes fixed on the near bank of the river and did not notice me.

  A strange sound cut the night air, a hiss like that of an angry serpent. This was immediately followed by a soft impact, and at once the ship was lit by a flickering redness, as though the hood had been removed from a giant oil lamp. I looked up, and saw the square linen sail on fire, the thin black length of an arrow dangling from it by its fletching. Even as I watched, another flaming arrow joined it, and a third. The fire enlarged and began to gutter and roar. Hannis gave a deep cry of alarm, which was taken up by other members of the night watch. Above the mounting din came the hiss of more arrows. One stuck in a stack of cloth bolts and began to blaze furiously.

  “Alhazred? Where are you?” Martala called.

  “I’m here. The ship is under attack.”

  Crossing to the burning cloth bolts on the opposite side of the ship, I grasped the arrow and tried to pull it loose. Its barbed head resisted, but finally came free of the burning linen. The arrow blazed with a fury that was unnatural, and I held it well away from my face so that none of the sparks showering off its fiery end would fall upon my skin. Martala came to my shoulder to look at it. I cast the arrow over the side and watched it float on the water of the Nile, still burning. A seaman shoved me aside and threw a bucket of water over the burning cloth, but it continued to blaze with a strange persistence, as though something sustained the fire with secret vitality.

  I forced my way to the stern, Martala following close at my back, jostled by frantic crew members who sought to lower the sail and douse the flames that had sprung up in a dozen places on the deck. The air rang with cries of confusion and terror. Critias stood naked with his legs braced, his sword in his right hand, glaring back at the river. For the moment, no one held the tiller. In the moonlight the small boat was easy to see. It had drawn nearer than before. Two tiny flames shone like stars along its side. One after the other, they flew through the air, and thudded into the cargo on the ship behind us.

  Critias began to curse the boat in Greek. He waved his sword impotently in the air. No answering cry came from the boat, which seemed ghostly in the moonlight. Slowly, it tacked and moved away. The captain’s wife emerged from under the roof of their cabin with a blanket clutched around her fat body and put her hand on her husband’s shoulder.

  I grabbed his arm, and he whirled at me with murder in his eyes. Suddenly I knew full well why his crew paid him such respect.

  “The tiller,” I said calmly.

  Reason returned to his gaze. He stared at the lolling shaft of the tiller and threw down his sword, then ran and grasped it in both hands.

  “Help me,” he snapped in a voice of command.

  I lent the strength of my back to the task of swinging the tiller over. Above the cries of the crew and the dull roar of the flames, some sound was missing, a sound I had grown so accustomed to that it had become a part of nature. Critias realized its absence at the same moment.

  “Hannis,” he bellowed, his voice carrying above the confusion. “Get those slaves back to their oars. We’re drifting.”

  The slave masters had come up to the deck to help fight the fire, and the slaves, in their terror at being burned alive, had ceased to row. I saw the slave master who had spoken so uncivilly to me running with a bucket of water. He slipped and fell, and the water spilled across the deck and washed over the side.

  Hannis, lost somewhere amid the burning bales on the deck, added his deep roar to that of his captain. In a short time the rhythmic splash of the oars resumed, but it was too late.

  The deck of the ship shuddered under my bare feet. Somewhere deep in the hold, wood groaned against wood. There was a slight lurch, and all motion stopped. So accustomed had I grown to the slight roll of the deck that its stillness was difficult to walk across.

  Hannis appeared, his long face streaked with soot. An ugly red burn marred the underside of his left forearm, but he did not seem to notice it. His expression was grim.

  “We’ve run aground,” he said.

  Chapter 26

  In the chill light of dawn, the damage was less than had appeared the previous night. A dozen of the bound stacks of cargo were singed, but were tied so tightly that flames had been unable to penetrate to their hearts to consume them. We lay about thirty paces off the reedy western bank of the river in a small cove where grew a profusion of white lilies. Pink waterfowl on long legs watched us with concern from the edges of the reeds, and I realized this must be their feeding place. If not for the clouds of biting insects that came and went as the breeze quickened or died, it would have been quite pleasant.

  Under the shouted directions of Hannis, the crew removed the blackened sail from the mast in two pieces. The fire from the first arrow had burned up its center, rendering it useless. They hoi
sted in its place the spare sail, patched and discolored by age, but still functional. It filled in the morning breeze. The ship trembled but refused to stir from its bed of mud.

  All morning the crew and the galley slaves labored to free the ship. Had the breeze been stronger, the force of the wind alone might have been enough to move her, but it came and went fitfully, as though determined to mock their efforts. The bow of the ship pointed southeast, almost directly across the river at this point in its course, which bent somewhat to the west.

  As the sun neared the zenith, Critias finally became aware of his naked condition and took a minute to dress himself, the last person on the ship to do so. His face bore a haggard look. His wife tried to feed him, but he waved the proffered bowl of dates and nuts aside without even seeing it. Finally, when it was well after midday, he acknowledged to himself that nothing would be gained by frenzied effort, and allowed the crew and the slaves to rest and eat.

  “We’re not stuck hard,” he said to Hannis. “If we had a real wind we could rock her loose.”

  “Or more oars,” Hannis agreed. “A few more rowers would do it.”

  “We’ll have to unload the cargo to lighten the ship. With only a single boat to do the work, we’ll be here for days.”

  We sat at the table, eating fresh bread and strips of goat meat fried in oil. The meat had the consistency of uncured leather, so that my jaw became tired as I chewed it.

  “If I had two more boats,” Critias said.

  He had no need to finish the thought. Hannis nodded. All morning the single rowboat that was usually kept inverted on the deck of the Elephant’s Foot had toiled in the water, attached to the bow with a stout hemp rope, its crew of six rowing for all their strength to add their pull to that of the galley slaves.

  Martala turned her head to spit out a piece of gristle. She waved her table knife at Critias.