“Wulf can explain to them,” said Bhakrann. “Or maybe I will. They might not listen to a stranger with foreign mud on his boots.”
“Not you, Bhakrann,” said Djalout. “Only the Cahena can explain and be heard. You agree, Wulf?”
“Yes,” said Wulf at once. “There’s nobody else this whole alliance will obey. Nobody else can get them out there in the face of death.” He felt her eyes on him. “If she says to fight on foot, they’ll do it. If she says to fight bare-handed, they’ll do that.”
“You have faith in me, Wulf,” said the Cahena, putting a grape between her red lips.
“I’ve watched you with your men, and your men with you,” he said. “They live or die by your word.”
“Javelin throwers on foot,” harked back Bhakrann, “and horsemen to countercharge. Is that your whole battle plan?”
“I’ve also thought of bows and arrows,” said Wulf.
“We aren’t a nation of archers,” the Cahena objected.
“Bhakrann says that children play with bows,” said Wulf. “Maybe we can train archers.”
“I’ll call the chiefs to hear,” said the Cahena again. “Well, that’s enough military planning for tonight.”
They all rose. “Wulf,” said Djalout, “I’d be glad for more conversation with you.”
“Of course.”
“When you’re finished with Djalout, return here,” said the Cahena. “I’m going to make you one of us.”
“I’d hoped I’d proved myself one of you,” Wulf said.
She smiled at him faintly, meaningfully. “I’ll make you my son,” she half whispered.
“You call all of us your sons,” Bhakrann said.
“Wulf is different,” said the Cahena, as though settling the matter. “He came as though I’d called him. He must be adopted by me.” Her gaze kept on Wulf. “Come back when you finish your visit with Djalout.”
Bhakrann scowled. Djalout stroked his lean beard.
“Whatever you ask,” agreed Wulf.
From somewhere she had picked up a copper-bound hourglass — of Roman make, Wulf guessed — and set it on the table. The sand began to trickle from the upper bulge into the lower.
“Come back when it’s run its course,” she said.
Djalout sought the doorway. Bhakrann followed him, and Wulf followed Bhakrann. He felt the Cahena’s gaze on his back, almost like the touch of a hand.
The sentry bowed them out. A foggy rain fell in the night. In the street stood a man in a hooded robe, bearing on his shoulder a great crude key. It was made of a slab of wood as long as his arm, with three metal pegs to the edge at one end. He bowed to Djalout and walked away as though to escort them.
“That’s Gata,” said Djalout to Wulf. “My servant.”
Gata walked past several dwellings to another door set in the bluff. A span-wide hole showed beside the wooden portal. Gata thrust in his key and turned it. The lock groaned as it yielded. Gata opened the door, and Djalout beckoned Wulf in.
They came into a cubical chamber, lighted by two copper lamps in brackets. The walls were hewn rock, and on the floor lay coarse mats. Along one wall extended a low shelf of bricks, piled with rugs. Djalout nodded to Gata, who went out again. Djalout waved Wulf to a seat on the shelf and himself took the chair. From the stand he lifted an elaborately worked silver flagon and poured from it into two clay cups.
“This is better than what the Cahena served us,” he said, handing a cup to Wulf. “Not all my tastes are as simple as hers.”
Wulf drank. The wine was excellent.
“Bhakrann and I are two of her various upholding strengths,” went on Djalout’s thin voice. “Now she finds more strengths in you.”
“You mean warrior and thinker,” said Wulf.
“Bhakrann drinks the blood of whole tribes and smacks his lips. And yes, I think, I plan, rationalize dreams into realities.” The curved nose stabbed into the cup. “Maybe you’re as much warrior as Bhakrann, as fierce with the sword. And more, a strategist.”
“Thank you,” said Wulf.
“But maybe not the thinker I am.”
“Probably not,” conceded Wulf.
“I’ve been at the business of thinking for more than twice as long as you,” said Djalout. “I’ve been successful at it. But I’m no fighter; I only think about fighting.”
“So do I think about fighting,” said Wulf. “I’ve had to.”
Djalout’s narrowed eyes raked him. “You agreed that the Moslems wouldn’t hurry here. The rainy season will slow them up.”
“And something else,” said Wulf. “The Imazighen have defeated them — first Okba, then Zoheir, and the other day we whipped a strong advance party. Each time they were too headlong in unknown, hostile country. They won’t keep making that mistake. Likely they’ll consolidate their present holdings, refortify Carthage, organize carefully for any new advance.”
“They’re rich with the plunder of Syria and Persia and Egypt,” said Djalout. “They’ll use those things.”
“Not at once,” argued Wulf. “Not even Caesar outran himself. Alexander did, but war was simpler then. Festina lente — make haste slowly, says the Roman proverb borrowed from the Greeks.”
“Caesar,” repeated Djalout. “Alexander. Greek and Roman proverbs. You’ve been to school.”
“When I was young, and I’ve always studied when I had time,” said Wulf. “Mostly military matters and languages. I can read and speak in Latin, Greek, Hebrew, Arabic, and others.”
“And your Imazighen is good,” said Djalout. “You seem to catch languages as others catch diseases. You may want to look at some of my books. Maybe you’ve learned things that men like me — and we’re few, Wulf — have always more or less known and used.”
The fragile fingers of Djalout’s left hand turned the ruby ring upon the right.
“You’ve known great men,” said Wulf.
“Mohammed, for one. I sat on his knee seventy years ago, when I was a boy. He liked children, and he respected my father.”
“Your father was a Moslem.”
“A Jew of Medina, named Yakoub,” said Djalout. “He left wisdom to me as a legacy. When he saw that Mohammed would conquer, he professed Islam. Allah’s name was always on his lips, always lyingly.”
Djalout refilled their cups.
“When I was old enough to keep my mouth shut — and I was old enough very young — my father taught me to be a hypocrite. He said, ‘When a Moslem asks your faith, say you’re a true believer and hold out one finger of your right hand. But lay it on your left palm.’”
The ruby-ringed right forefinger lay upon the open left hand.
“Can you read that?” asked Djalout. “One finger means one God, of course, but here’s one finger with five more, six in all. The points of the Star of David.”
“Yes,” said Wulf.
“My name wasn’t always Djalout, and I was born a Moslem by my father’s profession of faith. But he taught me Judaism, and I’ve been of that faith and others. When Mohammed died and his companions quarreled, my father found the situation embarrassing. He took me to Egypt, and I went to school and began to know how wise you may become if you live long enough. I profess Christianity.” Djalout smiled over the word. “Like yourself.”
“There are many Christianities,” observed Wulf.
“They fight among themselves, to no great purpose,” said Djalout. “If they hadn’t confused Mohammed, he might have become a Christian himself. But they don’t confuse me.” A smile in the beard. “They only amuse me.”
“Are you married, Djalout?”
“I’ve had wives, but they died. I do well alone.”
“You went to Egypt. The Moslems came conquering there.”
“I got away to Carthage, lived there for years. Then I came here, for I’d heard of a young prophetess and queen who ruled a jumble of tribes and would go far.”
“The Cahena.”
“Yes.” A slow sip of wine. “She saw my tal
ents and usefulness, as now she sees yours. I’ve helped her, and she’s appreciative. She might have succeeded from rule to rule without me, would have added tribe after tribe to her alliance; but maybe not so quickly.”
“You said you weren’t always named Djalout,” Wulf reminded.
“Oh, that. When I left Carthage, I came first among the Djerdilan. They say they’re descended from Philistines. Their hero was Djalout, the giant of Gath.”
“Goliath.”
“That’s the one. Should I have told them that my true name was Daoud, like the shepherd boy who knocked their hero down with a stone?” The old eyes crinkled. “I called myself Djalout, and I didn’t bother to change back when I settled here among the Djerwa, though they have Jewish associations.”
“You were born a Moslem, Djalout.”
“Yes.”
“And you were secretly reared a Jew.”
“Yes.”
“Later on you were a Christian.”
“Yes.”
“In which of those faiths do you believe?”
“In none.” The thin shoulders shrugged under the robe. “My mind demands proofs. Faith can’t exist if it calls for proof.”
“Then you don’t believe in anything,” said Wulf.
Djalout lifted his cup. “I believe in what I’ve found out, here and there in the world. And I believe in the Cahena. She’s definite enough.”
“What if somebody told her all about your adventures and attitudes?” Wulf smiled as he challenged.
Djalout smiled back, faintly. It was like the smile of a ghost.
“I told it to her myself, years ago,” he replied. “She understood perfectly. She’s tremendously understanding.”
“Yes,” agreed Wulf. “Yes, she is.”
“Meanwhile, she expects you to come back to her. The sand in her glass must be fairly well run. Go to her now, and you and I can talk again some other time.”
* * *
IX
Outside in the misty rain, Bhakrann fell into step with Wulf. He said nothing until they came back to the Cahena’s door. Then Bhakrann caught Wulf’s arm. His fingers bit like teeth.
“When you go in there,” he said tightly, “when you go in, be sure you deserve to go in.”
Wulf wrenched his arm free. “You don’t need to talk like that to me.”
They stared into each other’s eyes. Raindrops ran on their faces.
“Be sure you deserve it,” said Bhakrann again. “I don’t remember anything like this. We’ve taken strangers into the Djerwa, but never one like this, alone with her.”
Wulf looked at the red door.
“I’ll try to imagine what happens,” said Bhakrann. “Wulf! From this moment on, if you show that you don’t prize —”
“Get away from me, before you and I fight,” Wulf broke in.
Bhakrann swung on his heel and tramped off through the dark veil of the rain. His cloak snapped like a wet flag.
Wulf moved closer to the door, guiding himself with a hand on the rock. He felt the planks with his fingers and pushed the door open. He saw no guardsman, only a servingwoman who gestured him through the entry and to the curtain he remembered. He pushed it aside and stepped into the room where they had eaten.
It was dim; the lamps had been trimmed low. On the far side hung another curtain, one he had not seen before. Light soaked through, though not much. He went to it and stood.
“I’m here,” he said.
“Come in,” said the voice of the Cahena from beyond, and he pushed the curtain aside and entered another chamber.
A stone lamp stood on a narrow ledge just inside. The soft yellow leaf of flame sent up a thread of vapor to the hewn rock of the ceiling. On the chamber’s far side, fully thirty feet from the curtained doorway, showed another light, red this time — coals in a brazier on a stand. Next to it he saw a blurred silhouette, head and draped body, sitting among heaped cushions.
“Take off those boots and put down your sword,” the hushed voice said. “Your cloak, too. Leave them there by the door.”
He dropped his wet cloak beneath the lamp and lifted one foot, then the other, to drag off his boots. Unbuckling his belt, he bent to set the boots and the sword on the cloak.
“Now come here,” she bade him. “No, don’t fall down and creep.”
“I wasn’t going to,” he said.
“Walk here and sit down.”
He paced toward her, trying not to seem too fast or too slow. His bare feet felt thick, coarse carpet. He came and stood above where she sat on heaped cushions that looked like dark silk in the dimness. Of dark silk, too, was the robe into which she had changed, the robe that clung to her body. Her black hair fell like a cloud upon her shoulders, to each side of the sculptured beauty of her face. How delicately straight her nose was, how softly pointed her chin. Under the sketched lines of her brows, her eyes gave back the glow of the brazier. Her mouth was ripe as fruit, and like carven pride flared her nostrils.
“Sit down,” she said again, and Wulf sat on a cushion and crossed his big legs.
The Cahena held a tray, and from it measured a palmful of something. This she trickled into the brazier. A sort of steam rose from it, spicy to the smell. She lifted her head to look at him.
“Your name’s Wulf,” she said. “Djalout told me that that’s the name of a brave beast in your language. Were you ever married?”
“No, Cahena,” he said. “Ever since I was a boy, I’ve been going to wars. Warriors shouldn’t take wives to wars with them.”
“Don’t you like women?”
He let himself smile in the red light. “Yes, I like women.”
“You’ve had them?”
“Yes, from time to time, but I never married one.”
“I was married once, Wulf.”
“You were married once,” he repeated her.
“Long ago, and I rarely talk about it, but I’ll tell you. How old are you?”
“Thirty years old,” he said.
“I’m forty. It happened when I wasn’t yet twenty. His name was Madghis.”
She said the name as though it was a bad taste in her mouth.
“He was a strong subchief of the Djerwa when my father Tabeta was head chief. My father died, and had no son, only a daughter — me. Madghis became head chief and said he wanted me. That he’d have me and rule over the Djerwa after my father. The other chiefs said it was all right. So he had me.”
She paused as though to let Wulf speak, but he only waited for her to continue. She continued:
“It was night in his house, off among the hills west of here. It was like this house, dug into the rock.” A gesture, perhaps to show the direction. “He had men on guard in front of the door in the dark.”
“In front of the door,” said Wulf, thinking of Bhakrann.
“Madghis had me then. It hurt, and he laughed and said that all his life he’d had whatever he wanted. The men outside heard him, and they laughed, too.”
Again she paused and put a handful of whatever it was on the brazier. A thicker vapor cloud rose, and Wulf felt a ringing in his ears. He wondered if a drug were in that preparation.
“I can hear them laughing now,” said the Cahena. “Right now at this moment, I hear them laughing. Do you hear them?”
“No, Cahena,” said Wulf. “But if they laughed then, I don’t think that anybody has ever laughed at you since.”
“No,” she said, “nobody ever has. Well, at last Madghis got tired of what he did to me and went to sleep and snored. I took his big knife and cut his throat to the neckbone and cut the neckbone, too, and took off his head.”
She told it calmly, as though it had happened with strangers. Wulf thought of Judith and Holofernes, and wondered if Holofernes had had Judith before she killed him.
“Next morning,” the Cahena went on, “I walked out and called the subchiefs together and showed them Madghis’s head. They talked, they were excited, but they were afraid, too. Some of them seemed g
lad that Madghis was dead. I’d counted on that. Then I said that I was Madghis’s widowed queen, that I’d rule the Djerwa, and told them to gather up the men who’d laughed outside in the night. They did, and I said to kill those men with javelins. Later on, when it turned out that I was pregnant, would have Madghis’s child, the last objections quieted down. Mallul was born, my son by Madghis. After that, other tribes joined the Djerwa, and I ruled them, too.”
“How did the other tribes join you?” asked Wulf.
“Two of them fought us, first one and then the other, because they’d heard that only a woman ruled the Djerwa. I beat those tribes and made them join us. After that, more joined, without my having to fight them. They all say I’m the Cahena.”
“You’re the Cahena and there’s nobody like you,” said Wulf. “Koseila wasn’t like you.”
“Koseila captured Cairouan because I told him how to do it. But when the Moslems sent Zoheir, Koseila retreated from Cairouan — he didn’t understand fighting within fortified walls — and Zoheir caught him in the open and killed him.”
“Then you ruled after him,” said Wulf.
“No, Koseila never ruled the Djerwa and my other tribes. We were allies, that’s all.”
“Did he perhaps want to marry you?”
“Maybe, but he knew what had happened to Madghis. Whenever he and I talked, he usually let me do most of the talking.”
Wulf looked at her intent face, at the lines of her body under the silk. “There’s nobody like you,” he said again.
“I’m what God made me and what I’ve made myself. If I weren’t the Cahena, I’d be just a woman.”
“The most beautiful of women,” said Wulf, and her eyes shone again.
“The most wretched of women,” she amended. “Sought out for my beauty, but never honored. Snatched from hand to hand like a fruit among apes. Violently boarded like a ship overhauled by pirates, boarded again and again, a hundred times by a hundred takers, until I broke to pieces under them.”
That, too, she said quietly, as though it might never have concerned her.
“It didn’t happen, Cahena,” said Wulf.
Manly Wade Wellman - Novel 1986 Page 9