by Harold Lamb
This done, the hawk-faced Sheik of Rum, through whose territory mid-way in Asia Minor the sultan’s caravan had been journeying from Constantinople to Aleppo—the lord of Rum approached his master respectfully.
“O Light of the Faith,” the old man observed gravely, “it is the hour of the namaz gar, the evening prayer.”
“True.” Bayezid started and his glance went once more to the white man who stared at him. “I will dismount. Bid yonder Frank kneel by my horse that I may step upon his back.”
All around Bayezid the grandees were kneeling in their heavy robes upon clean prayer carpets, washing their hands and faces in fresh water brought by slaves from the springs that marked the site of the camp. The sheik bowed and gave a curt command to the master of the slaves, El-Arjuk, a stalwart, white-capped Janissary, whip in hand.
“The body of the Frank will be honored by the foot of the Great, the Merciful.”
At this the captive stepped forward before the Janissary could touch him. Bayezid reflected that the white man understood Turki, which was the case.
And then to the surprise of the onlookers, the captive folded his arms and shook his head.
“Kneel,” hissed the sheik. “Dog of a caphar—unbeliever—”
“I hear,” said the captive. “I will not obey.”
The Janissary reached for his whip and the old Moslem for his scimitar. The sultan checked them, springing easily from his peaked saddle to the cloth of silver carpet. From his six feet of muscular height he looked down at the white man. His beaked nose seemed to curl into his bearded mouth and his black eyes snapped.
Then the sultan knelt, facing toward the southern sky-line beyond which was Mecca, and repeated the Allah akbar in his clear, deep voice. When the last of his followers had completed the evening worship Bayezid arose, his smile cold as the glitter of steel, his nervous fingers playing with the jeweled sword-hilt at his girdle. He noted the wide brown eyes of the captive who still stood quietly at his side, and with the interest of a born leader of men he scrutinized the square high shoulders, the long chin and the wide, delicate mouth upturned in a half-smile.
The man’s face was burned by the sun to the hue of leather; his ragged tunic fell away from a heavily thewed pair of arms. His body had the lines of youth, but his eyes and mouth were hard with fatigue.
“You know my speech,” observed the deep voice of the Thunderbolt. “And your eyes tell me that you are not mad. What is your name and rank?”
“Michael Bearn,” responded the Christian.
“Mishael Bi-orn. Your rank?”
“None, my lord.” The man’s smile broadened slowly.
“In what army did you serve?”
“None, my lord.”
The patrician sheik, whose fathers had been warriors, spat upon the ground and assured his master the sultan that this dog and the other Franks had been taken when a Christian galley was shipwrecked on the Anatolian shore a year ago. The Turks who took them had said that this dog was khan of the galley, that he was a caphar magician who steered his craft by a bedeviled needle that pointed always to the north.
“What is your country?” demanded Bayezid.
“I have no country. The sea is my home.”
Michael Bearn had been born on the cliffs of Brittany. His mother, an Irish gentlewoman, had landed from his father’s ship for the birth of the boy. When his father, a taciturn Breton, had died, Michael had left his mother in a tower on the Brittany coast and had taken to the sea.
There had been talk of a crusade against the Turk who was master of the Holy Land. Michael’s mother had pleaded with the boy to wait and join one of the bands of warrior-pilgrims to Rome. But Michael had no yearning for the cassocked priests. The sea called him and his father’s blood urged him to strange coasts.
It was the way of women, he had told the Irish mother, in his young intolerance of belief, to seek comfort of priests and to covet the insignia of the cross. His mother had hid her tears and Michael did not know how he had hurt her.
Following the bent of that time, a few years had brought him to the Levant and the glamour of trade with the Orient. He had been master mariner of the galley wrecked on the Anatolian coast while it was being pursued by Turkish pirates.
“And so,” mused Bayezid, “a slave without rank, without race and an unbeliever dares to disobey a command of mine? So be it. You have strength in your arms and pride. It pleases me to put both to the test.”
It was part of the secret of the Thunderbolt’s achievement that he enforced cruel discipline among his followers. Michael Bearn’s eye lighted and he lifted his head.
“Set a scimitar in my hand,” he said quickly. “My lord, choose one of your skilled swordsmen and let him wear his mail. With a scimitar—his weapon, not mine—I will stand against him in my shirt.”
The stubborn pride of the Breton that had not let him prostrate himself under the foot of a Turk flared at the chance to strike a blow with a weapon. He had endured captivity doggedly, seeking for a chance to escape to the hills to the east where were tribesmen who did not owe allegiance to the sultan.
But he had not been willing to demean himself, to gain time for a further chance at liberty with his five comrades. Like all seamen of the age, he was experienced in the use of sword and mace.
A swift death was better than months of running beside the horse or litter of a Turkish master.
“Shall a dog be given a sword?” growled the aged sheik, quenching Michael’s new hope. This time Bayezid glanced at his follower approvingly.
“Bring this man,” he ordered, “with the five caphars, his comrades, before my tent. Bring a sword, and”—he nodded thoughtfully—“the iron sleeve.”
At mention of this instrument of torture which broke the bones of a man’s arm as easily as glass, the slaves who understood Bayezid’s words shivered and stared at Michael. They followed, however, after the white cap of the swaggering Janissary, to see the torment inflicted.
The dark face of the Thunderbolt softened in pleasant expectancy as he knelt on a priceless carpet under the open portico of his tent and scanned the six Christians. He was accustomed to play with his victims. Disdaining further to address the captives openly he whispered to the Sheik of Rum, who stood in the half-circle of courtiers behind the sultan.
“Know, O ill-omened ones,” translated the old Moslem in bastard Greek, “that your leader has offended against the Majesty, the Splendor. Torture will be the lot of your khan unless—”
With an eye to dramatic effect he paused, nodding to the master of the slaves who advanced from the group of watching Janissaries, a spear’s cast away. The warrior carried a misshapen thing of iron resting on a wooden table. The rusty metal was formed in the semblance of a lion with an enormous mouth, lying prone on the table. Twin bars projected on either side from the ribs of the beast.
“—unless,” resumed the sheik, “one of you five caphars will offer to fight in defense of the body of your friend.”
Michael Bearn looked up quickly, intending to warn his mates not to accept the proffer of the Moslems. But they did not meet his eye. They were Portuguese and Italians, wasted by sickness and misery.
“It is not fitting, verily,” the spokesman went on, interpreting the low words of Bayezid, “that a good weapon should be given to the hand of one who is accursed. Yet a lion may slay a dog, and the sight of an infidel’s blood is a blessing to a true believer. So, one of you may take up the quarrel of your comrade and fight with swords against one of the champions of the Janissaries. Whether your champion conquers or not, the man named Bearn will be spared the torture.”
Whereupon the sheik drew his own scimitar and held out its hilt.
Michael Bearn would have taken it, but the wily Moslem shook his head.
“Not you,” he explained in Arabic. “The Most Wise will presently make a test of your strength. Now he tries out the Christian hearts of your comrades.”
As none of the others volunteered for
the duel, the sultan made a further concession. The man who offered to fight would be set free—if he lived—with Bearn.
But the five men would not hazard their lives on a chance of liberty. They cast sidelong glances at the glittering scimitar and at a stalwart warrior who stood forth from the guards, his shield dressed ready for the conflict.
It gave keen pleasure to Bayezid to see these men refuse the issue. He smiled to think that they clung to the ignoble life of slavery. His own men were trained to value their lives lightly in battle and to die for their faith.
It pleased Bayezid, also, to deny Bearn the chance of the fight, for he knew that the young seaman would have welcomed it.
“So be it,” he nodded. “The torture.”
The expectant master of the slaves summoned the waiting warrior and set the table before Michael Bearn.
“Hold forth your arm,” he commanded.
Michael paled and set his lips as he extended his left hand.
“The right one,” objected Bayezid, following all that passed with the eye of a connoisseur.
A moment later Michael’s right arm had been thrust up to the elbow into the iron gullet of the lion and strapped into place.
The Breton stiffened as he felt the cold touch of the vise, concealed within the form of the lion, grip his bare forearm. Bayezid nodded, leaning back on his pillows, under the sweep of a peacock fan in the hands of a slave.
The two Janissaries threw their weight on the projecting levers and there came to the ears of the spectators a dull crack as if an arrow had been snapped in half.
But Michael did not cry out. Sweat started on his face and blood dripped from his lip where his teeth had set upon it. This did not suit Bayezid, who had expected screams and a prayer for mercy.
“Again,” he snarled.
The two torturers altered the position of Michael’s broken arm slightly and clamped the levers into place a second time.
This time Michael groaned softly and swayed on his feet, sinking to his knees.
“Now the caphar’s pride is broken because his strength has passed from him,” thought Bayezid, watching keenly. To the attentive sheik he whispered:
“The broken ends of the bone of the arm have been ground together and he will whine for mercy—like the other dogs who have no stomach for pain.”
The Janissaries released Michael’s arm from the instrument of torture at a glance, from the sultan. On the back of the forearm the skin had been broken by a bloodied fragment of bone.
Supporting himself by his left hand on the table, Michael rose slowly to his feet, wincing and setting his lips as he did so.
His eyes were dark with agony as they sought Bayezid’s face.
The youthful pride and humor had vanished from Michael’s countenance, leaving a grim mask of purpose. The abundant vitality of his powerful body had been sapped by the ordeal. But there was a new vigor in his poise, the strength of an unalterable determination.
So the captive faced his tormentor.
“I shall not forget this, my lord sultan.” He indicated his maimed limb. “I shall be avenged—” His voice choked.
The Sheik of Rum who had been studying the eyes of the injured man now drew his weapon again and salaamed before Bayezid.
“O Most Wise, it would be best to slay this one. An injured snake is quick to strike.”
The Thunderbolt shook his head coldly. He had not yet tasted the delight of the torture to the fullest.
“Nay. I would watch the caphar run beside my litter on the morrow, and see how he bears his pain.”
The Sheik of Rum was very wise.
It was a week later that the six captives made their attempt to escape from the caravan of the Osmanli. During the week they had been ascending to the cooler plateau of Lake Van, where the summits of the Caucasus were visible far to the north.
Yet it was to the east that the six had decided to flee. They had seen that the outriders of the Turks who pillaged supplies in the villages of lesser Armenia had kept a vigilant outlook in that direction.
To the east lay a pass called the Gate of Shadows, leading into the lands of Tatary. Michael and his mates did not then know why the Turks shunned this pass. But they believed that once in the Gate of Shadows they would be safe from pursuit owing to this superstition of the Turks.
The night on which they made their venture was clear. The stars shone brilliantly through the colder air of the height by the lake. Men and beasts of the caravan were weary after a long march. Bayezid was never sparing of his followers.
Two things had decided the Christians upon this night. They were at the point of the march from Constantinople to Aleppo which was nearest the Gate of Shadows. And the Moslems had fasted for three days. That night was the feast of Miriam when the long fast was broken and warriors and courtiers alike satiated themselves with meat and wine.
Bayezid, although calling himself head of the faith, always allowed his men their fill of debauchery, knowing that it drew soldiers to his ranks.
Consequently the Janissaries who watched the aul where the Christian captives were kept apart from the slaves of other races were a little drunk and more than a little sleepy.
Michael, by tacit consent, had been chosen the leader of the six. Memory of the torture to which he had been subjected had made the Portuguese and Italians eager to flee. Cowards at heart, the nearer peril of the “iron sleeve” made them willing to risk the death that was penalty for an attempt to flee their bondage.
And Michael, who yearned for the freedom that would afford him a chance to strike back at Bayezid, had formed a plan readily.
The aul was a rough square shelter of rocks resembling very much a large hut without a roof. The stone walls were as high as a man. The two yawning spearmen who acted as guards had built a fire just within the entrance.
As usual the prisoners gobbled down the evil-tasting pilau—broth of rotting sheep’s flesh—that was set before them in a kettle. The evening prayers of the Moslems had been completed long since and soft radiance coming from the silk pavilions of the nobles indicated that the feast was well along.
A heavy guard of wakeful Mamelukes stood about the enclosure where Bayezid was quartered and other mounted sentries paced about the circuit of the fires around which warriors and slaves alike drank, sang and slept.
It was the first watch of the night when one of the Portuguese rose and tossed a double armful of dried tamarisk branches on the fire that had sunk to embers. A crackling blaze climbed skyward barely three paces inside the aul entrance.
For a moment the interior of the walled space would be concealed from the glance of passers-by. One of the Janissaries growled and spat, motioning the Portuguese back to his place. The other sentry leaned on his battle-ax half-asleep.
Making signs that he wished to communicate something, the captive moved nearer the first sentry, while one of the Italians arose stealthily and keeping within the large shadow cast by the three men near the fire, slipped to the rear of the Janissary.
Michael appeared to be asleep. In spite of his crippled arm—the bones had been rudely set by a hakim of the sheik who, in obedience to the pleasure of his master, intended Michael to live—in spite of his weakness and the fever that had set upon him for several days, the guards always kept vigilant watch upon him, knowing that the Breton was more dangerous than his mates.
Through his half-closed eyes Michael could see the Italian detach a stone from the top of the wall behind the three men silently. The arms of the captives had been left free although their ankles were secured at night by heavy leather thongs that would not yield to their fingers. Naturally none of them had a weapon of any kind.
The sentries had no reason to expect an attempt to escape. Even if the two Janissaries could be disposed of, the captives would have to pass through the camp and pierce the cordon of riders in the outer darkness in order to gain the plain.
Even clear of the camp they would be pursued by well-mounted warriors and the o
dds against them in a hostile country were very great.
The first sentry was staring mockingly at the Portuguese who cringed beside him, gesturing futilely. And then the Italian cast his heavy stone with both arms.
It struck the Janissary at the base of the skull and pitched him forward a dozen feet. He fell, stunned, with his face within the edge of the fire.
The second warrior started out of his doze and his lips parted for a cry. But the Portuguese, frenzied by peril and hope of escape, clutched his throat. The Italian had leaped after the stone and caught up the spear of the man he had slain.
This spear he thrust into the clothing over the stomach of the choking sentry.
“Harken.” Michael had run to them and addressed the struggling Moslem. “Be silent and do as I bid ye or your body will lie in the fire.”
A stringent odor of burning flesh and cloth came to the nostrils of the sentry and he ceased struggling, waiting for the blow that would slay him. But Michael with his left arm dragged the smoking corpse from the flames and swiftly directed two of his men to conceal it under some of their robes in a corner. Before doing so, he saw that they took a dagger and scimitar from the dead Janissary and stowed the weapons under their own clothing.
“Now,” Michael commanded the watching sentry, “your life will be spared if you do this; call twice for El-Arjuk, master of the slaves who is in command of the aul this night. He gorges himself at a nearby fire. Do not cry for aid, but call his name.”
The man winced as the spear in the hands of the Italian pricked his belly. He did not believe that he would be permitted to live, yet he had smelled the burning flesh of his comrade.
“El-Arjuk!” He lifted a long, wailing cry while Michael listened closely. “Ohai—El-Arjuk!”
“Again,” whispered the Breton and the call for the master of the slaves was repeated.
This time a harsh voice made answer. Michael’s eyes narrowed and he ordered the fidgeting captives back to their sleeping robes with the exception of one man who stood against the wall, drawing the sentry back with him and pressing a dagger’s point from behind into his flesh.