by Harold Lamb
“The man’s face declares you have the right of it,” he hissed. “What can we do?”
“This. I am the leader of the men-at-arms. I take command, forsooth! Every man except the five troopers and myself must give up arms. You, Soranzi, assume charge of the money, articles of trade and gifts. Take an inventory of the goods, and keep it. The—himself knows in what quarter this liar has led us. We will strike back to Trebizond and consult further—Ha, dog! Would you do that?”
The roving eye of the condottiere had fallen upon Bembo as the hunchback was stealing away quietly in the direction Michael had taken along the back track. Rudolfo spurred after him and struck the jester into the mud with his mailed fist, leaning down from the saddle to glare at him.
Bembo rose, drew his wooden sword from his girdle with a flourish and handed it to Rudolfo.
“You have overcome me, vi et armis. Take my sword.”
Rudolfo’s answer was to cast the thing away contemptuously; nevertheless he kept a wary glance on the jester.
“We will wait for Master Bearn,” he said shortly. “When he returns he must answer on the spot for the death of the three varlets.”
Now Bembo would have given a leg to be able to run off and acquaint his friend with what had happened. The fool, like most unfortunates who are crippled in body, was sensitive to impressions.
He was afraid of Rudolfo, and more afraid of Gian. He looked upon Michael as his sole protector and Michael would presently walk back, armed only with a sword, to where his enemy waited with a half-dozen men-at-arms.
These same men were alert and eager, pleased at the chance of reaching Trebizond again. Bembo noticed that they did not seem surprised at the turn in affairs, and that Gian was a-grin.
“Saint Bacchus aid me and keep good Cousin Michael away,” he prayed. “Or our guts are in the saucepan!”
They had not long to wait. Michael stepped from between two trees against which the men-at-arms were sitting at the road’s edge. He had come through the dense thorn thicket without a sound.
Rudolfo and Soranzi were not a little disturbed by this sudden apparition in their midst of the man for whom they were looking down the road. The captain of mercenaries glanced at the thicket and saw that half-hidden within it was a queer kind of native shrine—a mere heap of stones with rags stuck upon sticks hanging over it.
Soranzi tried to read the Breton’s harsh face—a task that was no longer easy. Michael’s brown eyes were half-closed and the merchant noted that he worked the fingers of his right hand slowly as if testing long unused muscles.
“Signor,” said Michael to Rudolfo, “I heard, while I was coming through yonder thicket, some words of yours. You made bold, methinks, to say that I slew the three varlets. Is it not so?”
Michael glanced around the ring of faces that had gathered close to him. The men-at-arms were gaping, fingering their weapons, intent on Rudolfo. It was significant of the natures of the leaders that Michael seemed, for the moment at least, to enjoy the mastery of the situation.
His dark face was lighted by a kind of inward amusement, while Rudolfo was pulling at his mustache with lowered eyes. The watching attendants ignored Soranzi and Clavijo, knowing that the test of leadership lay between the Breton and their own captain.
“And reason enow!” said the latter curtly. “Fore—, masters, here have we a lowborn churl who stinks of the sea and who bears the scars of slavery on his wrists and back. Since our landing he has held intercourse with the pagans of the countryside. Aye, did he not interfere on behalf of the knavish robbers of Cabasica? And warn my good Gian from his excursion into the native village some time since? What more of reason would you have?”
This arraignment, although it satisfied the servitors, raised grave doubts in the keen mind of Soranzi—doubts which were heightened when Michael responded gravely that he had slept in a tent with Clavijo the night before and that the Spaniard could testify that he had not left the tent until aroused by the others.
“Yet,” growled Rudolfo, who was gaining confidence, “you can walk out of a wood without a sound. Why can you not move even more silently in the hours of darkness when the evil powers are strong? There is black magic in the air, by the rood! How else could riders gallop like the wind—as those we heard anon—when an honest Christian can not see where to put his foot to earth?”
“Master Bearn speaks the truth,” broke in Clavijo bluntly, “and—my head on it—he is an honest Christian.”
“You are not lacking in lies,” growled Rudolfo. “We may no longer believe you. Moreover, by the mouth of his friend Bembo, the Breton stands accused.”
Michael glanced at the hunchback keenly. He would have staked his life on the fool’s faith. The tie between the two had been strengthened by the hardships of the journey.
In fact it was pity for the hunchback that had impelled Michael to join the party again. He had been approaching them through the thicket, moving silently as was his custom, when Rudolfo’s loudly spoken threats arrested him.
Understanding that the condottiere had taken the leadership of the party from Clavijo, and that the Italian’s first blow would be against himself, Michael had been strongly inclined to part company with the others and strike for the Tatar country that he knew could not be far from here.
Thus far the course of the voyagers had fitted in with the plans of Michael, who was anxious to appear before the khan as an accredited representative of a European power, with the gifts that experience had taught him were needful in gaining the friendship of an Oriental monarch.
More than once he had steered Clavijo to the west, away from the south where bands of Turkish irregulars were thick. Michael had no desire to be brought a second time before Bayezid as a captive.
Now Rudolfo had seized the reins, and while Michael could not know precisely what intrigue the condottiere had in view, he knew that Rudolfo had penetrated as far into terra incognita as he dared to go, and also—after events had shaped themselves to the Italian’s satisfaction—he would be most likely to head back to Trebizond as soon as he had the treasure of the expedition in his hands.
It was the sight of the blow Bembo received, and his warm love of the cripple, that brought Michael to face Rudolfo.
“’Tis a lie—” Bembo had started to cry when Rudolfo’s cold glance shut him up as a knife-thrust closes a turtle.
“Bembo had gossiped with my men,” he aid dryly. “The fool hinted that his master was bent hither on revenge. What revenge should he seek save against me with whom he has a feud as good Messer Soranzi knows well? Aye, and against the Signory of Venice that requited him with scant usury for his services.”
Bembo hung his head. It was true that he had liked to babble of the Breton’s prowess.
The others nodded in owl-like wisdom. In the minds of the servitors Rudolfo had gained the mastery over Michael. Soranzi and Clavijo were puzzled. Michael, who was by no means a slow thinker, sensed the drift away from him.
“I must take measures for our safety,” Rudolfo was saying, “for the pagans are close on our heels. Bind me this miscreant.”
“Verily—” Michael smiled quickly—“you are a rare leader, signor. Were you not among the captains of Nicopolis? Did not you, Clavijo, see him there? Rudolfo saw you?”
“Aye,” admitted the Spaniard.
“Then answer me one question. If you saw Clavijo at Nicopolis, Rudolfo, why then must you have known he lied, even when you embarked with us upon this venture. Why were you fain to wait until now to accuse him?”
The condottiere could not repress a scowl at this sudden thrust, but he answered composedly:
“I may have seen him at the battle by the river, but a pox on’t! I marked him not. Verily I did not recall his face when he told his tale at Venice.”
Rudolfo lied well. Michael, failing to catch him off his guard, turned to Soranzi, who was too shrewd a judge of men and too alert where his own money was at risk to be convinced by Rudolfo’s charge against M
ichael.
“Your lives, signori,” the Breton said gravely, “are at stake. Would you know why?”
They were silent at that and the thin mouth of the merchant pinched together as he answered—
“Why?”
“You call it black magic—faith—when horsemen gallop I’ the night, signors. Nay, they were Tatars who ride with a loose rein in day or dark. I know because I have this hour caught one who followed in our trail. Some news I had from him. War threatens between the Turk and the Tatar—the sultan and the khan. Signori, these be mighty monarchs and their bands of riders on this borderland are more numerous than the good people of Venice itself.”
“Then,” Soranzi’s logical mind probed for information, “the Tatars slew our men last night?”
Rudolfo and Gian glanced at Michael, who shook his head gravely.
“Nay. The Tatars passed us as the wind passes. Our varlets were slain by Kurds of the village that Gian and his men visited. So said my prisoner. After Bembo left the place, frightened by sight of the sitting-down beast, our brave men-at-arms made themselves free of the women of the village, the Kurdish warriors of the place being absent with the riders of the Turkish army.”
Gian and the others were silent at this and uneasy, lacking Rudolfo’s calm.
“Two Kurds only reached our camp in the night,” went on Michael, “or our throats as well might have been cut. The Moslems do not forget a wrong, Rudolfo. Wherefore, death follows in your track.”
“And what manner of man was he you caught?” inquired Soranzi uncomfortably.
“A Tatar who sighted our cavalcade and followed ’till more of his fellows could be summoned and our merchants despoiled. Mark me, Soranzi, the Tatars are grim enow, yet they attack boldly and do not slit throats i’ the night. Nay, they would rip your belly with a sword. You would fare better with them.”
Soranzi squirmed and the men-at-arms muttered under their breath. All glanced up and down the wooded ravine and at the impassive rock shrine.
Suddenly Gian broke the silence with a great oath and strode to Michael, his dagger flashing in his hand. The point of the weapon he set against the Breton’s bare throat. Michael, after a quick glance at the ring of armed men, had not moved.
“Speak the truth, master,” he growled, “or your gullet will be slit for the ants to crawl in. What devil’s work brought us to this place? Whence lies Trebizond? Speak!”
The man’s face was twisted by anger and fear. Michael smiled, for he could read Gian like a book and the man’s diction and words had told him three things.
One—Rudolfo had confided in his lieutenant that the Breton was to be made captive or done away with, or Gian would not have dared what he did. Two—Rudolfo, as well as Clavijo, had lost his bearings but did not wish the men to know it. Three—they were all afraid, and so much the more easily handled.
“You have got yourself a new poniard, Gian,” he observed, “in place of the one you cast at me and Rudolfo tossed overside. It was a poor cast for such a clever thrower.”
He paused interrogatively and the man, angered, caught at the bait before Rudolfo could speak.
“The mast—” he muttered and stopped. “Death and damnation!”
“The mast interfered with your throw? Precisely. Then, after the mock attack of the pirates—I thought them in the hire of Clavijo till your master cast aside his mask just now—had failed to despoil our venture for Rudolfo’s profit, your master waited till he was beyond the last bailio of Venice. Men will wag their tongues. It was necessary to have us beyond the bailio and the trade-routes before Rudolfo could seize the gold and riches entrusted to Clavijo by the council. That is why we are here, Gian.”
Michael had guessed at this, but he had hit the mark. Gian glanced at his master inquiringly, but Michael spoke first.
“Do not make another mistake, Gian. With my life, your guidance would be lost. If you doubt it, ask Rudolfo whither lies Trebizond.”
“You will tell us,” said the condottiere dryly.
“Tut, signor; have you time to waste? Soranzi—a bargain. My safety and Bembo’s pledged on your word, and we guide you to safety? Do you agree?”
It was to the men-at-arms rather than the merchant that Michael directed this shaft. The Venetian was thinking furiously and he nodded.
“Agreed. But stay—what proof that you can bear us hence?”
“The Tatar lies i’ the thicket yonder, bound with his own belt. Your addle-pates, Rudolfo, would never find him. But bid them look i’ the thorns behind the shrine—”
In a moment Gian and his worthies dragged forth a squat figure, wrapped hand and foot with strips torn from a shawl girdle. His broad head was set close to square shoulders, and while his body was long and muscular, his legs were short, and bowed. His slant eyes glared at his captors who freed his ankles so that he could stand without difficulty.
The Tatar’s sword had been tossed by Michael into the bushes, well out of the prisoner’s reach.
“What this man knows he will tell me,” explained Michael, “and no man of you save, perchance, Bembo will understand aught of what he says. I know a word that will conjure us our safety through Tatary.”
Hereupon the men-at-arms crossed themselves and muttered under their breath. They were more than ever convinced that Michael had intercourse with the powers of evil and that this native was his familiar.
“The bargain is struck,” asserted Soranzi again.
But out of the corner of his eye Michael saw Rudolfo gnawing his thumb and presently, leaning toward Gian, to whisper a quick word. Gian in turn muttered something to his men and took his stand behind the bent form of Bembo. Michael waited alertly.
Rudolfo cried at him suddenly—
“Your sword and dagger, throw them down!”
The words were prompt and so was Michael’s answer. He thrust his captive forward against one of the oncoming troopers. Snatching out his sword, he parried the rush of another, beating down the man’s blade and sending him to the earth.
Instantly Michael dropped to his knees and the third assailant tripped over him, cursing. The fourth, a short, wiry fellow in pliant mail, thrust at the Breton before he could rise. Michael caught the blade in a fold of his cloak and lashed out as he came erect. The man dropped with a split skull.
Rudolfo had set spurs to his horse, while the others looked on aghast at the swift clash of weapons. Before Michael could step aside, the condottiere’s beast struck the sea-captain, knocking him a dozen feet. Then came the grinning Gian, who leaped upon Michael’s sword where it had fallen and glanced inquiringly at Rudolfo.
“Do not slay,” instructed the condottiere. “Bind Master Bearn to the Tatar or Turk or whatever breed of devil it may be—”
“And where may the devil be, signor?” inquired Gian, gripping the half-stunned Michael in his great hands.
They looked around at that and beheld the Tatar vanishing into the bushes up the slope by the road. His long turban cloth trailed after him as he leaped with the nimbleness of a goat from rock to rock until he passed from sight before the men-at-arms could draw bow. Nor could a horse follow where he had gone.
“No matter,” grunted Rudolfo. “Messer Soranzi, verily you are a greater fool than I took you for. The guile of Master Bearn bewitched you. Not only would you have let him ride free, but you would have followed where he led—to his allies the Tatars or fiends or whatever they be.”
He leaned from his saddle to jerk Michael, who was more than a little hurt, to his feet.
“So, my friend,” he sneered, “you would hide your knowledge from us and bargain for it! By the Pope’s head! Tonight I promise myself we will know all you know. Gian has a rare knack with a dagger’s point inserted in a man’s ear. There is no time for’t now; this is a perilous place—”
Whereupon the men-at-arms set Michael on a horse, binding his wrists together behind him with the wrappings taken from the escaped Tatar. The Breton was badly shaken and bleeding from th
e mouth, but they handled him in no wise gently.
The minds of the servitors were full of the idea of Satanic powers pursuing them. Since Michael showed no fear and had familiar knowledge of the pagan tribes, these men had no doubt that he was in league with the powers of darkness that their superstition conjured up.
Soranzi was torn between fear and greed. The astrologer in Venice had assured him of profits passing through his hands such as he had never seen before.
As for Clavijo, he was burning in the fires of conscience. He had lied. In his story before the Venetians he had repeated that his followers had been slain at the edge of terra incognita, and that the spirits of the waste land had dogged his footsteps.
And now these two things had happened. He felt as if he were under a spell and found himself looking about for the tower of skulls that he had included in his tale. Only Rudolfo was free from superstition.
Under his quick orders the bulkier and less valuable portions of baggage and stores were abandoned. Sick horses were set loose. When they had mounted, Clavijo saw that no provision had been made for the sick servant or the dying soldier.
“You would not leave them, signor?” he cried.
Rudolfo shrugged.
“They will die anyway—”
When the cavalcade of mounted men and pack-animals moved off, Bembo slipped from the thicket where he had hidden during the hurried departure and ran among the horses, clinging to Soranzi’s stirrup. The merchant, reduced to a state of panic by the events of the past hour, drove him off with kicks and blows.
“Leave the fool to his folly,” gibed Gian, who noticed Bembo’s frantic efforts to keep up.
“To leave him would be to reveal our course to those who pursue us,” observed Michael. So Bembo was suffered to hold his friend’s stirrup.
CHAPTER IX
THE RAVINE
There is a subtle intoxicant of fear in the hurry of many persons to be the first to reach a point of safety. The trot of the horses broke at times into a gallop. Some of the stores fell from the packs. Soranzi alternately cried upon God to witness the loss of valuable goods and prayed for greater haste.