by Harold Lamb
Messer Andrea glanced up fleetingly at the tall stranger, who had not understood what Piculph said.
“A belted knight in Tana,” he observed dryly. “Young sir, I do not know your name?”
“Bruce,” responded the swordsman, looking about him calmly.
“Bruce—of Famagosta? Vassal of the Sieur de Rohan? Rohan is dead!”
Three times the man called Bruce of Famagosta nodded assent, and Messer Andrea reflected. He knew that John of Rohan, a Count of Flanders, had come to the East to wield his sword in the holy war against the Moslems. Adventurers served John of Rohan, among them this youth out of Scotland who was named Bruce and who had no property. Rohan and his men had been drawn into the cross currents of wars that swirled around Venice and Constantinople. Messer Andrea heard of them fighting at Smyrna, and in the long galleys of the Doge; they had besieged Famagosta and had in turn been besieged, and there John of Rohan had been slain not by a Moslem scimitar but by a Greek crossbow bolt—John of Rohan, who had been Messer Andrea’s friend, who had borrowed from him a large sum of money and had died still owing it.
“Faith,” remarked the Scot, “’Twas Rohan sent me hither.”
“And why?” Messer Andrea wondered how this man had found his way to Tana, through the danger that now beset the road.
“For his daughter.”
On the divan in the shadows the Greek prince stirred and would have spoken had not Messer Andrea signed to him to be silent.
“And where is she, Sir Bruce?”
“Here.”
For a moment Messer Andrea was silent, his thin lips pinched. True, the daughter of Sieur de Rohan was in Tana, under his protection. Rohan had requested him to safeguard her.
“What token bring ye as warranty of your mission?” he asked. “A writing, Sir Bruce?”
The Scottish swordsman looked calmly at the merchant. “Ye wite well, Messer Andrea, that my lord of Rohan could not write a paternoster. I am saying that he spoke with me after he had been cut down, and he bade me go to you and take in my charge his daughter, to shield and guard her to her home.”
Messer Andrea lowered his eyes and stroked his long chin. The daughter of the dead seigneur, Marie de Rohan, was still a child—but a child who was beginning to be beautiful. She was thin and white, and grieving had darkened the shadows under her eyes. Still, there was the hue of fire in her hair, with a glint of gold running through it. Such hair was the fashion in Venice, and Messer Andrea knew certain noblemen who would pay 200 ducats of full weight for Marie de Rohan.
* * * *
Her father had never paid his debt to the Counter, and Marie had no kinsmen to protect her. Messer Andrea was not minded to yield her to a wandering swordsman.
“How will you find a way,” he asked sharply, “back to Christian lands?”
“By the caravan route.”
Prince Theodore propped himself up on an elbow and exclaimed shrilly: “By the hide and hair of the Evil One, this is madness! With forty lances I would not set foot upon that road.”
“By times, my lord,” responded Sir Bruce, “a maid is safer upon the road than behind walls.”
The smooth brow of the Greek darkened, and his hand caught at the hilt of the long dagger in his girdle.
“Your Mightiness!” The Counter’s dry voice was like the flicker of a whip. “Allow me to warn our guest of the peril outside the walls. Piculph—see thou to the watch. Send in cupbearers with Cyprian wine.”
The Greek sank back upon the divan deeper into the shadow, stifling his anger with whispered oaths. At first he would not touch the silver goblet of cool white wine offered him by the two Circassian women who came unveiled, silent and graceful as animals upon the soft carpet. Then he clutched his cup, gulped it down and signed for more.
* * * *
Sir Bruce waited to see him drink first, and in the pause the keen ears of the Scot caught the movement of armed men all about him—the clank of the iron butts of crossbows against stone parapets, the crackle and flare of a cresset newly lighted that showed him the steel caps of a score of bowmen, the dark arms of mangonels and the bronze tubes of flame throwers on the outer wall. Even in the alleys below the night was full of sounds—a man’s sudden oath, the clatter of hoofs and the ceaseless wail of beggars.
“You have noticed, young sir, that Tana is strongly held. I have been warned.” Messer Andrea tapped the parchment in his fingers. “There is one near at hand who fears not the wrath of God nor the weapons of men.
“And here is the message he sends me.” Messer Andrea unrolled the parchment and held it so the Scot could see the strange writing—tiny scrolls and curlicues—that covered it. Some of the marks were inscribed in red upon a gilt circle.
“’Tis Arabic, with a royal name emblazoned,” commented Sir Bruce. “I ken—” he was silent a moment. “Read it, I cannot.”
“That name,” assented the Genoese, “is Tamerlane.”
Sir Bruce looked up reflectively. In bazaar and caravansary he had heard men speak of Tamerlane, a lame Tatar king who had emerged with his horde from the unknown steppes of the east.
Messer Andrea read slowly:
“By command of TAMERLANE, King of all kings, the Victorious, Lord of fortunate happenings—to the master of Tana, these words are sent. With sharp sword edges and swift horses we are passing thy city. Send out to us therefore a suitable gift, and no harm will befall thee at our hand.”
Messer Andrea was silent a moment, studying the parchment. He resumed:
“If the tribute is not sufficient, we will turn aside and make war upon ye. We will set the red cock crowing. We will build a pyramid of the heads of the slain. Do as thou wilt. It is all one to me. I send this writing—I, SUBAI GHAZI, Lord of the lords of Tamerlane’s host.”
He loosed the parchment from his fingers, and it coiled itself like a snake upon the table.
“I have heard it said,” he mused, “that Tamerlane’s Tatars make towers out of the skulls of their foes.”
“Aye,” asserted Sir Bruce, “when they are angered.”
“But the meaning of the red cock—”
“Fire.”
The merchant glanced fleetingly at the soldier. “You know something of these accursed Tatars?”
“I have seen them in battle.”
“Then you know the peril in which we stand. Out yonder”—Messer Andrea motioned toward the dark line of hills behind the citadel—“they are riding to the south, God knows why, but”—he smiled bleakly—“I am no lover of ill chance. I shall send out tribute enough to satisfy them.”
“By the souls of the saints,” Theodore muttered, “it will need a mighty ransom.”
“My agents have visited the horde,” responded the Counter, “and they say that Subai Ghazi rides in haste. He does not wish to linger here. ’Tis said of him that he is a man of his word, for good or ill.”
He turned to the Scot and spread out his hands. “Will you venture beyond the walls with a woman?”
“Aye, so,” said Sir Bruce slowly. “Peril there may be, but the Seigneur Christ will guard a maid among pagan swords.”
The Greek prince threw himself back on his cushions.
“Fool!”
But the faded eyes of the Counter—eyes quick and shrewd to weigh men and their moods—gleamed approvingly. “Swear,” he whispered. “Swear that you will safeguard the girl with your life.”
Sir Bruce smiled. “Faith, I passed my word to her father.”
Messer Andrea nodded swiftly as if closing a bargain. “Good! And now hear me, young sir. There is a path from Tana to the northern caravan road that should be clear of the pagan horsemen. It follows the coast. I am sending thither some men of mine, and they shall guide you. They will be horsed and armed after matins on the morrow.”
“Then, by your leave, missire, I will sleep.” The Scot rose, stretched his long arms and turned on his heel.
“A good night to you,” Messer
Andrea called softly, motioning one of his linkmen to attend the knight. He listened until the firm tread of the mailed feet dwindled down the corridor; then he sent a slave for candles, a luxury he seldom allowed himself.
“Nay,” he observed to Theodore, “that is no fool, but a simple soul that will hold to his given word—like Subai Ghazi.” Suddenly he laughed, stroking his cheek with thin fingers.
“Body of Judas!” the Greek prince cried. “You have given the maid to him.”
“Content thee—content thee! By this hour on the morrow night he will lie in his own blood. A cup, Theodore—the white spirits in the stone jar.”
* * * *
The Greek drank deep, frowning as he watched the Counter clean a sheet of parchment and sharpen the pen of a quill. The candles were placed on the table, and the pen began to move over the parchment; but Theodore, peering across his companion’s shoulder, beheld only meaningless curlicues—Arabic.
“’Tis a missive to the Tatar!” Prince Theodore exclaimed.
“True—the matter of the tribute.”
Theodore bent over the table. “Will you send gold?”
“Gold! A mule’s load would only whet the Tatars’ greed. Subai Ghazi would give it to his bathmen.” “Jewels?”
Messer Andrea shrugged. “Will your Illustriousness contribute the precious stones?”
“I have not—” Theodore’s dark eyes widened. “Ah, you are sending forth Marie de Rohan to the Tatar!”
“A little wine sharpens wit,” Messer Andrea murmured. “Drink, your Illustriousness.”
“Are there no other women in the market?”
Messer Andrea finished writing, yet did not sign the missive. “Ehu—I am not so foolish as to send a slave to one who has had his choice of the women of the Circassians and the Golden Horde. And you forget the honest soldier who is surety of our—gift. This is his authority. Another cup, my lord?”
Theodore seized his silver goblet feverishly. His head rolled on his shoulders, and Messer Andrea rose, pushing forward the chair to him. “Life is sweet, my lord. It is needful to write thy name on this paper.” He placed the quill in the Greek’s quivering fingers.
“What evil is this?” Theodore peered at it drowsily.
“Has your Illustriousness forgotten? It is the death of the swordsman.” Again Theodore found his cup filled and from habit he drank. With the Counter guiding his hand, he scrawled his name. And Messer Andrea, tucking back his long sleeves, bestirred himself to melt red wax upon the parchment and press into it the signet ring of the almost unconscious prince. Then Theodore laid his head upon the table and slept.
Messer Andrea blew out the candles and slipped away into the darkness to attend to other matters.
* * * *
It was late in the afternoon of the next day before Sir Bruce’s guides came to fresh water—four leagues from Tana. Here the trail wound upward, among gray clay buttes overhanging the sea’s edge. The servitors, resplendent in the crimson and white livery of Prince Theodore, placed the pavilion pole in a sheltered spot, and hung upon it the striped silk covering under which Marie, the maid of Rohan, was to sleep that night.
“Glad am I,” cried the girl, “to be again in the sun.”
Sir Bruce, staring through narrowed eyes at the glitter upon the sea below them, was troubled by her beauty.
It was a miracle to Sir Bruce that he, who had not seen a woman of his race for years, now had in his charge this maid. Because he had given a promise to John of Rohan, he had wandered and searched and fought his way by land along the course the Counter’s galleys had taken by water. And when he had first seen Marie the blood had throbbed in his veins. Now he was proud and exultant. Yet the grim purpose in him ever kept him silent, and she looked sidewise at him curiously.
“Oh, it is a barren land,” she said, “but Messer Andrea has given me a great store of comfort. At first I did not like him, but he was generous.”
Sir Bruce drew his hand across his chin. He wore this day his mail, a linked habergeon, with coif and thigh pieces. He stood beside the gray Arab that he had not yet unsaddled.
“Nay,” he responded bluntly, “he is no man of faith.”
“He sent his knaves to serve us.”
“Aye, so.” Sir Bruce knew that these men, though they wore livery, were masterless fellows, and he expected no good of them. Yet Messer Andrea had given the girl a swift-paced mare and caparisons of cloth of gold.
“He took thought for me. See, he entrusted to me a safe conduct to Constantinople.”
“To you? I must see it.”
Obediently she sought in her saddle bags until she drew forth a roll of parchment, tied and sealed with red wax. Sir Bruce took it silently and broke the string at once. He frowned over the missive, written in Arabic, and Prince Theodore’s signature. After a moment’s thought he went to the fire the guides were kindling and thrust the parchment into the flames.
“That was mine!” Marie cried. “Why did you burn it?”
“It had a name upon it, a royal name emblazoned.” Sir Bruce swept his long arm around the encampment. “Here no seal of wax will avail you, my lady.”
The girl lifted her head proudly. “I have no fear. You are a harsh man, Sir Bruce, and my father said of you long since that you would turn aside neither for weapon of man nor spite of the devil.”
In the flaming tamarisk the parchment crumbled, and from it ran a thin stream of crimson, so like blood that Marie was startled and caught at the warrior’s arm. “Look—”
“Be quiet!” he bade her sternly.
His head bent forward, the lines in his dark face deepened. Then all at once she heard the thrumming of hoofs, and from the ravine at the upper end of the valley trotted a dark mass of riders—men in dull chain mail with long cloaks and sheepskin caftans. At sight of the pavilion they shouted and lashed their horses to a gallop.
“Mount!” Sir Bruce’s voice sounded in her ear.
She turned, and when she fumbled with the stirrup he caught her by the waist and lifted her into the saddle of her mare. For an instant he glanced at the approaching horsemen. Then he reached up and pulled the hood over her head, drawing it close to hide her face.
“Tatars!” shouted one of the guides.
Some of the servitors began to run away, casting down the spears that they had caught up at first; others cried out in fright, and when Sir Bruce mounted his gray Arab and took Marie’s rein, leading her mare toward the pavilion slowly, they clustered around him in fear.
* * * *
The tide of riders swept toward the pavilion and divided into groups that galloped around the camp. Here and there a curved steel blade was drawn and flourished, flashing in the level sunlight. Lances were tossed up and caught again, and the drumming of hoofs grew to a roar, while dust eddied about the pavilion and the Christians in the center of the wild horsemen. The Greeks who had fled were headed off and herded back again like stray cattle.
Sir Bruce had drawn his sword, but made no other move. “’Tis part of Tamerlane’s horde,” he said to the girl. “Faith, they greet us well, after their manner.”
The Tatars had not fallen upon the pavilion to plunder, nor had they snatched the weapons from the trembling Greeks.
“They are on the march,” Marie whispered, with a sigh of relief; “they will do us no harm.”
But Sir Bruce knew by the actions of the first riders that the Tatars had expected to find people at this spot, and that command had been given them not to seize what they found. Still the dark tide, brightened by crimson shields, moved past. A burst of plaintive music came from it—the shrilling of pipes, the clash of brass plates and the roar of kettledrums.
Nodding heads of laden camels came into view above the horses, but before the camel train moved a standard, a pole bearing a gold crescent and swinging horsetails. And with the standard came a cavalcade of Tatar princes, helmed or turbaned, with gilded armor and reins and saddles gleaming with silver. One wh
o carried in his hand an ivory staff galloped forward, and thrust down his baton.
“Choupek gasaur!” he growled. “Down, infidel dogs.”
The Greeks flung themselves on their faces, but Sir Bruce and Marie sat as they were, erect in the saddle. The mirza of the baton reined close to them and snarled, “Bend the forehead to Subai Ghazi, Amir of amirs!”
A deeper voice resounded harshly, and the mirza drew aside. A white horse paced forward slowly. From thigh to chin its rider was wrapped in pliant Persian mail, a khilat of red satin thrown over his shoulders, massive as a bear’s. He rode with short stirrup leathers, so that he seemed to crouch in the saddle. One hand, veined and scarred, rested on the worn hilt of a heavy, curved saber—a hand that could move as swiftly as a leopard’s paw, that had earned for Subai Ghazi the surname of sword slayer.
“Ahai!” he exclaimed, seeing the slight form of the girl. His green eyes gleamed under a jutting brow and shifted to the tall figure of the knight. He waited for Sir Bruce to dismount or to salaam before him, and the Scot did neither. “Eh,” grunted Subai Ghazi, “there is a stubborn devil in this one. Bid him uncover the face of the khanim.”
Khanim meant princess in the Turco-Tatar dialect, and Sir Bruce, who had heard this speech for years, understood the words. He raised his left hand, weaponless, and shook his head slowly. “Yok! Nay, it is not permitted.”
Subai Ghazi’s broad head lifted in sheer astonishment—that he should have been answered and answered thus. The Tatars attending him reined their horses closer about the warrior and the girl. The officer with the baton was the first to speak:
“Subai Ghazi, the Amir of amirs, gave the command. Is his word smoke, O dog of a Nazarene?”
Again Sir Bruce shook his head, while his thoughts raced. Surely the Tatars had expected to find a woman here—Subai Ghazi had expected it. No one had touched them or questioned them until his coming. He had called Marie a princess and himself a Nazarene—Christian. The riders of the advance had moved on, but the main body was preparing to camp by the well. The camels of the baggage train were kneeling.