The street was empty but for a disconsolate donkey, and further along the street two camels lay where they had been saddled for a trip. Odd, for camels to be leaving at night.
The Street of the Booksellers was brightly lit. Here and there groups of students gathered, and strolling among them, I watched for Valaba but saw her not. A feeling of depression lay heavy upon me, nor could I shake it off. Several of the booksellers spoke, obviously willing to engage in discourse, but on this night I was not interested.
After a while, despairing of finding Valaba, I started back. Nothing had been gained by my walk. Valaba was busy elsewhere.
A beggar came from his corner to seek alms but when close he whispered, “O Mighty One! Return not. Fly! If your enemies are not there, they soon will be.”
Beggars were friendly with street players and singers, and by now I was considered one of them. Yet I dared not accept the warning, for Safia would be coming. All was dark and still when I neared my room, yet I detected a stirring in the shadows not far away.
Entering my room, blade in hand, I searched until sure I was alone, then I went to the corner where I could sit on my bed and not be seen, where I could read. My small light was hidden, and the door was left open a crack to detect any movement outside.
The book I chose was a rare volume from the library of the great mosque. The book had come to my hands in a strange way. I was searching a stack of uncatalogued manuscripts with a view to bringing them to some kind of order, when the stack toppled toward me, revealing a narrow door fitted into the wall. As nothing was kept there but old manuscripts, books collected but unlisted from the time of al-Hakem, it was possible the existence of the door was unknown to anyone in the library.
The door was locked, but my curiosity aroused, I picked the lock with a skill I had acquired from street people. Facing me was a small room, comfortably fitted but thick with undisturbed dust. It was a private study, perhaps that of al-Hakem himself. No doubt it was here that the caliph, one of the great scholars of the Arab world, had done his own research into ancient manuscripts.
Among the fifty or so books there were some with which I had long been familiar, but lying on the table in a sort of leather envelope was a book written in Arabic but translated from the Chinese of Tseng Kung-liang. The original title had been Wu Ching Tsung Yao, written in 1044. Translated the words meant A Compendium of Military Art.
Opening it, I had found a careful study of the military art of the Chinese and the Mongols as well. What most intrigued my interest was the description given of an explosive powder used by the Chinese in warfare. Included among notes at the back of the book was a formula for making this powder.
Nothing like this had been used by the Moors, and it was unknown in Christian Europe, but here in my hands lay the method of manufacture, information on its use, and something of its reactions when contained in bamboo, wood, or metal.
From notes written in a careful hand this book must have come into the hands of al-Hakem shortly before his death. Those caliphs who followed lacked his interest in books, and this room had been forgotten.
Pocketing the book, I had locked the door and piled the manuscripts into their original position. Many of the manuscripts were duplicates of others already translated, and it might be years before they were again disturbed.
Military art had been a major interest of mine, and the book I now held was a treasure. Such a book might easily win a man a kingdom. It might also blow high the walls of the castle of the Baron de Tournemine.
I had safely hidden it in another section of the library and had earlier in the week dared sneak into the great mosque to remove it for further study. Now I read this book once more, for it was my intention to commit the entire book to memory. The formula, which was the core and essence of the book, I had memorized within ten minutes of opening it for the first time, but there were other items of importance.
Yet I could not concentrate. My ears tuned to the slightest sound from the dark street outside, and I finally tucked the book inside my shirt and put out my candle.
For some time I sat in the dark with a naked sword upon my knees, then suddenly I was sharply alert, listening.
Something or someone had fallen in the street outside. I heard hoarse panting and a sound of something dragging. A faint moaning, as of someone in dire pain, came to me, and I opened the door wider, the oiled hinges making no sound.
“Kerbouchard! Help me!”
It was Safia. Staggering to her feet she half fell across the threshold. Catching her with my free hand, I eased her to the floor. Sheathing my sword, I knelt beside her.
“Go!” she whispered. “They are coming! They made me talk, and they will kill you, they—!”
Despite the risk I lit the candle. Her robe was soaked with blood, and she had been beaten until the flesh was cut to the bone in places, and her feet were a pulp from a terrible beating upon the soles.
“They believe me dead. I could not let you—but go! I release you from your promise. I had no right—”
Slinging the sack which contained maps and some precious books over my shoulder, I wrapped her in a fresh robe and picked her up.
Moving might kill her, but if found here, she would certainly be slain. Crawling through the window, I drew her to the wall beside me, then closed the window. Risking a fall, I carried her along the wall in utter darkness, leaves brushing my face and my clothing.
At the stable the horses were undisturbed. Saddling two and putting halters on the others, I tied Safia into her saddle and led the horses outside, closing the door behind me.
The night was cool, almost cold. The great arches of the aqueduct threw shadows upon the pavement. Tonight I would leave Córdoba. Would I ever return? It was a city I loved, and although it had taken much from me, it had given more.
The ride would be brutal. It might kill Safia, but we had no choice. Riding in the shadows, I went to the postern gate. As I had hoped, there was no guard. Ignoring her moaning as she became conscious, I rode for the hills, stopping for nothing. What Safia had done to warrant the torture I neither knew nor cared. Whatever it was had ended disastrously.
Before daylight I found a hollow beside a small stream. Taking Safia from her horse, I went to work. Not for nothing had I read the Canon of Avicenna and other great teachers of medicine. I bathed her wounds, using what medicines I had in my own small kit. Treating her lacerated back, I bound up her wounds.
She had lost blood and was unconscious while I treated her. The sight of her feet horrified me. It had taken more courage than a person had a right to possess for her to come to warn me on such feet. The sun was high in the sky before I ceased to work, nor was there any way of judging how successful I had been. Now all rested in the lap of Allah.
Safia was drawn and pale, and when her eyes opened, it was only to stare wildly about and plead for water. There was grass for the horses, and water, but we could not long remain here. Toward nightfall she became conscious, so I could feed her some soup.
Once more I tied her in the saddle. I was taking her by a roundabout route to the cave where long ago I had fought the Visigoth.
It was a lonely place, but the cave was hidden, and there was water. We could hide there until Safia was well or until she died.
At daylight, after concealing the horses on some grass among the willows, and while Safia slept, I took my sword and bow to prowl about. In a small copse I found a few of Akim’s sheep banded together with one big old ram for protection. I put an arrow into a lamb that strayed from the flock and, butchering it, carried the meat back to the cave.
Later, following the stream, I found another cave, larger, roomier, still better hidden, so I moved us there.
Treating Safia was the first test of my medical knowledge and a severe test for a more experienced man than I. However, Safia began, slowly, to recover. First, hers was
a struggle for life, then for health, and mine was a struggle for our very existence. The food kept with the horses was soon gone, but the sheep seemed glad to have me about. If they noticed the inroads upon their number, it was no more than they expected.
Some of Akim’s crops had seeded themselves, and I found a little barley, some fruit the birds had not eaten, and once I killed a wild boar.
Several parties of riders appeared, and one rode to the ruins of Akim’s place, but I had erased all evidence, and they found nothing.
When Safia could sit up and fend for herself, it became easier, for I could go further afield to forage for food and the herbs needed to treat her.
Trouble came without warning. Three mercenary soldiers rode up to the cave just as I was mounted to ride away. I saw them the instant before they saw me and drew my sword, keeping the left side of my horse toward them, my sword resting on my knee, point forward.
No doubt they thought me some peasant, easily frightened, for when they rode up one said, “Get off that horse, or you will have a split skull.”
The third man who held back somewhat said, “Rig, see what’s in the cave. I think we’ve found ourselves a woman.”
Unmoving, I sat my horse, and the first speaker started for me just as Rig started to swing down. Touching a spur to my Arab, I leaped the horse at him, knocking him to the ground. At the same time my sword came from behind the barrel of my horse.
My sudden lunge at the dismounting soldier had brought me up on the left of the first man. He threw up his arm, and he had no shield, and the edge of my blade cut deep into his arm and shoulder.
Our horses were pressed together, and commanding my horse with my knees, I thrust my sword into his side.
The third man was fleeing, but sheathing my sword, I leaped my Arab after him, bringing up my bow with an arrow ready. His heavier, slower horse was no match for mine, and I overtook him swiftly, unleashing an arrow that shot him through. Catching up his horse, I despoiled him of armor and weapons and returned to the cave.
The man whom I had knocked down was no longer in sight, but I had no doubt where he was. Dismounting, sword in hand, I entered the cave.
Safia was against the wall, her dagger in her hand.
“You are a fool,” she was saying. “He will kill you!”
“Maybe, but I shall have you first.”
He leaped at her, but instead of using the dagger as he expected, she struck him across the face with a brand from the fire. His attention had been concentrated on the knife, and he had not seen the glowing stick she held down beside her. The swing through the air ignited flame, and he sprang back. It was not my fault that he fell against the point of my sword, although maybe I did push, just a little. If a man is determined to die, who am I to fly in the face of destiny?
“We were lucky,” I said.
“Yes,” she admitted, “but you have skill, also.”
Our venture of the morning had been rewarding. We now had three more horses, three helmets, two coats of mail and a breastplate, daggers, swords, and some other gear. There were only four dinars between them, but we had money of our own. Yet it was time to move.
During the long days in the cave Safia had taught me more Persian than the little I had learned, and also some Hindi. Born in Basra, daughter of an emir by a slave girl, she had been given a fine education and betrothed to a Bengali prince. His death left her alone, but in Baghdad she married one of the old Abbasid dynasty and engaged in intrigue to seize the caliphate of Córdoba for him. Failing in that, she had become a spy, selling information to all who could pay.
It was now four months since our flight from Córdoba, and although her body was wasted from the long illness, she was now fit to ride. The soles of her feet remained so tender she could walk only a few steps.
Often when bathing in the pool or prowling the ruins of Akim’s farm I wondered how Sharasa fared. Had she done well? Where was she now?
Resuming the battered armor of a mercenary, but armed better than before, I led back to the road, but this time we traveled away from Córdoba.
“There is a man in Constantinople,” Safia said, “who might know of your father. It is he you must find.”
We sold our captured horses as well as the armor and weapons. The four horses Safia had acquired originally we kept. We were not apt to find their equal.
Safia had given me her jewels to store safely back in Córdoba, and I had remembered to bring them, but we hoped not to touch them. Riding in the fresh, clean air was raising color in her cheeks, and the dead, lackluster expression of her eyes was gone. Outside Toledo we met a group of travelers and joined our force to theirs. Now that we would be traveling beyond the areas controlled by the Moslems, we would be in even greater danger. Banditry existed in Moslem territories now, too, since the breakup into many small taifas.
It was in Zaragoza that we met Rupert von Gilderstern, a mountain of a man, at least two inches taller than I and many pounds heavier. His huge face both long and wide, possessed a beak of a nose and two chins. Although he looked fat, he gave no impression of softness, and despite his massive size he moved with ease and grace. He spoke with the voice of an oracle and the commanding presence of a god.
Arriving at a wayside inn, we found the courtyard filled with packhorses and mules. Standing wide-legged at one side of the court was a man the like of whom I had never seen. “We will have the packs off. Check your beasts for scratches, wounds, or abrasions. We will have no animals unfit to bear burdens here.”
He ignored our arrival and looked at no one. He spoke strongly and clearly. “Look to their hocks, check their hooves for stones. Brush down the hair upon their backs, a lump of twisted hair can cause chafing. No man will see to himself until his beasts are cared for.”
Obviously, we had encountered a merchant caravan, and this huge man was the Hansgraf or captain of the train. Such caravans took merchandise up and down and across Europe, traveling by age-old trade routes dating from ancient times, long before the Romans. Some followed the old Amber road that led from the Baltic to the Mediterranean over which amber had been taken to the pharaohs of Egypt, to Solomon himself, and to Hiram of Tyre.
These parties of merchants, bound together by an oath of fidelity, were well-armed, prepared to resist attack by brigands, or Raubritter. There were barons who charged down from their castles hoping to plunder a caravan. Many a castle was lookout for such as these.
The Hansgraf’s caravan of the White Company of traders was a rich one, and immediately I realized this could be our salvation. Our route led eastward through mountain passes where danger lurked, yet with such a caravan we might travel safely.
Choosing an empty corner of the yard, I unsaddled and tended my horses, and no horse in the yard could compare to ours.
Several times I saw the eyes of the Hansgraf upon me, or glancing from me to Safia, who stood nearby. When my animals were cared for, I gathered my weapons and went inside.
A dozen men were seated about the table, eating and drinking, several of them already drunk. They stared at Safia as she entered, and one spoke aloud in the Frankish tongue, an insulting phrase that Safia did not understand.
Reaching across the table, I took him by the beard, the worst of insults in a Moslem country, and dragged him across the table. Jerking down on his beard, I shoved a handful of grease and suet into his opened mouth.
“Keep your filthy mouth shut,” I said, “or next time I’ll force a sheep down your throat.”
Wiping the grease from my hand on his shirtfront, I released him and shoved hard, toppling him back over the bench choking and gagging.
Two of the others, flushed with drink, half started to rise. “The lady,” I told them, “will be treated as such. If you wish to take issue with me, I shall split your skulls like melons.”
We chose a table at the far side of the room,
and I saw the loud-mouthed one stagger to the door, gagging. It would be a while before he wagged his tongue over another woman.
Glancing up, I saw the Hansgraf looking across the room at me.
We ordered up a bottle of wine and a chunk of roast beef and settled down to eat. Safia had recovered except for her too tender feet, and the cool air had given her a fine appetite.
A shadow loomed beside our table. It was the Hansgraf. “Nobly done! That swine was well served. Do you travel far?”
Gesturing to the bottle, I said, “A noble wine, Hansgraf, will you join us?”
“A moment, at least.”
He seated himself, and again I was amazed at the size of him. He must have weighed half again my own weight. He was clad in black: black hose and black tall boots, a black cloak over all.
“You are a soldier?”
“Of fortune,” I said, “a fighting man, if necessary, but something of a scholar as well. I travel eastward,” I added, “and the lady Safia travels to her home in Shiraz.”
“It is a far place.” He measured me again with appraising eyes. “Do you have capital to invest? Ours is a merchant company, our goods bought and sold in common, profits shared. If you would like to join us, we can use strong men.”
“Would I share with the company?”
“You would be one of us. Your sword must be ours, also. We will have need of swords, I believe.”
“And your route?”
“By way of Pamplona to Pau and Avignon. We go eastward but by way of the fairs.”
So it was that I, who had been a scholar, a geographer, and perhaps a physician, became a merchant.
A merchant with a sword.
25
THE TAWNY HILLS lay like sleeping lions along the narrow track. Far ahead, leading the convoy, was the schildrake, or standard-bearer. Behind him rode six armed men, selected for their skill with weapons, and then the Hansgraf himself.
The caravan was made up of nearly five hundred pack animals, mostly horses and mules but cattle also. These last would be eaten when their packs were sold or shifted to mules. They walked in pairs because the track was narrow, with armed guards along the flanks of the column.
The Walking Drum (Louis L'Amour's Lost Treasures) Page 19