Ibn-Haram was here! Would he know me now? Several years had passed, and I had grown older and stronger, yet that and the suffering had changed me but little. Yet I dare not risk it, for if it was revealed that I was not what I claimed, I would be in serious trouble. And ibn-Haram hated me for defeating him in the matter of Aziza.
Decision was mine. I could not afford to remain in Tabriz. “I shall pass on,” I said, “I have been too long without means to study and work. I shall go to Jundi Shapur.”
The idea appealed to me, for the fame of that great school, particularly in the field of medicine, was everywhere acknowledged. It was logical that I should go there, logical that I should have made this journey to get there. It accounted for my presence here.
How much power ibn-Haram possessed, I did not know. He must have overreached himself in some plot while in Spain and fled that country. Yet he was a deadly enemy who could bring disaster upon me.
Slaves came suddenly into the room, bringing three splendid silk robes, three new outfits of clothing, and a heavy purse of gold. They brought a fine saddle, bridle, and saddlebags. These gifts were magnificent indeed, but any traveling scholar, at almost any town in Islam, could expect the same. Wisdom was revered; whereas in Europe he might be burned as a heretic.
With no word of Alamut, I mounted my horse, and followed by slaves bearing the gifts, I returned to the hospice.
Riding away, I glanced back. The eyes of Mas’ud were upon me, cold, measuring, shrewd.
Riding away, I could not throw off a premonition of danger, and my every instinct warned me to not even spend the night, but to take Khatib and fly. Yet that might draw upon me even worse danger, for it would arouse immediate suspicion.
Morning came with a babble of voices as other travelers prepared to leave. Khatib entered, and my resolve was formed on the instant. “Pack,” I said. “I shall ride the new saddle, use the new bridle. Let us go at once.”
We were fortunate in our time of departure, for a large caravan was leaving at the same time, and we promptly overtook and fell in with them, and riding with them, we conversed.
Among the Franks many believed that Cathay did not exist, yet here I found those who had traveled to Hind, to Cathay, and all the lands that lay between.
The region through which we traveled was fertile and prosperous, growing some of the finest pears and pomegranates I had eaten, and there were groves of olives. Stopping beside the way, many hours later, we made a lunch of cheese from Dinavar and pears of the district while seated beneath tamarisk and chinar trees.
Several of the muleteers stopped with us, and as they had shown no inclination to stop until we did, I suspected them of spying.
It was a lazy, sunny afternoon with a few scattered puffballs of cloud drifting in the sky. Lying upon the sand, I stared up at the sky and again tried to think out a solution to my problem.
Brave as I might seem to others, I knew I was no more brave than any other man. It was not willingly that I went to the fortress of Alamut, but my father was there, and we two were the last of our line. He was all that was left to me, and I could only try to be as good a son as he was a father.
No slave was ever sold from Alamut, nor allowed to leave for fear he might reveal the secrets of the fortress and its fabled gardens of paradise. If by some chance I myself was permitted to enter, my every move would be watched. Depression lay heavily upon me, for if I entered, how then could I leave? And how could I free my father? A man must be a great fool to attempt the impossible, yet my father was my father, and it was easier to risk my life than to think of him as a slave.
Al-Zawila? Who could he be? Why this hatred for my father?
“Master…?”
Two men stood near me, one of them displaying a large and obviously painful boil. After lancing the boil, bathing it, and prescribing a renewal of the poultice I put on, I prepared to leave and rejoin the caravan, but already other patients were coming.
Treating several wounds and prescribing for others, including ground bone for a child reported to have convulsions, I explained to them that it was a theory of a renowned physician that such convulsions were due to lack of calcium in the system. They listened out of respect, but in their own minds, I knew, they believed it was an evil spirit that caused the trouble.
The last man wished an arrowhead extracted that had been embedded in his arm for several days. The arm was in bad condition, but when I had finished with him there seemed no reason to doubt that he would recover without further help. It was dark before we rode on, riding swiftly that we might camp with the protection of the caravan.
In Córdoba, while studying at the mosque, I had frequently practiced surgical operations under the guidance of a physician. It was the custom to practice making incisions using pumpkins, bottle gourds, melons, or cucumbers. Superficial incisions were practiced upon leather bags filled with slush, sewing was practiced on two pieces of delicate leather, scarification upon leather covered with hair.
Qazvin lay at the foot of the Elburz Mountains from which passes led across the mountains to Tabaristan and the edge of the Caspian Sea. The town itself covered at least a mile. It was the chief fortress against the fierce infidels of the Daylam Mountains.
“Tomorrow,” I whispered to Khatib, “invitation or no, we go to Alamut.”
“Speak no word of that, Mighty One,” Khatib warned, “for this town has many Isma’ilis.”
The courtyard was crowded with horses and camels, for another large caravan had just arrived, obviously the retinue of some important person, for both camels and horses were richly caparisoned and a number of tall, finely built soldiers stood about. They were big, bearded men with handsome black eyes, immaculately clad and well armed, every man of them fit and strong. Obviously these were picked fighting men.
Yet they were unlike any men I had seen, neither Arab nor Persian nor Turk. “Khatib? Who are they?”
“Rajputs,” he said, “from Hind.”
The main room of the caravanserai was bustling with slaves, and we were hard put to find a corner for ourselves. Khatib personally attended to our horses, then joined me.
Suddenly a door to an inner chamber opened, and from it stepped a girl, a girl of such beauty and exquisite grace as I had never seen.
She was tall, moving as though to some unheard music, her dark eyes rimmed with darker lashes, her lips…her skin without blemish, her hair dark as a raven’s wing.
As she came from the door, her eyes met mine across the room, and for an instant she paused, her chin lifted, her lips parting a little.
Rising, I bowed from the hips, indicating a place at the table beside me. Her eyes seemed to widen at my temerity, and then she walked through the parting crowd to a nearby table, already arranged for her.
Nor did she look at me again.
50
OUR TABLES FACED each other across the room with scarcely twenty feet separating one from the other. A dozen slaves attended her, and two Rajput soldiers stood behind her at the corners of the table. The table itself was loaded with at least two dozen dishes, superbly cooked, judging by their aroma.
On my side I had only my faithful Khatib and but three dishes.
She was unveiled, as it was not the custom of her people for women to veil themselves. She wore tight-fitting silk trousers of brilliant yellow and a bodice or choli of the same shade and material. Over this, suspended from her shoulders, she wore a burnt orange cloak or robe. Her sandals were delicately made of some golden material, and there were bangles on her ankles.
She wore in the center of her forehead a “fallen leaf,” as it was called in Sanskrit, or tika. Hers was actually a tiny leaf of intricate workmanship. Her hair was combed quite flat with a triple line of pearls following the part, and the centerpiece, at the hairline, consisted of three golden flowers with large rubies at the center and a row of teardrop pea
rls suspended from the lower edge.
My dishes were a kabab karaz, a dish of meat cooked with cherries and poured over the small, round Arab breads that I liked so much, rice with sour lemon sauce, and a bean curry.
The contrast between my three dishes and the two dozen brought to her table, as well as the crowd of servants who attended her and my lone servitor, appealed to my sense of amusement, and to that of Khatib, also. He was never one to miss the irony of any situation. He began to serve my food with an elaborate finesse and mincing manner that aped the affectations of the eunuchs who waited upon her.
Lifting the cover from the kabab and inhaling deeply, his ragged old brows lifting, he said, “Ah, Most Mighty One! Of this you must taste! It is ambrosia! It is nectar! It is a dream incarnate!” So saying he spooned a tiny portion to the edge of my plate and stood back, spoon in hand, to watch my appreciation.
Delicately, I tasted it, making an elaborate business of savoring, testing, tasting with frowns, rolling of the eyes, and finally a beatific smile.
“Superb, Khatib! Superb!”
He completed the serving of my humble meal with many exclamations. “Such meat! And such a pilaf! May Allah thrice be blessed!”
The face of the girl opposite was expressionless. If she noticed, it was not apparent.
“Wine, Master? It is the gift of the great Emperor of the Byzantines! Of Manuel himself! Wine?”
“Wine, Khatib!” He poured the wine, and I caught a fleeting glance from the girl across the way.
“Preacher,” I said, “you are a man of august years, a traveled and learned man of great judgment and discrimination…tell me…where are the women most beautiful?”
“Where, indeed? As you realize, Magnificence, such things are a matter of taste. Now the Turks, for example, prefer their women to be”—he gestured with his hands before his chest—“to be robust here”—then his hands indicated the hips—“and here.”
He filled my glass again and stepped back. “They wish their women to be fat, the Franks want their women to be strong, the Persians prefer them slender, and in Cathay they say their women have the most beautiful legs of all, but it is not their legs they appreciate, but their feet!”
“And the women of Hind? I hear they are short and ugly and waddle when they walk. Is this true?”
The language was Persian, and I was hoping neither of the Rajput soldiers understood. Yet she did, for I saw her stiffen suddenly, and she looked up quickly, indignantly. “Of the women of Hind,” Khatib said tactfully, “what can I say?”
“Still, every country has some beautiful women. Can there not be one, even one, in all of Hind?”
“One would believe so, Master. Usually where there are great warriors there are beautiful women, they appear together, you know.”
“I respect your wisdom, O Father of Judgment, for what do I know of such things? I know nothing of women. Glorious creatures, no doubt, but my shyness keeps me from them. I shrink at their glances, I tremble at their slightest word. What could I, of all people, say to a beautiful woman?”
Khatib’s wicked old eyes were amused. “What did you say to Valaba? She who was said to be the most beautiful woman in Córdoba? Or to Suzanne, the Comtesse of Malcrais?”
“What, indeed? They took advantage of my shyness, Khatib! What could I possibly do? A defenseless man? And shy? But they were beautiful, and I honor them for their deeds.”
“And what of that Viking girl in Kiev?”
“She frightened me, Khatib. I was awestruck. Her long golden hair, her magnificent shoulders, her demanding ways…what could I do?”
“Only what you did, I suspect.” Khatib helped me to more food from the covered dishes. “Eat, Master, keep up your strength! Who knows what trials lie still before you?”
Suddenly, the door of the room opened, and two soldiers entered, one stepping to either side of the door. Between them marched a pompous little man in a very large turban and a long robe: He was followed by eight slaves, each bearing a gift. To my astonishment they stopped before my table.
“O Auspicious One! O Favored of Allah! My Master, the illustrious, the great, the all-powerful Rashid Ad-din Sinan requests you accept these humble gifts from his hand!
“O Greatest of Scholars! Wisest of Men! Noble Physician and Reader of the Stars, ibn-Ibrahim! My Master requests that you visit him at the Castle of Alamut!”
Two slaves spread out a magnificent robe woven with gold thread and a second cloak trimmed with sable; the third slave brought a sword with a jeweled hilt and scabbard, a splendid blade that when drawn had written along the blade in letters of gold the Persian words, Dushman kush! meaning, “Killer of Enemies!”
The fourth slave carried a silken pillow on which lay three purses that chinked with the sound of gold; the fifth brought a jeweled sword belt; the sixth, a complete outfit of clothing; the seventh, a pair of fine saddlebags, hand-tooled and decorated with gold. The last slave brought me a robe of honor, a jeweled pen, and an inkpot.
“Tell him, Vizier,” I said, “that I come on the morrow. My journey will begin when the sun rises.”
Pausing briefly, I added, “Inform the mighty Rashid Ad-din Sinan that I look forward to discussing with him the secrets of many sciences, for his great wisdom is known to me.”
The eunuch bowed low, backing from the room with continued bows, followed by the slaves.
The innkeeper came hurrying to my table, obviously frightened. “O Master of Wisdom! I pray forgiveness! I had no idea! I did not know who it was who honored my humble—!”
Khatib gathered the gifts, his face grave. The humor was gone from his eyes. “Master, think well of what you do. There is a saying among my people that the deer may forget the snare, but the snare does not forget the deer.”
“I shall not forget, Khatib.”
“He is a fool who will descend into a well on another man’s rope.”
The gifts were magnificent, yet I looked upon them as did Khatib, with suspicion. They were too splendid for an unknown scholar. Was their purpose to make me forget my doubts? Did someone actually want me to come to Alamut? Did they think it safer to have me inside the castle, a prisoner, than possibly stirring trouble on the outside? Or did they think of me at all, except as a wandering scholar?
Yet, what choice had I? Behind the walls of Alamut my father was held prisoner, a slave. If he was ever to be free, it lay in my hands.
“In all honor, Khatib, I must go. But do you remain here, for the future is uncertain, and I go into great trouble.”
“Were there no wind, would the leaves tremble? There is reason for fear, Master. When the Old Man of the Mountains sends gifts, prepare your shroud…a knife follows.”
He paused. “But go with you I shall. How many lands have I seen, Master? How many seas? How many cities? But I have not seen the inside of Alamut.”
For the moment we had forgotten our beauty from Hind, but she had not forgotten us.
Her slave stood before us, bowing. “O Eminence! My lady begs forgiveness that she was not aware of the presence of such distinguished company. She requests you to join her at her table, my lady, Sundari Devi!”
My hesitation was only brief enough as not to seem precipitate. I arose.
“Khatib, see to my presents, and see to the horses, also. It is said that in Qazvin they make most excellent bows and arrows; see that I am supplied. We shall soon,” I suggested, “be crossing a desert where there are bandits.
“Also”—my voice lowered—“see that hidden within our packs there is a length of rope, strong enough to hold a climber.” An instant I hesitated, then added, “I think you had best secure these items.” I handed him a slip of paper. “This”—indicating an item—“you had best collect yourself from the walls of old stables or the manure of animals. Do get me a supply of this. If there is curiosity, simply say
your master is an alchemist who tests all things. He is crazy, of course, but what can you do?”
Crossing the room, I stopped before her table. “I am ibn-Ibrahim.”
She gestured to a place at the corner of the table to her right. “I had no idea we were in the presence of so renowned a scholar.”
Bowing again, I said, “My shadow is small before the sun of your beauty.”
“You are a physician?”
“That, too. Sometimes a soldier, sometimes a reader of the stars…many things.”
She looked into my eyes and asked, “Ibn-Ibrahim, what do you read in the stars for me?”
And out of me in a voice that scarcely seemed my own, I said, and was surprised by it, “That you shall someday be my wife.”
There was a moment, a moment when neither of us moved or spoke, but simply stared at one another, mutually astonished by the words. It was a moment when time seemed arrested, and then she spoke quietly, “You must look again at your stars, Wanderer, for I fear they have misled you.”
“You go now to Hind?”
“To Anhilwara, to my home.”
“You are a Rajput?”
“My father was, my mother is Persian. Lately, I have visited with her family in Isfahan. Now I return.” Abruptly, she changed the subject. “Did I not hear you were going to the Castle of Alamut? Is it not a fortress of the Assassins?”
“They have many castles.” I gestured toward the north. “There are others in those mountains. Yes, I go at the invitation of Rashid Ad-din Sinan. We shall have much to discuss, I believe.”
“Is it not true that only an Assassin may enter or leave? Are you then an Isma’ili?”
“I am many things, but I take no part in religious disagreements. The technicalities of religion have no place in the mind of Allah. It is the spirit, I think, that is important.”
The Walking Drum (Louis L'Amour's Lost Treasures) Page 39