We slept the night in a clearing among trees where a cold stream ran down from the mountains, a curious little stream that crept suspiciously from the rocks, looked inquiringly this way and that, then deciding all was well, plunged gaily over the brink of a small declivity to water a few acres of grass where larkspur, lavender, and some pink tufts bloomed.
We put together a small fire of dead willows which had no business growing there, roasted mutton on skewers, and ate chapaties while watching the ridges and the trail. We saw the ridges turn to flame as the sun slid down the sky.
“Over there”—Khatib pointed toward the Caspian and Mazanderan—“was where the Persian hero Rustum rode his fabulous horse, Raksh, when he went to slay the White Demon. He slew armies with his single sword and fought for two days with Asfandiyar. He fatally wounded Asfandiyar with an arrow provided by the bird, Simugh.”
“I have read of it in the Shahnamah.”
“Ah? I had forgotten you knew Firdausi. Over there,” he continued, “is where the bird Simurgh carried the baby Zal to his nest to protect it. Zal was the father of Rustum.”
“I can believe it.”
“There is mystery, too. There are treasures here. Over there is a mound that covers an ancient city. I have myself picked up shards of ancient pottery and once a marble hand. Allah, how beautiful it was! I carried it with me for years and valued it greatly. At lonely times I took it from my sash and looked upon it, feeding my soul with its beauty. I was never alone when I had the hand.”
“What became of it?”
“A prince took it from me, saying it was too beautiful for one such as I. Do not the poor also love beauty?”
He glanced at me suddenly. “It is whispered, Kerbouchard, that you have second sight. Is it true?”
“What is second sight? A gift? A training? Or is it simply that suddenly within the brain a thousand impressions, ideas, sights, sounds, and smells coincide to provide an impression of what is to be?
“The mind gathers its grain in all fields, storing it against a time of need, then suddenly it bursts into awareness, which men call inspiration or second sight or a gift.”
Khatib raked the coals together and banked them against a cold dawn. The chill had grown, and the gorges lay in darkness while the ridges were threads of scarlet in a tapestry of shadow, clinging to the last of the sun’s beauty, reluctant to yield their transient beauty to the night.
“The mind is a basket,” Khatib said, “if you put nothing in, you get nothing out.”
“It is a time for sleep,” I said, “not for philosophy.”
Khatib huddled in his burnoose. “I bless Allah that I ride with you, Kerbouchard. You are indeed a hero, the equal of Rustum.”
“If you think that, watch me on Alamut, for I shall have fear for a companion.”
“Aye, and he is brave, indeed, who fears but does what must be done despite it. You will do what you must, with reason to live, for there is always Sundari.”
Ah…Sundari, where now was Sundari?
52
THE MOUNTAIN OF Alamut, they say, resembles a kneeling camel with its neck stretched out on the ground. Deep ravines cut the rock on which the castle was situated from the surrounding mountains, leaving the castle itself virtually impregnable.
The entrance to the valley that was the approach to Alamut was hidden by a fold of the mountain in such a manner that a traveler might easily pass by without seeing the opening at all.
Riding into this valley, we came to a lovely meadow and drew up under the willows. This was the meadow of Bagh Dasht, the Garden of the Desert, and a truly beautiful spot, with the great wall of the Rock of Alamut rising above it.
We tied our horses with their heel ropes, squatted in the shade of the poplars along the stream, and ate our small meal in silence.
No doubt we had been observed, but they must be puzzled as to how we had reached this point. The trail over which we had come had long been abandoned, forgotten before the Castle was built. Had the Isma’ili known of its existence, there would have been a watchtower there, or they would have destroyed it entirely.
These mountains were crisscrossed with ancient trails, old before the time of Alexander the Great. At a far distant time caravans had wended their way from Persia to the Merv Oasis and on to Turkestan and Cathay itself. The Assassins had been in the Elburz Mountains scarcely one hundred years, mere visitors by mountain standards.
Khatib knew what he must do, no simple task, his success depending on what he knew of the mountains.
“They will not catch me, Kerbouchard,” he said. “My mother came from Daylam, and her people live yonder.” A nod indicated the direction. “When you shall go I shall disappear, and the hour will be sundown.
“In three nights I shall be here, at this point.” He drew a trail in the dust. “I shall come here each night after that, and wait one hour after midnight. If you wish to come to me, you will know where I will be.”
In my pack I hid the strong but slender rope for which I had asked Khatib, and in my saddlebags were the white crystals taken from the manure and the walls of stables. The other things needed were there also.
Along the stream where I had walked I gathered various herbs and some bark. This it had long been my custom to do, for from these came medicines used in my practice. Following the profession of physician as little as I had, it was rare that these were necessary, but a few remedies were always at hand.
There was a story remembered from Córdoba told me when I was myself studying medicine. It was a tale told of Jivaka, the personal physician of Bimbisara, of Magadha.
Jivaka, who became the greatest medical expert of his time, was sent by the emperor to attend Buddha during an illness. Jivaka was a foundling, the child of a courtesan of Rajagriha, thrown out on a dust heap to die. Found by Prince Abhaya, the son of Bimbisara, Jivaka studied medicine at Taxila, the greatest university in the world at the time. Before being allowed to graduate he was told to go out and find a plant within several miles of Taxila that was of no use to a physician. After a long search, Jivaka returned, saying he could find no plant without medicinal value. He was then graduated and given a little money with which to begin his practice.
Khatib, according to plan, picketed the horses out of sight among the willows, then lay down under his burnoose. The position he chose was at the edge of the shade, and when I glanced around a few minutes later, the burnoose still lay there but Khatib was gone. With him had gone our horses.
* * *
—
IDLY, I WANDERED along the stream gathering herbs in full view of the walls of Alamut, but when the shadows grew longer I gathered the burnoose from the ground and started toward the gate and my rendezvous with destiny.
From now on I must live from minute to minute, prepared to move quickly as opportunity offered. My mouth was dry, my stomach hollow. I was going into the very jaws of the enemy. And my father? What of him? Would he be fit for travel? Would I see him soon?
The Castle of Alamut had been built three hundred years before, and I had studied the history of Sallami in which he described the building of the Castle, and how each entry and exit had been built with double gates, massive oaken gates with straps of iron. Having entered the first gate, one crossed a small court to the second, vulnerable to attack from above. The second gate was as strong as the first.
The rooms of the Castle had been carved from solid rock. Long galleries had been constructed, and beneath them were tanks in which were stored wine, vinegar, and honey. A moat led halfway around the Castle, and the river guided into it. Beneath the Castle great tanks had been carved from the rock for the storage of water against a time of siege.
As I went up to the gates, they swung inward, and I went through and heard them clang shut behind me. A chill went up my spine. There would be no turning back now.
A dozen
soldiers were there, lean, well-built men armed with pikes and swords. An officer came up to me.
“Where is your slave?”
“Who?” I appeared puzzled. It was still not quite dark, and Khatib would need every second.
“Your servant. The man who was with you?”
“Oh? A good man with horses, a likely man.”
“Where is he?” The officer was almost shouting.
“You are unduly excited about a mere hireling, a man of no consequence. Nor do I like your tone.”
“Where is he?” The officer grasped my arm.
Jerking my arm free, I stepped back and put my hand on my sword. “If you have not learned how to address a visitor,” I said, “you can be taught.”
In an instant I was surrounded by leveled pikes, but before another move could be made, a voice said, “Bring ibn-Ibrahim to my quarters, Abdul.”
Abruptly, the officer turned away, his face taut with fury. Pikemen fell in about me. If I needed no more, this assured me I was a prisoner.
My venture attempted, and lost already. Or had I? No man is lost while yet he lives.
That voice!
It struck me suddenly. I knew that voice! Who could it be? Not Sinan, for I had never known him.
The room to which I was shown was long. At one end was a low table. Two guards stood at the door, one stood at either end of the table.
There had been no move to deprive me of my weapons, nor was I sure how I would have reacted had such a move been made.
As I moved, my eyes and ears were busy. Somewhere near was my father, and somewhere a secret tunnel that admitted one to a mysterious valley in the mountains. Or so I had heard.
Darkness had fallen. As I was seating myself, I heard the gate clang shut and the sound of horses’ hooves on the paved court.
Had they found Khatib? Not if I knew him. Given the start he had, he would be hidden by now, and not far away.
Yet every time he returned to the meadow he would be in danger.
Despair welled up within me. What could I do? Wherever my eyes turned there were guards, lean and savage men, fanatically devoted to the Old Man of the Mountain.
The door opened, and a man stepped in, standing in a shadow. He paused, taking my measure.
“It has been a long time, Kerbouchard.”
So much for my assumed identity. With that sentence, ibn-Ibrahim died.
He stepped into the light then, and I took a half-step and stopped, frozen in astonishment.
Mahmoud!
Yet a Mahmoud who had changed. He had grown heavier; his features had coarsened, his eyes were harder.
“Yes,” I agreed, “it has been a long time.”
He gestured to a seat, and I crossed my legs and sat on a cushion, careful to arrange my sword so the hilt was ready for my grasp. He noticed it, and smiled.
“The sword is of no use, Kerbouchard. I have a thousand armed men. You can make no move unless I wish it.”
“I understood you were in the service of Prince Ahmed?”
“That fool! He dismissed me.”
“What did you do? Try to approach Aziza?”
His face mottled with anger, and I knew what I surmised was true. Mahmoud had believed her flirting with him when she was recognizing me, in Córdoba.
He had been a vain, weak man then. He was older now, infinitely stronger, yet a vain man still, perhaps a weak man still.
“It does not matter,” he said smugly, “they are dead.”
“Dead?”
His teeth bared in what was intended for a smile, but there was too much hatred in it. “I had them killed. Prince Ahmed first…it was done in the street with a poisoned dagger.”
That Mahmoud was malicious I well knew, that he would stoop to this I would not have believed. It was an indication that I had much to learn about human nature. Or inhuman nature. Judging the change in Mahmoud and my own position, I had best revise my thinking, and suddenly.
Caution…I must be very cautious.
“You can order a man’s death? Or did you give Sinan a reason for having him killed?”
“Al-Zawila can order anyone killed”—he looked at me coolly—“anyone at all.”
“Who is al-Zawila?”
He smiled condescendingly. “I am al-Zawila.”
Mahmoud…al-Zawila!
My eyes, I hoped, showed nothing.
“You have heard of me?”
“Nothing that matters,” I replied, “just a mention of the name here and there. When Alamut is mentioned, your name comes up.”
He was pleased, I could see that. The man had always been vain. It was something to remember.
“Do you know why you are here?”
“I was told Sinan wished to talk with me.” Pausing, I wondered. Did Sinan even know I was here? Certainly, within hearing there must be spies. “I am an alchemist, a physician. I hoped to talk to him, for his interests are widely known.”
Mahmoud’s smile was not pleasant. “He cannot be disturbed by such as you. He does not know you are here. In fact, I brought you here for a particular reason, and because you are a physician and a surgeon.
“After all”—he smiled warmly—“we can be friends, can we not? We had a good many talks, you and I, and I miss them.”
For a moment I almost believed him. We had had long talks, many of them, of all the things young men with ideas talk about. His trouble had always been that he wished to know, but he did not want to go through the struggle of learning.
“You could be valuable here. As for Sinan, he is busy with other things.”
“I would like that,” I said, “this is an interesting place.”
“It is the strongest fortress on earth,” he boasted. “Nobody could capture it. Many have tried, and there was one who led his troops to destroy Alamut, but one morning he awoke to find a dagger thrust into the earth beside his bed. A note pinned by the dagger reminded him it could as easily have been in his heart. That man led his army back where they had come from.”
“I should like to meet Sinan.”
He dismissed the idea with a gesture. “He is much too busy. You are my concern, and mine only.” He smiled in a friendly fashion. “You can be of help to me, Kerbouchard. I sent for you because I knew with what respect some of the best physicians in Córdoba held your knowledge of medicine.”
“Do you need a physician?”
“Not I…another. A favorite slave. You would not refuse me, I am sure?”
“There is the oath of Hippocrates. I would never refuse anyone aid.”
“Good!” He got to his feet abruptly, for we had eaten as we talked. “You have ridden far. We will talk in the morning.”
I was shown to my sleeping quarters, and my saddlebags and pack were there before me.
The door closed, and I heard the bolt of the massive lock click home. Feet grated on the stone of the passage outside. Locked in, and a guard posted.
Quickly, I went to my pack and opened it. The rope was gone!
So then, I was trapped.
The room in which my pallet lay opened upon an inner court. There was no window to the outside wall of the fortress, and had there been, it would have been to no avail, for we were too high above the ground. Nor would there be any scaling of the rock face as I had done in Spain. Mahmoud must know of that, for it was he who betrayed me into prison.
The change in Mahmoud worried me. He was sure of himself now, for he had a handle on power. He was stronger because of it, and more dangerous. Whatever was in his mind for me could be nothing but evil. At every moment I must be on guard against him.
First, however, I must find my father and where he was kept. Also, I must discover the routine of the changes of the guards and if there was another way of escape from Alamut. Somehow I must l
et my father know that I was here, for he would know the situation here better than I, and he would have been thinking of escape.
Al-Zawila had been torturing my father, and now I knew why. My father had suffered because of Mahmoud’s hatred of me.
Carefully, I examined my position. Sinan apparently knew nothing of my presence. Suppose Sinan could be made to know? Might not Sinan be interested in my knowledge of alchemy? All alchemists, everywhere, had interests in common and often shared ideas or chemical methods.
Al-Zawila, I suddenly recalled, was a place on the coast of Africa. Mahmoud must have come from there. That knowledge would not help, but it made the picture a little clearer. He was, I suspected, a Berber. The Berber relationship with the Arab had been tentative, at best. I must think, think!
The guards here? Berber? Probably not. This was Persia, so the guards were likely to be Persian, Arab, or some other Central Asiatic people.
Nothing could be lost by informing Sinan of my presence, and it was a rare ruler indeed who liked things done without his knowledge. Mahmoud al-Zawila was not serving his master now, but himself.
The favorite slave who needed treatment? Was there such? Or was it a mere trick? Once I had treated the slave, if such there was, then I could be eliminated or enslaved myself.
Blowing out my candle, I went to the window and looked down into the court. A flaring torch showed me a quadrangle of pavement and the castle around it. There were gate towers, and a movement there warned me that there would be guards in the towers, perhaps walking the wall.
Torchlight reflected on the armor of a man standing guard at a door. Such a guard might be posted outside the apartments of Sinan. Of course, it might be a storehouse, an armory, or the entrance to a treasure room.
Somewhere among this hive of rooms and passages was the entrance to that secret valley of which rumor whispered.
Such was the fear of the Old Man’s Assassins that kings of the East paid tribute, and those who incurred his displeasure died.
Nor was there any place of safety to which such a one might flee, neither a mosque, the center of an army, nor the presence of a priest or king could save the victim from the poisoned daggers of the Assassins. Doped with hashish and promises of paradise if they died in the Old Man’s service, they were absolutely fearless and heedless of their lives. Many died, but rarely before murdering the man they had been sent to kill.
The Walking Drum (Louis L'Amour's Lost Treasures) Page 41