by Harold Lamb
"Hai, Little Father!" Ayub grunted. "Don't cut—thrust him under the arm."
Stuart drew back his scimitar as the soldier with a convulsive effort discharged his pistol toward Ayub. But the ball went wide, although the spraying powder blackened the Cossack's cheek. Then, seeing death inevitable, the Turk turned his eyes up and dropped his knife.
Instead of thrusting him through, the Scot pulled the trooper's scimitar from its sheath in his girdle, and with it cut the ropes that bound Ayub's wrists.
"Take one sword—here!" he cried. "Now cut these cords."
When the Cossack had sliced the leather thongs from his throbbing wrists, Stuart wasted no second of precious time upon the Turk. Instead, he turned back and galloped to the white Arab that had regained its feet and was standing near Zain ad-Din. The pacer snorted and sprang away at his coming, but in another moment suffered itself to be caught. He drew the dangling rein over his arm, wiped the blood from his eye and shouted to Ayub to ride toward the river.
A glance over his shoulder showed him that the guards at the gate of the camp were running about and pointing toward him. Behind him, from the grove whence the janissaries had been drawn by the sound of fighting, a pistol roared, and the ball whipped past him, over his head.
He urged the spotted horse on to the river, drawing up to the Cossack, whose horse was stumbling badly. The Turkish trooper lay huddled as if sleeping in the high grass, and Ayub was wiping clean his blade with his foe's turban cloth. Riders—sipahis with lances—were galloping out of the gate, but the river was less than a quarter mile away and at the far bank the Tartars who had been spectators of the fighting were watching expectantly.
Stuart slowed the spotted horse to keep pace with the winded stallion.
"Why didn't you ride off as we agreed?" he demanded of the Cossack.
"Eh, why did you turn back into the agha? Impossible to ride off and leave a comrade to fight three Turks! They'd have cut you down. Hai— you went into Zain ad-Din like a Cossack!"
Ayub struck his horse with the flat of his blade and galloped headlong into the stream without pausing to look for fords. Rising in his stirrups, he shouted at the Tartars.
"Hi, ye men of the Krim! We are ambassadors to the khan!"
Chapter VIII Diplomatic Truth
Arak Buka, Khan of all the Hordes, descendant of Mohammed, Lord of the Krim, and Master of Bagche Serai, sat on his heels and looked with pleasure at what lay before him. Two antelopes, a young panther and a black marten lay outstretched in front of the pavilion opening, and they had fallen to Arak Buka's bow that morning. The khan was seventy and six years of age, his black eyes gleamed out of a mass of wrinkles, and the hair hidden by the black velvet cap was white, but he could still sit in the saddle from sun to sun and bring down beasts with his hunting bow.
More than hunting, he relished leading the Horde afield, as he had done for half a century. True, the ordus were commanded by his four sons and some twoscore grandsons; but not one of his offspring would have dreamed of defying the authority of that thin and aged veteran. A dozen of them in gold-trimmed khalats sat behind him, and behind them were grouped as many mirzas—officers of high birth—and beyond them the slaves who hastened to bring snow-cooled wine to the carpet of the khan, who munched sunflower seeds and hemp as he contemplated the result of his morning's hunt.
"Take them—thou and thou—" he nodded to four officers who rose and hastened to press their heads to the carpet at his knees at this signal favor.
Then, because the aged khan watched them, the four mirzas hurried to pick up the game, and carry the carcasses off on their own shoulders.
The khan chewed on his string of hemp, his eyes closed.
Only one thing marred his content. His brother, the sultan of the Ottomans, Lord of Stamboul,* had sent a strong force of infantry, with a dozen cannon and some regiments of supporting cavalry, to aid him in the new war upon the unbelievers. And this division was commanded by a certain Kapitan Pasha who was a notable leader upon the sea. In fact, this right-hand officer of the sultan had spent most of his life on galleys and had matched his strength against the Barbary pashas.
But it was clear to the khan, although he kept his own counsel about it, that this captain general of the Turks knew little about handling cavalry. Murad Pasha had come with his galleys more than once to besiege the coast cities of the Krim, but Arak Buka did not hold this against him. That had been the war of brothers—and what would life be without war?
Murad Pasha now demanded that the khan advance at once with his cavalry division and the Turkish infantry division, across the steppe while the snow roads were still good. That was very well for infantry, but it would be hard for the horses.
The khan was willing enough to march into Poland, and for the time being he was at peace with his brother, the sultan, but Murad's insistence made him angry. His horses were not in condition for such a march. So he had assembled some fifteen thousand of the Krim riders and occupied himself with hunting, fully determined not to move north until he was ready, Murad Pasha and all the Turks to the contrary.
While he chewed drowsily upon the hemp, a shaven mullah stand-
Constantinople.
ing beside him reading aloud verses from the Koran, the khan's eye was caught by a mailed figure that dismounted a stone's throw from the wide entrance of his sitting pavilion, and advanced toward him, kneeling outside the ropes. He held up his hand and the mullah ceased reading. He nodded, and the bearded Tartar who held a spear across his knees as he stood by the entrance—and by that token was officer of the day's guard— cried out to the messenger—
"Speak!"
The man lifted his hands to his helmet and bent his head to the ground. Then, still upon his knees, he cried out:
"Two Franks have come to the ordu. O Khan of the Horde, O sayyid, O Pole of the Faith, and Lord of Krim, these Franks are envoys from Poland."
A murmur of whispering filled the pavilion, and Arak Buka opened his eyes.
"What dogs are these? Is it not known that I have lifted my standard for war? Send them away."
The messenger bent his head.
"I have heard. And yet, O Lord my khan, they have with them a letter. Will the Soul of the Krim see the letter?"
Slowly the bony jaws of the aged man resumed their chewing, and his eyelids drooped.
"What is a letter brought by dogs? Have they gifts?"
"Naught have they but their horses, good horses. Their coming was in this manner: They were riding across the plain with three Turks, and then they were seen to fight with the Turks, of whom all three were left on the ground. Then they turned their heads toward the river which is the boundary of our camp. They have also," the methodical Tartar added, "another good horse, taken from the Turkish officer."
Arak Buka stopped chewing, and his thin fingers caressed a worn gold bracelet upon his wrist under the gray silk sleeve. He was still a splendid figure, and he had all the fire of impetuosity and recklessness with an insatiable desire for gifts and spoil.
"Do ambassadors fight like leopards?" he said. "Let the horses be led before me."
When the Tartars of the guard were running up with the leg-weary beasts, two black-robed attendants hastened up the slope to the pavilion entrance. They carried staffs, and they wore turbans with crowns like sugar loaves,
and they cried out loudly—
"The Master of the Stirrup of the Pasha comes to the footstool of the Majesty of the Krim!"
Behind the wand-bearers advanced a Turkish officer with an ermine-bordered cloak, worn upon one shoulder, behind him other officers. They salaamed deeply, breathing heavily from the haste of their coming, and the khan's fine eyes looked at them with some surprise.
"O Lord of Bagche Serai," the Master of the Stirrup cried, "we beg that thy generosity will give into our hands the captives who escaped from an agha of the sultan."
Arak Buka had been looking over the horses, and his eye lingered on the big wolf-chaser and
wandered to the white Arabian.
"There is blood on that one," he observed.
The Master of the Stirrup stepped forward.
"Aye, by Allah, the blood of a believer. That is the agha's horse."
Again Arak Buka looked at the brand mark on the pacer's flank, and something seemed to puzzle him. Finally he spat out the hemp and handed it to the nearest mullah to eat, as a sign of favor.
"By Allah, there is too much talk," he grumbled. "If the Franks are indeed ambassadors, they were sent to me. Let them come before me."
The assemblage of Turks bowed, to hide their anger. They had not been invited within the shade of the pavilion where the Tartars sat at ease on the carpets, and the sun did not improve their mood.
When Duncan Stuart and Ayub were escorted to the pavilion entrance by spearmen of the guard, there was utter silence. Many of the Krim lords had never seen a man like the Scot. He had had neither time nor means to clean the dried blood from his head and cheek, and Ayub's shaggy countenance was black with powder. Their swords had been taken by the guards. But they stood erect, half a head taller than the largest of the Turks.
After Arak Buka had considered them awhile, he asked for the letter that had been sent him, and Ayub interpreted to Stuart. The Scot felt under his belt and drew out the square of parchment folded many times. Slowly he opened this, and when he stepped forward, two Tartars sprang to catch and hold him by the shoulders. They led him to the carpet of the khan and motioned him to place the missive at Arak Buka's knees.
This he did, and the aged Tartar gazed at it curiously.
"Read!" he commanded.
A long-robed mullah picked up the parchment, studied the seal and shook his head. He handed it to another who fingered his beard in silence. A third reader of the Koran announced that it was not written in Arabic, or Syriac, or Turkish, or even Greek.
"Read it thyself!" the khan commanded Stuart, and Ayub prompted his friend.
The Scot took the missive and looked into the dark eyes of the master of the Krim.
"This is the message, O Khan of the Horde," he explained slowly.
To thee gives greeting Sigismund of Poland. Long has there been peace between the Commonwealth and the Krim; nor is there now any cause for conflict between them. Many enemies has Poland, and long has the Commonwealth been at war.
The eagles of Poland are strong, their wings untiring. They will rise from the conflict as they have done before, victorious, and they will drive the spoilers again beyond their country. The foes of the eagles will count their dead and grieve— as they have done before.
Not of his own will does the khan of the Krim move to war, but at the will of the Ottoman sultan. Is the khan a peregrine falcon, to be hooded by a master and loosed at game when the master pleases? It was not so in the day of Tamerlane when the Golden Horde were lords of the steppe.
Is the khan less than his ancestors? Is—he indeed a blind falcon, not seeing that the hand that feeds him takes his prey from him. The Ottoman sultan looks upon him as a servant and sends commands to him by an officer. Let the khan consider and act wisely.
When Ayub had translated the last word there was a general silence. Never before had the Tartars listened to such an exhortation by Chris-tians—and Stuart's eloquence lost nothing in Ayub's vivid rendering. The mullahs muttered together, for they had been preaching a holy war against the Franks, and the apparition of two wounded envoys was not to their liking. The few Turks who understood looked astonished.
The aged khan, kneeling on the green carpet of the dais, lifted a finger to his lips and meditated, while he fixed the words in his memory.
"I have heard the message of the khan of the Christians," he said calmly.
"Now I will hear how the message was brought to me, to this place."
And when the Cossack turned to Stuart, he added curtly—
"Let the Kazak speak and the young officer be silent."
He closed his eyes expectantly, and the two boy slaves who moved the feather fans behind his head became very attentive, for the old Tartar was never so alert as when he pretended to doze; they knew this to their cost.
Ayub thrust his hands into his girdle and looked around at the rows of thin, dark faces that stared up at him without expression. It had been easy to interpret Stuart's message, but what was he to say? His throat was dry with dust, and there was nothing in his head but pain. Behind set teeth Ayub cursed all ambassadors and all the Poles. He was no fox to beguile a multitude with tricks.
"O ye men of Krim," he said hoarsely, "since when have ye suffered envoys to stand like foundered horses, without wine to cool their throats? Spirits are better than wine."
They stirred restlessly, because to offer food or drink was to acknowledge strangers as guests. A bearded mirza whispered to Arak Buka and then signed to a cup-bearer, who poured white liquid into a deep bowl and came forward to the Cossack. Ayub took it in his hands and sniffed. The bowl was filled with distilled spirits mixed with mare's milk. He stroked down his mustaches, and lifted it joyfully, booming forth—
"Health to ye!"
He handed the silver vessel back to the cup-bearer, who hastened to fill it again and offer it. It was a custom of the Krim to refrain from offering wine until a guest made a sign that he wished no more, but Ayub was not aware of this.
"Health to ye!"
Again he lifted the silver bowl, and again he emptied it with deep swallows without lowering it. A murmur rose from the watchers. The guests in the khan's presence were expected to drink down all that was offered them, and not to do so was to slight the hospitality of the Krim. But this giant emptied bowls as if they were cups.
Ayub felt Stuart's eyes upon him questioningly, and he gave voice to his trouble.
"Sir Brother, the khan has commanded you to be silent, and me to explain how that writing was brought."
"Tell the truth," the Scot responded quickly, and then Ayub saw before him the cup-bearer again, holding out the silver bowl.
"Well," he muttered, "our fate is near, and 'tis better to have this milk vodka under our belts."
His own girdle irked him, and he loosened it, then gripped the vessel and drank it down, more slowly this time, and the Tartar servant looked into it and held it upside down, to show the watchers that for the third time it was empty.
The Cossack's heart began to beat strongly, and heat crept into all his veins. Spreading his feet wide, he looked around at the assemblage, surprised because the lines of faces had merged into a dark mass. He shook his head, and the mass began to revolve slowly about the tent pole. And, staring at the great gilded pole, Ayub fancied that it also was turning upon its axis. He had eaten nothing for two days and had drunk down enough of the fermented milk and pure spirits to make a bullock reel.
"No more!"
He heard Stuart's voice, blurred, as if from a distance, and he shook his head to quiet the throbbing in his ears. He began to speak and found that all hoarseness had left his voice. In fact, it carried to the lines of the outer guards, and filled the tent with its roar.
"O Lord of the Krim, Eagle of the Steppe, Master of all the Hordes, this is how the letter was brought. We were many, and we had many wagons filled with gold to be brought to thee, and a prince and a White Beard to repeat to thee the words of the Christian king. Aye, ten thousand pieces of gold and other gifts that would have filled this yurt."
Ayub waved a stalwart arm in a sweeping circle.
"The jackals that hunt beyond thy gate, the gully-lurking jackals, the Nogais, came upon us without warning and slew and seized, and we twain are all that lived when the swords of the Nogais were sheathed."
And he related the details of their ride through the storm and hiding in the village of their foes.
"And why did these jackals tear us? It is true that the Turks sent gold and an officer to lead them against us. Nay, the kites are fattening upon the body of that officer! And what did the dogs of Turks do then? When we had entered thy gate, they sho
t down thy men, our escort."
He told how Zain ad-Din had come up to the mirza, and how the Tartars had died, and it seemed to him that the throbbing in his ears became a roar. In fact, scores of the listeners were upon their feet, some crying out in anger, and some—the mullahs and the Turks among them—mocking him. These were in the majority and their shouts drowned his voice.
"Proof, let there be proof!"
"What lies are these? The giaour was sent hither with lies!"
"To the stake with the Nazarenes!"
"Ho, ye Muslimin, is a snake to creep among us? Strike him with steel. This is no envoy."
In all the clamor one word penetrated to the Cossack's understanding.
"Proof!" he roared above the tumult.
He stretched his arms out and pulled back his long sleeves. "Look, ye Muslimin! Were these scars made by a girl's bracelet?"
His swollen wrists and the torn and matted sores on his hairy forearms were mute testimony to the ropes that had bound him.
"Will ye have proof?" he went on when the outcry had dwindled because the watchers had become curious. "Then ask the men of the Horde who were watering at the river and saw us beat down the Turks with their own weapons. Ask them what weapons were in our hands! And then send riders on swift horses, back to the road at the oak forest, and bid them dig up and bring before the khan the bodies of his men."
There was silence then, because Ayub had spoken in the presence of the khan, of Tartars who had been killed by the sultan's men, and every listener bent forward to hear what the old chieftain might be pleased to say.
Arak Bukas opened his eyes and, without paying any attention to Ayub, signed to the Turkish Master of the Stirrup to come forward, and a way was opened for the officer who flung back his dolman and salaamed low, remaining on his knees.
"Is it true," asked Arak Buka, "what thou didst say at first, that these Christians are the prisoners of the sultan?"
"May Allah be my witness, it is true."