by Harold Lamb
"Thou art a strange man," she whispered. "V’allah, he, that other, was afraid. I think thy heart is against the Turks."
Charnomar said nothing, but the Circassian seemed to read his silence, because she lifted her head as if making swift decision.
"Surely I prayed; many times. Now I will tell thee who thou art and why—why I prayed."
Drawing her feet beneath her, she rested her chin on her hand.
"Thou art the sword that was sent to me."
Charnomar nearly laughed because it seemed to him that she was playing a game. To feed him, praise him and take money from him. That was what such women did.
"By Allah," he said, "I have no money for thee."
Fleetingly she looked up under the mass of her gleaming hair.
"When did I ask? We have shared the salt, thou and I. And now listen. I prayed for blood vengeance upon Kam Mustafa."
The Cossack had heard that name before. Kara Mustafa was agha of the sipahis, commander of the cavalry of the sultan and more than proud of a reputation for cruelty even among a people that made torture a fine art. He took no prisoners and spared no foeman.
"Two years ago," Ilga said quietly, "the sultan's officers went through our villages, claiming a strong young boy from every family to serve in the army. They took my brother, who was a man grown. Ay, they took me—because Kara Mustafa fancied me. We went down to the sea with them. There was a ship . . . "
She sat, musing upon the happenings of two years ago.
"The ship was crowded with our people of the hills—and Armenians and others. It brought us to Stamboul, and when we were climbing up the steps I ran away. I hid that night in the Jews' quarter under some hides. The Jews were kind and gave me food. Another Circassian woman brought me here, to this place."
Again she fell silent, her eyes fastened on the starlight above the flat roofs of the dwellings.
"Every day I asked for my brother, and after awhile they brought me word of him. The Turks had taken him and stripped off his clothes and thrown him upon the hooks of the wall by the serai gate. I put on a veil and went there with the woman who had sheltered me. It was evening, and they were putting lanterns in the galleries of the minarets. All that day he had hung from two hooks; one had caught in his leg, the other in his stomach. After it was dark I called up to him, and he knew me. But he was nearly mad with pain."
Ilga clasped her hands on the Cossack's knee.
"He cried out that Kara Mustafa tortured him because I had fled, and the agha had not found me again. V’allah! I begged the guards to find Kara Mustafa and make an end of my brother's suffering—the other women going away because of fear. But it was written that my brother should die in that hour. Kara Mustafa is the sword arm of the sultan. And still I, a singing girl, pray that I may see him die, to revenge my brother."
Her eyes blazed suddenly and her hands beat upon Charnomar's knee.
"Now thou hast come in the garments of my people, a swordsman seeking vengeance. If—if I can lead thee to Kara Mustafa wilt thou dare strike him down?"
"The sipahi agha?" Charnomar shook his head gravely, "Eh, little maiden, what talk is this? A lord of the Turks is not to be reached so easily."
"But he seeks me—he searches still, they say. And we—"
"Nay, little Ilga. I was sent to do otherwise."
"We have shared the salt."
"And I am bound to aid another."
The light went out of her face, and she went away silently to the divan. She did not make the late-night prayer; and Charnomar thought she prayed only when the mood was on her. She drew a linen cloak over her and presently her deep, even breathing told him she was asleep.
Charnomar sat in the darkened gallery, filled with the bittersweet scent of aloes and rose leaves, watching the street and the lights below until he dozed, and the distant call of a muezzin roused him to see the yellow eastern sky reflected in the dark waters of the golden horn. Then, without waking the girl, he went from the room, down to the street.
He went that noon, when the throngs in the streets were greatest and suspicion least, to investigate the lower city where the old serai* stood. The sultan now lived in a Summer dwelling upon one of the hills; but the armory and the prison and the quarters of the chief officers were still in the old grounds. Two sides of the rambling walls fronted the sea, and one side toward the city was taken up by the barracks of the sipahis. Charno-mar went and squatted among some pilgrims who rested in the shade of poplars by the main gate. Beyond this first wall was a garden—he could see the lines of elms, and through the foliage the blank white wall and domes of a church.
This church had been used in other years by the emperors who had held this last stronghold of Rome. Then the victorious sultans had made of it a small mosque; and when the serai was abandoned as a palace they had hung its walls with their trophies, the weapons of vanquished kings and warriors, the rapiers and matchlocks of Christendom ranged among the jewel-encrusted shields, the inlaid pistols and the gold filled scimitars of Persia. But chiefest of their trophies was the cage, built by captive metal workers, its bars set into the solid stone flooring of the vault beneath the church.
Here, barred like animals in darkness, were kept the enemies of the sultan, whom he had chief cause to remember. Food was passed in to them through the grating, and the door of the cage was only opened to conduct them out to the blinding iron, or the hooks, or stake. When they died betimes, as often happened, the bodies were thrown over the wall into the sea. And here, Charnomar knew, was Kirdyaga, the Cossack ataman.
*"Palace"; by Italians and others rendered as "seraglio."
By dint of patience and the appearance of good-natured stupidity, he passed the guards of the outer gate. When a Nakshab dervish with a gourd and beggar's staff whined to be allowed to see the courtyard within the gate, Charnomar begged a blessing of the holy man, cursing the guards loudly because they mocked the piety of a man from the East.
The dervish, who had come to beg, fastened himself upon Charnomar until he was pacified with copper and went to squat by the roadway where officials came and went.
"Ya huk—ya hak!" the dervish whined, the cry that is as common as the barking of dogs beyond Stamboul.
And Charnomar wandered within the elms of the roadway, chewing mastic and gazing open-eyed upon the gardeners and the strolling men in silk turbans, and the brown-stained wall of a building where great steel hooks projected from the masonry—hooks turned at every angle to catch a falling body.
He was gazing at the hooks, though he was counting the armed Turks in the portico of the prison church near him, when the dervish's wail increased, and hoofs clattered upon the hard clay of the road. He turned in time to see a cavalcade of riders trot past, led by a man in a gold embroidered khalat and a small turban the color of steel.
"'Way!" cried one of the attendants. "'Way for the Agha Sipahi!"
Kara Mustafa—Black Mustafa—had the high, square shoulders and dark face of an Egyptian. He rode, as if from habit, with his hand resting on the balled hilt of his scimitar. There was power in the broad figure and both intelligence and cruelty in the blunt head that turned slowly from side to side to scan the crowd. Something in the creases about his throat and the beak of a mouth suggested a lizard.
The beggar rose and advanced into the road, making for Kara Mustafa. With the assurance of a pilgrim and the effrontery of one who has nothing to lose by shame, he grasped at the agha's stirrup.
Whether the horse shied at the staff of the dervish, or whether the leader of the sipahis did not choose to be touched by the beggar, the Arab that Kara Mustafa rode flung up its head and swerved. And the instant before it did so, Kara Mustafa drove the point of his iron stirrup into the chest of the dervish.
The agha reined in the startled horse without shifting his seat in the saddle. Nor did he look back. The dervish staggered and dropped his staff.
He fell on his knees, his thin arms wrapped around his body. He coughed and spat bloo
d into the dust of the road.
Some of the sipahis laughed, but the Turks on guard at the church entrance were silent. They had all seen the dervish fall.
Whereupon Charnomar wandered over to the church portico and seated himself upon the lowest of the marble steps, worn smooth by countless feet of other ages.
"A fine horse," he muttered, after the receding dust of the cavalcade.
It would have seemed strange in a Circassian to take more notice of the dervish than the horse.
"Was the rider the sultan?"
One of the Turks grunted and another yawned and spat.
"Nay, the sword arm of the sultan. Who art thou, to ask?"
The mild-looking Circassian pulled at his mustache, his gray eyes jovial.
"A jigit, a rider. Aye, from the sea."
He leaned against a pillar and took from his wallet his short clay pipe and steel and flint.
"It was said to me that an unbeliever would be set upon the stake. Here. I do not see him."
"At sunset, the evening after this one."
"Where is the dog who is to be slain?"
The Turk jerked his head backward.
"Within—aye, within the bars."
"Ah. I have not seen the cage. When I return to my people I would say to them that I have seen the cage."
The Turk shook his head.
"It is not permitted. Go and look at the gaol by the great mosque. Thy people will not know the difference."
Charnomar lighted his pipe and gazed about the garden as if the matter did not concern him overmuch. But he had let the Turk, a hook-nosed swordsman from Albania, see a single gold piece when he replaced the flint and steel. In silence he waited, until the Albanian came and sat beside him.
"The prisoner to go to the stake is a Cossack," the guard whispered. "Bismillah—he is the chieftain of a regiment."
Charnomar looked inquisitive.
"Is the prisoner thine?"
"Nay, he belongs to the rikab aghlalari, who is the master of the stirrup, one of the favorites of the sultan."
Charnomar fixed the name in his mind, while the Albanian pondered.
"Eh," he said, "for a price—for a very little price thou canst see the Cossack. Come to this place at the hour of evening prayer on the morrow. Then will the dog of an infidel be led out."
"V’allah! For nothing at all, an hour later, I could see him at the stake."
"But here we will bind him, and set him face to tail upon a mule, to lead through the streets. That will be a tale to tell in thy village."
"Perhaps." Charnomar looked disappointed. "And yet it is in my mind to see the cage. I am no beggar. I have gold."
Again the soldier hesitated. Punishment in the serai was swift and sure for one who disobeyed an order. But the Circassian seemed guileless and stubborn—and much might be done with gold.
"An order has been given, to find a man with a mule," the guard whispered. "At sunset, tomorrow, come thou to the gate—that one where the dervish squirms. Come thou at the hour I said—and wait. I will do what may be done. But bring a purse with thee."
Charnomar clapped his hand upon his girdle, nodded, and with a whispered "Insh’allah!" stowed away his pipe and, after gazing openly at the weapons of the guard, turned his back upon the portico.
By the time he had left the gate he had wandered over most of the gardens and knew its plan; he had studied the prison church and had noticed one other entrance—a narrow door iron studded and almost certainly kept barred. And he had aroused the greed of one of the guards without drawing suspicion upon himself. He was reasonably sure the Albanian would pass him in to see Kirdyaga, and he meant to bring two horses with him, instead of the mule.
Not until he had decided this did he go in search of the house of the master of the stirrup, to make the attempt to ransom Kirdyaga.
Twenty-four hours later Charnomar made his way through the ever-increasing throngs of the horse market that had once been the forum of Theodosius. There was little buying and selling. The midafternoon sun had baked the mud of the streets and the stench vied with the heat, and the flies were a torment. The Cossack wandered among the traders until he found a wizened Tartar sitting on a sheepskin with his back against the soiled marble block of a pedestal that lacked a column. From the Tartar Charnomar bought two shaggy ponies that looked both evil and ill-used but had a turn of speed and endurance. He knew the breed.
For both ponies he bought bridles and saddles, and he mounted one, leading the other through the alleys to the khan of the Bokharians, a great hostelry for wayfarers that was half a sleeping court and half a stable. Here he fed and watered his beasts, loosened the girths and left them tied. Three hours of sunlight remained, before the time when he was to go to see the cage.
The khan was near the Place of the Girls and Charnomar made his way back to the scene of his meeting with the janissaries. He did not hurry; he even stopped at a weapon seller's stall, and selected a heavy scimitar with a fine edge. He placed this, in its leather sheath, in his girdle.
The weapon seller, who had got his price without much haggling, waxed curious.
"Is not one sword enough?"
"Perhaps. But this night will be the first of the moon of Shawwul, and— who knows—I may have need of the two."
"Verily, the moon of Shawwul begins—aye, and the first of the three holy days."
With the first darkness, when a black thread could no longer be distinguished from a white one, would begin the festival of the Bairam of Ramadan. Already, as Charnomar wandered forth again, merchants were leaving their stalls. Many had put on gleaming robes of crimson and gold; the horses that pressed past him in the dust had caparisonings of white and cloth of silver; through the throngs bobbed the white caps of the dervishes and over the tumult of feet and voices resounded the cry of beggars. The month of fasting was at an end and with the first of the holy days came feasting.
The wisest of the Greeks and Jews were leaving the city, because in the first evening of the great Bairam armed Islam exulted, and a drunken soldier might see fit to try his sword on an unbeliever, and pave his way to Paradise thereby.
But Charnomar, wearing openly his two swords, seemed perfectly happy as he sought out the coffee house where Ilga the Circassian had told him she sang in the afternoon. He went down the steps into the cool gloom where the figures sitting against the wall sipped noisily at their bowls and argued in whispers. A boy dressed as a Mamluk stood at the entrance and sprinkled him with rose water, and Charnomar tossed the boy, who expected copper, a silver coin.
"Giaba," he cried at the proprietor, snapping his fingers.
Should not a warrior from the hills, on the eve of a festival, buy coffee for all his companions in merriment? And for himself he had brandy in the coffee.
"Eh," he said to the gloom at large, "where is the music—where is the singer?"
"By and by," explained the Turk who was master of the place, "the fiddles will play, and there will be the shadow puppet show."
"Nay, bring out a singing girl."
"The bayadere? She sings only for the chelabilar, the lords!"
"Allah! Am I not a personage?" Charnomar smiled, laying his hands on his two sword hilts, and the Turk waddled off into the curtains. When he returned, Ilga appeared behind him, and the sipping and whispering ceased, because her face, unveiled beneath the tawny hair, drew their eyes instantly. And even in the haze of smoke they recognized beauty.
"The Yataghan!" Charnomar cried. "The song of the sword that whispered!"
"He is a little drunk," the Turk admonished her, "but he is a man of thy hills—"
"O son of a bath tender," laughed Charnomar, "I am very drunk, and I will give gold to this singer. Go back to thy sitting place!"
Ilga saluted him, sinking gracefully upon her knee, but her eyes under the long lashes were both eager and disturbed.
"Nay," Charnomar insisted, "sit by me, here! Am I not the one to pay? Knowest thou the song? Thus it begins."
<
br /> Reaching out his long arm he took from her the three-stringed lute, and swept his powerful fingers across it. She lifted her head and nodded.
My sword is rusty and the blade is dull—
Her full, soft voice swelled and sank in the wild and yet sad measure of the Circassian song. And when she had made an end, he called for coffee to be served her, his fingers still wandering over the lute. Fifty pairs of eyes were upon them.
"Are not the gates open?" she said under her breath. "Ai, in a little while it will be sundown, and the beginning of the festival. Before then, thou must go!"
"Why?" Charnomar wondered aloud. "Verily, by Allah, this is a splendid city, and soon the cannon will fire, and the minarets be lighted!"
To mark the hour of sunset, he had heard that guns would thunder from the forts. To mark the eve of the holy day, lanterns would be hung in the galleries of the towers.
To the watchers it appeared beyond doubt that the wide-shouldered Circassian had had too much of raki and coffee.
"And why hast thou come to this place?" she demanded softly.
"To say farewell to thee," he whispered, and then raised his voice again. "For the sight of thee is pleasing to me. O little pigeon of the loft, I will sing of thy charms. Aye, one by one. First of thy sun gold hair—"
Some of the watchers smiled and resumed their talk. With an exclamation Ilga snatched the lute from him, and picked up the bowl of steaming black juice that had been set before her on a wooden platter.
"O fool!" she cried aloud, and then almost inaudibly, "I know now who thou art. Aye, a Cossack—an unbeliever and friend of the unbelievers. At the time of the late afternoon prayer, yesterday, thou wert at the house of the master of the stirrup, talking with his treasurer. To him thou gavest a great sum in jewels, for the ransom of a Cossack prisoner, saying that thou wert sent by the brotherhood of the Cossacks. Is not the tale true?"
"It is thy tale, Charnomar smiled. "Say on!"
"The servant of the treasurer told it in the Kislar Dar, and it was related to me—that a heedless Circassian hath acted as the emissary of the Cossacks."
"Then," Charnomar mused, "the servants of the master of the stirrup do not know who I am?"