by Harold Lamb
In spite of their separation into tribal groups, the Kurds had preserved certain characteristics—of pride in race and courage, in their mutual preservation of the old Aryan tongue. They had not intermixed with the peoples beyond the mountains. And they had defended their mountain citadel against militant peoples of the lowlands, the Assyrians, Parthians, Greeks, and Romans. In more modern times they had resisted the advances of the Persians and Arabs, the formidable Mongols of Genghis Khan, and the warriors of the last great Asiatic empire, the Turks.
Now they had only folk memories of the eternal fire of earth and their earlier reverence for the distant fire of the sun. They had kept, however, their romantic notions. While they had deteriorated in what was called civilization, they had retained the pattern of their impulses.
"A case of enduring childhood. Mentally, these fellows have retrogressed to teen age. They still sing chantfables of derring-do and torture and love. The trouble is that they have formed the habit of acting out their childish ideas. There's a word for that sort of thing, Michele."
"Exhibitionists."
"Yes. The outer peoples used to live in fear of Kurdish raids, so the tribes around here play the part of raiders and romantic lovers."
"Of Lochinvars and Valentino shaikhs." Michal nodded gravely. "And women still like that sort of acting, even if scientists don't."
Jacob remembered how Mullah Ismail had marched his followers through Riyat, like medieval crusaders. Sir Clement weighed Michal's words delicately.
"Yes, my dear, you might say that these tribesmen are survivals of the mentality of Arthur's Round Table. And their women do seem to be content with the situation as it is."
" 'White hands cling to the bridle rein,' " murmured Michal, and the elderly scholar glanced at her pensively.
Jacob reflected that these mountains had formed the hinterland of three eighteenth-century empires, the Persian, Turkish, and Russian. Under the shahs and the tsars and the sultans, such as Abdul Hamid, the Kurds had not been molested, but they had been reached by no missionaries or archaeologists from the outer world. They had followed their own design for living.
Michal seemed to read his mind. "Then came modern industrialists to drill for oil, and—no more Kurdistan," she put in. "It would be so inconvenient to have a Kurdish nation formed in this beautiful hinterland over such fine strategic oil deposits. The Kurds haven't any use for oil except to burn it in their lamps, and we have."
"And I'm afraid there are minerals too," murmured Sir Clement.
"And so Mullah Ismail goes marching forth to defend his hills against the artillery of civilization which will kill a lot of his people and probably disturb my garden, and we three intelligentsia can do nothing about it."
Sir Clement made no answer.
Realizing that the orientalist had said all that he intended to, Jacob produced the copy of Spengler, showing him the inscription on the title page signed by the single letter W.
"Did you ever see this handwriting before, Sir Clement?" he asked.
A gleam came into the dark eyes. "Vasstan!"
The name told Jacob much, and he was not surprised when Sir Clement told the inquisitive Michal that she had been born too late to know Vasstan. When Jacob called his attention to the word Araman, and explained Daoud's argument about it and his own guesswork, Sir Clement merely turned the pages of the copy of Spengler.
"Your reasoning is quite excellent, Mr. Ide," he murmured. "However, your premise may be entirely wrong. Araman may not be the name of a place."
"What else could it be?"
"There is no way of telling. Westerners have a habit of thinking too much of places in Asia. It has been so always. The lure of the unknown, you know. Cathay, the mythical land of Prester John, and more recently Tibet. I can remember when Tibet was popular in causeries, filled with mysterious lamaseries and snow peaks and esoteric ideas. The theosophists made much of it, did they not?"
Abandoning the Spengler, he picked up the winged horse. He is refusing to answer, very politely, Jacob thought.
"I mean merely that such names, coined by Europeans, fascinated our fancy. They were names invented by us and did not derive from within Asia. You concentrated very well, Mr. Ide, on identifying a place, assuming the place to exist. It may not. Araman could be a thing, or a prophet long since dead, or even a prophecy. What is Mecca, except a black curtain hung around a black stone which is a meteorolite?"
His voice trailed off as he stared at the horse.
"You're tired," said Michal quickly.
"Islam is a word and an idea. The Asiatics answer to things of the mind more than we do. They may wait for the coming of an Imam, or Messiah. They can be led to battle by a green banner as the Senussi were. They can even be led by a young dreamer like Ismail who does not know his own mind except when he is told by——" Sir Clement broke off, tapping the bronze Pegasus. "This lovely thing could be a god, or the symbol of a civilization. Certainly the Kurds of today could not make one like it. They have lost the art of doing so. Your secret may lie in this bronze, not on a mountain top."
You have been very careful, Jacob told himself, to keep from me any real information "about Araman; you were startled by the Vasstan signature and you are wondering how much I know about such things and I think you tried to confuse me.
At parting, Sir Clement did not invite him to call again.
Michal lingered in the room, and the sick man watched her, his eyes unguarded. Vigorously, she shifted pillows around.
"Your American is quite attractive," he murmured.
"By that you mean you do not quite like him."
"He has such a matter-of-fact mind."
"Try to make him change it——" Michal stopped in mid-breath thoughtfully. "Wouldn't he be useful around here? You could keep on not telling him things and being amused."
Sir Clement reflected. "I am not so certain of that. He's not like you in that respect, not in the least like you."
In her permutation Michal had moved to the stand of medicines, and now she extracted the quinine box, peering into it with dissatisfaction. The number of quinine capsules had not diminished. "When are you going to let Badr drive you down to the Royal Hospital in Baghdad?" she demanded.
"I have been in the Royal Hospital in Baghdad, my dear. Besides, the road is not safe."
"You are being stern and Victorian—a servant of the Queen's Majesty." She sighed, abandoning the pillows and medicines. "You worry me, and it's very uncomfortable." Impulsively she bent over him, kissing both cheeks. "No, I don't mean that. But I am worried."
Capturing one of her hands, he touched it with his lips. " 'White hands cling to the bridle rein,' " he whispered.
That night, at a dinner served impeccably by Jemail, Jacob faced Michal and wondered at her, feeling an unspoken challenge in her. Because of Michal, Jemail walked more softly and smiled oftener. Because of Michal, Sir Clement had let drop a name important to Jacob, that of Vasstan.
That name was known through the caravanserais of Asia. It had worried the British in the first war more than an army, because the lone German officer known as Vasstan had got loose around the frontiers of India, as Von Luckner had at sea, and had stirred up the tribes, keeping just ahead of the British pursuit. Like Von Papen, he had appeared again in Turkey in the last war, proving to be as elusive as a ghost, and finally disappearing from sight after V-E Day. Apparently Vasstan had left his trace in these mountains. Certainly he knew Mr. Parabat. And he might have sent the bronze pen case as a memento to the British at Baghdad. A very active if elderly ghost. . .
"Was it satisfactory," Michal's voice interrupted, "the information you got from him?" And, as Jacob hesitated, "I mean Sir Clement, of course."
It was as if he had spoken aloud to her. Quietly she waited, her supple body still, an old jeweled clasp shining against the curve of her shoulder. Her bared throat seemed too slight to support the mass of her gleaming hair. Over the flowers she had cut that day her eyes, dark at nigh
t, questioned his not ironically but gravely as a child's.
And he wondered if she were even thirty years of age. Her pallor and the slimness of her arms and hands that could not have known the strain of physical labor made her unreal in the glow of the old-fashioned lamp in this garden of a Zoroastrian. Feeling old and awkward, he stretched his hard brown hands on the white tablecloth. "Some of it was quite satisfactory," he answered carefully, "thanks to you."
This knowing child sheltered by other men, playing idly with words and thoughts, was an antagonist. She wanted no more than to live each hour, in her kind of gayety, as if there might not be another.
"I used my utmost wiles on your behalf." Michal nodded cheerfully. "But he's like Petronius Arbiter—no, like the fellow stanch as a snow peak, and I can't do anything with him. He won't leave these mountains to take care of himself. I think he has something on his mind, to be done."
"Such as?"
Her eyes smiled at him swiftly. "I don't know, Mr. Ide. It must be something no one else can do, unless——" She hesitated, and surprised him by exclaiming, "Oh, I wish I could persuade you to stay! Truthfully, I can't tell you why, but I feel it." And she hurried on. "You could study in his library. I think you ought to know a lot more before starting out after the bronze horses, Jacob."
And, Jacob reflected, he could keep the astute Englishman company and probably do a few chores for him on the side. Michal knew that well enough.
"And I could sit on Mr. Parabat's veranda," he pointed out.
"Mr. Parabat likes to see you sitting on his veranda," she assented, pleased. "He said so."
Jemail intruded, escorting Sir Clement's man. The Indian saluted and held out a folded notepaper to Jacob, who took it, wondering why it was not for Michal.
He read:
Captain Ide. Before you leave Riyat will you have the kindness to call upon me? I would not ask if bit were not urgent.
The message was signed CLEMENT BIGSBY.
Somehow the Englishman had learned that he held a commission. Allowing for the orientalist's restraint. Jacob guessed that the older man wanted to see him very urgently.
"Yes," he told the servant. "Tomorrow morning."
After a second's hesitation he gave the note to Michal.
"I knew you were an officer," she said promptly, "and it worried me."
"Why?"
"Why did I know? It was something in the way you said you hacf never been a soldier."
"I meant it, Michal. I sat at a desk. I read reports. At times I commuted around on planes."
Again her eyes questioned him gravely. "I understand—at least I think so."
Suddenly she put down her tiny coffee cup. "You needn't sit on the veranda here, Jacob, just because I asked it, or for us."
He could only stare at her.
"You mustn't worry because I heard cannonading in the waterfall. It's not latent shock that bothers me. It's myself. You did a splendid job of bringing me back to the norms of existence." She held out her hand to him. "And I thank you for it."
When Jacob was admitted after breakfast the next morning to Sir Clement's library, he found a surprise awaiting him. Grinning cheerfully, Daoud Khalid sat in the chair Michal had occupied.
Daoud rose, laughing. "My grandfather lives down the street, Captain Ide." And he added as Jacob stared, "Don't you remember your three landmarks—Mr. Bigsby, a mountain called Araman, and my family? Behold, you have come to the right place."
"I was brought here."
"Well, here you are, safe."
The aged orientalist looked as if he had not slept well. He looked like a tired Roman patrician. "You did not inform me that you held a commission in the American Military Intelligence, Captain Ide."
"I am traveling; on leave. For all I know my discharge may have come through."
This did not satisfy Sir Clement. "You are not under orders?"
Daoud watched his friend curiously. Unmistakably the Arab took his cue from the British scholar. He was a product of Oxford in more ways than one, and his loyalty lay with his teachers, in spite of his liking for Jacob.
"I am not under orders. I came to Baghdad by chance, and that driver, Badr, brought me up here by accident. You can ask him about that if you wish." He felt the old sense of hostility at being questioned like a spy merely because he had ventured into one of the British closed preserves in Asia. Daoud was accepted here—probably Michal would welcome the brilliant archaeologist gladly—because he belonged to the caste.
The ghost of a smile touched the Englishman's lips. "We questioned him last night. Badr swears he mistook you for Aurel Leicester. A pity, but past remedying now." For a moment he considered. "Please tell me how you happened to buy the bronze Pegasus."
"Proto-Pegasus," corrected Daoud.
When Jacob explained, the orientalist shook his head. "A solitary soldier at Shepheard's—a single fine bronze among a lot of gimcracks. And sold to you for only a fraction of its value. All that is unlikely, most unlikely."
"I know it is."
Sir Clement raised his tired eyes. "You will forgive me, Captain Ide. I do not question your word. It is inexplicable, unless someone selected you to buy this particular specimen—which caused you to come here."
"It was planted," Daoud grinned. "The Americans say planted."
"We have another instance of the same procedure," Sir Clement went on mildly. "You see, we must look for similarities and connect them together if we can. The bronze horse brought you to the Baghdad Museum; a bronze pen case was left there to be found. On its tag we discovered the word Araman."
"Written by the German, Vasstan," Daoud put in.
Jacob said nothing. Deft as Sir Clement's surmise had been, it was hard to see any connection between the two. Certainly this whimsical German, this Flying Dutchman of a man, could have no possible relation to an Armenian's shop in Cairo.
"Yes, Daoud," the Englishman admitted. "But let us leave that supposition for the moment."
"But——"
"We can be certain only of one thing. Captain Ide was brought here by some unknown agency—an X force, let us say."
Impatiently the young Kurd shook his head. "The age of miraculous powers and talismans is past."
"Still, Captain Ide is here, Daoud. And I am greatly interested in this intangible force, which, because it is not identified, we call X."
Daoud relapsed into a skeptical silence.
"Although I told you the truth yesterday, Captain Ide," Sir Clement went on casually, "it was only a portion of the truth. Before I say any more I wish to warn you."
"Yes?"
"I cannot leave this bed. So I am going to ask you to do something that I cannot do. It may cost you your life."
He paused, and Jacob said nothing.
"I would not send an animal where I shall ask you to go. And that is to attempt to find Araman at once."
The place where the fine bronzes were made, the place where Daoud hoped to find some trace of the earliest civilization, the place named openly by an elusive German agent. "You wanted to search for this—place—yourself?" he asked after a moment.
"Yes. I would start tomorrow if I could travel." Sir Clement looked up at him quickly. "Do not let that influence you unduly. Quite frankly, Captain Ide, I think you would be well-advised to refuse."
"You feel it's important?"
"Ah, that. It is for me. It could be more important than anything a single man could attempt in Asia today. Or it might amount to nothing. There is no way of telling."
Pouring a little rum from a flask into the cup of warm tea beside him, the old orientalist sipped it slowly. When he glanced appraisingly at the window, Daoud rose and closed it.
"You have felt the approach of a storm, Captain Ide, without being able to tell where or how hard it will strike. My feeling is much like that. There is a dry wind rising over Asia, over all of Asia. That wind is strongest from the highlands of Turkey to the mountain barriers of India. And the storm center may be
very close to us here. What is happening is vital to England." He raised a cautioning hand. "Now is your opportunity to tell me to keep my troubles to myself. Your service in the war is over, or almost so. Refuse to enter into this and you can go back to Kirkuk tomorrow with a clear conscience and a whole skin."
Jacob nodded. "I'd rather hear what you have to say."
Relaxing, like a man who has rid himself of indecision, Sir Clement explained, "I shall lay all my cards on the table, of course. To do less would be dishonest."
Suddenly he smiled. "Michele declares you to be a most persistent fellow. You have already shown that you have imagination. A pity you were in Military Intelligence. Since forsaking the army I have come to think that military minds dote on formulae and lose the inspiration of imagination."
Daoud settled himself in his chair to listen impassively to the Westerners. Sir Clement, he thought, still seemed to be weighing his silent friend.
"The Germans were dangerous from the time of Clausewitz," went on Sir Clement, "because their generals became philosophers. They used imagination. They began to make war on human minds; they sapped our powers of resistance, and made defeat appear somehow more welcome than victory; they went into the air and under the sea and into our homes to war upon us until Von Seeckt died. Then the Nazi crowd stormed in and blundered because they tried to make use of these magnificent new weapons which they only partly understood. They made their philosophers back into generals."
It was the brigadier who had stood on the beaches of Gallipoli who spoke now. "We Anglo-Saxons made mistakes almost as bad. After that war we were defeated in Asia by a force we did not understand. We began to lose our grip on events in the East. It was not merely the nationalism of Ataturk, or the scheming of the Japanese. Some pressure was exerted, outward, against us. We had won on the Marne and the Somme and we were defeated here. The same thing is happening now, on a greater scale, and again we do not understand it."