The Earth Is the Lord's

by Taylor Caldwell

  There were discreet shops, rather haughty, selling Persian, Turkish and Chinese manuscripts to the discerning. The proprietors did not sit outside, but waited inside, like erudite spiders among their busily copying clerks. The perfume shops were also discreet and withdrawn, but from their dark low doorways issued the hot and swooning aura of their precious scents.

  But few walked in the streets of elegance. The crowds were concentrated in the rowdier streets, where slave-girls with naked breasts contorted on platforms, to the licentious music of flute, drum and cymbal, flinging out their arms, shaking their anointed torsoes, and tossing their long black hair. Their masters kept up a discreet but insistent harangue, offering strange pleasures for a small sum within the curtained purlieus. At intervals they struck small cymbals of their own, and eyed the dancing maidens with well-feigned expressions of delight and sly lust. There were puppet-shows also, surrounded by crowds of laughing men and boys, who watched the antics of the puppets with glee. The slave-markets attracted considerable attention also. Here pretty girls, guaranteed to be virgins by their turbaned and black-faced Turkish proprietors were discreetly and modestly stripped at intervals, but only a little, in order to whet the appetites of potential purchasers. The girls were very young, most of them only children, and much frightened. They had been seized in raids, and one saw strange faces here, fair or golden, with dark curls or yellow hair, brown, gray, green and blue eyes. Some of them bore an Egyptian stamp on their delicate features, though their skins were black and polished as ebony.

  But Temujin found the brawling throngs themselves worthy of observation. Motley, composed of many races, they moved, sweating and pushing, through the streets. Here were tall fierce Afghans, mustached and hugely turbaned, and stinking; here were Buddhist and Taoist monks, in red and yellow garments, their wide-brimmed hats throwing purple shadows on their cool ivory faces, their hands holding prayer-wheels; here were subtle, severe-lipped and burning-eyed Jews, carrying their manuscripts of prayers, and glancing about them shrewdly or austerely; here were visiting desert-dwellers in their deerskin boots and fur caps; here were dignified Chinese, Tibetans, Hindoos, Karaits, Uighurs, the Merkit, Turks, and even tall blue-eyed men from the frozen wastes, the reindeer people. There were Persians, also, elegantly clad and bored, feeling vastly superior to these mongrel crowds. Here all Asia met its neighbor, and despised him, especially his religion. In a certain section swine were slaughtered and sold, but this section was far from that occupied by Moslems and Jews. Temujin found them fascinating, for he was interested in mankind, and these alien faces excited him. He even liked the monstrous stench and the dust. When he passed the horse-stalls, he insisted on stopping and getting down. The seller could not understand his language, nor he, his, but that did not prevent them from getting into fierce arguments and scornful exclamations, as Temujin expertly examined the animals. The argument must have been more vehement that ordinarily, for a crowd gathered, gleefully ribald and full of suggestions, while Taliph sat on his camel and watched with enjoyment. Finally Temujin pushed his way contemptuously through the crowd and mounted his camel again. “Not even fit to eat,” he said disdainfully, departing in a shower of curses and imprecations from the owner of the beasts.

  He stopped at the camel stalls, and looked them over with a critical eye. “Fly-blown,” was his verdict. He insisted upon stopping at a wineshop, and went within, though Taliph would not accompany him. There he drank quantities of wine and rice-wine, and had to come out, asking for payment from Taliph, for he carried no coins with him. At his heels, darkly suspicious, came the proprietor, deftly catching the money tossed him by Taliph, and thereafter bowing deeply to the ground in the wake of the contemptuous white camels.

  Now there was a sudden uproar, and the confusion of a fight. It appeared that some gay young men had bought a pig, and were dragging the squealing animal through the streets occupied by the booths of some Moslems and Jews. This was a sacrilege. The younger Jews and Moslems came roaring out of their stalls and set upon the youths, who soon had delighted allies. Most of them were Christians and Buddhists. It was a religious and racial row, now, and fought with gusto, and a hearty lack of discrimination. Now police appeared, armed with staves, and laid about them with democratic impartiality. The pig, in the meanwhile, had been discreetly stolen by some one who had no objection to the meat of pigs. Within a few minutes, the merchants had retired to their stalls, and had resumed their shouting, the fighters settled their hats and turbans on their heads, the crowds moved on. Peace was restored, and every one was happy.

  They came upon an open space where three gray elephants, gigantic and solemn and obviously filled with ennui, were performing lumbering tricks under the whips of their trainers. Crowds of children watched. Their parents indulgently tossed coppers to the trainers, who caught them in the air without ceasing their hubbub for an instant. The elephants performed with philosophic detachment; their tiny eyes were bored and sardonic, their great heads covered with little caps fringed with bells. They were females, and very superior. Temujin found them vastly amusing. He rocked with laughter on his perch. But it was not their solemn tricks which he found so titillating. They reminded him of fat old women.

  Beyond the crowded domes, minarets and palms and flat white roofs of the city, the western sky was blood-red. The sun was an immense crimson ball, slowly drooping. Temujin had bought a silver necklace and bracelets for Bortei, a woolen cloak for his mother, and a Chinese manuscript for Kurelen. All with Taliph’s freely given money. “Baubles,” said Temujin, disdainfully, but watched them with a wary eye as a servant carried them.

  He was beginning to be fatigued by the clashing of the cymbals and the shrilling of the flutes, and the hubbub of the marketplace. But he was not tired of looking at the strange alien faces.

  When they arrived back at the palace of Toghrul Khan, Taliph asked him what had impressed him most in the sight of the crossroads of the world. Temujin considered a moment, then answered:

  “The facelessness of the people.”

  Taliph was surprised, but awaited enlightenment.

  “In the barrens,” said Temujin, “every man hath his soul. It doth look from his eyes and speaketh distinctly in his voice. His face is his own. But in the cities every man speaketh with the voice of his neighbor, and looketh through his eyes. There is no strength in him. He is not a soldier.”

  “Perhaps the cities despise the soldier,” remarked Taliph.

  Temujin shrugged. “That is because of their envy. Only the soldier knoweth life in its richness and excitement. The townsman must have strange pleasures and vices in order to make his drab life endurable. His soul is the anonymous and mean soul of all his neighbors.”

  And then he said something which made Taliph think for a long time:

  “Cities should be easy to conquer, for no man hath in them anything of value, and nothing to defend.”

  But he was already distrait. For tonight he would see Azara again.

  Chapter 21

  The hot white moon came through the latticed windows and lay upon the dark floor in little circles, crescents, stars and lozenges. They glittered as with a pale luminous light of their own, like fireflies. The cool night wind entered also, filled with fresh odor of flowers and fountains. Beyond the locked doors the guards paced. But within, there were silence and rapture.

  Azara lay with her head on Temujin’s breast. He held her hands against his heart, and his lips against her hair. They did not speak, even in a whisper. They felt that they lay in a citadel of peace and joy, and utter contentment. There was no tomorrow for them. There was nothing but this night, which stood suspended in time, complete in itself, an eternity of ecstasy, without danger or suffering. Beyond this night the world lay, predatory and threatening, and full of death. They forgot it. They felt only each other.

  And then, very slowly, though the moon sank, reality began to enter the thoughts of Temujin. It was as though he had opened the door of his mind, and had allowed
men with swords to enter. He must deal with them. Tomorrow stood on the threshold, and must be fled from or attacked.

  He stirred. But Azara was asleep. He could see the curve of her cheek, the closed lashes of her eyes. His hand touched her hair. She sighed. Her breast was pearly in the dimly translucent light. Her flesh exhaled warm but intangible perfume.

  All at once his heart contracted with a fierce pain. He thought: Mayhap it would be better if I should rise now, and leave her forever. I can bring her nothing but suffering and terror. I have been a black shadow falling across her life. Shall I depart like that shadow, and leave the clear sun to shine again upon her?

  But he knew that there would no longer be a clear sun for Azara. She was too young; she had loved too utterly. Had she loved less, she might have recovered. He had put aside himself; the ferocity of the barbarian was held at bay by the angel of self-obliterating love.

  Wherever I must go, there she must go, he thought.

  Azara moved, sighed, smiled in her sleep, and awoke. She looked up at him. An expression of ineffable delight passed over her beautiful face like a beam. She wound her arms about his neck and lay on his heart. It seemed to him that his heart opened to receive her with passionate tenderness.

  “My beloved,” he whispered, “it is almost dawn. I must leave thee. But hearken unto me for a moment. Thou knowest we are in terrible danger. Tonight I will come to thee again. But when I leave at dawn, I shall leave with thee. We shall flee together to the steppes, and my people shall receive thee as their queen.”

  She listened, her eyes fixed on his shadowy face with grave earnestness. The beam had left her own face. Then she raised herself and sat on the edge of her couch, gazing down at him with such intense and sorrowful concentration that he was startled. Her pale bright hair fell over her shoulders and her breast.

  “My warriors will be ready,” he went on. “We have the fleetest horses in the world. Before the palace is aroused, and thou art missed, we shall be leagues away.”

  The sorrow made a whiteness over her face. Then she whispered: “Temujin, we have five nights more. Let us take them.”

  He frowned, raised himself on his elbow.

  “And then?”

  She was silent. Her head dropped on her breast.

  He was filled with anger against her. “And then thou wilt become the bride of the Caliph.”

  “Nay,” she murmured, “I shall be the bride of no other man but thee.”

  “Thou meanest that after five nights thou wilt come with me?”

  She lifted her head and smiled at him with mournful passion.

  “Remember this, my lord: Whether in death or life, I shall be with thee always.”

  She shivered; she drew her thick hair over her naked flesh as though it were a garment. But her smile remained, fixed and sad.

  He pondered on her words. For some unknown reason a chill ran over his body. He gazed at her intently, trying to read her thoughts.

  She began to speak again, in a low murmur.

  “Temujin, I can bring thee only death or torture. My father would not dare to forgive me, for fear of the Caliph. He would hunt me down, no matter where thou didst hide me, and thee, also. I care not for myself. I care only for thee. If thou lovest me, thou wilt go after these five nights, and never return, and try to forget me.”

  He listened, and slowly rage turned his face black. He seized her by the wrist.

  “Art thou a wanton? Art thou weary of me?”

  She did not answer, but only gazed at him with such grief and torment that he was ashamed. But he continued to hold her wrist.

  She said, weeping: “If I brought ruin upon thee and thy people, there would be no joy in all the world again for me.”

  He said, after some moments: “I cannot leave thee. Either thou dost flee with me to my people, and hope for the best, or I shall remain here. I shall go to thy father and demand thee for my wife, telling him thou art no fit bride for the Caliph.”

  She put her slender hands over her face, and the tears ran through her fingers. He rose and put on his garments, watching her gloomily. When he was about to go, she withdrew her hands, and smiled at him through white lips.

  “I have told thee, Temujin: where thou dost go I shall go forever.” She held up her arms and he caught her fiercely to him, burying his face in her shoulder. She held him as a mother might hold her son, sorrowfully and with aching tenderness.

  “Thou wilt say nothing at all about me to my father, Temujin?” she asked.

  “Nothing,” he answered, his lips against her flesh.

  “Thou wilt swear it? Swear it by all thou dost reverence, and by all thou dost believe?”

  He was startled, even in his passion, by the sharp earnestness of her words.

  “I swear it,” he answered. He smiled. “I swear it by myself, for that is all my belief.”

  She gazed at him, as though trying to pierce into his spirit, and piercing, willing him to remember.

  He picked up a strand of her hair and pressed it against his mouth. She watched him, smiling mournfully.

  “Take thou a lock of my hair, Temujin,” she said faintly. “Take it for a talisman and a reminder of me.”

  “I can remember thee without a talisman, Azara. But if thou dost wish it, I shall take a lock.”

  He cut loose a long length of her hair. It curled about his fingers as though it loved him. It was as warm and soft as silk, and as radiant.

  Again she held up her arms to him, and her lips. He held her to him, and it seemed to him that her flesh merged with his and became part of it. He could taste the saltiness of her tears, but she continued to smile.

  The eastern sky was pricked with pale pink fire. He must go. He kissed her hands slowly and passionately, and she watched him, hardly seeming to breathe. When he left the room, she gazed at him to the last, as though wishing to remember everything about him.

  He was quite jubilant when he reached his own chambers. Chepe Noyon and Kasar were just awakening. They were relieved to see him once more, but said nothing. He lay down, after greeting them jovially, and fell instantly asleep.

  “What can we do?” asked the simple Kasar, with despair.

  “I know not,” replied Chepe Noyon, shaking his head. “But I believe this: that nothing in heaven or earth can harm Temujin. The gods are his protectors, and he is the instrument in their hands.”

  “Dost thou truly believe this?” said the superstitious Kasar, looking furtively at his sleeping brother.

  Chepe Noyon smiled. “I believe in no spirits, but there are men born for destiny. Such is our lord.”

  Chapter 22

  As he slept, Temujin had a strange and terrible dream.

  He dreamed that he lay on this very couch, sleeping, and that he felt a touch on his shoulder. He dreamed that he awoke, and found Azara standing beside him in the brilliant sunlight. But she was as white and cold as ice, even though she smiled down at him with infinite love. He was extremely frightened, and thought: This is madness, that she hath come to me in these chambers.

  She bent over then, and kissed him on the lips. A cold thrill ran through him, for her lips were chilled and stiff. He uttered an exclamation, and tried to seize her in his arms. But she shook her head, and stepped backwards, still smiling at him. Tears ran over her face.

  Then, still gazing at him, she moved backwards towards the doorway. She lifted the curtains, and to the last she gazed at him. Her lips moved, but he could hear nothing. The curtain dropped behind her, and she was gone.

  An ironlike paralysis encased his body. He struggled with it. He could feel the sweat running down into his eyes. At length he was able to throw it off. He sprang from his couch. The strong sunlight streamed through the latticed windows into the room, but it did not warm him. He was shuddering violently. He ran through the doorway, out into the corridor, shouting and calling for Azara. He passed the guardian eunuchs, with their naked torsos and bared swords, but they did not seem to see or hear him. He
ran into the gardens, bright and brilliant with flowers and sunlight, and saw the glittering of the lakes and the fountains. A group of girls were laughing and disporting themselves. He spoke to them, asking them if they had seen Azara. But they did not answer. He might have been a shadow for all that they noticed him.

  He ran through the gardens, calling. Then, through an aisle of bending and clashing and fluttering palms, he saw Azara, running like a flash of sunshine. He pursued her. But he could not overtake her. His legs felt weak, his body fainting. He implored her to wait for him. But she did not look back.

  All at once he saw before the girl a tall, smooth white wall. He could not remember having seen it before. There was a huge door in it, made of gold and intricately chased. Azara approached the door. It opened as though by invisible hands. She stood on the threshold, and now she turned, and looked back at Temujin. Her face was the face of death, but she smiled at him. And now he heard her voice, like a faint echo.

  “Go back, Temujin. Thou canst not enter here. Go back, beloved.”

  She pressed her hands to her lips, and blew him a kiss. Then, bending her head, she passed over the threshold, and the door silently closed after her.

  Panting and weeping aloud, he reached the door. The sunlight fell on it in golden tremulous waves. He beat upon it, imploring, calling, shouting. But it did not open.

  “Azara!” he cried. “It is I! Come back to me!”

  Then he was aware of the profound and shining silence about him. He saw no one. The gardens were empty. The earth and the sky were empty, and full of warm brilliance and peace. He looked about him, despairing. There was not even the note of a bird, or a voice. To his left the palace rose, serene and silent, glittering in the intense light.