the Walking Drum (1984) (49 page)

There was grass for my horses, a small area screened by a hill and the willows. Gathering fuel, I roasted mutton and ate, enjoying the stillness. It was near this place where Xenophon's Ten Thousand, retreating after the death of Cyrus, ate of the wild honey that drove them mad. All who ate the honey had attacks of vomiting and diarrhea and were unable to stand upright. Some who ate but little seemed drunk; others were temporarily insane, and a few died. The honey was made, I learned from an Armenian, from the azalea, and contains a narcotic.

Drawing from my pack fresh clothing, discarding the Byzantine costume except for the coat of mail and the cloak, I donned aburdah or undercloak bound with a sash, then put on theaba or long outercloak. Under the sash was concealed my old leather belt, my only possession from home other than my Damascus dagger. Then I resumed the turban of the scholar, adding thetaylasan, a scarf thrown over the turban with one end drawn under the chin and dropped over the left shoulder.

Thetaylasan was worn by judges and theologians, offering a measure of security from questioning or attack, and suited the identity I was adopting, that of ibn-Ibrahim, a physician and scholar. It was no haphazard selection, for the one way in which I might open the gates to Alamut was as a scholar. Yet once inside those gates I would be surrounded by fanatics, ready to tear me to bits at my slightest mistake.

Hunched over my small fire, I felt the cold hand of despair. What sort of fool was I even to hope that I might accomplish the miracle of entering Alamut?

Again and again I reviewed all I knew and found no help. My only hope lay in the remote possibility of an invitation from Rashid-Ad-din Sinan himself, a man noted for his intuitive gifts and said to be interested in alchemy. Of this I knew nothing but bazaar gossip, and I must stop in Tabriz and establish myself as ibn-Ibrahim in that city. There the spies of the Old Man could observe me at their leisure.

Once I got within the gates of Alamut, if I was so fortunate, every second would be one of danger. Aziza in the castle of Prince Ahmed, Suzanne in Castle Saone, Valaba in the salons of Cordoba, did they think of me now and then? Yet who recalls the wanderer who appears but for a fleeting day or two and then is gone? My passing was that of a shadow in a garden, and who would remember? Or why should they? Would it be always so for me? Was I but a passerby?

If one returns and stands again upon the same ground, is it he who stands there or a stranger? Armorica would still be Armorica; the sands of Brignogan would still be the sands of Brignogan, but Kerbouchard would be ... what?

The memory of the great oar in my hands, the stench of the filth beneath me, the arms of Aziza, the books of the great library of Cordoba, the bite of a sword through bone ... or that rain-swept cliff in Spain. How much of me remained there, in those places, and how much had brought me here, perhaps to my death?

How much of me lay on the blood-soaked turf where died theHansgraf with his White Company of traders? How much of me in that muddy clearing where I had been knocked down, humbled, beaten, helpless to resist?

Was it anything more than luck that my bones did not lie back there to be picked over by wolves and vultures? A stick fell into the fire, sparks flew up. Would I ever find a place where I belonged? Or was I destined to drift across the world like a disturbed spirit? Would I find that someone I sought? Someone more important to me than anyone or anything else?

Hah! Was I a child to dream so? I was lucky to be alive, and if I freed my father and escaped alive, I must be even luckier. And what of the walking drum? Would I hear its beat again? And if I did, would I pick up my pack and follow?

And theHansgraf? Where he was did he hear it? That drum marched us across Europe and into Asia and right to the very gates of death.

Chapter
48

Who shall deny the excitement of entering a strange city for the first time? Or going ashore in a strange port? And the beauty of Tabriz? To north, south, and east were reddish, orange-shaded hills, brilliant in contrast to the lush green of orchard and garden. Tabriz was a jewel of a city, watered by streams flowing down from the mountains.

To this city had I come, I, Mathurin Kerbouchard, now known as ibn-Ibrahim, physician, scholar, pilgrim to the holy places of Islam. More than ten miles around were the walls of Tabriz, entered by ten gates, and outside the walls lay seven districts, each named for the stream that watered it.

My pace slowed, for I was a scholar and must proceed with dignity as befitted my position. What happened here might open the gates of Alamut. Yet as I drew closer, it was my stallion and mares that drew attention, for no Arab lived who did not know the great breeds. The horses did not fit my role as scholar but did much to establish me as a man of wealth and importance. Wars had been fought over such mares as these, and I had three, and a stallion.

Glancing neither to the right nor left, I rode into the streets and through the great bazaar of Ghazan, one of the finest on earth. Wherever I looked were throngs of colorfully dressed people, and each trade was situated in a different corner of the bazaar. Reaching the bazaar of the jewelers, I found such a splendid collection of gems that I paused to gaze, and not only at the gems but also at the beautiful slave girls who displayed them.

Each girl had been chosen for her beauty and the symmetry of her body, and these slaves posed, turning this way and that to display their costly bangles. Nearby was another bazaar where only perfumes were sold. Spikenard, patchouli, myrrh, frankincense, ambergris, musk, rose, and jasmine-there was no counting the fragrances. There was a street of booksellers, another for leather goods, and several streets crowded with weavers of rugs, which reminded me that I must find a prayer rug.

Riding on, I came to a hospice near the Baghdad gate. Travelers who stopped were served bread, meat, rice cooked with butter, and sweetmeats. Everywhere were horses, camels, bullocks, and goats as well as both veiled and unveiled women. Turkish women did not veil. Frankish traders were there, whom I quickly avoided, fearing to be recognized. There were Armenians, Levantines, Greeks, Jews, Kurds, Slavs, Turks, Arabs, and Persians. There were big blond men whom I recognized as Pathans, and even merchants from Hind and Cathay, for Tabriz was truly a crossroads.

It was much changed from the time that theHudud-al-Alam was compiled. The note on Tabriz in that geography said simplyTabriz, a small borough, pleasant and prosperous, within a wall constructed by Ala-ibn-Ahniad. That, of course, had been written in 982, nearly two hundred years before my arrival.

Tabriz lay in the basin of Lake Urmiah, dominated by the volcano Mount Sehend, surrounded by miles of gardens and fields. The town had once been known as Kandsag, but that was long, long ago.

My arrival at the hospice brought a stir of excitement. The Arab stable boys rushed to help me from the saddle as if I were barrel fat and helpless. A familiar voice sounded at my elbow. "O Mighty One! I, Khatib the preacher, would serve you! I, a student of the Koran, but knowing in all the ways of evil! Trust me, O Mighty One, and you shall be guided safely!"

It was he ...it was Khatib!

"Bismillah!"I exclaimed. "What manner of man is this who doth crawl with fleas! Thou hive of vermin, how could such a one serve me, ibn-Ibrahim, scholar and physician?"

He followed me to the door of the caravanserai, his wicked old eyes twinkling. "I knew if I waited, you must come sooner or later to this place, and surely, you have come."

"And the Comtesse?"

"Safe enough, by the will of Allah! And like to remain so, for Lucca has recruited men for her, including some thirty of those who escaped from the Cumans. She will do well enough, that one!"

"Do you know what it is that I do?"

"You are a fool to even think of it, but I am a fool who has found his master, and will help you. It has been written."

"My chances are not good."

"Who speaks of chance or chances? We have neither one nor the other, ibn-Ibrahim!" He used the name with a sly grin. "We shall be food for jackals." He shrugged his thin shoulders. "But I have lived much, and who is to say that I should die otherwise?"

"Ibn-Ibrahim, being a scholar and a physician, might be invited ... I saymight ... to the fortress of Alamut."

"As Allah wills. Truly," he added, "you are the most learned of men, and there is no trick in that. I have heard wise men speak of you so, even the great Averroes. Do you have a plan?"

"Only to become known quickly as a scholar and physician. Sinan, I hear, is one to appreciate such things, and there might be an invitation. If not, I shall find another way."

Khatib shrugged. "What you wish has been done. Even before you arrived I informed all who listened that I awaited my master, who was a wise man before Allah." He grinned again, evil twinkling from his eyes. "Besides, I had no money, and men would not allow the servant of a learned man to starve in their presence."

"But the name, Khatib! Who did you tell them I was?"

"How could I know? I told them nothing as to name, just that my master was a great scholar who did not wish to become known, but who traveled in search of wisdom."

"What of the way, Khatib? Do you know it?"

"Aye ... it is far into the mountains near Qazvin, where each village is a nest of spies. You cannot proceed one step they will not know.

"Another thing, andbeware! There is a man named al-Zawila ... do you know such a one?"

"No."

"He is of great power among the Isma'ili, but lately come to Alamut. Some say he is powerful as Sinan and is his strong right hand, his defender, his master of spies.

"There is a whisper, and not even walls may stop a whisper, that since his coming there has been grief and trouble for the slave named Kerbouchard. This slave had won a place for himself by diligence, but since the coming of al-Zawila he is marked for every demeaning task. It is as if al-Zawila wished to force him to anger so he could be tortured and killed!"

"Then we must move swiftly, for my father's patience is as limited as his strength is great."

We talked long, and I listened much, for Khatib knew all the gossip of the bazaars and nothing escaped him. First, I must establish myself, for what was needed was official recognition of my presence. Knowing the ways of power, I doubted I should long be kept waiting.

Al-Zawila? I knew no such name. Why, then, did he hate my father? For surely there must be hatred for such a man to even notice my father. And but recently arrived? Could he be an enemy of mine?

I knew no such man, nor had any memory of one.

Tabriz, Khatib told me, was noted for the splendor of its rugs as well as its books, and a rug was needed for my prayers. Finding Khatib gave me hope, for doubts assailed me. How could I succeed where kings and emperors had failed? Yet Khatib was a man of a thousand gifts, listening well, and possessing devious ways of acquiring knowledge hidden from all.

Scarcely an hour passed before there came a fat eunuch, puffing from his exertions. "O Auspicious One! I come from the Emir! From the mighty and learned Mas'ud Khan! If you would condescend to honor him with your presence!"

"Tell your master, his wish is an honor. His nobility, his splendor, his riches and power are known to all! If he wishes this humble one to come, come I shall!"

Such are the amenities of social life, which oft makes a liar of the best of men. Never had I heard of Mas'ud Khan, nor had I any idea whether he was noble, splendid, or rich, but considering my problems, I hoped he was all three. Yet if he was an emir-and seeing the wealth of the city as well as the poverty of the poor, I had no doubt someone was squeezing the juice from the orange-rich he might well be.

Yet there were other things to consider. It was in my mind to show myself in the bazaars, for what was whispered there would echo inside the walls of Alamut. Moreover, as I was now to become a Moslem, I wished to have a prayer rug. Women and the very rich had begun to use such rugs, and as I wished to establish myself as one of the very rich and very eminent, the prayer rug was essential. To breach the walls of Alamut with power had failed many; to enter by stealth with the network of spies was impossible. Every stranger was suspect. Hence, the solution seemed to be to herald my presence widely and hope for an invitation. Plotters and connivers were searched for in hidden places, so I would let myself be seen, heard, and talked with. Sinan was a man of varied interests, and it might be that a stranger would interest him.

The rugs woven in Tabriz were of several kinds, but the Ghiordes or Turkish knot was beginning to displace the Sehna or Persian knot in the Tabriz area. The city had long been noted for its weavers, although the industry had been damaged by Turkish invasions. Now Turks had settled in or around Tabriz and introduced their own methods of weaving. The tufted style had been suitable for a people whose rugs covered the floors of tents. The Turks invaded the country at least a hundred years before my time, but their methods of weaving had been slow to replace the Persian.

The idea of the prayer rug was new, although Moslems had marked off small areas when in the field or traveling, to keep intruders at a distance when praying. These were often marked off by sticks or stones. Despite the fact that the Moslem religion has many elements similar to Christian or Jewish practice, and all are People of the Book, the true Moslem will not pray where the footsteps of Jews or Christians have made the ground unclean.