the Walking Drum (1984) (51 page)

Brave as I might seem to others, I knew I was no more brave than any other man. It was not willingly that I went to the fortress of Alamut, but my father was there, and we two were the last of our line. He was all that was left to me, and I could only try to be as good a son as he was a father.

No slave was ever sold from Alamut, nor allowed to leave for fear he might reveal the secrets of the fortress and its fabled gardens of paradise. If by some chance I myself was permitted to enter, my every move would be watched. Depression lay heavily upon me, for if I entered, how then could I leave? And how could I free my father? A man must be a great fool to attempt the impossible, yet my father was my father, and it was easier to risk my life than to think of him as a slave.

Al-Zawila? Who could he be? Why this hatred for my father?

"Master ... ?"

Two men stood near me, one of them displaying a large and obviously painful boil. After lancing the boil, bathing it, and prescribing a renewal of the poultice I put on, I prepared to leave and rejoin the caravan, but already other patients were coming.

Treating several wounds and prescribing for others, including ground bone for a child reported to have convulsions, I explained to them that it was a theory of a renowned physician that such convulsions were due to lack of calcium in the system. They listened out of respect, but in their own minds, I knew, they believed it was an evil spirit that caused the trouble.

The last man wished an arrowhead extracted that had been embedded in his arm for several days. The arm was in bad condition, but when I had finished with him there seemed no reason to doubt that he would recover without further help. It was dark before we rode on, riding swiftly that we might camp with the protection of the caravan.

In Cordoba, while studying at the mosque, I had frequently practiced surgical operations under the guidance of a physician. It was the custom to practice making incisions using pumpkins, bottle gourds, melons, or cucumbers. Superficial incisions were practiced upon leather bags filled with slush, sewing was practiced on two pieces of delicate leather, scarification upon leather covered with hair.

Qazvin lay at the foot of the Elburz Mountains from which passes led across the mountains to Tabaristan and the edge of the Caspian Sea. The town itself covered at least a mile. It was the chief fortress against the fierce infidels of the Daylam Mountains.

"Tomorrow," I whispered to Khatib, "invitation or no, we go to Alamut."

"Speak no word of that, Mighty One," Khatib warned, "for this town has many Isma'ilis."

The courtyard was crowded with horses and camels, for another large caravan had just arrived, obviously the retinue of some important person, for both camels and horses were richly caparisoned and a number of tall, finely built soldiers stood about. They were big, bearded men with handsome black eyes, immaculately clad and well armed, every man of them fit and strong. Obviously these were picked fighting men.

Yet they were unlike any men I had seen, neither Arab nor Persian nor Turk. "Khatib? Who are they?"

"Rajputs," he said, "from Hind."

The main room of the caravanserai was bustling with slaves, and we were hard put to find a corner for ourselves. Khatib personally attended to our horses, then joined me.

Suddenly a door to an inner chamber opened, and from it stepped a girl, a girl of such beauty and exquisite grace as I had never seen. She was tall, moving as though to some unheard music, her dark eyes rimmed with darker lashes, her lips ... her skin without blemish, her hair dark as a raven's wing.

As she came from the door, her eyes met mine across the room, and for an instant she paused, her chin lifted, her lips parting a little. Rising, I bowed from the hips, indicating a place at the table beside me. Her eyes seemed to widen at my temerity, and then she walked through the parting crowd to a nearby table, already arranged for her.

Nor did she look at me again.

Chapter
50

Our tables faced each other across the room with scarcely twenty feet separating one from the other. A dozen slaves attended her, and two Rajput soldiers stood behind her at the corners of the table. The table itself was loaded with at least two dozen dishes, superbly cooked, judging by their aroma.

On my side I had only my faithful Khatib and but three dishes.

She was unveiled, as it was not the custom of her people for women to veil themselves. She wore tight-fitting silk trousers of brilliant yellow and a bodice orcholi of the same shade and material. Over this, suspended from her shoulders, she wore a burnt orange cloak or robe. Her sandals were delicately made of some golden material, and there were bangles on her ankles.

She wore in the center of her forehead a "fallen leaf," as it was called in Sanskrit, ortika. Hers was actually a tiny leaf of intricate workmanship. Her hair was combed quite flat with a triple line of pearls following the part, and the centerpiece, at the hairline, consisted of three golden flowers with large rubies at the center and a row of teardrop pearls suspended from the lower edge.

My dishes were akabab karaz, a dish of meat cooked with cherries and poured over the small, round Arab breads that I liked so much, rice with sour lemon sauce, and a bean curry.

The contrast between my three dishes and the two dozen brought to her table, as well as the crowd of servants who attended her and my lone servitor, appealed to my sense of amusement, and to that of Khatib, also. He was never one to miss the irony of any situation. He began to serve my food with an elaborate finesse and mincing manner that aped the affectations of the eunuchs who waited upon her.

Lifting the cover from thekabab and inhaling deeply, his ragged old brows lifting, he said, "Ah, Most Mighty One! Of this you must taste! It is ambrosia! It is nectar! It is a dream incarnate!" So saying he spooned a tiny portion to the edge of my plate and stood back, spoon in hand, to watch my appreciation.

Delicately, I tasted it, making an elaborate business of savoring, testing, tasting with frowns, rolling of the eyes, and finally a beatific smile. "Superb, Khatib! Superb!"

He completed the serving of my humble meal with many exclamations. "Such meat! And such a pilaf! May Allah thrice be blessed!"

The face of the girl opposite was expressionless. If she noticed, it was not apparent.

"Wine, Master? It is the gift of the great Emperor of the Byzantines! Of Manuel himself! Wine?"

"Wine, Khatib!" He poured the wine, and I caught a fleeting glance from the girl across the way.

"Preacher," I said, "you are a man of august years, a traveled and learned man of great judgment and discrimination ... tell me ... where are the women most beautiful?"

"Where, indeed? As you realize, Magnificence, such things are a matter of taste. Now the Turks, for example, prefer their women to be"-he gestured with his hands before his chest-"to be robust here"-then his hands indicated the hips-"and here."

He filled my glass again and stepped back. "They wish their women to be fat, the Franks want their women to be strong, the Persians prefer them slender, and in Cathay they say their women have the most beautiful legs of all, but it is not their legs they appreciate, but theirfeet!"

"And the women of Hind? I hear they are short and ugly and waddle when they walk. Is this true?"

The language was Persian, and I was hoping neither of the Rajput soldiers understood. Yet she did, for I saw her stiffen suddenly, and she looked up quickly, indignantly.

"Of the women of Hind," Khatib said tactfully, "what can I say?"

"Still, every country hassome beautiful women. Can there not be one, evenone, in all of Hind?"

"One would believe so, Master. Usually where there are great warriors there are beautiful women, they appear together, you know."

"I respect your wisdom, O Father of Judgment, for what do I know of such things? I know nothing of women. Glorious creatures, no doubt, but my shyness keeps me from them. I shrink at their glances, I tremble at their slightest word. What could I, of all people, say to a beautiful woman?"

Khatib's wicked old eyes were amused. "What did you say to Valaba? She who was said to be the most beautiful woman in Cordoba? Or to Suzanne, the Comtesse of Malcrais?"

"What, indeed? They took advantage of my shyness, Khatib! What could I possibly do? A defenseless man? And shy? But they were beautiful, and I honor them for their deeds."

"And what of that Viking girl in Kiev?"

"She frightened me, Khatib. I was awestruck. Her long golden hair, her magnificent shoulders, her demanding ways ... what could I do?"

"Only what you did, I suspect." Khatib helped me to more food from the covered dishes. "Eat, Master, keep up your strength! Who knows what trials lie still before you?"

Suddenly, the door of the room opened, and two soldiers entered, one stepping to either side of the door. Between them marched a pompous little man in a very large turban and a long robe: He was followed by eight slaves, each bearing a gift. To my astonishment they stopped before my table.

"O Auspicious One! O Favored of Allah! My Master, the illustrious, the great, the all-powerful Rashid Ad-din Sinan requests you accept these humble gifts from his hand!

"O Greatest of Scholars! Wisest of Men! Noble Physician and Reader of the Stars, ibn-Ibrahim! My Master requests that you visit him at the Castle of Alamut!"

Two slaves spread out a magnificent robe woven with gold thread and a second cloak trimmed with sable; the third slave brought a sword with a jeweled hilt and scabbard, a splendid blade that when drawn had written along the blade in letters of gold the Persian words,Dushman kush! meaning, "Killer of Enemies!"

The fourth slave carried a silken pillow on which lay three purses that chinked with the sound of gold; the fifth brought a jeweled sword belt; the sixth, a complete outfit of clothing; the seventh, a pair of fine saddlebags, hand-tooled and decorated with gold. The last slave brought me a robe of honor, a jeweled pen, and an inkpot.

"Tell him, Vizier," I said, "that I come on the morrow. My journey will begin when the sun rises."

Pausing briefly, I added, "Inform the mighty Rashid Ad-din Sinan that I look forward to discussing with him the secrets of many sciences, for his great wisdom is known to me."

The eunuch bowed low, backing from the room with continued bows, followed by the slaves. The innkeeper came hurrying to my table, obviously frightened. "O Master of Wisdom! I pray forgiveness! I had no idea! I did not know who it was who honored my humble-!"

Khatib gathered the gifts, his face grave. The humor was gone from his eyes. "Master, think well of what you do. There is a saying among my people that the deer may forget the snare, but the snare does not forget the deer."

"I shall not forget, Khatib."

"He is a fool who will descend into a well on another man's rope."

The gifts were magnificent, yet I looked upon them as did Khatib, with suspicion. They were too splendid for an unknown scholar. Was their purpose to make me forget my doubts? Did someone actuallywant me to come to Alamut? Did they think it safer to have me inside the castle, a prisoner, than possibly stirring trouble on the outside? Or did they think of me at all, except as a wandering scholar?

Yet, what choice had I? Behind the walls of Alamut my father was held prisoner, a slave. If he was ever to be free, it lay in my hands. "In all honor, Khatib, I must go. But do you remain here, for the future is uncertain, and I go into great trouble."

"Were there no wind, would the leaves tremble? There is reason for fear, Master. When the Old Man of the Mountains sends gifts, prepare your shroud ... a knife follows."

He paused. "But go with you I shall. How many lands have I seen, Master? How many seas? How many cities? But I have not seen the inside of Alamut."

For the moment we had forgotten our beauty from Hind, but she had not forgotten us.

Her slave stood before us, bowing. "O Eminence! My lady begs forgiveness that she was not aware of the presence of such distinguished company. She requests you to join her at her table, my lady, Sundari Devi!"

My hesitation was only brief enough as not to seem precipitate. I arose.

"Khatib, see to my presents, and see to the horses, also. It is said that in Qazvin they make most excellent bows and arrows; see that I am supplied. We shall soon," I suggested, "be crossing a desert where there are bandits. "Also"-my voice lowered-"see that hidden within our packs there is a length of rope, strong enough to hold a climber." An instant I hesitated, then added, "I think you had best secure these items." I handed him a slip of paper. "This"-indicating an item-"you had best collect yourself from the walls of old stables or the manure of animals. Do get me a supply of this. If there is curiosity, simply say your master is an alchemist who tests all things. He is crazy, of course, but what can you do?"

Crossing the room, I stopped before her table. "I am ibn-Ibrahim."

She gestured to a place at the corner of the table to her right. "I had no idea we were in the presence of so renowned a scholar."

Bowing again, I said, "My shadow is small before the sun of your beauty."

"You are a physician?"

"That, too. Sometimes a soldier, sometimes a reader of the stars ... many things."