The Walking Drum (Louis L'Amour's Lost Treasures) Page 15

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  A WEEK LATER I sat upon the old Roman bridge that crossed the Guadalquivir to Córdoba. It was an ancient bridge built in the days of Augustus, repaired only recently.

  The day was hot and sultry. Along the high road passed an unending stream of people, camels, donkeys, and carts going to and from the city. Footsore and exhausted, I stumbled to my feet and joined the procession, walking toward the city that had given me so much, and had taken so much from me. Yet it was a city I could not yet leave.

  Money, decent clothing, and weapons I must have. The burns, the blow on the skull, and privation had left me weak, and I tired quickly.

  There was the beginning of a plan shaping in my brain. The crews of my father’s ships had been men from many lands, and I had grown up speaking a variety of tongues, none of them well, but since then I had become proficient in Arabic and improved in both Latin and Greek. A sailor from my father’s crew had come from Miletus, and there were several others from Greek islands. Often they had told me stories, and the smattering of their tongue I had acquired had been added to aboard the galley. There was in Córdoba a branch of the Caliph’s Society of Translators and it was in my mind to try there for any task, no matter how small.

  First, I must have clothing. No better hiding place could be found than among scholars, and it would provide a chance to learn, to have access to books.

  My studies until now had taken no definite trend, nor was I planning that they should. Knowledge might be power, but it was also the key to survival. My knowledge of navigation led to my escape from the galley; my small knowledge of medicine helped to heal my burns.

  Even in a comparatively small city, and Córdoba was a large one, a man can lose himself by choosing another way of life. Within cities there are islands of people who had no communication outside their own island. It has even been surmised that people cannot know more than a certain number of people with comfort, which some believe has led to the classes in a society as well as to the exclusiveness of groups. If I chose one of those islands remote from those I had known, I might live as isolated as in another country.

  Before me the gate yawned. Several soldiers loitered nearby. My skin tightened, my heart began to throb. This was the moment of danger. Forcing myself, I walked on, keeping my eyes to the road. My flesh crawled as I drew abreast of them, but then as I stepped through the gate, I heard a familiar voice.

  “The check must be thorough. Until the Caliph ceases to search the mountains, we must beware of brigands who might seek to hide within the city.”

  It was Haroun! It was the voice of Haroun!

  Stealing a glance, I saw him in the uniform of an officer and sitting a fine black horse. So he, too, was among my pursuers! He had never been as close to me as Mahmoud, although there had been a sort of quiet friendship between us. The moving line was carrying me past, but I glanced back again. It was a mistake.

  Our eyes met; for an instant our gaze held. In his eyes there was first surprise, then puzzlement. He started toward me, but a cart drawn by four oxen pulled between us, and his path was blocked. When I looked back again he had turned away.

  Hunger gnawed at my vitals. The only thing of value I possessed was my dagger, which was also the last tie with my father and my home.

  Finally, I could walk no more, and I sank down with my back against a building. The sun was warm; the air, filled with fragrances. Oranges, melons, grapes were being sold about me, yet I starved. Voices were lifted in argument; whips cracked; wheels rumbled over the pavement, and there was the pleasant aroma of coffee from a stall nearby. Exhausted, my head tipped forward, and I slept.

  Awakening, I was chilled to the bone. The sun was gone, and the bazaar, empty. My sleep seemed not to have rested me, and my bowels were a void where hunger growled.

  My muscles had cramped and stiffened; my face was sore, and there was nowhere to turn. In despair, I looked about me.

  Why was I such a fool? If I were a prisoner, they would at least feed me. Or would I be strangled at once?

  Gloomily, I stared around the bazaar, scattered with fruit skins, drifted leaves fallen from the trees, and all the usual debris left by traders. Soon the sweepers would come, and after them, the lamplighters.

  My dagger held release. I could die.

  Die? But I was Kerbouchard, the son of Jean Kerbouchard the Corsair! Had I not started to find my father and seek my fortune? Was I a coward, to quit so soon? I, who had ridden out of Cádiz, my cloak sewn with gems?

  There were smells about me, but the worst was the smell of my own unwashed body, of my stale clothing. I started to rise, glimpsing behind a booth an orange, fallen from a stand nearby. My eyes went to the orange and then to the booth’s owner, who was preparing to leave.

  Strolling over, I picked up the orange, but the man turned to me, glancing from the orange to me. “It is mine. Give it to me, or pay me.”

  “I am hungry,” I said.

  He shrugged. “So? Pay me. Then eat.”

  “I have no money.”

  The skin on his face tightened. He eyed me with open contempt. “Give me the orange, and be gone.”

  The dagger was in my waistband. If I drew the dagger, the orange might no longer be so dear to him, yet there were soldiers at the far end of the market area, and he had only to lift his voice.

  “You accept not the word of Allah?” I asked gently. “ ‘To eat thereof, and feed the poor and the unfortunate’?”

  “Allah has his troubles, I mine. Pay me. If Allah wills you to be fed, then you will be fed, but not by me.”

  Staring, I brought all the intensity of my gaze upon him. As I advanced a step, he involuntarily retreated. “There is no god but Allah,” I said, “but there are devils.”

  He liked not my words and took a step back, glancing right and left as if for escape. “There are devils,” I said, “and there are curses.” Lifting my hand, I pointed a finger at him and began to mutter in my own Breton tongue a phrase or two of Druid ritual, but nothing to do with curses.

  His features went stiff with horror. I had forgotten how lately these people had come from the desert where savage gods ruled and superstition was the order of the day.

  “No!” he lifted his hands as if to shield himself. “Take the fruit and go!” Seizing a small clutch of bananas he thrust them at me. “Take these also, but go. I am a poor man. I have done no harm. I did not know. I thought…”

  Jerking the bananas from his hand, I glared at him, then strode away, inwardly pleased at my good fortune. Truly, there was power in the word.

  Walking along, I ate the bananas and the orange as well. It was overripe and not to my taste, but it was food. Then I rinsed my hands in a fountain and dried them on my shirt. With food in my stomach my mood expanded. I began to think of a place to sleep.

  If curses were to be the answer, I could invent horrendous ones, but there must be simpler solutions. Why should I lie in a cold and dusty street when I might rest my head on the shoulder of some wealthy widow looking for solace? Yet if such there were, they would not look with favor upon me in my rags.

  There is, after all, an atmosphere that hangs about success that is favorable to the breathing of beautiful women.

  No doubt this follows some law of physics, some aspect of feminine instinct or of feminine laws of survival. Despite my tattered clothing and bruised body, I still had my wits. Somewhere, somehow, I would find a bed.

  The last of the day was gone, the side streets were shuttered and closed, becoming caverns of darkness, empty of life.

  There were lighted streets in Córdoba, but upon these walked the young men of fashion, roistering soldiers, men out upon the town. Many of these had I known, but none could I count as friends. I could beg, a few coins, perhaps?

  No, not the son of Kerbouchard.

  My feet strayed into a narrow al
ley between two high walls of baked clay, beyond one of them I heard a feminine voice, softly singing. A haunting song of love sung by a lonely voice. Beyond, the sound of falling water.

  My eyes estimated the wall. It would not do to be caught in the women’s quarters of a Moslem house. Men had been killed or castrated for less.

  However—I leaped, catching the top of the wall, swinging up to lie flat atop it. Had the music missed a beat? The fingers throbbed the strings of the qitara, and the plaintive voice lifted again. The words yearned with memories of the desert, dunes, and palm trees, of the black tents of the Bedouin.

  The song’s words hung inquiring into the night; the water fell in a fountain, and there was a heavy smell of jasmine, a sense of delightful coolness after the day’s heat. Swinging my feet over, I dropped to the ground, and the music of the strings whispered away and faded, leaving only the memory of sound.

  Feet shuffled by in the street I had quit only in time, and I looked about me, feet apart, hands on my hips.

  “Who are you, and what do you want?”

  There was a difference in the tone, not that of a frightened girl nor of a woman of the harem. There was unexpected assurance, a voice accustomed to command. My refuge lay in frankness.

  “I am a man without money, a man with many enemies. My only food in days was a little fruit in a market, nor do I have a place to sleep.

  “However, despite my garb, I am a man of honor, a warrior, and a son of warriors, a man who can sail a ship, compose a rhyme, discourse upon the laws of men and nations, fight a duel, or treat a wound.”

  “Leave this garden at once, by the way you came. If I am forced to call my slaves, they will kill you.”

  “There is no deliverance from a destiny decreed by Allah,” I said with my tongue in my cheek, “but surely it cannot be my destiny to be sent to starve by one so lovely? If I am here, it was only because of you, of your voice, of the song you sang. Your song called to me. I had no will but to answer.”

  Taking a step nearer, I said, “You see in me a Celt, the son of Kerbouchard the Corsair, a wanderer, a man without home, family, or lands, but if you have use for a sword, I know the blade.”

  “You must go.”

  Did I detect a softening of resistance? A relenting? A suggestion of growing interest? Man’s greatest advantage in the battle of the sexes is woman’s curiosity. She was in the shadows, beyond the reach of my eyes, yet the voice was of a woman both young and well-bred.

  “If you drive me from your garden, my enemies may take me, and if they do, I shall be strangled.”

  “These enemies of whom you speak? Who are they?”

  Ah, the shrewdness of it! I was fairly trapped, but the risk was one I must accept. Perhaps I stood in the garden of an enemy, of one with allegiance to those who sought me.

  No matter, I had trusted to honesty thus far. I would persist. I must stake all, and hope that emotion would rule rather than political favor.

  “Prince Ahmed is my enemy, as is ibn-Haram.”

  She moved slightly, to see me better, I guessed, for she was still in darkness. “To have such enemies you must be more than a mere Celtic adventurer. I had not heard that Prince Ahmed was—ah?”

  She paused as if remembering.

  “Prince Ahmed? Are you the one then? The one who spent a week with Prince Ahmed’s bride? If so, you are the toast of Córdoba.”

  She paused. “What is it you want?”

  “Sanctuary until I am rested. A bath. Clothing, if it can be obtained. I can stand being hungry but not unclean.”

  “Step into the light.”

  I did so. “See?” I said mockingly. “I am dirty, I am ragged, but I am a man.”

  “The story of your escape is repeated at every gathering in Córdoba, Seville, and Cádiz.”

  She stepped into the light. She was small, deliciously shaped. She indicated a door. “Accept what I am giving. Demand more and I shall call the guards.”

  I bowed. “Thank you, Princess. I am most grateful.”

  “What has happened to your face?”

  Briefly, I explained, but only the part about returning to the house, being struck down, and left for dead.

  She asked but few questions, but each was to the point. Her manner puzzled me. This was no wartime widow, nor yet a wife. Her questions were those of one skilled in obtaining information.

  When I dropped over the wall I’d have been pleased to find only a corner where I could sleep in security, to be on my way in the morning, but there was mystery here. Her eyes held a calculating expression that had nothing to do with my physique.

  Women in the Moslem worlds of Spain or the Middle East were not restricted and had attained eminence in the field of letters. Many had attended universities and had a liberty unbelievable to Christian Europe. With all the talk of chivalry among the Franks, women were considered mere chattels.

  The house in which I found myself was not large, yet showed every evidence of affluence.

  A robe was thrown over a marble bench when I emerged from the bath, and I donned it. A moment later she returned and without a glance at me, placed a bundle of clothing on the bench.

  My face was still too tender to shave, but I trimmed my beard in the Moslem fashion and dressed myself. The clothing was the plain but substantial clothing of a man of means, of quality but unobtrusive. There might be five thousand in Córdoba who would dress in similar fashion.

  She awaited me in a small room that adjoined her living area, and on the table there was tea, bread, fruit, and a few slices of cold meat and cheese.

  Her name was Safia. While we ate she questioned me about my activities, and I told her of my escape from the galley, of my studies, my imprisonment, and my flight.

  Safia was older than I, older than the girls I had known, and it was obvious her interest was not in any minor escapade. Quite simply she told me she had plans with which I might help, and that might be profitable to me.

  She indicated a pile of rugs and pillows on the floor. “You may sleep there.”

  “Of course. Where else?”

  Her eyes narrowed a little. This woman had a temper. “We will talk in the morning.”

  Again, from the sands of despair I had salvaged the water of well-being. The future remained in doubt, but I had eaten, drunk, bathed, and was freshly clad. Beneath me, when I finally lay down, was a bed not too soft.

  Safia, my lady of the fountain, had the body of a siren, the face of a goddess, and the mind of an Armenian camel dealer. What ideas she had I could not surmise, but Córdoba was a place of intrigue, an art in which the Arab mind was uniquely gifted.

  Was she an Arab? A Berber? A Jewess? I could not guess, nor had she given me the slightest hint or clue. Her few questions and comments when I related my story gave evidence that she was well aware of what was happening in Spain, and there was no doubt she was involved somehow, in some way.

  No doubt I was to be involved also. No doubt I was a tool to be used, but a tool that would be careful of his own interest, and his own life.

  My fingers felt for my dagger. At least, I had that. Tomorrow, with luck, a sword.

  In the meantime there was sleep.

  20

  CÓRDOBA WAS A universe, a universe in which revolved many planets, each isolated to a degree from all others. Now, following the night meeting in the garden, I inhabited one of those planets.

  My world was made up of those who worked, as I now did, for the Society of Translators. Those and the few shopkeepers I met in the daily round of my new life. It needed but a word from Safia to take me to a hearing from the scholars.

  My excellent handwriting satisfied them, but then it was requested that I read aloud and translate from works both Latin and Arabic. On the table was a volume of the Canon of Avicenna, known here by his proper name, ibn-Sina. As I had stu
died it previously, my translation was satisfactory.

  They gave me the task of copying the Index of Sciences compiled by al-Nadim in 988.

  Each daybreak I arose, dressed sedately, and walked through the streets to the library. There I was among older men, far more interested in the matter of the manuscripts before them than the personalities of their fellow workers.

  In the evening I walked home through a park, occasionally sitting down to read under the trees. During all this time I saw few people, none whom I knew.

  My work was painstaking yet fascinating. Two months passed in this quiet endeavor. My trained memory absorbed facts easily, skipping all that was unnecessary, but avid for that information that might be of use.

  My command of Arabic improved, as did my knowledge of both Greek and Latin, and from Safia I was learning Persian. As the streets were dangerous for me, I avoided those where I might encounter someone whom I had known, but my hours were such that the chance was slight.

  Despite my initial confidence, Safia had not found me irresistible. In fact, if she was aware of my maleness at all, it escaped me. This made our relationship simple yet quite pleasant.

  That she possessed a mind quite out of the ordinary was immediately obvious, also that she was engaged in some occupation that required secrecy. It soon became apparent, although she told me nothing, that she was the center for many sources of information. Little happened in Córdoba of which she was not aware, nor in Seville, Toledo, Málaga, or Cádiz.

  The fact that our relations remained as simple as they were was in part due to the daughter of an innkeeper near where I lived. We had passed each other on the street occasionally, never speaking, but mutually aware. She was a full-bosomed lass with dark Moorish eyes ringed with black lashes, and as I have said, we often passed each other. And then there was a day when we did not pass.

  My childhood training in Druidic lore had given me memory and the habit of learning, and for me to copy a book was for me to know it. Among other things I found in the library was a veritable storehouse of maps, many ancient and long out of date, some very new. Some of these were the portolans used by merchant mariners in navigating, trading, living along the coasts. The best of these I copied on bits of parchment, and soon I had a packet of charts of my own.