the Walking Drum (1984) (12 page)

We argued the subject furiously and were becoming quite angry when a girl passed by on a camel. We forgot gravity, and the weight of the air became as nothing.

Mahmoud leaped to his feet. "Did you see her? Did you see how she looked at me?"

"You?" His friend Haroun scoffed. "It was at Kerbouchard she looked! I have noticed this before. All the girls look at Kerbouchard!"

Mahmoud snorted. "That dog of an unbeliever? That stench in the nostrils of humanity? It was atme she looked!"

The camel had stopped in the hot, dusty street nearby. Four soldiers were escort for the girl on the camel, tough, surly-looking men, yet something about her drew my attention, and her eyes were meeting mine over her veil. It was not an illusion, not a vanity.

It was hot in the street, and a fresh sherbet had just been put before me. On impulse I picked up the sherbet and crossed to the camel in four quick steps. The place where we sat in the garden adjoined the bazaar, and the attention of the guards was momentarily distracted by the confusion and the crowd.

"Light of the World"-I spoke softly-"accept this small tribute from your slave. Its coolness will speak my thoughts clearer than anything I can say."

She took the sherbet, and our fingers touched. Over her veil her eyes smiled, and her lips said, "Thank you ...Mathurin!"

And then the four soldiers closed about me.

Chapter
11

"Move, animal!" A bearded soldier pushed me. "Get from here!"

Angered, I seized his arm with a wrestling trick and threw him over my shoulder and into the dust. From behind came a yell of delight as Mahmoud and Haroun rushed to the fray.

The soldiers had closed in swiftly, but my months of training and the strength brought from the galley had left me ready. Smashing a closed fist into one man's teeth, I struck to the belly of another soldier. Unaccustomed to blows, they staggered back, startled and hurt. Instantly, I stepped back and drew my blade.

It was hot in the dusty street, the noises from the bazaar were suddenly stilled. The soldier I had thrown to the ground was getting to his feet, and his face where it was not covered with beard was pale as death. He whom I had struck in the belly was still gasping for breath, but the others drew their swords.

Out of the hot, still afternoon death had come. Sweat trickled down my cheeks as they started for me, trained fighting men, iron-muscled and tough. Even as I faced them, my friends came alongside me.

"Do you take the center one, Infidel," Mahmoud said. "Haroun and I will have the others!"

A soldier spat blood from split lips. "Children!" He sneered. "I'll open your bellies to the flies!"

He lunged, but I parried the blade. My own point darted, flicking a spot of blood from his upper arm. As the soldier shifted ground, a voice spoke clearly. "At noon, in the Court of Oranges!"

It was the girl on the camel, and as she spoke she struck the camel, and it started to move. The soldier I had struck grabbed wildly at the camel, but the girl had started the animal into the crowded bazaar, scattering people in all directions. The soldiers tried to break off the fight, but I suddenly realized the girl had been their prisoner, and was escaping. With a quick turn of the wrist, I parried the blade and thrust. The soldier, attempting to break off and pursue the girl, took the full thrust of my blade and fell, screaming his agony.

From up the street there was a rush of feet, and Mahmoud caught at me. "Quick! Away!"

With a slash at the nearest soldier I fled after Mahmoud and Haroun who had darted down an alleyway into a street beyond. On the far side of that street Mahmoud leaped to a wall, rolled over, and dropped on the far side, Haroun and I following upon his heels.

There was a chorus of screams, excited more than frightened, and the shrill angry cries of an offended eunuch. We dashed across the gardens, twisting our way among a dozen or more pretty and scantily clad women. Mahmoud paused long enough under an apricot tree to seize one plump and pretty girl and squeeze her, kissing her swiftly before we threw ourselves over the far wall and into a narrow, shadowed alley.

We ducked and darted through stables and ancient buildings to emerge at last in another bazaar. Instantly, we ceased to run but walked sedately among the booths and shops, stopping finally to order tea and coffee. As we sat there several soldiers rushed through the bazaar, glaring about them.

Haroun looked across the small table at me, chuckling. He was a short, stocky man, this Haroun, one of the best fencers at the academy where we studied the art. "Do you know who those soldiers were?"

"No."

"Thev were the men of ibn-Haram."

Ibn-Haram? So then, the girl was Aziza. No wonder she had seemed familiar. Aziza ...here?

They were looking at me. "You know who is ibn-Haram?"

"I have heard of him. Who has not?"

"He is a dangerous enemy, and the right hand of Yusuf."

What had she said? "At noon, in the Court of Oranges." Unwittingly, my interference had given her a chance to escape, but had she any place to go?

Had the soldiers heard her speak of the Court of Oranges? My friends said nothing, so they might not have heard, and the soldiers were concentrating on me.

If they heard or remembered, the Court of Oranges could be a trap. But on what day? And at what time? No matter, Aziza would come, and I would be there to meet her.

"Take my advice and stay off the streets for a few days. You killed that man, I believe."

There was something in his eyes I had not seen before. Was it jealousy? Calculation?

When it was dark, we went our ways, and I carefully, along dark streets and empty alleys. Ibn-Tuwais was seated over a bowl of fruit and a glass of tea when I entered. "You are in trouble?" he asked.

My face was flushed from hurry, and my manner must have reflected my mood. So for the first time I told him of Malaga, the fight on the shore, and the disappearance of Aziza and Count Redwan.

"She will have friends," he said.

"I have an idea where she might go."

"And Redwan?"

"There is talk ... he is a prisoner, I believe, in Zaragoza." Ibn-Tuwais chose a piece of fruit. "You have made a powerful enemy, but a man may be judged by who his enemies are, and their power."

"What would you advise?"

"Wait, and as your friend advised, stay off the streets and out of sight." Wait ... that, indeed, I must do, and every day, in the Court of Oranges.

The twelfth century was a time of restlessness in Europe. New ideas were creeping in, shaking the foundations of old beliefs. The second Crusade was history, but Crusaders had returned astonished at what they had seen and no longer content with their cold, drafty castles.

More than one hundred years had passed since William the Conqueror and his Normans invaded England, and now Henry II was consolidating his control over Ireland and Wales while putting down the last feudal revolt. At a small town named Oxford, a university with a tradition from an earlier time had been founded. Elsewhere Adelard of Bath and Robert of Chester, students of Arabic science, were offering their knowledge to a limited circle of students.

In Germany, Frederick I, so-called Barbarossa (Red-Beard), founded the Holy Roman Empire, and on his fifth expedition into Italy had been defeated by the Lombard towns at Legnano.

In China, the Northern Sung dynasty, with its great age of landscape painting, had come to an end, although landscape painting did not. Compositions of majestic breadth and exquisite detail, with a sparing use of line as well as interesting contrasts of light and shadow, had been created by Tuan Yuan, Kuo Hsi, Li Kung-lin, and Mi Fei, among others. In China the great historians, essayists, poets, and scientists were often statesmen as well.

The Southern Sung fought a reluctant war with the restless tribes to the north. In 1161 explosives were used by Yu Tun-wen in defeating the Chin. In ceramic art the magnificent Sung white was created and the Southern Sung artists were turning away from the beetling, picturesque crags and mountains to misty lakes, hills, and trees of softer landscapes.

In India, Mohammed of Ghur had begun the conquest of Hindustan, and Arab vessels were trading down the east coast of Africa as they had done for as long as men could remember. Their ships had sailed to China, explored the last islands of Indonesia, and returned with cargoes to Red Sea and Persian Gulf ports.

Merchants and travelers from all the world came to Cordoba, drawn by the wealth and brilliance of its society. This society centered about the homes of a dozen beautiful women who held court in Cordoba, gathering about them the creative intelligence of the Arab world.

Cordoba was where I wished to remain, yet much would depend on what happened when I met Aziza again. Ibn-Haram was not a man to be crossed with impunity. He would quickly decide that the fight in the bazaar was not the accident it appeared to be but a plot to free Aziza. He would not rest until he discovered who had been involved.

Somehow I must meet Aziza and help her return to her friends. Any attempt to do so could mean my death, and in a quarrel that was not my own. Was I a fool to become involved because of a girl I had scarcely met?

Aziza had escaped into the city. She undoubtedly had friends to help her, but she had wished to meet with me, a risk she seemed willing to accept.

Restlessly, I paced the garden at the home of ibn-Tuwais. The Court of Oranges and the mosque were familiar to me, but in the event one of the soldiers had overheard her, I must be prepared to escape quickly.

"At noon in the Court of Oranges!"The words sang in my ears, beat a rhythm in my blood. Had Mahmoud and Haroun escaped? They might have been picked up after leaving me, but if so, I had no word of it. Nor did I trust Mahmoud. We had been acquaintances, talking together, drinking coffee together. He was, I knew, a man of intense vanity, and he had declared it was he at whom Aziza had looked, to discover otherwise might have been a blow. Nor would an aspiring young man wish to cross ibn-Haram, who, if he aided him, might confer favors. There had been something in his eyes I did not trust. I said as much to ibn-Tuwais.

The old man nodded. "Trust your instincts. Life teaches us much of which we are not aware. Our senses perceive things that do not impinge upon our awareness, but they lie dormant within us and affect our recognition of people and conditions. But you must be patient. In impatience there is danger."

He was right, of course, but patience is never the easiest of virtues, and outside these walls events were moving forward that could mean recapture for Aziza and death for me. When at last I lay down to sleep, I did not expect to sleep, but weariness lay heavily upon me, and sleep I did. My last thoughts were of a man with a scarred face.Wit and a sword, he had said. It was a time for wit, but for caution also.

Worst of all, I might have to abandon Cordoba, my enchanted city. It was, with Constantinople and Baghdad, one of the three intellectual centers of the world, yet I think that with reservations, for I have begun to learn something of India and the far land sometimes called Cathay. What lies there? Surely, from the few books I have found their cities must be as great as these, or greater.

Cordoba, I had learned, came to its true greatness under Abd-erl-Rahman III and his successor, al-Hakam II from 961 to 976 a.d., and under the dictatorship, if such it can be called, of Ali Mansur from 977 to 1002. Miles of streets had been paved and lighted; there were many parks, bazaars, and bookshops. It was a city where I loved to roam, and I was only beginning to learn its ways.

What of the queenly Valaba? Of her my thoughts were guilty ones, for was I not in love with Aziza? Or was I?

No matter, if she needed my help, she would have it, but I must move with utmost caution. After all, Valaba was but a beautiful woman with whom I had exchanged a word or two. By now she had forgotten me, although my vanity shied at the thought. Or was it something else than vanity? Some affinity, perhaps, of which we were both aware?

Long before daylight I finally fell asleep, while wind stirred the vine leaves and wafted over me the scents of jasmine and rose mingled with the coolness from the fountains.

Would it be today? Would Aziza meet me in the Court of Oranges? Would love await me there? Or adventure and death?

Chapter
12

At noon in the Court of Oranges the sun was hot. The air was heavy with the scent of flowers and lazy with the sound of running water. At noon in the Court of Oranges there was a shuffling of feet as the white-robed thousands moved slowly into the mosque. Above them the palms cast slender shadows over the orange trees, and golden fruit shone through the glossy leaves like the Golden Apples of legend.

There were four great basins in the Court of Oranges and water tumbled into them with a pleasant, sleepy sound. The air hung still and hot, thick with the scent of jasmine and rose, and along the walls were hibiscus, great soft red flowers beside others of pale gold or white.

On the north side of the Court was a minaret, one hundred and eight feet tall, so beautiful it might have been dreamed rather than constructed by the hands of men. Stately, beautiful, and created of stone intricately woven with threads of gold in fantastic tracery. At noon in the Court of Oranges I moved along with the shuffling throng, one of them but not of them, for my mind was not on things devout, nor my eyes upon the ground.