Novel 1984 - The Walking Drum (v5.0) Read online

  A half-dozen men were in view, soldiers all. Outside in the court we could see others, searching all about.

  As I watched, the officer in command turned and I saw his face clearly. It was Duban.

  My mouth had opened to call out when Aziza clapped a hand over it, shaking her head violently.

  “But it is Duban! He will help us!”

  “They would kill you. You have been too long alone with me.”

  “But—!”

  “No matter. They would kill you, anyway.”

  “Of course,” I agreed, “I am a fool.”

  “Whatever you are, I love you.”

  Startled, I looked at her, and she returned my gaze with wide eyes. “I mean it,” she said. “Not that it will matter. They will marry me to whom they wish if it will aid their cause.”

  When they had ridden away we descended the stair and went to the top of the keep. From there we could watch over the entire countryside, and the riders were far away now, riding swiftly toward a high road where dim movement could be seen.

  We could no longer remain here. They had found nothing, but they might return. It was obvious someone had been moving about in the courtyard and the garden.

  “You were right,” I admitted. “I should have known what they would think.”

  “I am important to them,” she said. “They want me because I am useful for bargaining. They hope to seal an alliance with me.” She shrugged. “Women such as I know this is what is expected, and sometimes the match is a happy one.”

  “And if it is not?”

  “We manage, somehow. We have known what was expected of us, and some become very clever at politics and intrigue. Some simply find a lover; some sink into whatever life they have with their children, and often they are enough.”

  At nightfall we left the Castle of Othman, walking hand in hand down the slope to the copse where the horses were tethered. The black well had left me uneasy, and I had a premonition I had not seen the last of it, yet now I knew its secrets, or some of them. A thing to be remembered: There among the bones lay the largest part of my fallen candle. Such things can be the price of life or death.

  We rode, keeping to low ground and darkness, to the entrance to ibn-Tuwais’s tunnel. Once inside we heard no sound. We rode to the hidden stable, left our horses with plenty of feed, and reentered the beautiful apartments where we had first hidden.

  No sound came from beyond the wall. We detected no movement in the house. Had ibn-Tuwais been taken away to be tortured or killed?

  There could have been no evidence of my presence left in the house, so the search must have been purely routine unless they had previous knowledge of my presence.

  But how could that have been?

  When for a long time we heard no sound, I pushed on the slab and it pivoted gently. There was a slight scrape of stone on stone but no other sound. With drawn sword I went through the door.

  A rustle of garments, and a familiar voice. “Kerbouchard? Come in. You are safe.”

  The voice was that of Mahmoud.

  Stepping into the room, we found him reclining upon a divan, one of the books of ibn-Tuwais in his hand. He arose and came to us, bowing low to Aziza.

  “We feared you had been captured or killed. Ibn-Tuwais got word to us to wait for you here.”

  Why did I not trust him? There was no reason for mistrust, and we desperately needed a friend.

  “When you could not be found they arrested ibn-Tuwais. He has told them nothing.”

  “But how could they know I had lived here?”

  He shrugged. “Someone saw you, I suppose. Spies are everywhere, and as you should know, we Berbers trust no one.”

  He glanced at Aziza. “Ibn-Sharaz is said to be angry over his daughter’s disappearance, and Prince Ahmed—you can imagine how he feels.”

  Mahmoud seated himself and clapped his hands for a slave. The man who came was strange to me, yet I recalled having seen him once. Was it in Mahmoud’s home? The slave began to spread a low table for a meal, and after our poor fare of the past week, my mouth watered.

  “You must remain here for the time,” Mahmoud suggested, “and we will arrange to get you out of the city.”

  Mahmoud was my friend; there was no earthly reason for not trusting him, yet the situation left me uneasy.

  Mahmoud was a Berber, yet I did not believe he had any connection with Yusuf or ibn-Haram. His friends had all belonged to the previous ruling group, the Almoravids.

  I liked it not at all. In effect we were prisoners in the house, trusting to Mahmoud for food as well as information, and I had seen his eyes stray toward Aziza. Was it with envy or jealousy?

  Mahmoud was ambitious, and Aziza was a pawn in a struggle for power, a struggle in which I was merely in the way. Reluctantly, I had to admit she would be better off with Prince Ahmed than with me. At least she would be assured of comfort, food to eat, and freedom from pursuit.

  What had I to offer but love? I was a drifting adventurer, a man living by his wits and his blade. I had neither family, fortune, nor friends.

  When Mahmoud had gone Aziza came at once to me. “Of what are you thinking?”

  “I do not trust him.”

  “Neither do I.”

  “You would be safer with Prince Ahmed.”

  “But happier with you.”

  No doubt she believed what she said, yet I could only think of the city out there, teeming with potential enemies, devoid of friends.

  “The slave is a spy,” she warned. “Be careful of what you say.”

  “We still have the horses.”

  “Yes.”

  Was there reluctance in her tone? She had been brought up to a life of luxury and ease, living in the saddle or in occasional ruins could become old very soon. Our stay at the Castle of Othman had been idyllic only up to a point.

  Restlessly, I paced, filled with uncertainty, always aware of the presence of the slave. He was busy, but close by.

  My bow and arrows had been left on my saddle. My scimitar and dagger were with me. There was little food in the secret room, but I could get more. The question was when to move?

  The time was now.

  All my instincts as well as my intelligence warned me there was no time to lose. The walls seemed suddenly oppressive, and I wished desperately to be free, to be outside, riding across the tawny plain.

  Turning to Aziza, I said, “You must think, and you must be honest both with me and with yourself. If you escape with me now, you will be tying yourself and your fortunes to me, perhaps for always. You cannot go back.”

  “I do not want to go back, Mathurin. I wish to be with you.”

  “All right. We will go, now.”

  The slave had been gone from the room; now he returned suddenly. I went at once to the storeroom and began packing food.

  “If you will but tell me what to do, Master, I will do it.”

  “Just stay where you are and be still. I will do it myself.”

  He turned to leave the room; and I stepped before him, my hand on my scimitar. “Sit down!” I commanded.

  His lips tightened, and he grew suddenly wary.

  “Try to leave,” I promised, “and you shall choke on your own blood.”

  He backed away and seated himself on a cask. Swiftly, I finished my packing and went out of the door, locking it behind me.

  Aziza was waiting. “Hurry, Mathurin! They—”

  The outer door opened, and I heard footsteps and the clank of arms.

  Wheeling in my tracks, I pushed to open the door into the secret room. The stone door swung inward.

  Four men faced me with drawn swords.

  Chapter 16

  *

  WHEN I OPENED my eyes my cell was unchanged, and I lay upon the filthy straw that for three months had been my bed.

  For a long time I lay still, remembering the expression on the face of Mahmoud as he stood behind the four swordsmen.

  “I am sorry, my friend,” he said smu
gly. “You were in the way.”

  Aziza had cried when they took her from me, her lovely features contorted with weeping.

  One other face that I was to remember, a tall, handsome man with a smartly trimmed beard. He looked at me coldly as if I were some sort of insect, then looked away.

  Prince Ahmed!

  “Throw him into prison,” he said, “and when he has suffered enough, kill him.”

  He could not forgive the days at the Castle of Othman with Aziza. That I had even looked at the bride of Ahmed without her veil was an insult.

  Three months in this vile place? When and how would they kill me? Or had I been forgotten?

  My Berber guards were savage, bitter men, yet they were fighting men, and for this I admired them.

  They left me my books. When taken from the house of ibn-Tuwais, I had been allowed to bring the books he had given me, and from time to time, mysteriously, I had received others.

  Was Mahmoud to be thanked for this? Or had Aziza contrived some means of having them smuggled to me?

  One thing I had done. Before being taken away, I cleared ibn-Tuwais of any complicity in my activities; aiding in this was proof that I had paid him for my quarters. As no Arab would accept money from a friend in such a case, they had believed my story, and he was freed.

  During those three long months, I had studied the geography of al-Idrisi, far superior to anything of the kind available in Christian Europe.

  Eratosthenes, a scholar of 194 B.C. in Alexandria, had devised a method for calculating the diameter of the earth, and al-Mamun in 829 had figured its diameter to be 7,850 miles. Also during these three months, I had read the translations of Hippocrates and Galen by Hunayn ibn-Ishaq.

  There was only straw upon the floor of my cell and one small window to offer light. When the wind blew rain into the cell, I had to crowd under the window itself to keep dry, and it was always cold, damp, and unpleasant. One day a guard came to my door and handed me a package in which was wrapped the work on surgery by Albucasis.

  There was little to do but read, although each day I exercised to keep my body fit. The food was bad, but it was no worse than aboard the galley.

  My mind was forever occupied with thoughts of escape, yet I now knew the passage outside my cell to be impossible. There were four Berber guards in that passage, and at the end of it a guardroom in which a dozen more were wont to gather to talk and to gamble. My small window opened upon a sheer cliff that fell away for hundreds of feet.

  Al-Idrisi I loved. The great Moslem geographer had much information about the far corners of the earth not obtainable elsewhere. The Arabs, because of the pilgrims who came to Mecca from all parts of the world, were in an excellent position to gather geographical knowledge.

  My restlessness increased. Prince Ahmed would not permit me to live. His pride would not allow it. Sooner or later the order would come through.

  When my guard was not around, I often grasped the lower sill of my window and chinned myself, pulling myself up until I could peer through the bars. All I could see was blue sky and occasional drifting cloud. Yet one by one I tested the three bars.

  They were set in the stone window frame closer to the outer edge than the inner, and the castle was very old, dating back to earliest Visigothic times. The wall itself was exposed to driving rains, and over the years the stone on the outer edge might have eroded away.

  Testing them, I found one was very slightly loose in its socket, so it became a part of my exercise, my daily routine, to work at the bar. Twisting it, I found I could occasionally loosen fragments, a fine sand that could itself be used as an abrasive.

  Occasionally, I would pour a few drops of my water into the hole, and as I was a man of more than usual strength, it seemed possible to push the bar free at the bottom, breaking away the thin edge of stone that remained.

  The other bars were seated solidly, yet the edge of another hole was thin, and if I could work the first bar loose and use it as a lever…?

  My guard on this day was a slender, knifelike man with a lean face and high cheekbones. He was a warrior and looked it.

  Several times I made efforts to engage him in conversation, to no avail until I commented that I hoped my horse was being cared for.

  “The dappled Barb? Maybe after you are killed they will give him to me.”

  “You are a man who would understand such a horse,” I agreed.

  There was a change in his manner. He seemed inclined to be friendly. Our talk was of horses, then it switched to camels. The Berber was a desert man and seemed pleased when I showed some interest in camels. Of them I had learned a little from Hassan, the servant of John of Seville.

  At the end of an hour I had learned a few things. The castle in which I was imprisoned was on a lonely crag some distance from Córdoba, and the walls fell into a deep gorge on all but one side. The idea did not frighten me, as from boyhood I had climbed about on the lofty cliffs of my native Brittany. Heights did not disturb me, and I had learned how to use every tiny finger grip, every crack, every opening in the rock.

  My beard had grown; my clothing was unclean, and the straw on which I spent my nights was forever clinging to it. Yet that clothing was still sufficient to cover me, and sewn into the seams were the remaining gems I had kept from the galley.

  That night when the cell was dark I labored long at the loosened bar and the second one also. By daylight when I lay down to sleep there was some movement in the second bar.

  The guard awakened me by bringing food. On this morning he did not seem disposed to talk nor would his eyes meet mine.

  “The order has come then?”

  He shrugged irritably and closed the door behind him. Then he said quite distinctly. “You are to be strangled.”

  “When?”

  “Tomorrow.”

  “You may have my horse.”

  When he spoke, there was something in his tone I could not fathom. “I already have him. He is in the stable at my house in the village, with your saddle and your weapons.”

  Was he boasting? Or trying to give me information?

  “Wait. Is anyone near us?”

  “No.”

  “I must escape. I have a diamond. Help me and it is yours.”

  “I would be killed. Prince Ahmed is furious.” He chuckled. “It is said the beautiful one murmurs your name in her sleep.”

  He hesitated at the door. “You have friends who wish you free.”

  “Aziza?”

  “It was not she who sent the books. But I cannot help you.”

  “You were asked?”

  “Yes.”

  “By whom?”

  “I cannot say, only that she is very powerful in some places. Yet even her influence cannot reach beyond ibn-Haram and Prince Ahmed.”

  She?

  I knew no woman who might wish to help other than Aziza, nor any person. Perhaps John of Seville—but he would have no knowledge of my danger.

  When he had gone I wasted no time. From my guard’s manner I knew he would not mind if I escaped, but he would take no hand in it himself.

  Besides, what could he or anyone do? The passage was filled with men, the outer court also. One could not buy them all, nor would they risk the reprisals of ibn-Haram.

  Hoisting myself to the window, I grasped one bar with my left hand, the other with my right. With all my strength I pushed on the right-hand bar.

  Nothing happened.

  Bracing myself, I drew the right-hand bar back in its socket, only a tiny distance, then smashed it outward with all the power I could muster. For an hour I worked until drenched with sweat and my knees and arms became raw with chafing against the rock wall.

  My guard returned with food, and if he noticed anything, he gave no indication. Only, as he was leaving, he commented, “Twice men have tried to climb down the wall; each was dashed to pieces on the rocks below. It is seven hundred feet to the bottom.

  “My house,” he added, “is not a pretty one, but it is pa
inted pink. It is the only pink house outside the walls.”

  When he had gone there would be no one nearer than the guardroom. I ate what meager food there was, then scrambled to the sill.

  Desperately, I went to work. Escape tonight or die tomorrow; die upon the rocks below risking my life for freedom or be strangled like a sheep.

  Grasping the loosest bar, I gave a tremendous shove and something gave. Rock grated, and I shoved again. The bar came loose at the bottom; the top slipped from its socket. I now held in my hand an iron bar three feet long, slightly beveled at one end. An hour later the second bar was free.

  Thrusting my head from the window, I looked off into a vast, unbelievable space. The cell in which I was imprisoned was set upon the rock of the clifftop, but the precipice fell away in a sheer drop for two hundred feet and was then broken by several crevices that seemed to run down the face of the cliff.

  Studying the wall below my window, I carefully noted the knobs and projections that might offer fingerholds. Returning to the floor of my cell, I drank what remained of the water, then lay down for a brief nap. Within the hour my body might lie broken and bloody on the rocks below, but I would never be strangled by the retainers of Prince Ahmed.

  Awakening, I rinsed my mouth with the few drops I had missed of the water, then climbed to the windowsill and went through the window, feet first. Gripping with my fingers on the window ledge, I groped with my toes for the hairline of rock where the building rested, and found it.

  Always agile, and adept at rock climbing, I knew the trial before me would be the worst I would ever meet. In my belt, tied there, were the two iron window bars. Clinging to the ledge with my fingertips with one hand only, I leaned down and thrust one of the bars deep into a crack in the wall.

  Letting go the sill, I let myself fall, catching the bar with both hands. Had the bar slipped or the rock crumbled—but neither happened. A gust of wind caught my body; I heard distant thunder. My toe found a crack. Holding to the bar behind me with my left hand, I leaned down and wedged the second bar into place.

  Farther along the cliff face was a vertical crack some three feet wide and but a few inches deep. Edging my way, handhold by handhold across the face of the rock, using the second iron bar, which I had recovered, for the first I had abandoned in place, I made my way to that crack.