The Making of the Morning Star/Chapter 13
CHAPTER XIII
THE STORM
AS THEY trotted out of the alley Robert signed to the messenger to come up with him, and sent the man to command Kutchluk Khan to saddle his ponies and hold his men ready to ride. He pressed forward alone, seeking the shortest way to the wall. Here the alleys, odorous with fish and wool and stagnant water, twisted and turned, and his horse was forced to pick a way among heaps of refuse. White walls loomed out of the darkness and voices flung hearty curses after him in many languages.
He turned aside into a quarter where the wooden barrier was let down, and lights gleamed from lattices and the scent of incense and aloes was in the air. In gateways under great lanterns the tinted faces of women peered at him, and from a roof nearly over his head came the high-pitched song of a Circassian girl with the monotonous accompaniment of a lute. In the labyrinth of the alleys the dwellers of Bokhara had come forth after the heat of the day, and Robert wondered whether in truth there could be fighting on the wall
A woman's form, veiled and sinuous, moved toward him in the swaying walk of the Bokharian slave. Her henna-tinted hands drew back the veil, and he looked down into a face thin yet beautiful, and saw in the half-light of the stars eyes, darkened with kohl, wise with the unhallowed wisdom of Egypt.
Anklets tinkled as other girls fled with ripples of laughter from his horse. In his path a handsome boy caressed a lute, singing with a full throat, his head thrown back to the stars.
“Time passes and no man may stay it. This hour alone is thine. Turn not from the rose and its fairness, for thorns lie thick on the pathway!”
Robert reined in his horse and gripped the singer's shoulder.
“Where lies the wall?”
“I am Hassan,” the boy responded with the gravity of the intoxicated. “Lo, the wall is not here, for this is the street of delightful hours.”
He laughed at the set face of the crusader, and Robert loosed him, setting spurs to the charger. The spring of the horse sent the boy rolling in the dust that eddied up from the plunging hoofs.
Hassan sat up, muttering, and a veiled woman ran to his side from the deep shadow of a wall.
“The moon hath come down from the sky,” cried the boy. “Ah”
A thin length of steel darted into his side and was withdrawn. The woman's hand felt for his purse, which had jingled when he fell, and slipped it from his girdle. Then she merged again into the shadow.
Rising to his knees, Hassan felt about in the dust as if for something he had lost. Suddenly he screamed, and the song of the Circassian on the roof above ceased for a moment.
ROBERT rode over the bridge that spanned the river, and glanced to either side. Although the tumult on the wall was nearer, pleasure barges drifted along the banks, and Bokharian nobles made wagers as to the length of the fighting. Passing through the gardens at a gallop, he began to hear the ululation of the Kankalis and the clashing of weapons. Dismounting among the tents behind the wall, he climbed a stairway to a tower and found the beg he had left in charge.
“Yah khawand,” the man greeted him, “you are in good time. Watch.”
The causeway was crowded with packed masses of Mongols, and more were moving up on foot from the lines of the camp where the drums and nakars kept up their clamor. At the head of the earth-mound beams had been thrust across the gap by the besiegers and hastily covered with spears, planks and hides. Over this bridge warriors were rushing the rampart, climbing upon the bodies of the slain.
They were half-naked, and those who had shields hurled them at the Moslems. Then they ran forward, stooping and smiting with axes and heavy, curved swords. Most of them fell under the arrows of the Kankalis, who shot from the wall and the nearest towers. The survivors were hurled back by spears and maces in the hands of the mailed defenders.
“Twice have we hewn down their bridge!” exclaimed the captain. “See where our stone-casters thin the numbers in the rear! Allah send victory!'
“But do you send for reenforcements from the palace,” retorted Robert, watching two human tides beat against each other and a sprinkling of dark bodies, outflung from the press, drop into the beds of jasmine and roses underneath.
After a while he picked up his shield and ran down the stairs toward the wall. Greater weight of metal and steadiness of foot was needed here.
Thrusting through the struggling Moslems, he whipped out his sword, hewing his way well in among the Mongols without waiting to see if any of his own men followed. A mace crashed against his helmet, blurring his sight; a spear clanged on his shield. All around him there was a tearing, sobbing sound of tired men striving to rend each other, a snapping of wood and the moaning of the wounded underfoot, Moslems for the most part. The short, grim men who surged at him fought in silence.
Robert thrust the hilt of his sword into a snarling face, swept clear the space before him with his blade and felt himself caught about the legs. Stumbling, he dropped his sword, and his mailed mitten grasped a short battle-ax on the stone surface of the wall. With this he smashed free of those who grappled him and gained his feet—a thing that few did who went down.
Now as he stood his ground he felt that shafts flew past him. A giant who rushed at him with open hands was transfixed by a long arrow and fell upon his feet. Another was pierced through the throat, so that the blow he aimed at Robert fell feebly against the steel casque. He could see, through the eyeslits of his visor, the black mantles of the Kankalis on either hand, and the flash of their simitars. So in time he rested against the broken rampart and the bodies that lay upon it, panting, while the Mongol tide receded down the mole.
Still, however, was heard the summons of the drum and cymbal from the Mongol camp.
“Yah kkawand!” the voice of the beg spoke at his side. “Evil tidings have come. The Mongols have struck in another place along the river. They stole up and smashed the chain with sledges and swam their horses between the towers of the river gate. They are slaying the men in the barges”
“Send to Kutchluk Khan. Bid him ride with all his men to the river. Half his division should cross the bridge to this side. Then order five thousand Persian archers to the house-tops along the river to support the Turkomans! Haste!”
While he waited anxiously for news of the fight at the river he saw torches assembling in the Mongol camp. Fresh warriors walked to the lower end of the causeway and began to mount silently.
Under the flaming cressets of the wall he could make out that these were powerful men with the horns of beasts upon their fur caps. Those in front carried beams; behind these came ranks of swordsmen in rude iron armor, followed by masses of archers.
Robert realized that the Mongols had launched their main attack at the river under cover of the assault on the causeway. The fresh effort might mean that they had been checked by Kutchluk, or that they had Keen victorious behind him and meant to press home the attack. As yet he heard no fighting on the river near by, and he breathed a prayer that the one-eyed Turkoman had driven home his charge.
Again the Mongols thrust forward their beams and swarmed to the assault. An arrow struck the Kankali beg in the throat, and his body fell under the feet of his men.
“Are ye dogs?” Robert cried at the Moslems. “Come with me!”
He climbed the rampart, followed by all on the wall. The Mongols stood their ground, shouting and working havoc with their heavy weapons. With his long ax Robert cleared a space around him and planted his feet, dizzy with the blows that smashed in the steel of his helmet. Warm blood trickled down his ribs, and hot air seared his lungs.
Until his arms were wearied he stood his ground until the ax broke in his hands, when he fell to rallying the Moslems, who gave back on either side. The weariness crept into his brain, and he fancied he was standing at the head of a great stair up which writhed grimacing dwarfs with hands outstretched to drag him down into darkness.
A moment's pause enabled him to wipe the sweat from his eyes, and he saw Chepe Noyon clearly. The Mongol chief was halfway down the causeway beside a thick-set warrior. This man leaned on a spear, staring up at the fight without expression. His massive arms were bound at the biceps with gold rings, and he wore the long horns of a buffalo on his helmet.
When his glance fell on the knight the powerful Mongol tossed down his spear and strode up the causeway, thrusting friends and foes from his path as a man might push aside corn-stalks.
“Subotai—Subotai!” the nearest Mongols howled exultantly.
Robert fought for breath and looked about vainly for a weapon suited to his strength. Measuring the man with the buffalo horns and his own weariness, he felt that he would not be upon his feet for long.
“Yield thyself,” Chepe Noyon's voice reached him through the uproar, “to the palladin, Subotai, and no shame is thine!”
“I yield to no man!” Robert cried and stepped forward.
A fresh onrush of Moslems from the wall swept between them as reenforcements came up at last from the Perisan camp at the palace. Subotai crushed in the head of a warrior with his sword and leaped to one side, knocking two others from their feet. Then other Mongols sprang to the aid of their leader, who was drawn back, snarling angrily, as the besiegers were thrust back by weight of numbers, and the incline cleared.
Robert watched until the fight on the causeway was over. For the first time he noticed that a broad streak of light ran along the horizon. The struggle had lasted through the night.
“O captain of thousands and companion of heroes,” a glittering Persian addressed him respectfully, “the barbarians have been scattered at the river gate. They have left the waters thick with their dead, and Kutchluk Khan hath passed to the mercy of God with more than the half of his men.”
WHEN the sun rose the sound of the drums ceased. The crusader sought his horse and climbed stiffly into the saddle, while throngs of Bokharians clustered about him and cried praises on the infidel ameer. Men fought for the privilege of taking the reins of his horse and leading him into the thick of the shouting mob, while women tossed roses from the house tops.
“The barbarians are withdrawing their tents from the river!” A warrior stood up in his stirrups to call out. “Hai—they are scattered! The favor of Allah is with the faithful! The triumph is with Bokhara!”
Robert was aware that this rejoicing was ill-timed. Yet was he too weary with his hurts to think of the future. He had held the wall and had made good his word to Muhammad. So might Alexander in other days have ridden through the streets of the ancient city and received the salutes of his warriors.
The tumult died down when he reached the square where some Persian mounted archers were drawn up by the mosque. At their head was Jahan Khan, relieved of his chains, sitting his horse beside the litter of Osman. On the steps of the mosque stood the mullah, Nur-Anim, with a paper in his hand and an array of priests behind him. The Moslem who had been leading his horse withdrew, and the crusader halted before the steps of the Jumma.
“Greeting, O prince of warriors and paladin of swordsmen,” Nur Anim said in his high voice. “Upon thee—the Salute! And now hear the word of Muhammad, Shah of shahs. This firman, this decree, he left with me to be read when victory had fallen to our arms.”
Robert glanced at Jahan Khan, who had been released without his order, and saw that the Kankali was staring at him curiously. A thousand eyes were on him as he sat his charger without helm or sword, with armor and surcoat hacked and stained.
“It is the will of Muhammad Shah that Osman the wazir shall watch closely the deeds of the infidel leader of the garrison. If the Frank presumes to set foot in a mosque or to contrive aught against the treasure of Khar or raise his hand against a true believer he is to be put in chains and held captive until my return. If he resists this command he must be slain with a sword. The Peace upon my servants.”
Robert's lips drew into a hard line, and he lifted his head angrily. Yet, thinking of the three who looked for his coming in the house of the fountain, he waited until he could speak calmly.
“Have I kept my word to Muhammad?”
“Aye,” assented Nur-Anim, rolling up the decree. “It was written that victory should be, and you have served fate.”
“Then will the Shah make good his word to me?”
The mullah glanced at Osman, who raised himself on his elbow to speak; but the knight was before him.
“O Moslems, it is also written that he who breaks an oath is without honor. I have been guilty of none of these things. Who is to be my judge?”
“The wazir and I.”
Robert rallied his wits and tried to shake off his weariness. His head pained him, and loss of blood made it hard to sit erect in the saddle. His eyes went from one face to an other and read in them only exultant mockery—save for two or three of the officers who had served him on the wall.
“And who speaks against me?”
“I!” cried Osman loudly. “Give heed, O Moslems, to the ill deeds of this Frank. He schemed in his garden to steal the treasure of Khar from the mosque. I made a test of him, and witnesses without the wall heard.”
A murmur of astonishment and anger came from the lips of those who listened.
“He cast dirt upon the beard of Jahan Khan,” went on the wazir. “And the boy Hassan he slew in the night for no cause. Women saw it done and will testify.”
Seeing clearly that Osman had determined to get rid of him, Robert held up his hand silently, and after a while—such was the prestige of the man who had defended the city against the Mongols—the murmurs quieted down.
"These be words, and lying words!” he cried. “Do ye believe, ye who have beheld my deeds?”
Some of the warriors looked about restlessly, and all eyes sought Nur-Anim. The mullah could have cast his influence for either man, and he chose to favor the wazir.
“Ye have heard the word of the Shah!”
He lifted the rolled parchment.
“I obey the word.”
Robert tightened his rein and urged his horse slowly along the line of the Bokharians, glancing into each face. And now he beheld only sullen fanaticism and hatred. He had been tricked and cast aside when they believed his work was done. The anger that he held in check swept over him.
“O fools! I could have let the Mongols into the city. Who will lead you when I am gone?”
He ripped the signet ring from his finger and hurled it at Nur-Anim.
“Greet Muhammed with this, and do you find honor in it if you can.”
“Take the dog of a Nazarene!”
Robert wheeled his horse and headed for the Persians who closed in on him. One man he threw from the saddle, and his charger shouldered another out of the way. Vainly he sought to win through the press to reach the three who awaited him in the house of the fountain. A warrior struck him on the head with a mace, and he fell under his rearing horse. A red mist gathered before his eyes, and powerful hands forced him to his feet. His wrists were bound behind him, and a cord was slipped over his head. The cord tightened, and he stumbled forward.
When his sight cleared he saw that he was being led out of the righistan beside Osman's litter, and the wazir was leaning on his elbow the better to feast his eyes on his prisoner.
“Is thy memory so short, O Nazarene? Not three days ago you put yourself before me. You took from me the treasure, the diamond sheen, the houri out of paradise. Didst thou believe I had forgotten? Nay, I will take again the treasure that is more than gold—my eyes will take delight in the face that is fairer than diamonds. Ha, you will live to see that—dog of an unbeliever.”
At the gate of his palace he paused to stare a moment longer at his captive.
“Put upon him the chain that may not be loosened and the weight that may not be set down.”
In the courtyard Robert was seized by slaves who riveted upon his wrists fetters to which chains where attached. These chains in turn supported a round ball of iron half as heavy as a man—a spiked ball, stained with dried blood.
“This is the morning star, Nazarene,” Osman smiled, “for when you awake from sleep it lies near you, and when you would go forth it stirs not. Many who have looked upon it long have cursed the sun and prayed for death.”
The slaves urged him toward a postern door of the tower. To obey, he was forced to pick up the weight and carry it, for the chains were too short to allow him to stand upright. He went forward, and the door closed on him, leaving him in darkness. But for a moment before the door was shut he heard the distant mutter of great drums and the clash of the Mongol cymbals.