Rusudan/Chapter 16
CHAPTER XVI
THE SALUTE TO THE KHAN
SIR HUGH thrust his way through a growing crowd until he came within sight of the wall that barred the approach to the palace, and no one tried to oppose him, because all the Chersonese was hastening toward the plaza and the waterfront and this same gate at the land end of the promontory. Besides, after a glance at the crusader, men were at pains to make way for him.
So he reached the first tower and pressed forward until he could see within the gate itself. The massive doors were pulled back and wedged in place by a mass of shouting humanity. A double line of Greek guards with plumed helmets and gilded shields were trying to keep the mob out of the roadway. And up the road companies of armed men were passing into the city streets—Nubians with long bronze shields, grinning in the torchlight; dark-faced Kumanians on restless horses; and men-at-arms in the livery of the Comneni.
Arslan and his ten warriors had managed to keep behind the crusader by dint of curses and drawn swords, and now they gazed at this parade of a emperor's soldiery, bewildered and uneasy.
It was no easy matter to find out what was happening.
“The beacon was seen in the hills,” a perspiring seaman explained to Sir Hugh, and others contradicted him at once.
“Nay, a village is burning.”
“There were three lights—by the eyes of the gods, a portent!”
“Thou hast licked the cup o'ermuch, Paulo. The emperor is dead, I say.”
But even the most drunk of the throng realized the truth when Choaspes walked his horse under the lifted portcullis of the gate, and the guards shouted his name. There was muttering among the towns people and an oath from the seaman. Dread impelled them to shout with the soldiers, but there was a real roar of enthusiasm when the nobles following Choaspes flung handfuls of silver and gold among them.
“Glory to the Christ-loving monarch! May he live for ten thousand years!”
“Hail, the Comnenus!”
“Choaspes, our kind lord.”
At the same time the crowd began to surge and try to follow the nobles. Sir Hugh grasped Arslan's shoulder.
“The gate is open,” he said quickly, “but ten thousand men are awake and armed. If Subotai has come he will have no more than a thousand. Go and find horses. Go swiftly to the highroad beyond the town and warn him. Take this for a token.”
He ripped the falcon tablet from his throat and thrust it into the Mongol's hand.
“I am going to the palace.”
Arslan and his ten melted into the hurrying throng and the crusader strode to the postern gate and caught the attention of the sentry by whirling him around with steel-meshed fingers that bruised his flesh.
“Is Lascaris dead?”
“Aye, by poison.” The man twisted, and grew subservient when he could not free himself. “May it please your Mightiness, the barbarian girl Rusudan gave the poison.”
For an instant the gray eyes under the dull steel of the helmet were blank, and then the Greek beheld them blaze with sudden anger. He reached for his sword, and the crusader's other hand crushed his wrist.
“What have they done to her?”
“She has been given to the torture.”
Sir Hugh flung the Greek against the granite wall, and before any others could stay him he kicked open the postern and stepped through it, swinging it shut behind him.
The guards on the other side paid little attention to an armed man running toward the narrow road that led to the palace. Choaspes' following had passed under the gate, and the motley throng that pressed on the heels of the soldiers made way promptly for the crusader, who had drawn his long sword and had cast away the sheath.
Out on the narrow ridge there were groups of servitors who hurried toward the shore anticipating loot, and such of them as bore torches turned to look after Sir Hugh. Unexpected things were happening in the Chersonese that night, and it was not wise to ask questions. Occasional torches guided him along the road where a false step meant a plunge down the bank into the water. He ran swiftly, drawing deep breaths and thrusting forward the weight of the heavy weapon.
It was nearly a mile out to the first gate of the promontory. Presently he forced himself to walk slowly until he could breathe evenly and the pulse ceased to hammer at his throat. Before him was the lighted portal of the wall, and he knew he would have need of all his strength if he would reach Rusudan.
In the entrance courtyard no one looked at him because the guards and slaves were busy stripping gold armlets and bits of silver work from the bodies of the Goths and Bulgars who had resisted the new emperor and now lay outstretched on the tiles their braids of hair blood-soaked.
Sir Hugh paced through the corridors and turned into a long hall lined with statues on black marble pedestals. Here he halted, uncertain, until he sighted the fountain in the glow of oil-lamps that burned in bronze tripods at either side the wide stair that led to the far wing of the palace. He went toward the fountain and found himself in the open central court facing two spearmen who were filling goblets from an opened keg, their bowed iron shields laid aside.
“What man art thou?” one of them hailed him.
He turned in his stride, and they caught up their spears, drawing back before the fury that twisted his lips and scarred his brow.
“O fools,” he laughed, “to ask!”
He slashed down with the sword, splintering the spear shafts and, stepping forward, slew one with a cut over the breastplate.
The other fled, and the crusader picked up one of the heavy shields, thrusting his arms into the leather loops.
Eunuchs in green and blue robes and black slaves had gathered at the head of the stair when they heard the clash of weapons. When Sir Hugh leaped up the marble steps two javelins flew down at him, and these he caught on the shield. The creatures out of Asia shrilled at him, standing their ground until he cut right and left, the massive blade of Durandal—that never had been wielded in such work before—maiming and knocking them down.
The survivors screamed and fled as if from death itself, but the long-limbed warrior in mail ran one down, seizing him by the throat.
“Where is the captive, Rusudan?” he asked, and repeated the question in Arabic.
The slave pointed, voiceless, down a corridor to an open door. Sir Hugh's fingers tightened on his throat and then released him, and the slave fell to the floor.
Over the threshold of Lascaris' chamber the crusader stepped silently. One glance showed him Rusudan lying on the silk carpet, the dark tangle of her hair spreading over her throat and breast. Beside her rested a brazier and before this a pallid man in stained leather was sorting over little iron rods, thrusting them into the glowing coals to heat.
Sprawled on the floor, or standing behind the torturer, eight Greeks watched with avid eyes, until one glanced toward the door and, beholding the man in mail with the five-foot blade bared in his hand, sprang up with a warning cry.
“'Ware ye!”
The crusader sprang in on them, and the mighty blade of Durandal flashed in a wide circle. The first Greek was dashed against the couch, his light, silvered mail rent and his body hewn from throat to thigh. The torturer, looking up, was struck between the eyes, and rolled and slid along the carpet as Sir Hugh wrenched his weapon from the crushed skull.
This instant's delay gave the seven a chance to cover themselves with their shields and rush in. But the crusader leaped aside and slashed, and leaped away again, as an Arab fights, striking and warding at once.
No time for the point—the edge of Durandal bit through the gilded leather shields of the guards, through the light steel rings, and smote them to the floor. Their weapons clashed on him as he whirled, glancing from the ever-moving shield or the lowered helm of tempered steel.
Three of them lay lifeless, though Sir Hugh bled from shoulders and thighs. The other four gripped him close, one man clutching his knees and another his sword arm.
He dashed his shield into the face of a Greek who advanced on him with lifted ax. He raised his right arm, drawing up the guard who clung to it until the man's feet cleared the floor. Lifting high the point of Durandal, he brought the massive ball of the pommel down on the helmet of the Greek who held his knees.
A blade struck his throat, rasping against the tight-drawn coif and he staggered against the wall. The edge of his shield he thrust under the chin and the snarling lips of the warrior who had fastened on his sword arm, and the man gave back.
“Satan is in him!” gasped one of the surviving three.
Until now there had been not a moment's respite, but when the Greeks saw the bodies of their comrades motionless on the great carpet they howled and ran to the doors and clattered down the corridors.
Hugh knelt at the side of Rusudan and placed his hand on her breast. He stroked with clumsy, quivering fingers the dark spots on her temples and drew back the disordered tresses from her throat, seeking for wounds. His lips moved soundlessly as he clasped her hand and found it warm and supple.
Springing up, he lifted a clenched fist and shook it at the tiled dome that gleamed above him.
“She lives! Dear Siegneur God, she lives yet!”
And, beside himself with joy, he sent his deep-throated battle shout down the echoing halls.
THE lifeless eyes of Theodore Lascaris—he who had hunted the crusader out of Jerusalem into the barren land—were turned upon a scene of carnage and of untold happiness. Rusudan, reviving, stirred and looked up into the drawn face of the man she loved and felt his arm under her shoulders.
Her eyelids quivered and opened wide. She lifted a weak hand and touched his cheek and dry, hot lips.
“My Lord Hugh—”
And beholding the brazier so near, and the body of the torturer, she caught at his hand. Because pain still wracked her and the dread of the last hour had not loosed its grip upon her, she wept.
“Dear God—that I should bring you to death!”
But when men appeared in one of the doors, whispering and staring at them, and the crusader, arising, took his sword in hand, she laughed, seeing the Greeks draw back.
“Gurgaslan,” she cried softly. “My lion, they fear thee.”
No others came, and presently the crusader found the doors and embrasures empty of faces. He went to the balcony and heard nothing moving. Then for a while he considered, frowning.
“There is no good in waiting. Little Rusudan—” and he smiled at her—“there is hope in going forth. Be the end what it will—'twill come the sooner.”
Rusudan bent her head and pressed her lips to his, and whispered against the mail coif.
“Let us go forth—so it be together.”
They left the chamber of the emperor with its dead, and passed down the corridor, finding it empty of foes. The crusader listened and heard movement at the foot of the great stair. Turning once to make certain nothing was behind him, he gripped tighter the sword and strode to the head of the marble steps. And there he stopped, his whole body rigid.
The courtyard was full of Mongols.
TORCHES gleamed on the yellow marble of the walls and the horses of the nomads were stamping restlessly on the tiled floor. Some were drinking from the fountain. At the foot of the stair preparing to dismount was a group of noyons, Subotai at their head.
A hundred eyes recognized Sir Hugh and took instant note of the beauty of Rusudan. It was too late to draw back now, and he faced the issue squarely. Not a Greek was in sight and these riders were certainly masters of the palace. Before Subotai or any one else could ask the girl of him, he spoke.
“Subotai Bahadur! The gates were open, the way was clear. Give me men to serve me.”
Subotai, resting on one stirrup, loomed in the torchlight like a giant satyr in black lacquer. Sir Hugh did not know how he had arrived in the courtyard; but the Eagle's eyes were blazing.
He had seen the bodies in the outer court, the dead Greek at the stair. The few others who had remained in the palace after Choaspes forsook it had been crowding around the emperor's chamber, and they had fled into cellars and hidden passages in the rock beneath. It seemed to Subotai as if this solitary man in armor who came forth sword in hand, bearing in his arms a beautiful captive, had made himself master of the place.
“Hai!” he growled. “You have spoken boldly. Now hear my answer.”
He pointed with satisfaction to the rich tapestries of the corridors above them and the gold plates that gleamed in the walls.
“All this is mine! Men came to me in the darkness bearing the falcon tablet of the Swooping Hawk, saying my enemies were many, their standards lifted for battle.”
The deep voice of the Mongol began to drawl as he related his deeds of the night.
“I listened to the warning. Yet I pressed nearer to see my enemies. I rode my horse into the alleys, and still the alarm was not given. I looked with the eyes of a ferret for a trap. There was no trap. The Roumis were drinking and making outcry along the shore, blinded by many lights.”
There fell a pause, as Subotai's mind lingered on the aspect of that shore—the multitude of many races speaking many tongues, making outcry for no visible reason; the warriors mingled with the women and the slaves; and here and there dark figures looting while nobles in shining garments cast money to the throngs to earn their cheers. Never had Subotai beheld so fair an opportunity for a charge or such rich booty.
“Of what avail is a multitude, when there is no chieftain? We slew from afar with arrows the khan who sat on the white horse. He died like a hare, and we took his horse. His men formed here and there. Some fled to stone yurtas, others to wooden houses upon the water.”
Sir Hugh could picture the affair—the close-packed bands of Mongols loosing arrows as they galloped, the astonished and terrified Greeks, the rush to safety within the villas and warehouses and ships.
“Men will say of this night,” added the Eagle, “Subotai came with swift horses, escorted by naked blades. He scattered the sparks of war and trampled on chieftains; he sent the young to join the old, and he purged the earth of the weak.
“I have crossed the rivers of the western world; I have seen all things. I have taken much gold and many precious objects, but the pasture lands are poor, the horses weak. The men mistrust one the other and do not hold to their spoken word. It is time for me to go back to tell this to Genghis Khan in Cathay. Besides, the Roumis will swarm out to morrow, and I mean to be clear of the town.”
He considered Sir Hugh in silence for a moment.
“Why did you send back to me the falcon tablet? Why do you keep for yourself such a fair captive? We have poured water on our swords. Come, then, to Cathay. There will be power, then, in your words, and your children will be spared the death punishment for all generations.”
“Nay, Subotai. It is time for me to go to my homeland.”
The Mongol nodded; he could understand that.
“When you ride to the grazing land of your tribe, O Swooping Hawk, the old minstrels will sit by you, making songs of your deeds, and there will be feasting.”
But Sir Hugh smiled, bethinking him of the lot of a returning crusader—begging his way through hostile lands, shouldered aside by the cavalcades of merchants, railed at by innkeepers who might have hastened forth to bow to his stirrup when he first rode from the cities of Europe with the Cross sewn to his shoulder. He thought of going back among strange faces, to find his property in the hands of others and himself forgotten—with only the tale of his own suffering to tell—if children and those who had not wearied of the word “Jerusalem” would listen.
“Nay,” he said again. “I shall take the yurta of the sea and return to the Khaukesh.”
At the sound of the familiar word Rusudan stirred and would have questioned him, but he was watching Subotai, grim of eye and tense of lip.
“I have found what I sought,” he said.
“She is fairer than other women,” cried Subotai. “She will bear clear-eyed children. Yield her to me.”
Deep in his throat laughed Sir Hugh.
“Before I yield her I shall take life from her, Subotai. And your men—they who live—will tell of the end of the Swooping Hawk.”
With pride, for it is not given to many men to bear a Rusudan in their arms, he advanced down the broad marble steps, his eyes menacing, his sword gripped firm, his shield covering the girl, her dark hair flooding over his shoulder.
Beholding him so, in rent and battered mail, as he moved down toward the waiting throng of riders, Suboati's green eyes glowed and he reined back his horse. His lips parted and he seemed to struggle inwardly with words. Greater than his disappointment was his delight in such daring. Again he backed his horse, speaking over his shoulder to his men, who pulled their ponies aside until a lane was left clear before the crusader.
When he strode among them, a hundred arms were tossed weaponless over wild heads and crests, and from a hundred throats a roar went up—
“Ahai—ahatou—hai!”
It was the salute to the khan, only given to men who were honored above all others.