Rusudan/Chapter 14

RSLAN came back from the promontory gate the next day very well pleased with himself, and wearing the alert, inquisitive look of a hound that has scented game—though he himself reeked to the evening skies. He had visited a barber in the bath-house by the registan, and his brows had been touched with antimony powder, his cheeks with rice dust, his head drenched with attar of roses; he was chewing mastic.

At the palace he had beheld undreamed-of magnificence and a multitude of human beings that bewildered him. He was thinking of the tales he would tell his men, as he crossed the registan again—the open square of the rambling city, called the plaza by the Genoese who liked to linger and gossip under its poplars.

It was very quiet in the plaza, though groups of seamen and soldiers were thronging around the doors of near-by taverns. Arslan saw a Greek horseman gallop across the garden plots plying his whip.

As he passed through the alleys leading to the waterfront he noticed that the shop doors were closed and few people were visible, but in the shadow of the warehouses where the smell of sour wine and leather hung in the air he observed men in armor and heard the click-dick-click of crossbows being wound.

“Eh,” he thought, “such is the custom of this place—all the watchmen assemble in one band and go around with lights and noise so that even the dogs run from them.”

It amused him a little, this need of locks and armed men, for in the Horde the tent dwellings were always open, and thieves unknown.

But here in the city of the emperor were Goths and Bulgarians of the army who preyed upon the Greeks, and Genoese who exacted usury from all.

When he entered the courtyard of his house Arslan looked up in surprize. His men were sitting around a pot of mutton-stew, dipping in with their fingers, obviously in high good humor. Some were whetting the edges of swords, others sorting arrows and tightening the grips of shields.

“What is this?” he asked.

They wiped their hands on their breeches and crowded around him.

“How are we to know?” one said. “We heard talk of horse herds entering the hills, and surely Subotai Bahadur comes.”

“Ye heard talk!” Arslan echoed grimly. “Not here.”

“In the taverns, O my Khan—where these people go to drink wine, instead of sitting with guests in their yurtas. We were weary of this pen, and we did not go far. Is there word from Subotai the Orluk?”

“Nay, the time is not yet.”

His followers fingered their weapons and muttered. “Then perhaps there is a war among these people.”

“Why?”

“A noyon mounted on a white horse of good breed reined into the yard of the wine khana and summoned warriors to him. He gave them money, and they beckoned up others who went with them from the tavern.”

“Dogs!” cried the Mongol. “Could ye not eat and sleep without scratching up an ant-hill? Animals grunting and grazing under the eyes of a tiger!”

Very angry was Arslan, because it seemed to him that his men had brought suspicion on the house.

“The Swooping Hawk will lash ye! He is not as formerly. He does not jest any more, and often he sits thus.”

The Mongol rested his chin on both hands, frowning.

“Kai,” nodded a warrior. “At such times he holds his sword across his knees.”

“When he came to us,” went on Arslan reflectively, “he was seeking a road back to his tribe. He bore the great sword that had prevailed against his enemies. Now he has found the road and he is at the very door of his country, but he can not show his face because the lord of these people has put a price on his head.”

“And there is a woman.”

“Truly, a young woman with soft lips and dark eyes. But now she is a favorite of the Roumi Kha Khan.”

Arslan shook his head sagely.

“He has been out on the water a long time,” observed another. “With the two sticks of wood he pushed the little yurta out toward the palace until we could only see a speck under the rock.”

“And then?”

“And then we—we were weary—”

Arslan muttered angrily and went to the flat roof of the house to look for the skiff. The sun had set, and the galleys at the quays and the long promontory itself were shadowy outline upon the gleam of water. Arslan looked back at the hills before leaving the roof, and uttered an exclamation. He hastened down to the courtyard, his khalat flapping around his short legs.

“The Sign!” he cried. “Look!”

They gathered around him and peered at the line of hills behind the city. A few stars were visible, but within the break of the hills where the highroad lay, three red eyes winked at them, faint and flickering in the near-darkness.

“The signal of Subotai Bahadur,” they assented.

Arslan had instructed them to watch by turns during the nights for the lighting of three fires on the ridge five miles away. This would mean that a detachment of Mongols had come down from the steppes, moving by night until this last day, when the horsemen would press forward, changing from pony to pony, outpacing the news of their coming.

“Ye know the plan,” exclaimed the stout little Mongol. “Subotai Bahadur will gallop down the highroad as a bat flits through darkness. When he sees the first hamlets of the city he will order the drums to sound. Before then we must be at the gate in the wall that defends the neck of land and the castle at the far end.”

“Ai-a!”

“That was the plan. The Swooping Hawk will lead us. We will go by the alleys and gardens—I have marked the way—to the gate and lie hidden until the drums sound. Then we will run forward, and the Swooping Hawk will call out to open the gate—that there is danger. Perhaps they will not open the great doors, but they will let us in through the little door to hear the message. Then must we draw our weapons and drive away the guards—in the mid-watches no more than a score are awake—and open the great doors, holding our ground until the first riders of the Horde come up. After that we will see. I think we can reach the palace itself before the dogs of Roumis are astir.”

It was a hazardous plan, depending on the prompt arrival of the Mongols after the signal, and the tricking of the guards. How long twelve men could hold the open gate against the swarming Greeks, Arslan did not know. But he had confidence in Sir Hugh, and he knew that the moments between the roll of the drums and the arrival of Subotai's riders would be few indeed.

Other cities had the Mongols taken in just such fashion, in the darkness.

“If he sees the signal he will return. But if he is taken by the emperor's men—” Arslan groaned and clutched his belt, trying to reason out what he should do.

The Mongols, after lighting the fires, would rest an hour, to make sure the signal was seen. In less than another hour they would be in the Chersonese. Arslan wondered how long the fires had been going before he saw them.

“Listen,” one of his men whispered.

Outside the courtyard there was a sound of hurrying feet, and low-pitched voices—a movement of armed men, he knew, by the weight of the tread and the clinking of steel. When the sounds dwindled down the alley he drew a long breath of relief.

But there were other sounds that puzzled him—the galloping of horses hither and yon, a buzz of talk as a door was flung open; somewhere a trumpet blared.

The hair quivered up the back of his neck when he went to the roof again. Unless his eyes deceived him some of the galleys that had been anchored farther out were in motion toward the shore. And from the palace a long line of torches were coming along the ridge, toward the very gate that was to be their object of attack.

Meanwhile the bustle outside the courtyard grew louder. With the darkness, the Chersonese seemed to be astir. Arslan uttered a prayer to long-forgotten gods and thought of the furnaces and irons of the Greek torturer. Then he heard his name called. Sir Hugh was in the courtyard.

The crusader had entered from the alley and was swiftly putting on his mail hauberk, thigh-pieces and mittens. He drew the coif of ringed steel over his head and belted on his sword, while the Mongols clustered around him silently.

“The Genoese are mustering in their quarter of the town,” he said. “Men under arms hold the plaza.”

“Why?”

Hugh shook his head. He had rowed close to the promontory, until cross-bow bolts whizzing past his head had driven him away. The sun was setting then, and he noticed the stir in the city. Heading in to one of the quays, he walked through the plaza and noticed bands of men under arms. But he had met with silence rather than outcry.

“We have seen the three fires in the hills,” cried Arslan.

The crusader jerked tight the buckle of his belt, turned to look at the signal that flickered through the darkness. Running to the garden wall, he stared out at the bay—at the torches that were thronging from the castle. The Mongols followed him expectantly, as dogs press close to the heels of their master.

Listening to the tread of feet in the alley, he gripped the hilt of Durandal and tried the blade in its sheath.

“By the splendor of God,” he said laughing, “there will be many to keep us company at the gate.”

He went to the door, flinging it open, and strode into the darkness. The eleven warriors followed him.

Not many minutes passed before the three Circassians, who had been listening with all their ears, crept out to see whether in truth their guards had vanished. Huddled together, the women slipped into the alley and hastened by common consent toward the distant lights.