The Thief of Bagdad/Chapter 4

an hour earlier, while the Prince of India was entering the palace grounds, Bird-of-Evil had asked a pert-eyed, golden-skinned slave girl how to reach the back entrance to the Princess Zobeid’s apartment. He had employed methods peculiarly his own, combining bribery, flattery, and—in spite of his shriveled, wizen outer man—open, rather riotous love making.

“Tell me, Rejoicer of Souls!” he had whispered to her. “For, when the ceremonies are over, I must see thee! Aye! I must! For thou art a hud to he worn in the turban of my heart! I would like to he thy lover, O Small, Soft Thing! I would like to crush thy lips with mine! Tell me the way, O Moon of my Delight!”

She had told him; and now he was following her directions, taking Ahmed around the corner of the main garden path to a wall, topped by a parapet that surrounded a loggia and covered all the way up by a strong-stemmed, flowering vine.

“I shall wait below,” he said. “If anybody approaches I shall whistle twice—like a crane. Up with you!”

So up went the Thief of Bagdad, using the vine like a rope ladder, reached the parapet, leaped over it, and found himself in the presence of Zobeid, who had heard the noise and, a strange premonition in her soul, had come on a run. They faced each other. He did not speak. Silently he offered her the drugged rose. She took it. She was about to inhale its perfume when, dropping her hand, she asked a low-voiced question:

“Do you love me, Prince of the Isles?”

She stood there, without moving, her eyes starry, her lips parted: expectant she seemed, and triumphant, and yet a little frightened. He came a step nearer. He sensed the magic of her beauty, her presence, with the blurred indistinctness of overwhelming tenderness.

“Yes—yes. …” he said—“I love you. …”

“How much do you love me, Prince of the Isles?”

“I love you—oh—with all of me! To hold you I would throw a noose around the far stars. I would give you all I have, all I am, all I ever shall be, and it would not be the thousandth part of my love for you.”

“And I”—she whispered—“I love you!”

She was about to raise the drugged flower to her face when, suddenly, a revulsion of feeling swept over Ahmed. Yes—he said to himself—he loved her. He needed her. He wanted her. He could not do without her. Life without her would be as salt, as pain, as bitter as gall. But she must become his of her own free will, not through intrigue and stratagem and deceit and subtle Egyptian drug. He was on the point of confessing, of telling her: “I am a nobody! I am the Thief of Bagdad!” But words would not come to him. The shame of it choked him. He drew her to him. As if by accident, his fingers playing with hers, he slipped the rose from her hand and crushed it in his waist shawl. Almost immediately he released her. He ran back to the parapet.

“No—no—” he stammered; and, like a thousand lovers since the beginning of Allah’s creation, like a thousand lovers until the end of Allah’s creation, he spoke words, so usual, so commonplace, so trite, and which he felt and knew to be so intensely true: “I am not worthy of you, Zobeid! Not worthy of you!” And he leaped over the parapet and, climbing down rapidly, reached the ground.

When Bird-of-Evil saw him, alone, without the Princess, he spread angry, impatient hands.

“Where is she?” he demanded. “Did you not give her the drug?”

“I could not,” Ahmed replied.

“Why not?”

“You—you would not understand!”

“Wouldn’t I? Tell me! Tell me!”

“Very well. I would not use the drug—because I love her!”

“You are a fool!”

“Doubtless!”

And Ahmed turned away, to leave the garden, to leave the palace grounds, to leave Bagdad. But it was too late. For, hardly had he turned the corner of the main path, when there came to meet him a number of palace officials who salaamed deeply and spoke polite words:

“We have searched everywhere for you. The Caliph of Bagdad awaits the princely suitors. Be pleased to come with us, O Prince of the Isles!”

So Kismet engulfed the Thief of Bagdad in its merciless whirlpool while Zobeid—slyly laughing at what she thought to be her lover’s shyness, loving him the more because of it—sent a message to her father that she had made up her mind:

“Four are the Princes of Asia who ask for my hand. From India comes one. He is the descendant of the many gods of his people. But shall I choose for the sake of birth? From Persia comes the second. His wealth is as the sands of the desert. But shall I choose for the sake of riches? From far, yellow Mongolia comes the third. Him a million steel-clad riders follow into battle. But shall I choose for the sake of power? There is yet a fourth Prince. I do not know if he be rich or powerful, nor what his ancestry. But him I love, and him I choose, as, according to immemorial tradition, those of my race have always chosen the ones whom they love, as thou, father mine, years ago, didst choose my dead mother—may her soul dwell in Paradise!”

And, sitting on his jewled peacock throne in the great hall of audiences, the Caliph of Bagdad smiled as he thought of his daughter’s message.

The hall of audiences was an immense quadrangle. Up to a height of twenty feet the walls were covered with ivory and snowy enamel skilfully blended with shiny-white lac and overlaid with a silver-threaded spider’s web of arabesques as exquisite as the finest lace. The upper part of the walls, above a broad strip of quotations from the Koran carved from black marble, was a procession, a panorama of fresco paintings—an epitome, a résumé, of all Islam’s proud history. There was an immense dazzlement of light from a hundred crystal chandeliers; catching the vivid flutter of the war banners where the chiefs of the outer tribes were squatting at the back of the hall; rousing the silken gowns of the Bagdad dignitaries who sat cross-legged on pillows to the left of the pea cock throne into tulip brilliancies of purples and blues and yellows and reds; stabbing gold and silver into the splendid robes of the three Princes—not to forget the fourth, the self-styled Prince of the Isles—who were just be low the throne, facing it.

The Prince of India carried his head high. He was a descendant of the gods, cousin-in-blood to Vishnu the Creator, Shiva the Preserver, Doorga the Destroyer. Sure he was of his Fate. Zobeid would be his. How could it be otherwise?

The Prince of Persia was stuffing his mouth with candied violets. He was rich. No woman could withstand riches. By Allah—he thought—this soft little Zobeid would be sweeter than all the sweetmeats that he had swallowed in all his life!—and so, in the meantime, he helped himself to another piece of candy.

The Prince of the Mongols seemed inscrutable; like a golden statue. He would win the Princess, happen what may. If not today, then tomorrow. He was a Mongol. He came from the cold, cruel, stony North. His will was stronger than the will of all the household gods, stronger even than the will of the Excellent Lord Gautama Buddha.

Only the Prince of the Isles was oppressed. Shame was searing his brain and soul like a red-hot lance point. He did not look up, paid no attention to Bird-of-Evil, who stood in back of him, whispering into his ear.

The Caliph rose.

“It is the immemorial custom of my family,” he said, “that when princely suitors come from the far corners of the earth to woo a daughter of the house of Bagdad, she may follow the dictates of her own heart. Four Princes came today. I am honored.” He bowed gracefully. “My daughter watched them from the balcony. She has chosen. She has chosen the man whom she loves. To him she sends her ring as a token.”

And he gave to the herald who approached a narrow gold band set with great ruby-red pearls in the shape of two joined hearts.

Came a great thumping of silver kettle drums; a blaring of long-stemmed trumpets; a waving of banners, while the herald stepped down from the throne. He passed by the Prince of India, the Prince of Persia, the Prince of the Mongols. He stopped in front of the Prince of the Isles, salaamed deeply, and slipped the ring on Ahmed’s finger.

Then cheers rose, rending the air. The dignitaries of the court, the chiefs of the outer tribes, the priests and merchants and slaves and eunuchs who pressed into the hall from the garden, laughed and shouted.

Cheer after cheer, full-throated, triumphant, bloating, rising ever higher. But, too, grumbling, bitter words as the three Princes complained and protested that the choice was manifestly unfair. What?—they demanded—Zobeid did not choose me, the descendant of the gods; nor me, whose riches were uncounted; nor me, whom a million warriors followed into battle? Listen, listen, Heaven-Born … they surrounded the Caliph, who had left the peacock throne, with noisy clamorings.

But the ruler of Bagdad smiled. He stroked his long, white beard, and declared that the choice was final.

“My friends,” he implored, “do not behave like naughty children. I grant you—for I am a proud father—that there is no woman in all Asia to equal Zobeid in beauty and charm and the many accomplishments. But even so, do not challenge the decrees of Fate! Do not begrudge the Prince of the Isles his victory! Be generous! Come—and drown your sorrow in clinking goblets and rich food!”

And, while they continued to protest and grumble, he led them toward the banquet hall where a splendid feast had been prepared.

Ahmed had used the commotion and excitement to slip, unnoticed, into the garden.

“Where are you going?” demanded Bird-of-Evil, trotting at his heels like a dog.

“Away from here!”

“But—the Princess Zobeid …”

“I will not stoop to deceit and lies …”

“Pah!” sneered the other. “The tom-cat eats a thousand chickens—then he goes on pilgrimage to the holy places! You are a thief!”

“I know! And I will steal everything—everything—including the Prophet Mohammed’s green mantle and diamond crown! But I will not steal the heart of the one whom I love!”

So he ran down the garden path when, suddenly, as he passed a small marble pavilion, he heard soft words, turned, looked, and saw there, Zobeid, who walked up to him.

“My lord,” she said, “my slaves brought word to me that you left the hall and came to the garden. You came to see me—to seek me—didn’t you? Ah—I knew it! And I came to see you—to seek you. …”

She lifted her face to his, to kiss him. But he shook his head. He dropped the ring into her hand. Then, in simple words, he told her the truth:

“I am not a Prince. I am a nobody, an outcast. I am a thief.”

“A thief …” Fount-in-the-Forest who, unnoticed, had followed her mistress and was hiding in a thick clump of trees close by, echoed to herself. All at once she remembered where and when she had seen Ahmed. Why—he was the robber who last night had entered Zobeid’s room, who had threatened her with the dagger, and had escaped through the window.

Swiftly she ran back to the palace. She sought out Wong K’ai, the Mongol Prince’s confidential adviser, and told him what she had discovered. Wong K’ai lost no time. He entered the banquet hall. He whispered in Cham Sheng’s ear. The latter rose. He addressed the Caliph.

“Your Majesty,” he said, “desecration most foul has been brought upon your ancient dynasty. The escutcheon of the Bagdad Caliphs has been sullied. This Ahmed—he who calls himself Prince of the Isles, he to whom your daughter has promised her heart and hand—is nothing hut an imposter [sic], a common thief, whose kingdom is bazar and market-place and whose wealth what is contained in other men’s pockets!” And when the Caliph stammered that he did not believe it, that it was impossible, the Mongol went on: “There is no doubt of it. One of the Princess’ slave girls recognized him. Nor will he himself dare to deny it.”

The Caliph turned to his armed attendants. He shook in a palsy of fury.

“Bring me this Ahmed, this thief!” he thundered.

At once servants, soldiers, and eunuchs poured through the palace and the grounds while, in the garden pavilion, Ahmed was imploring Zobeid to forgive him the arrogance of his love for the sake of the greatness of his love.

“I saw you last night,” he said. “I was the robber who entered your apartment. And I—oh—I could not help it. Life without you—why—it was like the starless night loud with rain! I longed for you! I longed for you so! My longing was as the whisper of all the ages of creation—without beginning—and without end. Please—please—forgive me—why. …”

“Ahmed!” she interrupted him. “Thief of Bagdad! Thief indeed, you are! But”—her voice dropped—“it has not decreased my love for you, nor changed it. Here”—she slipped the ring on his finger—“come back to me—some day! I shall be waiting for you until…”

“Until. …”

“Until you have reclaimed the good that is in you—the brave—the splendid—the honest—the fine—the decent! I trust you utterly, dear. …”

And then, suddenly, she stopped, turned, listened, as from the distance came the clank of steel and hectic, staccato shouts:

“The thief! The thief! Hunt him down!”

“Quick!” she exclaimed. “Hide yourself!”

But it was too late. Already soldiers came pouring into the pavilion. Ahmed defended himself, fighting bravely. His sword leaped to his hand like a sentient being, flashed free of the jeweled velvet scabbard, caught the haggard rays of the dying sun so that it glistened from point to pommel like a chain of diamonds. In and at them he went, with a stamping of feet, a harsh, guttural Arab war cry, his weapon dancing a saraband. But the odds were against him. A blow from a battle-axe against the hilt of his sword sent it spinning, disarming him. They pulled him down as hounds pull down a stag, and dragged him into the presence of the Caliph.

“The truth!” demanded the latter. “Who are you?”

“I am a thief!” replied Ahmed; and a smile curled his lips at the remembrance that Zobeid loved him, although he was what he was.

“Dog!” the Caliph bellowed with rage; he struck Ahmed heavily across the mouth. “Son of a dog with a dog’s heart! Ah—let us see how you will like the song of the whip!” He turned to the servants. “Flog him!”

A moment later Ahmed had been stripped and trussed. Swish, swish, swish!—went the rhinoceros-hide flails, whistling through the air with a triumphant, vindictive scream, curling about his back, cutting it into raw, bleeding pulp. And still he smiled; still he thought of Zobeid, of her words; “I love you! I shall wait for you! I trust you utterly!” until the Caliph, watching, seeing the smile on his face, broke into thin, cruel laughter.

“Ah!” he said. “We shall yet change your impudent smile into a grimace of pain. Let us consider what tortures we may invent for you.” And when the Mongol Prince whispered into his ear, he laughed again. “You are right, Cham Sheng!” he continued. “A splendid, novel, gorgeous idea! Worthy of a Mongol indeed!” He turned to the slaves. “Throw this thief to the gorilla! Let us see of what he can rob the ape, or if belike the gorilla will be the better thief—plucking out our clever thief’s eyes and tongue—tearing him limb from limb!”

And they dragged him from the hall toward the underground cave where the huge brute was kept during the day.

Zemzem had overheard. She ran to Zobeid and brought her word of it.

The latter had been in the depts [sic] of grief and despair. Now, typically, she dried her tears. For, although soft, emotional, thoroughly feminine, given to dreams, she emerged from her dreams to be frankly practical when faced by a hard emergency. So it was today. She must save her lover. She knew that force was out of the question, and that it would be impossible to argue and plead with her father. Remained one weapon: bribery. She took from about her neck a string of fifty priceless, evenly matched black pearls; tore it apart; and gave the dark-shimmering heap to Zemzem.

“A pearl to every soldier of the guard!” she said. “Have them set Ahmed in safety through the secret wall panel into the street!”

Zemzem hurried off. The soldiers of the guard obeyed readily and gladly. Slaves themselves, there was in their heart no rancor or hate, in fact rather a certain admiration, for the Thief of Bagdad. Too, here was treasure; a priceless pearl for each of them; and no risk of discovery. For how would anybody ever know of it? They would not tell; the Princess would not tell; Ahmed would not tell; and the gorilla was unable to tell! So, swiftly, secretly, they hastened Ahmed by a back path into a small, walled garden heavy with the acrid scent of marigold and the pungent, cloying sweetness of red jasmine, thence by an underground passage that ran for nearly a mile and through a grass-covered, intricate trap door into an empty, deserted street, with a kindly:

“May Allah protect you, O Thief of Bagdad!”

And there he sat, alone with the pain in his body, the pain in his soul, until the sun died in a sickly haze of coppery brown and the moon boomed up in the West, stabbed on the outer horns of the world, dispassionate, calm, indifferent to the heart of man.

There he sat the night through, until the wind drove the dusk toward the East and the sky flushed with the jade-green of young morning; until, with the sun rising higher and higher, there echoed from the palace a great blaring of trumpets and beating of drums and, not long afterwards Bird-of-Evil, who had escaped with the help of one of the soldiers, joined his friend and told him what had happened.

It appeared that, after the thief’s exposure, the Caliph had gone to his daughter and had bid her choose another husband. Stoutly Zobeid had maintained that, happen what may, she loved the Thief of Bagdad, until her father, at the end of his patience, had said that he himself would choose her husband from among the three Princes and had left her in a towering rage. Then a realization of her helplessness had come to Zoheid. She turned to her slaves, Zemzem and Therrya, who were in the room.

“What shall I do?” she had asked.

Again Therrya, the fortune-teller, had spread the heap of Meccan sand. Again the golden grains had gradually formed the hazy outlines of a rose.

“Heaven-Born!” she had exclaimed. “Behold! It is an assured thing. He who first touched the rose tree—he will be your husband!”

“But—what can I do?”

“You must fight for time!”

So Zobeid had gone to the Caliph, had salaamed, had kissed his hand, had asked for forgiveness.

“Father mine,” she had implored, “I do not know my own mind.”

“Very well. I shall choose for you.”

“No, no! Leave the decision to Kismet, to Fate!”

“How, daughter?”

“Bid the three Princes go away in search of rare treasure. Bid them return here at the end of the seventh moon. I shall then wed the one who brings me the greatest rarity. For he shall thus have proved himself most worthy of my love!”

The Caliph had approved of his daughter’s suggestion; so had the three Princes; and even now—amidst the blaring of trumpets the beating of kettle drums, and the fluttering of banners, they were leaving Bagdad, agreeing to return at the end of the seventh moon.

The Prince of India, riding in the golden  atop his elephant, smiled thinly. He was sure of the quest, sure of the outcome. The gods, his ancestors, would help him.

Smiled, too, reclining in his litter, the Prince of Persia, fully as self-sufficient as the former. His wealth was untold. The greatest rarity in the world, Zobeid wanted? Very well. He would find it. He would buy it for her, if it cost him the revenues of a thousand cities.

Smiled, finally, sitting in his palanquin, the Prince of the Mongols. But for better, sounder reasons than the other two he spoke to Wong K’ai:

“Many are the traders and merchants and cameleers, who, every day, pass from my country into the land of the Arabs. Many will come during the next seven months. You will remain behind, here in Bagdad, to supervise them, to train them, to give them the signal if the time should come. For the traders who will come here during the next seven months, will be the pick of my warriors in disguise. The rarest thing in the world? Aye—I shall search for it! But, should I fail, I shall have yet a rarer thing: force! We shall conquer Bagdad regardless of its stout walls! We shall conquer it from the inside—when those peaceful Mongol traders exchange their silken robes for chain armor, their account books for buffalo-hide shields, and their pens and ink for lances and scimitars!”

So the three Princes left Bagdad, while Bird-of-Evil whispered advice into Ahmed’s ear:

“Look! Behind you is the secret panel. It helped you to get out. Doubtless it will help you to get in again. Nor—” he laughed—“will you need the Egyptian drug this time. The Princess loves you. She will go with you of her own free will.”

“I am not worthy of her!”

“Fool! Fool! Fool!”

But Ahmed did not reply. He walked away, hurt in body and heart; and it is related in the ancient Arabic chronicles that, as he walked, a strange thing happened to him.

“For,” says the ancient chronicle, “as the Thief of Bagdad turned into the Square of the One-Eyed Jew, it seemed to him, suddenly, as if a mysterious force came out of the nowhere, with a great whirring of wings, like the wings of his soul, his own soul, tortured, suffering, trying to escape the cage of the dust-created flesh. Steadily this force was urging him on, compellingly, irresistibly, until—he did not know how and why—he found himself in the very mosque where, only a few days earlier, he had defied Allah and the Prophet Mohammed—on Him the Peace! And there the priest—may he walk with the blessed in the Seventh Hall of Paradise!—came up to him and bade him welcome in the name of the Prophet Mohammed—on Him the Peace!”

The priest smiled when he recognized Ahmed.

“You look troubled and grief-stricken,” he said gently. “Tell me, little brother. Perhaps I can help you.”

“I am searching.”

“Searching for what?”

“For the unobtainable!”

“There is nothing unobtainable,” said the Holy Man, “if your will be strong and your heart pure.”

“My will is strong,” replied the Thief of Bagdad, “but my heart is not pure.”

“Then you must make it pure.”

“How?”

“Through the dust and the grime of suffering and patience! Through the clear water of courage—of honesty—of decent endeavor—of faith in the Lord God!”

“Teach me, O Holy Man!”

“I shall, little brother!”

And then, when Ahmed had told him the full tale of his sins, of his love, and of his despair, the priest took him to the Eastern gate of Bagdad and gave to him a sword.

“Go out on pilgrimage!” he said. “Your way to happiness will be long and weary. Patience you will need, and courage. Aye—patience and courage and the greatest faith in the world! Step out upon your path of thorns. At the end of the path—if your heart be cleansed of all sin—you will find a silver chest. This chest contains the greatest magic in the world. Go forth. Find the chest. Earn it. And return!”

Ahmed kissed the priest’s hand. Then he took the ring which Zobeid had given to him and, drawing his sword, cut it in two. He placed one half on his finger, giving the other half to the priest.

“Send this to her,” he said, “who already has my heart!”

And so the Thief of Bagdad left his native town in search of his own soul.