HOW IFTIKHAR'S MESSENGER RETURNED
It was the twelfth day of the sacred month Ramadan, in the year of the
flight of the Prophet four hundred and ninety,--according to the
Christian reckoning in the month of August, one thousand and
ninety-six,--that Iftikhar Eddauleh sat over his sherbet in the palace
El Halebah, which is by the Syrian city of Aleppo. Now good Moslems
were not presumed to enjoy food or drink from rise to set of sun
during the sacred month, therefore the grand prior of the Ismaelians
sat shaded on the _liwan_, a raised hall opening off the great court
of the palace. Here, with the door covered by Indian tapestries, and
with silken carpets of Kerman deadening the footfalls of each
soft-stepping Persian slave, the great man could lie upon his purple
couch, and let his eye rove from the bright, inlaid stones of the
alabaster walls to the ceiling beams of gilded teak. Without the sun
beat hot, the parching south wind from the desert swept sand-dust in
the eyes of man and beast; but within all was cool, darkened, fragrant
with frankincense from the smouldering brazier.
Iftikhar was in that mood of sleepy indolence to which men wonted to a
life of restless action are often prone. He was clad only in a loose
under-mantle of green cotton; and while he dozed a dark-eyed maid of
Dekkan was bathing his feet with perfumed water from a porcelain
basin. A second maid stood by the couch, and often, as the master
languidly held out his cup, refilled it with the sweet rose sherbet
from a brass cooler of snow. Iftikhar drank again, and again, speaking
not a word; till at last the first Hindoo, having borne away the bowl,
stood at his head with a great fan of bright feathers. So far as
speech or expression was in question, his ministers might have been
moving statues, so noiseless, so mechanical, was every action.
Presently Iftikhar began communing with himself, as was his wont, half
aloud. "One year in Syria; _wallah!_ truly if prosperity is not my
destiny, all the jinns deceive. I have been to Alamont, the 'Vulture's
Nest,' have seen Hassan ben-Sabah, Lord of the Ismaelians, and all the
'devoted' have been bidden to obey my word as they would the 'Cid of
the Mountain.' At my nod ten thousand daggers flash, ten thousand
riders go forth. Let emir or sultan offend:--he lies down on his bed,
his memlouks about; he awakes--in paradise; for in all Islam who may
escape our daggers? _Mashallah!_--let others boast; what may not I,
Iftikhar, accomplish? I, who was left a foundling in the great Cairo
mosque El-Azhar, and was reared by the compassionate Imam Abdul Aziz?
Power, riches, glory--there shall be no bound to my fortune!"
The Egyptian leaped up and began to pace the floor.
"Much yet to do," ran he on; "I have Hassan Sabah's pledge that I
shall be his successor. Every barrier must be plucked down betwixt the
Ismaelians and empire over all Islam, such as Harun or Mansur never
held. 'All is permitted, naught feared,'--such is our watchword,
taught the initiated at the grand lodge in Cairo. Let him who stands
in our way be snuffed out like a rushlight,--Barkyarok the
arch-sultan, the Bagdad kalif, who is Barkyarok's puppet--all--all!"
As the Egyptian spoke, a huge negro, shining with great earrings, and,
save for a red cincture, clothed only in his ebony, glided from behind
the curtained door. In his hand was a naked cimeter of startling
length. Never a word he said, but only pointed with his weapon to the
passage, then salaamed.
"The dervish Kerbogha?" asked Iftikhar, stopping his pacings.
The negro, who was a mute, only bowed almost to the floor.
"Bid him enter." The giant salaamed a third time, and was gone. An
instant later a stranger entered. His robe was spotless white, but the
shoes and belt were red. He was a man just in the turn of life, with a
powerful military frame, the nose of a hawk, and a hawk's keen eye; a
grizzled beard, very thick, that swept his breast; his head crowned
with a peaked felt hat, also white. The sun had long since tanned his
skin to a rich bronze; there were scars on cheeks, forehead, hands. He
strode with the springing step of one who loved hardship for
hardship's sake; and no second glance was needed to tell that power
and command were second nature.
Iftikhar bowed very ceremoniously, thrusting one hand in his bosom,
and the stranger doing the like, while the formula was exchanged:
"Peace be on you." "On you be peace, and the mercy of Allah and His
blessings."
Then the Egyptian bade the Hindoos bring new water and sherbet. The
stranger flung himself upon the divan, and words flew fast.
"You have been to Antioch?" asked Iftikhar.
"I have," replied Kerbogha,--for such was the new comer's name.
"Yaghi-Sian is willing to link hands with us. His pride has been
humbled mightily since he attacked your friend Redouan, lord of
Aleppo, and was defeated. Now he sees that only by joining the
Ismaelians can he hope for success."
"And you promised--?"
"That if the plans of Hassan Sabah fail not, we shall have the puppet
kalif, Mustazhir, and his master, the arch-sultan Barkyarok, at our
mercy in two years. Then each prince who is of our party shall divide
the spoils, and rule every one in his own land, sending some tribute
to Alamont in sign of fealty to the order. I have engaged, you will
warn Redouan, that Yaghi-Sian is not to be attacked; and if he refuse,
let him remember how our daggers found Nizam ul-Mulk, the great
vizier. To-day I am at Aleppo, to-morrow I go to Mosul, thence to
Alamont to tell my tale to Hassan Sabah."
Whereupon Iftikhar replied, while the slaves bathed Kerbogha's
feet:--
"I see all goes well. The Seljouk power declines since the death of
Malek Shah. Yet Barkyarok is not to be despised; he can still summon
the Turkish hordes. The 'devoted' cannot do all. The dagger throws
down many thrones, raises none. To strike kalif and sultan we need
more--an army--myriads; how gather it? A whisper at Ispahan, 'Kerbogha
is of the Ismaelians; he moves disguised as a dervish to seduce the
emirs.' How long then does the arch-sultan delay to send the
bowstring?"
Kerbogha set down his sherbet cup and laughed dryly.
"_Wallah_, can one always play at backgammon,[1] and win? So in life;
fortune and skill must go together. Let us play our game, and take
what Allah sends without a quiver."
"An army, an army; where an army, to break the arch-sultan's might?"
Iftikhar was repeating, when the curtain was thrust away. The giant
negro was salaaming again.
"Another stranger?"
The mute nodded.
"Can he be trusted?" the second question from Kerbogha.
A second nod. "Let him come in."
And the curtains gave way for none other than the dwarf Zeyneb,
travel-stained, with a ragged beard and a very tattered costume. At
sight of his master and Kerbogha, the dwarf bowed to the rugs, then
laid his hand on lips and forehead. At last Iftikhar spoke:--
"You come from Frankland?"
"I have been amongst the Franks, lord, as you deigned to command."
"And Richard Longsword, whom my soul hates?" came eagerly.
The dwarf looked his master full in the eye.
"He still lives, and to my knowledge prospers."
"Child of Eblees the Devil, have you failed yet again? at Palermo, at
Cefalu, and now in France?" And Iftikhar put forth his hand for the
ivory staff that lay by the divan. "Sluggard, an hundred strokes on
your bare heels for this!"
[Footnote 1: Arab name: T[=a]wulah.]
The dwarf still did not flinch.
"Master, once at Clermont where the Frankish lords were all gathered
to prepare for taking Jerusalem, I stabbed at him through the walls of
his tent; some jinn prompted him to wear a Valencia hauberk. Barely I
made away. Again in Provence, when he stood by the Star of the Greeks,
I would have stricken him in her arms; but that chain shirt, enchanted
doubtless, turned the blow. I was cast into a dungeon, and only
because Allah granted that I should know how to pick loose fetters,
and because He shed sleep upon my guard, did I escape being food for
dogs. Therefore, if I deserve stripes, lay on; yet my small wit could
do no more. The hand of Allah protects Richard Longsword."
Iftikhar controlled himself by no common effort.
"You have ever been a trusty slave, Zeyneb; no man may contend against
the Most High. I do wrong to be angry. Depart, and when refreshed,
return and tell all; of the Star of the Greeks and of the commotions
amongst the Franks; for of these last the Lord Kerbogha will be glad
to hear."
But as Zeyneb was bowing himself out of the _liwan_, a low, weird song
stole from the chambers within; now softly rising as the breeze, now
mounting shriller, shriller, till the gilded stalactites trembled, and
the whole hall throbbed with the wailing melody, then fainter, dying
like the retreating wind. Again and again the three heard the wild
song rise, throb, fall, and a strange awe spread over them, as if more
than mortal accents drifted with the note.
"The song of Morgiana," said Iftikhar, dropping his eyes; "she is
fallen in her trance. My Lord Kerbogha, let us go to her. For her eyes
now see things hid to all save Allah!"
The three tiptoed down a long, dark way, Zeyneb following as a matter
of course. At the end was a door where stood a second eunuch, a tall,
beardless, ebony skeleton, with naked sabre held before him. The black
knelt while his master passed. Iftikhar knocked thrice at the door; it
turned on its pivots slowly, noiselessly, by some unseen power. As
the three stepped within, they were nigh dazzled by the intense white
light. They were in a court surrounded by a two-storied arcade, the
delicate columns, the fantastic capitals, fretwork, and panelling, all
in alabaster and marble. Below, the eye wandered over gilt mosaics,
winding scroll into scroll, till sight grew mazed and weary. In the
centre of the court sprang a tall silver pipe, embossed with strange
figures, discharging itself aloft in a fine cool spray that drifted
downward on all beneath. Perfume mingled with the spray, and what with
the blinding light, shot through the mist, and the wandering song
which ever grew nearer, sense lost itself as amid an enchanter's
spell. Iftikhar led past the fountain, into the arcade; and in the
shadows apart from the misty outer air a brazier was smouldering, and
a heavy fragrance rose with the gray smoke. Still the song, very loud
now, but no word heard clearly. Iftikhar spoke.
"Morgiana!" And Kerbogha saw sitting in the dark niche, behind the
brazier, a woman, her head thrown back, drinking in the rising vapor.
She was dressed only in a violet robe that fell from throat to feet.
There was a girdle of silver chain-work; no sleeves; arms, neck, face,
all bare; the skin, not so dark as of most Eastern women, rather a
fine olive. Black and slightly waving was the long hair that tossed
heedlessly over the shoulders. In the shadow Kerbogha could only see
that the face presented a profile of marvellous symmetry, and the
eyes--wonder of wonders,--now flashing with a half-drunken fire--were
steel-blue. As Iftikhar spoke, the woman tossed her head, but
continued the song. They heard her words:--
"Armies advancing; the vultures appearing,
Wheel for their prey.
Now the hosts mingle, a thousand blades flashing;
Hid is the day
By the twittering arrows; as, quaking like aspen,
The warring hosts sway!"
"Morgiana!" again Iftikhar commanded. The song sank into wild
moanings, dimmer, dimmer,--was gone. The strange singer now spoke, yet
still in wild rhythm:--
"Wherefore, man, do you come to me, the blue-eyed maid of Yemen! See,
the smoke-drug is strong; let me drink, drink, drink, and tread beyond
the stars."
"Moon of the Arabs," spoke Iftikhar, softly, as though stepping
delicately, "I heard your song; the power of the drug is upon you. I
would have you speak before me and the Lord Kerbogha. Make known to us
the way of the jinns. Reveal--is it written in the smoke that
Barkyarok perish? that the Master of the Devoted be hailed Commander
of the Faithful in Bagdad?"
The eye of the maiden was wandering, now on Zeyneb, now on Kerbogha--a
long silence, then of a sudden:--
"My sight is dim; I see nothing; the smoke weaves no picture; I cannot
see the sultan; my ears hear the question, my eyes are blind."
"Wait," whispered Iftikhar to Kerbogha, who, man of war that he was,
felt the very air awe-laden.
Morgiana bent over the brazier, blew the smouldering leaves; again the
smoke rose thickly. Twice she breathed it deep; when she raised her
head, the fire glittered once more in her eyes.
"Behold! behold!" and she half started from the niche.
Iftikhar hung on each word. She continued, first slowly, then faster,
faster, finally running in half song, half chant; arising the meantime
with outstretched arms, shaking the flowing tresses as she swayed:--
"Again armies; tens of thousands, horseman and footman, in the armor
of the Franks, the red cross of Issa upon their breasts; another host;
Arab, Seljouk; tens of thousands; battle. Allah can number the slain,
not man; death, death upon every wind!" She swayed still more wildly,
as if mastered by the vapor.
"One face I see, the Greek, the Greek, Mary Kurkuas. She is
struggling--in vain; a mighty arm holds her; a great warrior bears
her. Allah! I know him; I would not tell his name!" But Iftikhar had
broken forth almost sternly:--
"Speak, speak, woman! Who is the warrior you see against the smoke?"
The words turned the trend of the spell. Morgiana moved more gently as
she repeated in quick rhythm:--
"Now the smoke weaveth in mystical figure;
I see the hosts marching,
I see the hosts warring,
I see the strife swaying
Like wrestling swift winds!
"'Twixt Frankland and Eastland the conflict sore wageth;
I see the Greek flower transported beside thee,
Thine eyes,--they behold her;
Thy arms,--they enfold her;
Thy heart is as flame!--"
"_Allah akhbar!_" burst from Iftikhar, starting. And at the cry,
Morgiana had given another, and fell so suddenly that only a quick
snatch by Zeyneb saved her from striking the brazier. She was
speechless, pallid, when they lifted her; Kerbogha would have declared
her dead. But Iftikhar drew from his bosom a crystal vial, in which
glowed a liquor red as vermilion. Three drops he laid upon her lips;
and lo, there was a flush of color, and in a moment the woman was
sitting upon the rugs and glancing at them with shy, scared eyes.
Iftikhar beckoned to Kerbogha, who bowed and withdrew; but Zeyneb
remained. All the glitter and madness had passed from Morgiana's face.
Zeyneb knelt and kissed her hand, which lay limp within his own.
"You see I have returned safe from my long journey, Moon of Yemen; can
you wish me no joy?"
The languid eyes lighted a little.
"Allah is merciful; I am very weary." This last to Iftikhar.
"Verily," cried the Egyptian, "you should not make the magic smoke;
see, you are frail as a lily of Damascus; a sigh of the south wind
would destroy you. Have I not forbidden it?"
"Lord," replied the lady, raising her eyes, now touched with a soft,
sweet fire, "the hour came to me to-day. As the bird must fly north
in springtime, so must I drink the hemp smoke, when the genii bid, or
die. Ah, lord--I saw in the smoke shapes--terrible shapes--they are
gone; the shadow still hangs over me; yet I know this--woe, woe, woe,
awaits,--for you, for Zeyneb, for me. I am sad; my heart is torn."
Iftikhar knelt beside the divan, and looked into her face.
"Life of my own!" said he, half passionately, "why sad? What is the
desire? A palace--can any be more fair than El Halebah? Jewels,
robes?--the riches of Aleppo are yours. Servants?--a hundred maids of
Khorassan and Fars and Ind are your ministers, most beautiful of the
daughters of men, save as you outshine. The pang? The wish? Your will
is law to me, and to all the 'devoted' of Syria."
But Morgiana turned away her head.
"Lord," said she, half bitterly, "will palace, and riches, and slaves
bind up a bruised heart? Is gold a cordial for the soul? Does the
dagger say, 'I am sovereign physician'?"
"Riddles--" commented Iftikhar, still kneeling.
Morgiana flushed; there was a flash in her eyes now, but not of
softness or delirium. "It is past," cried she, bending her henna-dyed
hand across her brow, as if to drive away a vapor. "The vision is
gone. But I see--O Iftikhar, whom I have loved,--soul of my
soul,--what do I not see! I see your love for me, true, and pure, and
strong, when you bought me and Zeyneb, my brother, at the slave market
in Damascus. And when we were with you in Sicily, and you served
amongst the Christians, what nest of the wood-thrush more joyous than
our home at Palermo? As you won honor after honor, and Christian and
Moslem lauded you, was your gladness greater than mine? Then came the
day when you listened to the cursed envoys of Hassan Sabah, and sold
yourself to this fiend's brotherhood, who live by the dagger of
stealth, and not by the sword of manhood,--that was the first sorrow.
And then--" she hesitated, but drove on, and her eyes flamed yet
fiercer--"came that hour when the old Kurkuas and his daughter came
to Palermo,--and you set eyes on her Greek beauty. I have seen her;
she is fair, I own it--and your heart grew chill toward me. Me you
left in the harem, with a few fawning, glozing words, and went about
sighing, dreaming of the Greek; and my joy was at end. Almost, even
then, you would have possessed her; but I was crafty beyond you and
Zeyneb. Remember the hour in the Palace of the Diadem, when Musa the
Spaniard saw you with your arms--"
"As Allah lives!" thundered Iftikhar, leaping up, "how knew you this?
No more--witch, sorceress!"
"Rage as you will!" tossed forth Morgiana, throwing back her head; "it
was I that warned Musa. Ah! you both are weak--weak, though you vaunt
yourself so strong."
Iftikhar was foaming; his fury was terrible. But Morgiana never
quivered. "So you fled Sicily after devising murder in vain. Then the
deed at Cefalu--and that accursed child Eleanor still remains to drive
me wild with her moans and her sorrow. Again this Zeyneb, worthy
brother, returns from Frankland. He has failed. I saw Richard
Longsword's form in the smoke, and the smoke shows only the living.
But he and Mary Kurkuas will come,--come with the Frankish
hordes,--and then! Woe to you and woe to me, if your heart remember
her beauty!"
"And the smoke mist says true, fair sister," quoth Zeyneb, naught
abashed. "Richard Longsword goes to Jerusalem, and with him Mary
Kurkuas, wedded, though not yet truly his wife; so I heard from her
own lips." And he darted a swift glance at his master.
"Lord, lord!" cried Morgiana, suddenly falling on the pavement. "Do
not listen! forget! forget! Put her from your heart! See! I embrace
your knees, I kiss your feet. By Allah the Great and His prophet, I
conjure you. She loves you not. I would die for you with a laugh on my
lips. Oh, the heart of Zeyneb my brother is black, as his body
misshapen! Death is woven for us all, if you continue this quest.
Remember our love, our joy,--the little babe that died in Palermo.
Have I ever deceived? If you remember Mary the Greek, I say it, 'Woe,
woe for us all!'"
But the jinns of a headlong passion had mastery of Iftikhar that day.
He saw Morgiana of Yemen at his feet; but he saw another--that had
been before his eyes day and night since that hour in Palermo when
Mary Kurkuas's lips had been so near his own.
"Eblees seize you, woman!" came from his throat; and he spurned her.
Morgiana said not a word; without a groan she arose, and sat on the
divan, looking upon him tearlessly. Iftikhar brattled forth a forced
laugh. "_Ya_, Zeyneb, let us go back to Kerbogha. Your sister is all
tears and foreboding to-day. We must not let her sit over the hemp
again." And with that the two left the white court and returned to the
_liwan_, where the Prince of Mosul awaited them. The two chiefs of the
Ismaelians listened long to the tales Zeyneb had to tell of the
assembling of the Franks. Then Iftikhar cried:--
"Glory to Allah! The fish drift into the net!"
"I do not understand, my lord," said the dwarf.
"I know these Christians," the chief replied. "Lions in battle, but
beast-strength will not win Jerusalem. Under cover of destroying them,
we can gather a mighty host, unsuspected by Barkyarok. When they are
blotted out, we take the sultan and kalif unawares! The Most High
delivers the empire into the hands of the Ismaelians. Is it not so,
Kerbogha?"
And the prince called Allah to witness that their troubles were at an
end; that three years should see them masters of all Islam. Only the
dwarf shook his head, and when questioned, replied, "Lords, you are
mighty men-of-war; yet this I say, 'You will fail.'"
"And wherefore?" came from Kerbogha.
"Because I have been among the Franks, and there is a fire burning in
their hearts that a thousand leagues of deserts cannot blast, nor ten
myriad sword-hands quench, nor all your Ismaelians' daggers."
"You, too, prate evil, like your cursed sister!" cried Iftikhar. Then
he asked Zeyneb very carefully as to the route likely to be taken by
the Crusaders, the time of their arrival in Asia, and the like. After
that he sent for a certain Eybek, one of the trustiest and most
skilful of the "devoted," and dismissed him with this last command:--
"But Richard Longsword slay not. In my own time will I deal with him,
man to man. Rather let him live, and eat his pangs as I have eaten
mine, and know that I have borne away his prize."