The Thief of Kalimar; Captain Sinbad; Cinnabar

by Graham Diamond

  “So,” said the sheik, oblivious of Sinbad’s concerns, “you undertake this journey to reach Jerusalem. A most provocative city, Captain. I have been there myself many times to pray at the Creat Mosque.”

  “Such is my own desire as well, my lord,” replied Sinbad. “But not until my business is done.”

  The sheik frowned briefly and then laughed, and Assal Karli, at his father’s side sipping his wine, shared the old man’s mirth.

  “You have been most blessed upon this travel of yours,” the sheik went on, “not to have run into misfortune on the way … ”

  Sinbad looked at him questioningly. Don Giovanni, resting meekly at his side, stirred. “What do you mean?” asked the mariner.

  The sheik grinned broadly, exposing a mouth full of blackened teeth. His gold earrings glimmered in flamelight. “Why, I speak of the Karmathian bandits, of course. And that fellow — what is his name? — ah yes, Ben Abdul. The rogue. The thief. The butcher of the desert.”

  “I have heard of him,” acknowledged Sinbad. “But he and I have no quarrel. I carry no great fortune to be robbed — ”

  “Ah, but you do,” countered the sheik with a sly glint in his eye. “Surely the lady Diona is a prize worth any man’s trouble. And Ben Abdul, after all, is but a flesh-and-blood man as we.”

  Sinbad locked his gaze with the wily desert sheik, sensing something hidden behind his words. “As I’ve said,” he reiterated, “I seek no quarrel. But I will fight him if I must, on any terms.”

  The sheik laughed grandly, nearly spilling his wine. “Well spoken, Captain Sinbad! I should have known to expect no less than that from a man like you.”

  Sinbad did not reply. He saw that the sheik seemed to enjoy this game of banter, but that Assal Karli, as the conversation progressed, seemed to become uneasy, drinking more heavily and sulking over his wine.

  A cooling wind blew in as a serving girl entered carrying a tray of dates and figs and other treats. She offered them to each of the men and Sinbad accepted only after seeing the sheik take, and taste, something first. The two men exchanged small smiles.

  “You must be very tired,” said the sheik with a yawn.

  “I am. And I must be on my way before dawn. Already this storm has cost me a day’s traveling time and I shall have to hasten to make up what I’ve lost.”

  “Then sleep, Captain Sinbad,” said the sheik suddenly. He held up his goblet and offered a toast. Sinbad put the wine to his lips and sipped. The wine was good, strong and sweet.

  Sinbad leaned back against the cushions, suddenly more exhausted than he had realized he was. “Yes,” he whispered, “I … I do need sleep. But I must be woken … ”

  The sheik’s smile deepened. “And you shall be, good Captain. My word upon it. Before the sun rises you shall be awake — and ready to continue your journey.”

  Eyelids drooping, Sinbad nodded. His cup fell from his hands and his head slumped onto the cushions. The sheik and Assal Karli looked at each other. Then they stood up and left the tent.

  Terrible shadows swam in the dark recesses of Sinbad’s subconscious; strange and distorted reflections of his memories of Baghdad and the sea. At times it was as though he were floating above the world, staring down while the play of life unfolded below. Then came the sensation of falling. Falling, falling into some unknown abyss from which there could be no return. Tumbling past hideous monstrosities that were sickening as they were familiar. He could see the face of the caliph, mocking and scorning him as he fell, and laughing demonically at his plight. No! cried Sinbad in his dream. No! But the laughter only grew louder, magnified a thousand times, and the blackness of the world exploded into a charge of fiery light with dancing flames licking at him and dragging him farther down into the hell of his mind. And Sinbad screamed again in terror.

  With open eyes he stared at a half-world of reality. He felt the sensation of being dragged from the tent and left to lie upon the night sands. He tried to sit up, but found himself glued to his place, frozen in time and motion.

  Blurry figures stared down at him. Grim, dark figures that smiled among themselves. The sheik was there, he was sure, hands on hips, bellowing commands as his tents were drawn and folded, his entire camp in a frenzy to move as quickly as possible. Out of the grimness came Assal Karli, but now the young man wore robes different from those Sinbad had seen. White, finely woven robes of a desert chief. Burly sentries drew curved swords and placed them at Sinbad’s throat. The sheik looked to Assal Karli questioningly, but the younger man hesitated.

  And then Diona was there, kneeling beside Sinbad and putting a hand to his fevered brow. “No,” she whispered. “Do not harm him. He has been good to me — he wanted to be my friend.”

  While the sheik grimaced, Assal Karli snapped his fingers and hade his soldiers to put away their weapons. “He is dangerous,” Sinbad heard the old sheik protest. But Assal Karli was firm. He took Diona by the hand and the girl drew her body close to his. As Sinbad looked on, unable to communicate, Diona was crushed within Assal’s arms and they shared a long and passionate kiss. “My darling, my darling,” she panted. “I thought you would never come. And then, in the storm — ”

  Assal Karli put a finger to her lips, hushing her before he kissed her again. Then he turned to his waiting men, signaling for the camels to move out. To Sinbad’s surprise they quickly obeyed his every word, the old sheik even bowing before him. “Thank you for your clever ruse,” Assal told Aluf. “You nearly made me believe you were my father.” To which the older man laughed. “You did me the honor of choosing me, lord. I enjoyed our game immensely.” And they all laughed loudly.

  Sinbad tried vainly to rise; he fell back and Diona kneeled beside him again. “Forgive me, Sinbad,” she told him, the hint of tears in her eyes. “But remember that I tried to warn you. I asked you to take me to my lover of your own will — but you refused.”

  Sinbad desperately tried to speak; his tongue wobbled helplessly in a dry mouth. The girl smiled. “Shhh. It’s all right. The wine you drank was drugged, but not poisoned. The effects shall wear off within hours. But you owe your life to the man whose life you saved. Assal Karli, my lover. Known to the world as Ben Abdul … ”

  And then they were gone, riding off to the east against a backdrop of crimson sand in the dawn light. Sinbad watched the camels disappear, and with heavy eyes fell asleep again, knowing he had been tricked.

  *

  My dear Captain Sinbad,

  Do not blame yourself. This marriage would never have taken place anyway. Trust that no one, not even my loving cousin Avilia, shall be hurt. Everything I told you was true; upon word of my mysterious disappearance, you can be sure that Avilia will cleverly claim my father’s fortune for herself. She is welcome to it, I promise you. I have all I need or shall ever need. The desert is my home now and I am content.

  Ben Abdul, despite what they say in Damascus, is not the devil you believe. He is just and fair. As proof of this, he has left you your camel and the purse of gold my cousin paid you. But it would be better to stay away from Jerusalem. Sheik Kahlil will be most displeased to learn that his share of the fortune is not forthcoming.

  May Allah bless your days.

  Diona

  Sinbad sighed and put aside the hastily scrawled note he had found attached to the water bag. For a long while he sat in the sand, shading his eyes from the sun, and shaking his head from side to side.

  “You seem amused,” said Don Giovanni, hopping into his lap.

  The mariner shrugged and laughed. “I do find this episode ironic, yes,” he confided. “But Allah is all-wise. He has fixed the course of our lives long before events transpire.”

  The frog nodded sagely. He had tried to warn Sinbad during the night, tried to arouse him from his forced slumber. But Ben Abdul’s men had caught him and tied him into a sack until dawn, thus insuring that their plans went unfoiled.

  “Will you go after her?” asked the frog.

  Sinbad shook his head.
“Diona has found her freedom, has found everything she wanted. Who am I to try and take it from her? Not to mention the army of Ben Abdul’s men I’d have to face if I tried.” He sighed deeply, tossing the purse of gold in his palm. “No, good friend and companion, Diona is right. Avilia shall have what she, was seeking, no harm is done after all.”

  “Then what will we do?”

  Sinbad laughed, his eyes dancing merrily. “Why, well do what we set out to do! Sail the sea, find the Red Dahlia. My purse is not enough to buy the ship I sought, but with skill and luck we may somehow gain the rest.”

  “And where do we go?”

  “To the sea, of course. Where we belong. Let’s put all of this behind forever.” He stood up wearily and readied the camel for travel. “We go west, Giovanni,” he said as the frog jumped to his shoulder. “West — to the port of Jaffa.”

  *

  The smoke-filled tavern hushed suddenly when the lamps dimmed and the slow beat of drums began. Sinbad, mulling over his goblet, lifted his gaze from the roughly hewn table top and peered toward the stage. Around him, jamming the other tables, a host of patrons put down their own cups, wiped their mouths, and stared in expectation. Sailors from every port, Alexandria to Tripoli and as far away as Tunis, held their breath as the snake dancer slipped from behind the curtain.

  Her body was slim and dark-skinned, Sudanese, with coal-black hair tumbling over her firm breasts. She seemed to float across the stage, the cobra coiled about her shoulders and neck. The music, up until now languid, took on a quicker beat, with low-pitched flutes weaving a staccato African melody.

  The dancer’s hair flowed with her every movement, teasingly hinting at the perfect body beneath. A provocative smile glimmered upon her full lips as she drew the cobra’s head to her breast. The crowd gasped as its venomous tongue lashed, and to everyone’s amazement the ebony beauty laughed, seductively shaking her shoulders while the snake slinked its scaly body lower, twisting around her waist and clasping itself around her thighs.

  Dark colors from the lamps danced; the girl twirled and sang a wild, savage song, reminiscent to Sinbad of the strange tribes he had encountered along the African coast some years before. The faces of the watching sailors turned hungry with desire as the dancer taunted them with the motions of her hips. Her body shone with perspiration; she ran her fingers up and down the snake’s length, stroking and massaging him. And, acting as though crushed beneath the weight of a man, she ended her song with soft moans and delicate spasms of her hips.

  She stood motionless for a time, naked except for the silk veil pinned around her womanhood, and panted while the snake again coiled itself around her throat. The audience was transfixed; to a man, Sinbad included, they all wished to possess her there and then.

  The dancer’s eyes glinted with enjoyment at the sight of the aroused crowd. She bowed stiffly, teasingly letting her breasts shake. Then she was gone, fled from sight back behind the heavy curtains. Amid the murmurs of the frustrated sailors the lamps were lighted to full intensity and the music stopped.

  “More, more!” they shouted, clapping and whistling and stamping their feet. The ruckus continued for quite a time, but the mysterious snake dancer did not return, content to let them howl until the next show.

  Prostitutes astutely slipped among the frenzied crowd, flashing smiles and offering hours of pleasure for a handful of copper coins. Many of the tables quickly emptied as a score of womanless sailors, wine bottles in hand, followed them out into the streets and alleys to conduct their business.

  Sinbad, declining propositions, glumly went back to finishing his drink. He and Giovanni had been in Jaffa nearly a week now, with little prospect of raising enough money to purchase either ship or crew for their voyage. Jaffa was a squalid town, teeming with ships and seamen, merchants from every known land in Araby and beyond, and cargoes to he loaded or delivered to market. It was the perfect place for Sinbad to find everything he needed — only he had enough money.

  He pulled his purse from his belt and poured the contents onto the table. Gold coins glittered in the light — a small fortune, for most purposes, but far short of what was needed to buy a ship. For that heady ambition he would have to triple his wealth.

  The sound of raucous laughter caused him to turn, and he looked on with idle curiosity at a crowd of men near the back. They were placing bets, some of which were quite sizable.

  “Two to one!” cried a furtive little man in the center of the group, a serious expression upon his cherubic face. “Two to one I’ll pay. Who can do better than that?”

  Most of the sailors laughed again, shaking their heads. “Against your man? Against the Bruiser?” derided one stout fellow. “You must be mad!”

  “Why, the last man to fight the Bruiser died in the ring!” called a shipmate. “We’d be fools to take your offer!”

  The small man grinned, and his beady eyes glinted as he scratched his turbaned head. “All right, all right. Two and a half to one — it’s the best I can do. What say you to that?”

  The sailors glanced at one another, becoming tempted at the offer. Then, downing more wine, they began to agree.

  “Name your fighter,” said the little man, relieved. “And be at the wharf at midnight. All will be ready.” He turned to leave, then hesitated, saying: “Three rounds — after that my man will take on any other offers.”

  “At two and a half to one, there’ll be plenty more, Feisal! Bring your money!” And they laughed again, obviously pleased at the bargain they had struck.

  Sinbad placed the frog back on his shoulder and got up. At the next table sat an aging man, a veteran of the sea, if his windblown and craggy face told anything. Sinbad approached the mute fellow and cleared his throat.

  “Pardon me for interrupting you,” he said apologetically, “but could tell me what that’s all about?”

  The old sailor pushed aside his cup and stared up at Sinbad, screwing his eyes, looking the man and the frog over with care. “Don’t you know?” was all he replied.

  Sinbad shook his head. “Forgive me if I seem foolish, but I’m a stranger to Jaffa — ”

  The sailor chuckled. “Feisal is putting his man up for a match again, that’s all.”

  “Feisal?”

  The sailor tickled his fingertips at his stubby chin. “Hmmm. Then you are a stranger, aren’t you?” He gestured for Sinbad to take the chair opposite. When the mariner had seated himself, the man leaned halfway over the table and continued. “Feisal is a promoter,” he said. “Perhaps the best-known in Jaffa. And whenever new ships dock for a day or two, he likes to give them the chance to take away his money.” Here he chuckled again. “Of course Feisal’s too crafty to just give his fortune away. Oh, yes. You have to earn it.”

  Sinbad frowned. “Earn it how?”

  “By spending three rounds in the ring with his man.” His breath was hot upon Sinbad’s face, and he grinned. “Three rounds at the best odds anyone will give. Why, an enterprising fellow could wind up rich, what with side bets and all.”

  Sinbad became more than interested when he heard this. “Are we speaking of a wrestling event?” he asked. “Or boxing?”

  The old sailor shook his head. “Both. Fighting against the one called the Bruiser. A dim-witted fellow brought here as a slave from the Libyan desert before winning his freedom. Now he fights for Feisal exclusively.”

  “And this promoter, Feisal, he’ll match any bet?” Sinbad wet his lips.

  His companion laughed heartily. “But of course! Feisal’s good to his word. He has to be — otherwise no one would enter any contest with him.”

  “And any man can enter?” wondered Sinbad.

  At this the old sailor broke into an expansive grin. “The Bruiser fears no man. No man. He’s had — oh, about thirty fights this past year and won them all. Seven of his opponents died in the ring, their heads smashed open like melons; another six or so lived a few days before dying of their injuries. Those that survived thank Allah for their
fortune … ”

  Sinbad gulped. “He sounds menacing.”

  “Oh, he is. He is. Once you lay eyes upon him, you’ll never forget. Never. The Bruiser can break a man’s back the way you or I would snap a twig. Does that answer your question?”

  Sinbad leaned back in the chair and thought long and hard. “I’d like to get a look at this fellow,” he admitted after a while. “What must I do?”

  “Do? Do?” The sailor chuckled again. “Have ye a mind to meeting him in the ring, eh?”

  Sinbad put out his palms and smiled. “Well, I didn’t quite say that … ”

  “I know, I know,” replied his companion. “You just want to see him, right? Have a quick glance at the man all of Jaffa fears? And maybe study his tactics, seeking a way to beat him — and gain yourself some extra money.”

  “You are very wise, my friend,” said Sinbad. “I won’t lie to you: I need to raise some cash. And I don’t mind telling that I’m at my wits’ end on how to do it.”

  Here the old sailor’s face darkened. He studied Sinbad more intently than before. “Can ye fight, then? Eh, son?” Sinbad frowned. “I was tutored in the art, yes. And during my youth I was acclaimed a champion.”

  “Hmmmm.” The sailor tugged a finger at his earlobe. “It should take more than that to stand up against the Bruiser, I think.”

  “But others do — ”

  The sailor scoffed. “Foolhardy souls at best. The glitter of Feisal’s gold makes them willing to throw away their lives. No man with good sense asks for such a fight.”

  “Perhaps not,” Sinbad rejoined swiftly. “But I’ve never been one to run from one either.”