The Thief of Kalimar; Captain Sinbad; Cinnabar

by Graham Diamond

  Milo!

  At that moment, bolts of anguish shot through him like blue-charged lightning. It couldn’t be! Not Milo! How was all this possible? And he felt his heart sink like a leaden weight. If Milo had been caught, then so must have the others. Were all from aboard the Scheherazade now slaves in the hands of Suliman? He remembered what Ruldopho had said to him at the meeting, about the foreign voices he had heard among the captives, and Sinbad knew then that his worst fears must be true. For days he had hoped his shipmates would be looking for him, and now, irony of ironies, he had found them instead.

  Sleepy after their fill of food and drink, the close-by guards paid little attention to their bound charges. As several returned to the whimpering girl for another moment of pleasure, Sinbad deftly inched into the camp, shielding his face and throwing himself among the startled prisoners.

  “Allah be blessed!” cried a mournful Milo, staring at his captain. “Is it really you? We feared you dead!”

  Sinbad pressed a finger to his lips. “A long story, Milo, but to be told another time. Right now we have other needs … ” And with a cunning smile he withdrew his knife and split Milo’s wrist bonds with a single thrust.

  The old sailor rubbed his reddened wrists thankfully.

  “Has all the crew been taken?” Sinbad asked as he cut the leg ropes.

  Milo shook his head. “No, only three. Me, Mongo, and Methelese.” His eyes shifted to the edge of the group, and there, uncharacteristically silent, sat the giant. Double knots held his powerful hands together and leather straps his feet; his mouth was gagged with a dirty cloth.

  Sinbad slipped over and freed the giant.

  Mongo groaned with relief and grinned at his captain. “Am I glad to see you,” he moaned. “I thought we were done for.”

  “How did this happen?” Sinbad whispered. “How did you fall into Suliman’s hands?”

  Mongo spat upon the ground. “A sorry tale. After the storm, we were certain you were dead, but we had to be sure. We found a safe cove north of Tarragona and Felicia dispatched a longboat with a search party to look for you. The odds against your being alive were long, but every one of us wanted to try anyway. Milo, Methelese, and myself set out to the north while the others went inland. During that very night, when we came close to the borders of Barcelona, we were attacked. We fought these brigands off as best we could, but as we were outnumbered by ten to one” — he sighed — “we couldn’t hold them off. Our captors made us prisoners and brought us to the main camp of Suliman’s army. Then we were thrown together with all these other poor souls, doomed to be led into slavery when the war is done.”

  Sinbad gloomily peered around at the sad faces of the captured prisoners, dozens of them, all trapped here at the mercy of this ragtag horde descending upon Barcelona. He wanted to free them all, to stay right here and make a fight of it against Suliman. Yet his mission demanded that he return to Pansa as quickly as possible. Releasing everyone now would only rouse the rebels into an earlier attack upon the village. With a heavy heart, Sinbad resigned himself to leaving the others behind.

  As the laughter of the drunken guards became louder again, he slipped away from Mongo toward another group of captives where he had spotted Methelese. The stunned Greek sat speechless while his bonds were cut. “Follow me,” whispered Sinbad, crouching down and starting to crawl toward the trees.

  Methelese bent forward, eager to follow. It was then that a dark, tiny head appeared in the shadows amid the folds of his tunic. Sinbad stared with utter disbelief, his stony expression at length turning into a full and delighted smile.

  “Hail Captain Sinbad!” croaked the frog.

  “Don Giovanni!” gasped the captain.

  Methelese grinned. “I brought him with me, Captain Sinbad. I knew he wanted to help in the search … ”

  The bullfrog hopped from his host and landed squarely on Sinbad’s shoulder. He looked at Giovanni and laughed. So glad was he to see his old friend again, he almost forgot the dangers that faced them all.

  Quickly Sinbad surveyed the way to the grass. A thicknecked sentry crossed from the bushes and planted his feet almost directly in front of the sailor. Silently, Sinbad raised his knife and, with a quick flick of the wrist, threw it. The blade whistled in the stale night air; the sentry groaned as it sliced between his shoulder blades. He tottered, sputtered as if trying to call for help. Out of nowhere the great silhouette of Mongo leaped over him and pummeled him to the earth.

  Mongo grinned as he tossed the knife back to Sinbad. And with the way to the trees clear at least for the moment, the small group scurried like ants from the camp.

  A beaming Rudolpho greeted them all at the edge of the clearing. “We must hurry, señor,” he said to Sinbad after they had gathered. And he pointed to the array of tents lining the folds of the knoll. Men were stirring, buckling on their curved and straight swords, preparing to begin a new watch until dawn.

  “Lead the way, Rudolpho,” said Sinbad. “We’ve learned all we need to know. When Suliman strikes, we’re going to be ready.”

  *

  “It will never work!” cried Francisco. “Suliman has cavalry — you saw it yourself. Our wall will never hold him back.”

  Father Augusto looked at Sinbad and sighed deeply. His face darkened by the slanting shadows cast inside the church, the priest peered down once more at the map Sinbad had sketched. The configurations of the village were plain. The sea on one side, the hills on the other. The winding road to Barcelona a long, curling slash in between. “Our wall cannot hold back Suliman’s horsemen,” he said at last. “Even had we enough able-bodied men to man it.”

  Sinbad gritted his teeth. He glanced quickly out the window, where he could see the hasty mud, brick, and wood barrier nearing completion at the far side of the plaza.

  “It’s not meant to stop Suliman,” he said strongly. “Only to slow him down and make his riders come down from their mounts … ”

  Don Manuel de Leon threw up his hands. “Tis useless! We’ll never hold him off. Never! Perhaps it would have been better after all had we fled the village and run for Barcelona.”

  The small group of elders gathered inside the church gravely nodded in assent. Upon Sinbad’s return they had been told all they needed to know — the true size and force of Suliman’s hill army had left them terrified. Milo and Mongo readily attested to what they had seen, a fully coordinated army ready to move at a moment’s notice, the scum of the earth gathered beneath the banners of the vile Suliman ready to march upon tiny Pansa. They were the worst dregs in all of Iberia — renegades, thieves, rapists, murderers, a cruel and cunning band who had lived all their lives on wits and brawn, fearing no man or God.

  Javier, the mason, swung wide the doors of the church and anxiously strode inside. He made the sign of the cross, looked first to the priest and then to Sinbad. “The wall is almost complete, Captain,” he said, as he wiped caked mud and straw from his hands onto his apron.

  Sinbad nodded. The first part of his plan was almost complete; he was ready for the second. If only he could keep the villagers calm …

  “Good, Javier. Now go back and block the road from the other side. Turn over every cart and wagon you can find. Fishing boats, too. I want the town secure before nightfall.”

  The elders mumbled among themselves; pleading, desperate eyes confronted the mariner. “We are fooling ourselves, Captain Sinbad,” sighed Don Manuel. “Even if Suliman is held at bay, with what weapons shall we fight? These?” He glanced at the butcher knife strapped to his belt, then to the various other weapons his companions wore. Knives and bats against cavalry and barbarian swords?”

  Sinbad faced them all. “Now listen to me, all of you. We must stand our ground; it’s the best defense we can make. Running may seem easier now — but it isn’t. On the open road we’ll be cut down like sheep.”

  “And how shall we fare here?” asked Pablo the cobbler. He waited for the nods of agreement from his friends. “A thousand men and
more you say Suliman commands, is this not so?” His eyes darted to the new strangers standing silently beside the altar. Mongo and Milo nodded and looked away. “And what are we?” he continued after the point was made.

  Sinbad tensely glanced about at his pitiful grouping of old men and young girls, his brave army of defenders.

  “You forget one thing, cobbler,” snapped Maria Elisa. Her mouth turned down angrily as she spoke. “Captain Sinbad has found his ship.”

  Francisco threw up his hands, defying the brazen girl. “Is this to be our salvation? Why, we don’t even know where it is!”

  “Ah, but we do,” Sinbad told him. “And that’s the second part of my plan.” He beckoned to Paulo the fisherman. “Do you know the cove near Tarragona?”

  The old man weakly nodded. “I think so, señor; but it is far … ”

  “How far?”

  He shrugged.

  “It can be reached by dawn,” announced Milo. “Give me a boat and a few good oarsmen and I’ll find it, all right”

  “Good,” said Sinbad. “That’s exactly what I want.” He looked at Milo and Mongo. “As much as I need both of you here, it’s more important that you reach the Sherry and sail her to Pansa as quickly as possible. With the ship, our strength will be tripled, and if worse comes to worse, we can evacuate as many as we can from Pansa … ” “How do we know the ship is still at anchor in this cove of yours?” demanded Francisco. “How do we know it did not sail away days ago?”

  Milo grew crimson with anger; veins bulged in his sinewy neck. “A shipmate will never strand another,” he hissed. “The Scheherazade will wait, this much I promise you.”

  “Bah.” It was Pablo who grumbled. “Is this what we are asked to rest our lives upon?” he asked of the group. “The word of these … these foreigners?” He glowered at Milo. “And even should you reach the cove and find the ship in waiting? What then? What makes you think you can reach our harbor in time, eh? In less than twenty-four hours Suliman will attack — you told us this yourselves — and by the hour you arrive we may all be dead!”

  Maria Elisa put her hands to her hips and faced down the troublesome cobbler. “Then run,” she flared. “Flee to the hills, you billygoat. But I for one shall stay.” She spun and faced Sinbad. “I am not afraid, nor are my sisters. Give us weapons and a place to fight. If I am to die it is going to be right here in Pansa.”

  And her sisters shouted in agreement.

  Sinbad looked at them proudly, knowing they meant every word of it, even if poor Manuel was beside himself at the thought.

  “We’ve talked enough,” said Father Augusto. “Our commitment was made before you went to spy upon Suliman’s camp. For good or ill, our village is in your hands. What is to be done next?”

  Sinbad clasped the priest on the shoulder, then addressed Milo. “Find the best boat you can, take her out with Paulo and his stoutest fellows. It’s imperative that you reach the cove by first light.”

  “And bring the Sherry to Pansa by nightfall,” said Milo, completing the thought. “Don’t worry, you can leave it to me.”

  Leaving a fretful Methelese to stay behind with Sinbad, the two sailors and the fisherman scurried from the church. Before the oaken doors had time to properly shut, a worried Father Augusto whispered to Sinbad on the sly, “What chance do they have of succeeding?”

  Sinbad pulled a long face. A hairsbreadth of time, he knew, could make the difference in saving all their lives. The priest nodded solemnly, needing no words for his answer. He turned to the gathered villagers, and said, “As for the rest of us, we had better get back outside and give poor Javier a hand in blocking the road.”

  Sinbad was quick to agree, but added, “We’ll need all the help we can get; don’t you think that first we should pray?”

  *

  It was a peaceful and serene twilight that bathed the roofs and hills of tiny Pansa. Amber and gold leaves shimmered in the evening moonlight as the lone fishing vessel slipped quietly from its berth and, her single sail unfurled, made her way across the bay and out toward the southern frontiers of Cordoba.

  Sinbad looked on silently for a long while, wondering if he would ever see his friends again. Don Giovanni, equally pensive, sat upon his shoulder and uttered not a sound, content to keep his gaze firm across the tranquil sweep of meadows and hills sloping away from either side of the dusty road that bisected the village.

  By nightfall, amid the soft chirping of the crickets and the hoots of unseen owls, all final preparations for the coming attack were completed. While Sinbad gathered the farmers together and inspected their weapons, a hodgepodge of knives and pitchforks, hatchets and anything else they could get their hands on, Methelese, flanked by Maria Elisa and a small band of village girls, ventured past the outermost barricade and onto the road.

  Tense eyes watched from the doubly fortified plaza as Methelese and his group dug small random holes in the soft dirt. The clever Greek took a razor-sharp sliver of glass, bent down, and placed it carefully in the dirt, sharpest edge up. The girls repeated the deed until hundreds of unseen pieces dotted the way back to the plaza. This roadway of glass would surely cause havoc among the lead ranks of Suliman’s fearless cavalry.

  Sinbad positioned Francisco and a number of others along the low mud roofs. Torches yet to be lighted, they hid among the shadows, keenly observing the front perimeters of the village, where bushels of dried hay had been carefully placed.

  Sinbad patrolled from one side of the plaza to the other. Ever intent on making certain that everything was just right, he refused to leave his posts unchecked for a single moment.

  “Which way will they come first?” asked Don Manuel, nervously fondling the hilt of his sheathed kitchen knife.

  Sinbad rubbed at his sunken jowls. “Both sides at once, I fear,” he answered with a frown.

  Methelese agreed. “Of course. If you were Suliman, wouldn’t you do the same?”

  Manuel de Leon heaved a long sigh; he gazed around at the darkened plaza. From inside the church, where the mothers and children were huddled without protection, he could dimly hear the noise of crying infants.

  “Get some rest,” Sinbad told him. “I doubt they’ll attack before first light.”

  But the battle-weary veteran of many wars shook his head. And, returning to the south wall, he leaned beside the overturned wagons and silently waited.

  “It’s going to be a long vigil, Sinbad,” Giovanni said to the mariner.

  Sinbad hardly had the strength to nod. He hoped he had not raised the hopes of all the village for nothing. The Sherry would have to make it back before dusk tomorrow. No two ways about it. In daylight, with luck, his small force, barricaded as they were, could just conceivably hold off Suliman. But at night? No, it wasn’t possible. Brave as the villagers were, a well-coordinated night attack was more than they could stand. The village would be razed; the day after tomorrow would find not even a goat or dog left in Pansa to feed among the rubble.

  Low clouds swept in from the sea about midnight. Here and there among the defenders he heard singing, old folk melodies, softly hummed upon the lips of the dozens of young girls, untrained, who bravely stood in defense of the town. Sinbad looked at them all, his pitiful army of women bolstered by old men, and smiled with emotion. He was proud of them, proud of them all. And he could not recall a time in his life when he had been prouder.

  As the minutes ticked away, the battle was drawing closer to hand. Maria Elisa, exhausted after the long day’s preparation, stood at her post along the highest point of the north wall. Eyes weary and bloodshot, at first she almost missed the faint hints of firelight appearing from beyond the ridge west of the road. It did not take her long to realize what was happening.

  “Sinbad!” she called, spinning around and waving her arms.

  The mariner and the Greek dashed from their places and crept over the top of the barricade to where the girl stood. Squinting, Sinbad scanned the horizon. Torches were burning dully in the distan
ce, a pale orange glow against the moonless velvet night. And from somewhere distant he could hear the whinnying of horses and the trample of marching men.

  “They’re here,” mumbled Methelese, wiping a hand across his dry mouth.

  “A pity you don’t have your bag of tricks now,” said the captain.

  The Greek glumly sighed.

  “What do we do?” asked Elisa.

  “Alert everyone; take up positions. It’s all we can do — that, and wait.”

  While the walls were reinforced with every man and woman in Pansa, Sinbad kept his place and waited. Suliman would never expect to find such resistance from a tiny village like Pansa; the element of surprise was Sinbad’s only advantage. Caught badly off guard, the bandit might be forced to retreat and ponder a new strategy for his assault, all the while buying Sinbad more time. Once the Scheherazade arrived, Suliman might even give up entirely; after all, any losses in taking Pansa would surely not be worth the few spoils to be found there. At least this is what Sinbad was counting on. Anything else, as everyone knew, would spell disaster for them all.

  Slowly, slowly, a thin line of gray spread across the western horizon, the first glimmer of coming dawn. A low whistle sounded from a rooftop beyond the plaza. Sinbad peered up to see someone’s arm waving a bright kerchief. It was Paulo, he knew, giving the signal that the enemy was on the march toward the road.

  All around him the dozens of girls and fishermen and shepherds and farmers were concealed across the perimeters, hidden in dark doorways, behind brush and wagons, poised over flat mud roofs, inside cesspool ditches. There was no more to be done.

  The coming swarm were stirring up dust along the paths. Odors of horses and sweaty men filled Sinbad’s nostrils, igniting a pang for the open sea, where he feared he would never sail again. His sense of the past became heightened in these few minutes before the battle. He thought once more of Baghdad, his home, once again of all those he loved. As through a murky veil, he could see Sherry’s face before his eyes. He sighed, thinking that death would not be half so bad if only she were beside him.