Sharon peered at him strangely, recalling other inferences long forgotten about such a person — a Prophet, a new savior, to rid the land of evil and restore justice. It was an ancient belief, she knew, passed on from generation to generation — but not one of Samarkand.
Tears had begun to fall down Zadek’s bumpy cheeks. He cleared a thick throat and said, “At last … at last the time has come. Praise be to Allah that I should live to see the day my people come home at last.”
Sharon drew back a step, stifling a gasp. The glowing stones had cast an eerie light across the oval chamber, dancing prisms of blending amber and indigo seeping through her as if alive, making her flesh crawl. And as Zadek spoke of these things, of forefathers and prophets, she knew. The whispered rumors rife throughout the palace were true: Whether meaning to or not, Zadek had betrayed himself.
She took a step closer to the humbled figure and glared down at him. “Tell me, teacher, and speak from your heart: You welcome the incursion of the Huns, don’t you? You want to see our city crumble.”
The mullah looked up at her with sad, furtive eyes. “Only that it may be reclaimed.”
Her heart skipped a beat. “You’re a Kazir, aren’t you?”
Zadek nodded, locking his eyes with hers. The glow of the stones started to fade. “My mother was a Kazir, yes, and from her I learned the promises made by God to restore our tribe to its rightful place.”
A Kazir! A traitor!
Sharon would never have believed it, never have listened to the malicious gossip, but now the priest had confirmed it with his own tongue. And the very thought that this man, this holy teacher whom she respected and loved more than anyone except her father, should be a traitor to the city and the emir he served sent her reeling.
“Listen to me, child,” he said as she stood before him, pale and trembling. “Much has been misunderstood. The Kazirs and the people of Samarkand share the same ancestry; like separate branches of the same tree, we have a common root. You need not fear me because of what you have learned.”
Her mouth turned down mockingly. “I’ll not betray you, Zadek,” she flared. “You need have no fear; I’ll keep your secret. I owe you that much.”
Zadek winced at the sting of her words, hurt as though struck by an arrow. He loved the young princess as though she were his own, and the thought that now she would inwardly turn against him was too much to bear.
“Temper your hatred,” he pleaded. “You begged me to speak to you of what I saw. Now I have, and you are pained by it. Hatred is an evil thing, young princess; it consumes until nothing is left. I have hidden the truth from you for too long, shamed the memory of my mother and my forefathers. Now I must pay the price.” Sharon felt confused; by all rights she should call out Zadek immediately for what he was. A Kazir was her enemy, the enemy of all she stood for. This man who had spent his life within the palace as a virtual spy should be punished for his crimes.
Knowing her thoughts, Zadek said, “Never once have I been disloyal to Samarkand. I have lived among you for too long, come to accept your customs and ways” — he sighed sorrowfully — “come to love you. My mother’s people know me not; to them I am as hated as the royal family itself.”
She drew a deep breath and turned away from him. Tears were ready to burst from her reddened eyes. “Oh, Zadek,” she said, clutching her arms tightly, “I don’t know what to do. Whom can I turn to now?”
He stood, a hand outstretched toward her. “I am still your friend, Sharon; that much has not changed.”
But she shook her head and moved away. From now on, there was no one she could trust.
Chapter Three
Samarkand, city of myth and fable, bustled with frantic activity on the morning that announced the beginning of the sacred holiday period of Ramadan. The seven black gates of the city were opened wide to allow the steady stream of travelers to enter. They came in caravans and wagons, by mule and by camel, but most of all they came on foot, thousands upon thousands of weary pilgrims, here today on their pilgrimage to the Great Mosque.
Amid snorting camels and road-blocking donkeys they packed the streets and plazas, jammed the parks and avenues, crowded outside the Square of the Prophet and stared up at the lofty minarets, waiting for the priests to appear upon the balconies and issue the first call to prayer.
On a day such as this there was little distinction between the classes. Peasants, dressed in simple cotton lungis draped over their bodies, stood beside merchants and farmers, craftsmen and money changers, all patiently looking to the moment the arched temple doors would swing open and allow them to enter. Women carried infants and hushed them as they cried, while pilgrims fell to their knees, facing west to Mecca, and loudly prayed. Among the throngs the hucksters roamed, pickpockets and thieves, prostitutes and solicitors; beggars by the score, many deformed, crippled, or blind, lined the streets with open palms and pleaded with passersby for a few paltry alms with which to sustain their miserable lives for yet another day.
Along the paved streets of the Lower City, with its odors and clamor, jasmine gardens and houses with high barred windows, the festive atmosphere rang. Torpid flies buzzed in and around the canopied street stalls, the smell of dung and spices thick in the air. From fortunetellers to fire eaters they came, mobbing every byway and alley, jovial and carefree, babbling in all the varied tongues of Samarkand’s empire as they strolled among the sights of the city that was the crossroad of the world. By carriage to the Square of the Prophet came noblemen and their women, the ladies of the court stunning in their ghararas, flowing gowns of exquisite color, gold dust liberally sprinkled on their eyelashes and over their pinned hair. Others came finely garbed in draped robes of wool and soft linen, embroidered with gold spangles, needle-weaved to perfection. All wore the traditional silk veil pulled high over their faces, leaving only their dark, mysterious eyes exposed.
By midmorning the sun was blazing down on what would prove to be a merciless day of heat. Across the high parapets, where stern-faced palace soldiers stood solemn guard, cottonlike clouds scudded, giving momentary relief from the sun’s increasing glare. The wild flowers across the endless fields beyond the walls glistened dryly in the light, the looming foothills behind sweeping away as they climbed to higher elevations along the edges of the arid Steppes. The procession to the city seemed never-ending, the fertile plains teeming with life, all manner of traveler marching now upon the dusty roads, peacefully come to celebrate the holy month.
But, among this procession were other travelers — travelers with thoughts bent on malice. Mingling among the crowds, they knew they would not be recognized — at least until their grim work was done, and it then would be too late.
*
The Great Mosque, ribbed amber dome glistening in sunlight, stood like a mighty monument at the extreme southern end of the Gate of the Prophet; the sandstone palace walls, watchtowers rising high above all, stood opposite at the north, near the fringes of what was called the Old City. From the voluted parapets carved in relief with intricately designed motifs, palace officers and court administrators peered down with curiosity upon the surging crowd. Among them, draped in his finest robe of silk, dazzling crown upon his head, stood the emir of Samarkand — a slight, frail man, well into his middle years, who nervously twitched at the sight of the huge gathering. Although noisy, the rabble, behind their barricades, remained peaceful, and the emir allowed himself a satisfied smile.
Since the arrest of the ayatollah eleven days before, and the subsequent fires and mullah-inspired riots, there had been a total calm within the city — in fact, everywhere — a strange quiet that was inexplicable, considering the precarious state of affairs. The daily reports from distant garrisons told of a sudden cessation of all hostilities, even among the bandit Kazirs, constant troublemakers throughout the Steppes. There seemed to be no activity whatsoever across any of Samarkand’s long borders, most curiously in the western province where the hordes of idol-worshiping Huns massed.
<
br /> No one in the empire was enjoying this respite more than the emir himself, who had come to believe that the holy man’s imprisonment had once and for all put an end to such petty and costly rebellions. Yet, there were those who counseled caution, advisors within the palace who held other opinions. They saw these tranquil conditions quite differently; to them, this was the calm before the storm.
Sharon, accompanied by other members of the royal household, also came to pray. She followed at the end of the procession into the mosque as the great doors at last opened. Her carefully coiffed hair came loose in the slight breeze, small curls dangling across her forehead. Her face covered by a silk veil, she crossed the walk, head bowed in humility. She wore the traditional quamez, a long-sleeved tunic loosely belted by a silver sash, as well as the eastern shalwar, pendulous women’s pants, well suited for Samarkand’s climate.
A mighty roar rose from the crowd at the sight of a mullah come upon the balcony of the minaret. The darkly garbed priest called out in prayer, and the crowds fell to their knees. Many lay prostrate, arms outstretched, others bent low with foreheads touching the ground. And when he was done, the soldiers stepped aside, permitting the pilgrims to pour inside, hundreds more forced to stay across the steps when the mosque’s courtyard was filled to capacity and the great gates shut.
On this festive day, there was a gay mood throughout the city; it seemed as though all strife were forgotten. Once the prayers were done and the crowds emptied from the huge temple, Samarkand came to life anew. The markets of the Lower City reopened, visitors jamming the bazaars where exotic foods were openly cooked and sold, the air heavy with the smell of meats and heady wines. There was singing and dancing and displays of acrobatics and dramatics representative of almost every culture within the far-flung empire.
The festivities would continue well into the night, a carnival that came but one day each year, always to be enjoyed but today especially savored, for the troubled city would, for a time at least, ring with laughter and music and gaiety.
An Indian fakir sat cross-legged and shirtless, playing a low melodious tune on his pipe as he coaxed a coiled snake to weave its body up from the woven basket. Sharon watched and smiled, always intrigued by the abilities of these strange snake charmers, and mingled with the crowd as the serpent swayed its scaly body in time with the music. When the song was done and the snake returned to the unlidded basket, content to rest until it was called again, the gathering applauded and threw a scattering of copper coins at the fakir’s feet. The Indian bowed before them, then hastily scooped up the coins before a beggar or a thief had the chance to steal away from within his grasp.
“We must return to the palace, my lady,” said Hezekiah, gently nudging Sharon’s elbow. “I gave your father my word that you would be back well before dusk.”
Sharon glanced up at the bright afternoon sun, wincing as its light reflected off the low tiled roofs of the enormous bazaar and hurt her eyes. “But it’s early,” she protested. “The sun won’t set yet for hours.”
The Hebrew scowled. Amrath had put the girl under Hezekiah’s protection for the day, sternly commanding that Sharon not be allowed the normal freedoms she might expect. Ordinarily, his daughter, as well as many of the palace court, would think nothing of mingling with the people during this special day, even sharing the revelry well into the night. But today was different from those in years past, Hezekiah knew: Danger was unquestionably brewing — no matter what the emir might think — and a cursory glance across the markets, showing the host of soldiers on duty along the roofs and in the courtyards, only confirmed his belief.
A group of merrymakers jostled the young princess; Sharon laughed, but sour Hezekiah pulled her away quickly.
“They meant no harm,” said Sharon, looking on as the merrymakers danced from one side of the busy street to the other. At the far end of the constricted avenue, where it broadly opened into a spacious plaza lined with trees and fountains, a large stage had been set upon a platform, actors at the center busily giving a comical performance. Peals of laughter resounded from the jovial and agreeable crowd. Sharon’s attention was caught briefly by the scene, the caricatures of noblemen and women, and she looked on with amusement. “All right, minister,” she said at last, returning her attention to the man beside her. “I suppose you’re right. We can leave now.”
Hezekiah nodded, thankful that the teeming masses seemed so preoccupied and that the day had passed without incident. Along the street they walked, heading toward the plaza, ever aware of the pungent smells of sizzling foods wafting in the air. Ignoring beggars, they wove their way between canopied stalls where a vast array of merchandise was displayed and offered for barter. At the edge of the crowd, Hezekiah took Sharon by the arm and steered her across the dusty square in the direction of the nearby Square of the Prophet and the safety of the palace walls.
“I think your fears were unfounded, minister,” she chided him as they passed a stern-faced patrol of royal troops, who smartly saluted the minister and the young princess. She glanced around, feeling that her own suspicions, although unspoken, had been equally unfounded.
“Perhaps so,” Hezekiah observed. “But the day is not yet done.”
Before the last word had rolled off his tongue, there came screaming from behind. Hezekiah spun around, instinctively shielding the girl from possible harm.
A potbellied merchant, red-faced and profusely sweating, was shouting at the top of his lungs for soldiers to come at once. “Catch the thief!” he bellowed from behind his stall of spices and rare foods. But there were so many people around that it was virtually impossible to tell whom he meant. Suddenly, though, there was the fleeting shadow of someone pushing mindlessly through the throng. A veiled woman was knocked down, and her cries brought passersby running to grab the commonly garbed offender.
“He’s the one!” thundered the merchant. “That’s him! Catch him! Don’t let him get away!”
The accused thief was hemmed in by outraged citizens on all sides. He darted to break free, knocking over several other fat merchants with a single shove, wrestling another to the ground, and leaped like a cat over the nearest stall, kicking over roll upon roll of expensive fabric, linen and silk tumbling into the street.
Soldiers with drawn swords came racing from their posts. At sight of the glistening scimitars, shoppers, pilgrims, and passersby ducked and scrambled in every direction, causing still further pandemonium. The thief, aware of the life-and-death chase, bolted down the clearest avenue of escape — the almost cleared path of the road to the Square of the Prophet.
“Seize him!” cried the captain of the soldiers, panting to reach the criminal before he had a chance to disappear among the crowds, and from another direction rushed more of the emir’s black-cloaked guards.
The thief stopped abruptly, a soldier wielding his sword before him. The thief was fast, Sharon saw — young, clever, as quick on his feet as any. He sidestepped the thrust of the soldier’s blade, flung himself forward just enough to topple his adversary, then, springing back onto his feet, charged ahead. But the guards were everywhere, pressing, forming a wide circle from which the thief could find no route to freedom.
The youth froze in his tracks, eyes darting to and fro, crouching defensively as he pondered his next move. There were few he could make. The troops had cleverly cordoned off this entire section of the street and wedged him in solidly, so solidly that no matter where he looked, he was confronted with glittering, finely honed steel.
“Grab him!” commanded the captain of the guard. His front line drew in close for the kill. The thief pulled a small dagger from within the folds of his dirty robe and brandished it threateningly.
“Better for you to drop the weapon,” hissed the captain. Three brutish guards held their scimitars at arm’s length, points aimed for the young man’s heart.
The potbellied merchant came bounding through the phalanx, panting and cursing. “He’s the one, m’lord! I saw him take the food m
yself!”
The youth dropped the knife, letting it fall at his feet, where the blade clanged against the stone. “He lies! I stole no food from him or from anyone else!”
The merchant sputtered. “Are you going to take the word of a beggar? Sirs, I beg you! Arrest him at once! Is there no justice left in Samarkand?”
The captain of the guard, a sadist, rubbed a finger at his brush mustache and smiled thinly. “What do you say, beggar?”
Sharon saw that the young man was frightened and yet, despite his accuser and the host of troops ready to slay him should they be given the order, he held his ground firmly. “I am innocent,” he repeated, fires burning in his eyes, a dark flush spreading across his cheeks. “This man has wrongly accused me. I am no thief, nor am I a beggar. I have come this day to Samarkand to celebrate at the mosque like all other pilgrims.”
The captain raised his brow mockingly. “Oh? You are a pilgrim, then? A mullah perhaps?” His men began to chuckle.
Undaunted, the youth shook his head. “No, not a holy man, merely a traveler here to pay homage.”
The captain’s mouth turned down at the corners and he pushed past his aides and stood face to face with the youthful stranger. “Where are you from?” he demanded.
“The hill country, captain.”
The soldier scrutinized him closely. You had to be careful with these beggars, he knew; half of them would sell their own mothers if it served their purpose. Scum, vermin, a plague upon Samarkand they were. It was a shame he couldn’t deal with them all. Food for the rats in the dungeons was more than they were worth.
“The hill country, eh? Are you a herder, then … of camels, perhaps?”
The youth remained brazen and defiant. “A herder of goats, captain, as my father was before me and his before him.”
There were snickers; the captain held his nose and spit at the beggar’s sandaled feet. “I thought the smell seemed familiar.” His men laughed loudly.
Samarkand the Omnibus: Books 1-2 Page 4
