Nonsense, interrupted the colonel, suddenly recovering his composure. Everyone knows the American Indians originally came from Asia, and Chief Sipping Bear's forebears have always been proud warriors in the best samurai tradition. The heritage is altogether natural.
Those slippers, wheezed the Libyan, look like the ones my servants wear.
But before there could be any more comments the chief all at once silenced them with a ferocious whoop. His war dance around the table had come to an end. He shook his bow in the air, whooped again and glared down at them.
Me Sipping Bear, great chief of west. How.
The colonel rapped his riding crop on the table for order. He rose and clicked his heels.
How indeed. Welcome chief. We're playing seven-card stud, high-low, joker wild. Let's see the color of your wampum.
The Indian took a leather pouch out of his quiver and removed a gold nugget the size of a pigeon's egg.
He took out three more nuggets equally large and placed his tomahawk on the table in the middle of them. The Frenchman, although drunk, couldn't help but notice the savage had accidentally made the sign of the cross on the table with his gold nuggets and tomahawk.
Here Cibola pebbles, grunted the Indian, thumping his chest, which made him cough. All Cibola made out of this, pick up in streets to use as wampum.
Fine, chief, no problems with that. Tell me, how do you happen to be over in this part of the world?
Come to see Holy City East. Tomorrow journey west again home to wigwam in setting sun. But first play joker wild, Holy City East.
Fair enough. Make yourself comfortable.
The chief spied the bottle of poteen Joe had left behind and grabbed it, taking a long swallow.
Ummm, firewater good, Sipping Bear like firewater. Tonight play poker, win fortune. Tomorrow do sun dance at dawn, go home. Now give cards.
He grunted and reached into his quiver again, this time coming out with an ear of corn.
New World food, he said, baring his teeth and gnawing away at the ear of corn as he glanced suspiciously around the table. He picked up his tomahawk.
No cards for great chief? No cards go on warpath. No play with Indian?
Easy there, sport, said the brigadier. No one here minds playing with an Indian.
That's right, added the colonel. This is a friendly game.
Until now, thundered the black judge, speaking for the first time since he had entered the room, his stern voice so authoritative everyone turned to stare at him. And it was also the first time that anyone had really noticed the furry little white creature curled up on his shoulder, its head and tail tucked away out of sight.
My deal, announced the black judge. Yes it's my turn now and I think it's only appropriate that you meet the spirit who watches over me, my guardian spirit who appears to be slumbering by my ear but isn't, because he never sleeps. Bongo, say hello to these greedy crooks.
Upon hearing his name the little albino monkey instantly leapt to his feet with his bright aquamarine genitals thrust forward, wildly flailing away at himself with both fists, alternating them and not missing a stroke.
This jungle beast, said the black judge ominously, likes to eat cucumbers. And although he's small he can eat a surprising number. The ante for the next hand is a cool three hundred pounds sterling, or its equivalent. I'll see the glint of your money now.
The black judge raised his hand and gave the table a solid rap.
Time, gents. The court is in session. Chief Sipping Bear? Try to keep that bottle from dancing around in front of your face. Colonel? I'm not impressed by Bosnia so blow those garlic fumes in another direction.
As for the rest of you, I suggest you keep a firm grip on your luck. You'll need it.
Mouths fell open, the black judge laughed. And the little albino monkey pounded vigorously away at his lurid parts as the cards began to spin once more in the swirling haze of alcohol fumes and hashish clouds that had come to envelop the tables, causing heads to float and minds to wander in the dark Jerusalem night, the sundial in the front room all at once catching some illusionary ray of light that set its chimes tolling an invisible hour.
Just after three in the morning the dazed Libyan rug merchant slipped out of his chair and slid limply down under the table, in passing clutching the trouser leg of his neighbor, the former colonel of Austro-Hungarian dragoons.
Excuse me a moment, said the colonel to no one in particular, bending over to see what was going on.
He found the Libyan collapsed in a heap, one arm loosely thrown around the colonel's boot.
Here here, whispered the colonel. This is no way to act.
Ruined, wailed the Libyan. Haven't you seen the chits I've been giving him?
Giving whom?
The black man.
No, I've been concentrating on my own game. How much did you lose?
Everything. First the Bukharas went, my precious Bukharas that I've only owned a week. Then all my rugs back in Tripoli, then the shop the rugs are in. Then my villa in town and my other one by the sea.
Then my wives and my children and my servants.
In that order?
Yes.
Your greyhound?
He took that too. Then he took my steamship ticket home so I'd be trapped here at his mercy. Finally there was that last fatal wager.
What was it?
Goats. I indentured myself to serve as a goatherd for the next year. Tomorrow evening I'll be standing on a barren hillside eating yogurt and talking to goats.
The colonel tried to move his foot. The man's slobbering mouth was dulling the polish on his boots.
In other words he wiped you out? Hm, yes. Well that formal white wig and the black robe did seem to indicate he was a judge. Perhaps he held a trial and found you guilty of shameless dishonesty in acquiring those Bukharas from your dying cousin.
He's a judge?
I suspect so. Take another look.
The Libyan crept to his knees and peered over the edge of the table at the black man.
See how severely his lips are pressed together? whispered the colonel. The heavy brooding nose? The stern unwavering eyes?
I can't see his eyes behind those dark glasses he's wearing.
No, but you can certainly imagine them. Cold blue and unrelenting. Merciless even.
Blue eyes? In a face that color?
Yes, blue. I'd bet my life on it. And look at the arrogant way he waves his hand in the air when he deals.
More like a pharaoh wafting his divine wand aloft.
Frightened and confused, the Libyan slipped back under the table. The colonel gave him a sharp rap on the head with his riding crop.
What is it? whispered the Libyan.
This is extraordinary. Take a look at what he's just put on his head.
The Libyan crawled up and peeked over the edge of the table again. The black man had placed a gold cobra headpiece on top of his wig, the mark of a pharaoh.
Evelyn Baring, whispered the colonel, of course. I should have recognized the name. He's better remembered today as the Earl of Cromer.
Who's that?
You don't know? A modern pharaoh, the consul general in Egypt. He ran the country for twenty-five years around the turn of the century. No one was more powerful in this part of the world.
English?
Of course.
An English lord? I didn't know they had any that color.
Oh yes. His is an old line that far predates the Anglo-Saxons.
The who?
The people you're accustomed to thinking of as English, fair-skinned. His line goes back much further to the time when the Phoenicians were sailing to England to buy tin. Along the way they stopped off in North Africa to replenish their water jars and apparently an ancestor of his joined one of these trading ventures.
Is that why he has a white monkey on his back? Because his ancestors were originally from Africa?
It might be. In any case, once in England that a
ncestor went into tin and became a titled magnate, and thus we find the origins of the black strain in English aristocracy. And he has many other famous ancestors. Merlin, for one, was also in the line.
Who was Merlin?
A wizard and general handyman at magic. King Arthur couldn't have gotten along without him.
Who was King Arthur?
My dear fellow, you're already sounding like a goatherd. Your knowledge of history is appalling.
The Libyan slipped lower down the colonel's boot.
History? How can I think about history when I've just lost everything, even the future.
Ah, futures, I almost forgot. I'm very fond of futures and there seem to be some interesting ones on the table at this very moment.
The colonel raised himself from under the table, glanced at his cards and tapped his riding crop three times to indicate he was tripling the bet.
An hour later the two Russians staggered out the door in each other's arms, weeping noisily. Having squandered not only their funds meant to foster atheism in Jerusalem but sold all their Bolshevik secrets as well, there was nothing left for them to do but return directly to Moscow, sign confessions that they were undercover Trotskyite agents in the pay of Rockefeller and Krupp and Ukrainian nationalism, and be strangled in an OGPU dungeon which had recently been set aside for criminals guilty of that specific offense.
In the alley outside, the black judge in the cobra headpiece had just finished urinating against the wall. He was straightening his robe when the Russians lurched into the alley, tripped, and went crashing down on the cobblestones at his feet, crying on top of one another.
Time, gents?
Ruined, the two Russians blurted out together.
Indeed, I did notice the colonel seemed implacably opposed to you tonight. But then, the Austro-Hungarian army was always concerned about securing its eastern front.
At four-fifteen the spastic Egyptian landowner grabbed the Indian chief's arm with shaking hands.
Can you understand English?
The Indian stopped gnawing on the ear of corn stuck in his mouth and thumped his chest with it.
English bad but since me great chief, understand words from heart. Firewater good, have drink.
Thank you but I'm too dizzy. That black man with the monkey on his back, why did he play so hard against me? Why does he dislike me? He won my cotton crop for the next ten years. I'm finished, it's all over now. Why?
Cotton. Black man think only cotton. You have cotton, he take.
Over, moaned the Egyptian. Somehow he even knew about my falcon and took that.
You old man now, too old for mirrors and hooded falcons. Better retire and watch setting sun over pyramids. How.
What?
Heart. From heart. Sipping Bear knows.
At five-thirty the British brigadier sank forward onto the table, his head in his arms. The colonel nudged him.
What seems to be the trouble, sir?
It's disastrous, I just can't believe it. Do you realize I actually gambled away my regiments on that last hand? That shabby Indian in the loincloth, swilling firewater and wearing an old army blanket, is now in command of the Bombay Lancers.
The colonel thoughtfully stroked his false blond beard.
Disastrous, yes, I see what you mean. Of course I've always known the chief had a reputation for cunning, but even I wouldn't have imagined he'd go so far as to take over an entire English brigade in India.
But what can I do?
Nothing, unless perhaps you can find an Irishman who'll talk the chief into giving you back your regiments. That seems to be the only hope. You'll have to go begging to an Irishman.
An Irishman?
Yes. For some strange reason the chief has always had a weakness for the Irish.
Why, for heaven's sake?
I can't imagine. Maybe it's because he thinks they like firewater as much as he does. After all, his name is Sipping Bear.
At six-twenty the French ikon thief and pederast leapt from the table and began beating his head against the wall. The black judge pulled him away and led him outside.
Steady, boy.
But shit my God, did you see what that seedy savage has done to me while gnawing on his ears of corn?
He's won every ikon I've ever stolen and every one I ever will steal. For the next ten years I have to turn them all over to him and tell him where they came from. Boys too. And in addition to everything else I have to spend time in purgatory.
Where's that?
Someplace here in the Old City. An elderly ecclesiastic known as the baking priest runs it. I'm to come in here tomorrow afternoon and the Irishman who's generally in the game is going to take me there. And every day for as long as the baking priest wants, I'll have to slave in front of a hot oven baking bread in the shape of a cross and saying Hail Marys. This baking priest is going to be my parole officer.
Time in purgatory, mused the black judge, time spent slaving in front of a hot oven. And all because of stolen ikons. It's true the Indian chief seemed to single you out tonight as a special target. Do you think it's possible, despite his primitive brain, that he resented the fact that you traffic in stolen Christian artifacts?
Shit my God, why? He's a savage, I just don't understand it. I wish I'd never come to Jerusalem and gotten mixed up in this poker game.
Yes, said the black judge. There are those who've said that before, and I suspect there'll be others who say it again.
Back in the poker room Chief Sipping Bear was doing a final jig around the table. The black judge came in, picked up the tube to the hookah and sat down beside the colonel of dragoons, who was contentedly crunching garlic cloves. He took a puff on the tube. Only the three of them were still left in the room.
Joker Holy City East, chanted the chief. Day coming night ending, time now make water and rest head, snooze happy dreams in happy hunting ground, happy sleep for Chief Sipping Dancing Chanting Bear, Chief O'Truly O'Sullivan Beare.
With a whoop he went spinning out the door. The black judge removed his cobra headpiece and straightened his white wig.
Going my way, colonel?
The colonel nodded and tucked his riding crop under his arm. Together they strolled down the alley away from Haj Harun's shop. Dawn had come to the city.
A long night, said Munk.
They often are, answered Cairo.
As they turned a corner they came face to face with an English policeman. The man stared in amazement at their wigs and costumes. Munk touched his riding crop to his cap.
As you were, officer, we're quite capable of finding our way. This is the Chief Justice of the Sudan and I'm his aide-de-camp, seconded here by the late Emperor Francis Joseph in accordance with security arrangements for the Holy Land. We're out on an early morning pilgrimage to see some of the sights before the crowds gather.
Sah, barked the policeman, stepping back and saluting. Cairo nodded pleasantly, Munk smiled, they strolled on.
You know, said Cairo, the night was worth it if for no other reason than to ruin that Frenchman.
A detestable wretch, I've never cared for him. But you mean he's UIA as well?
Yes. He was recruited by Nubar's Dead Sea Control about a month ago. I have a dealer who sells down there and keeps me informed.
Munk nodded.
It must cost Nubar a great deal to be always sending players into the game to lose his money. You'd think he'd be tired of it by now. Rather desperate, that little Albanian.
Mad is more like it, said Cairo. But no matter. We won't have to put up with him forever.
What's he got?
Syphilis, acquired through the anus about ten years ago. And they tell me it's moving into the tertiary stage.
Who tells you that, Cairo?
The UIA people who inform on him to my dealers, in exchange for a discount. Still, that's not his most serious problem. The other thing will probably get him first. Apparently little Nubar Wallenstein is a hopeless mercury addi
ct.
Munk smiled.
In certain esoteric areas your knowledge is astonishing. What in the world are the symptoms of mercury addiction?
In his case, said Cairo, severe megalomania compounded by hallucinations. Self-starvation will set in at some point. It's an uncommon way to go these days. In fact there haven't really been any European mercury addicts around since the sixteenth century, when a fairly large number turned up among the alchemists. Before that it occurred among the Arab alchemists in the twelfth century. In other words, not an everyday matter.
Munk smiled again.
I see. Speaking of the twelfth century, have you noticed anything strange about the cognac bottles Joe puts his poteen in?
Only that they're hand-blown and old and have dates on the labels in Latin. As I recall the bottle he had with him tonight said A.D. 1122. Why?
Because there's also that mark on all the labels, a white cross on a black background, the arms of the cross shaped like arrowheads with their points not quite touching at the center. Are you familiar with that cross?
No.
Well, said Munk, it was the insignia of the Knights of St John of Jerusalem, more commonly known as the Knights Hospitalers because they were founded here after the First Crusade to run a hospital for Christian pilgrims. But they soon grew into the most powerful of all the orders and dominated the Mediterranean for centuries. Their loot was enormous.
And so?
And so how does Joe happen to have cognac bottles with their cross on them?
Cairo suddenly smiled, knowing exactly what it meant. After all, he had extensive experience himself with secret caches of history.
You say the Knights once ran a hospital in Jerusalem?
Merely a sideline, answered Munk, an excuse for getting started. Very soon they were marauders and wealthy oppressors.
The pharaohs were also wealthy oppressors, said Cairo. And they weren't just knights pretending to fight for some god. They were gods.
So?
So now they're just so much mummy dust available in any bazaar in the Middle East. At a high price to be sure, but still available to anyone who can raise the money for a snort.
You're talking about your own game, said Munk.
No, about Joe's bottles. Wouldn't it be reasonable for a hospital to have medicinal cognac on hand?
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