by Talbot Mundy
“What if he won’t wait?”
“He must! Tell him I’ll have a prisoner with me; then he’ll be curious. But you can bet on old Anazeh when he’s sober. But things may turn out so that it’s simpler for you to stay and see this through with me. In that case you must persuade him to go without you, after explaining to him just where he’s to wait.”
“How shall I do that?” I said. “I haven’t enough Arabic.”
“I’ll write it,” he answered. “Give me that pencil.”
“Say something, too, then about his keeping sober.”
Grim nodded, and wrote quite a long letter in Arabic on a page of my notebook.
“The next move,” he said, as I pocketed the letter, “is for me to get Abdul Ali’s goat: I think — and I hope — he’ll try to bribe me. If he does, he’s my meat! The whole question of raid or no raid hangs on their confidence in him. If I throw suspicion on him, and he disappears directly afterwards, they’ll abandon the plan, confiscate his goods and chattels, and quarrel among themselves instead of raiding Palestine. Get me?”
“Um-n-yes. I’ve sat on a horse I was warned against — felt safer — and gone to hospital at that.”
He laughed.
“No hospitals up here! It’ll be soon over if they get wise to us. But I think we’re all right; and you’re almost certainly safe. But don’t be tempted to talk. Well — we’ve been up here long enough for me to have put you through the third degree. Better look a bit uncomfortable as you go down, as if I’d got under your skin with some awkward questions. You, too, ben Hamza; don’t grin; look afraid.”
“I am not at all afraid, Jimgrim. But I will try.”
Grim studied for a moment.
“Don’t forget,” he added, “at the first suggestion that you’re not wanted, make yourself scarce, and go and round up your men. If you’re thrown out pretty roughly, keep your temper and run.”
“Taht il-amr!” (Yours to command.)
“Come on, then. Let’s go.”
The sun was fairly low over the Judean Hills as we turned down the narrow stairs and found Anazeh waiting at the bottom.
Chapter Nine
“Feet downwards, too afraid to yell!” —
Abdul Ali of Damascus was holding the floor again when we returned. He had abandoned the cold air of mysterious authority and secrets in reserve. His claim to backstairs influence having been challenged, he had resorted to the emotional appeal that is the simplest means of controlling any crowd of men anywhere. The demagog who can find a million men all responsive to the same emotion can swing them as easily as a hundred if he knows his business. Loot was the tune he harped, with the old Ishmael blood-lust by way of obbligato.
He had them by the heart-strings, and there were long-necked bottles of liquor that smelt of aniseed being passed from hand to hand. We returned to our places almost unnoticed, and within the minute some one handed a full bottle to Anazeh; the accompanying cup was big enough to hold any ordinary drunkard’s breakfast, and the old sheikh’s eyes admired the size of it.
I laid my hand on the wrist that held the bottle. He shook it off angrily, and began to pour. Grim, over the way, looked anxious. It was up to me to play this hand, so I led my ace of trumps.
Suddenly, and very clumsily, I rocked sideways to reach my hip- pocket, contriving to jog his elbow and spill what was already in the cup. He turned his head to curse savagely, and I showed him the folded sheet from my notebook. His name was on it in Arabic:
“Sheikh Anazeh ben Mahmoud, from Jimgrim.”
He seized it, setting the bottle down between his feet, where it was instantly reached for by some one else and handed down the line. Reading was evidently not Anazeh’s favorite amusement, but he knitted his brows over the letter and wrestled with it word by word, while Abdul Ali’s fiery declamation made the vaulted roof resound. I could only make out snatches of the appeal to savagery — a word and a sentence here and there.
“Who are you, princes? Men with swords, or slaves who must obey? — Raid over the Jordan twenty thousand strong! — What are Jews? Shall Jews take the home of your ancestors? Who says so? — Let the Jews be buried in the land they come to steal! — You say the Jews are cleverer than you. Cut their heads off, then they cannot think!”
“When did Jimgrim give you this?” Anazeh demanded, folding the letter and stowing it in his bosom.
“That is the message that I told you would come later if you waited.”
“Do you know what is in the message?”
“No.” That was perfectly true. I had talked with Grim, but had not read what he had written.
“He wishes me to go and wait for him in a certain place”
“Why not do it?”
“Rubbama.” (Perhaps.)
“True-believers! Followers of the Prophet! Sons of warrior kings!” thundered Abdul Ali. “Will you do nothing to help Feisul, a lineal descendant of the Prophet? You have helped him to a throne. Now strike to hold him there!”
“Jimgrim says, I may go away and leave you here,” growled Anazeh.
“What say you?”
“Ala khatrak. (Please yourself.) Jimgrim is wise.”
“He is the father of wisdom. Mashallah! I will consider it.
There will be a banquet presently!”
“And loot! You can help yourselves!” shouted Abdul Ali of Damascus. Then he sat down amid a storm of applause. Suliman ben Saoud — Jimgrim — was on his feet before the tumult died away, and again they grew perfectly still to listen to him. If an Arab loves anything under heaven more than his own style of fighting, it is the action and reaction of debate. I could not understand a word of the mid-Arabian dialect, but Abdul Ali’s retorts were plain enough; and from the way that Grim pointed at me and Mahommed ben Hamza it was fairly easy to follow what was happening.
He denounced me as possibly dangerous, and wondered why they permitted me to have an interpreter, who could whisper to me everything that was being said.
“Put out the interpreter!” sneered Abdul Ali, and there was a chorus of approval. Mahommed ben Hamza got up and hurried for the door while the hurrying was good and painless to himself, though it was hardly that to other people; forcing his way between the close-packed notables he kicked more than one of them pretty badly and grinned when they cursed him. I saw Abdul Ali of Damascus whisper to one of his rose-coloured parasites, who got up at once and made his way toward the door, too.
“The fellow is from Hebron,” Abdul Ali sneered in a voice loud enough for all to hear. “It is best that he should not go back to Hebron to tell tales! I have attended to it.”
My blood ran cold. I tried to catch Grim’s eye, but he would not look in my direction. I wondered whether he had heard Abdul Ali’s threat. It seemed to me that if Mahommed ben Hamza were either murdered or imprisoned Grim’s whole chance of success was gone. The danger would be multiplied tenfold. Anazeh seemed the only remaining hope. The old-rose individual who followed ben Hamza had not reached the door yet.
“How about your men?” I asked.
“They are all right.” Anazeh’s eyes pursued the liquor bottle.
“Why not go and see?” I suggested.
“Ilhamdul’illah, they are good men. I know them. If there is trouble they will come and tell me.”
The door opened softly. The gorgeous old-rose parasite slipped through. I had a mental vision of Mahommed ben Hamza lying face- downward with his new coat stained with blood. There was nothing for it, it seemed, but the magic formula to move Anazeh.
“Jimgrim says, ‘See that ben Hamza gets safely away!”’
“Dog of a Hebron tanner’s son — let him die! What is that to me?”
“It is Jimgrim’s command.”
“Wallahi haida fasl! (By God, this is a strange affair!) Wait here!”
Old Anazeh, with the name of the Prophet of God on his lips, cast an envious glare at the bottle of liquor and seized action by the forelock. There was nothing to excite comment in h
is getting up to leave the room. A dozen men had done that and come in again. He strode out, straight down the middle of the carpet. Suliman ben Saoud — Jimgrim — went on talking, and to judge by Abdul Ali of Damascus’ increasingly restless retorts he was getting that gentleman’s goat as promised. Finally Abdul Ali got to his feet and said that if the Ichwan would see him alone he would show him certain documents that would satisfy him, but that it would not be policy to produce them in public. He offered to send for the documents, and to show them during or after the banquet.
So Jimgrim sat down, and there was a good deal of quiet nudging and nodding. Every one seemed to understand that the Ichwan was going to be bribed; they seemed to admire his ability to get for himself a share of the funds that most of them had tapped.
A man nearly opposite me leaned over and said in fairly good French, with the manner of a doctor assuring his patient that the worst is yet to come:
“It has been decided that you are to be detained here in the castle until there is no danger of your carrying away important news.”
While I was turning that over in my mind Anazeh came back, grinning. Something outside had tickled him immensely, but he would not say anything. He sat down beside me and chuckled into his beard; and when his neighbour on the right asked what had amused him he turned the question into a bawdy joke.
“Did ben Hamza get away?” I whispered.
He only nodded. He continued chuckling until the man on duty by the door announced to the “assembled lords and princes” that the muezzin summoned them to prayer. All except three Christian sheikhs trooped up the narrow stairway in Ali Shah al Khassib’s wake, Anazeh going last with a half-serious joke about not caring to be stabbed in the back.
I expected the three non-Moslems would take advantage of the opportunity to ask me a string of questions. But they took exactly the opposite view of the situation. They avoided me, withdrawing into a corner by themselves. I suppose they thought that to be seen talking to me was more risky than the amusement merited.
So I went up to the ramparts, too, to watch the folk at prayer, minded to keep out of sight, for they don’t like being regarded as a curious spectacle; and on the way up I did something that may have had a lot to do with our getting away alive, although I did not give much thought to it and could hardly have explained my motive at the time.
The door at the foot of the stairs opened inward. It was almost exactly the same width as the stairway, so that when it stood wide open you could not have put your hand between its edge and the stairway wall. Lying on the floor of the hall within a few feet of the nearest corner was a length of good sound olive-wood, about three inches in thickness, roughly squared and not particularly squared. Having stepped on it accidentally, I picked it up, and discovered more by accident than intention that it was longer than the width of the stairway. Then I noticed a notch in the stairway wall. Behind the opened door there was a deeper notch in the opposite wall. There was no lock on the door, no bolt. That length of wood had been cut to fit horizontally from notch to notch across the passage. Once that beam was fitted in its place, whoever wished to reach the roof would have to burn or batter down the door. I moved the door and placed the length of olive-wood on end behind it.
I found the view from the ramparts much more interesting than the soul-saving formalities of eighty or so potential cut-throats. While they prayed I stood watching the shadows deepen in the Jordan Valley, as no doubt Joshua once watched them from somewhere near that same spot before he marshalled his invading host. You could understand why people who had wandered forty years in a stark and howling wilderness should yearn for those coloured, fertile acres between the Jordan and the sea: why they should be willing to fight for them, die for them, do anything rather than turn back.
By the time we had filed down — Anazeh last again — the servants had nearly finished spreading a banquet. What looked like bed- sheets had been laid along the strip of carpet, and, the whole length of them was piled with all imaginable things to eat, from cakes and fruit to whole sheep roasted and seethed in camel’s milk and honey. There were no less than six sheep placed at intervals along the “table,” with mountains of rice, scow-loads of apricots cooked in various ways, and a good sized flock of chickens spitted and smeared with peppery sauce. At a guess, I should say there were several pounds of meat, about two chickens, and a peck of rice per man, with apricots and raisins added; but they faced the prospect like heroes.
Perhaps what helped them face it was the sight of sundry bottles bearing labels more familiar in the West. Abdul Ali of Damascus, licking his lips like a cat that smells canary, took his place on a cushion up near the window again on the right of Ali Shah al Khassib, who was only the nominal host. Abdul Ali left no doubt in anybody’s mind as to who was paying for the feast. It was he who gave orders to the servants in a bullying tone of voice; he who begged every one be seated.
Anazeh looked at the bottles of brandy — looked at me — and prayed under his breath; or, at any rate, it looked and sounded like a prayer. He may have been swearing. He and I were not very far from the door; the seats near the head of the table had all been taken. I sat down at once, so as not to be conspicuous, but Anazeh remained standing so long that at last Abdul Ali called to him to sit down and eat his fill, using the offensively magnanimous tone of voice that some men can achieve without an effort. I think Anazeh had been waiting for just that opening.
“I have twenty men outside,” he announced. “Shall I eat, and not they?”
“This is a feast for notables,” said Abdul Ali.
“A little bread with my own men is better than meat and drink at a traitor’s table,” Anazeh answered. “Wallahi! (By God!) I go to eat with honest men!” He laid a hand on my head. “Ye have said this effendi must stay in the castle. Well and good. Whoever harms him or offers him indignity shall answer to me and my men for it!” He bowed to me like a king taking leave of his court. “Lailtak sa’idi. Allah yifazak, effendi!” (Good night. God keep you, effendi!) With that he stalked out, and the door slammed shut behind him. Everybody, including Abdul Ali, laughed.
The banquet was a boresome business — an interminable competition to see who could eat and drink the most. With my interpreter gone, and everybody else too busy guzzling to trouble to speak distinctly for my benefit, I had to depend on my ayes for information and naturally used them to the utmost. I noticed that Abdul All of Damascus, Jimgrim Suliman ben Saoud and myself were the only men in the room, servants included, who ate and drank within the bounds of decency and reason. One of the servants, walking up and down the table-cloth with brandy and relays of vegetables, was drunk very early in the game and had to be thrown out.
Abdul Ali kept conversation going on the subject of the raid. The more the brandy bottles circulated the easier he found it to keep enthusiasm burning. He talked about me, too, several times, and every time that subject cropped up all eyes turned in my direction. I think he was making the most of the school idea, mixing up the raid with education and serving the mixture hot, as it were, with brandy sauce.
But over the way, about half-way down the table, the Ichwan Suliman ben Saoud, dead-cold-sober and abstemious, as befitted a fanatic, was talking, too. He was quite evidently talking against Abdul Ali, so that the Damascene kept looking at him with a troubled expression. He glanced frequently at the door, too, as if he expected some one who could put an end to Suliman ben Saoud’s intrigue.
But it was a long time before the door opened and the second of his old-rose parasites came in. I had not noticed until then that the man was missing. He thrust a packet of some sort into Abdul Ali’s hands. He whispered. The Damascene’s face darkened instantly, and he swore like a pirate. Then, I suppose because he had to vent his wrath on somebody, he shouted to me in German all down the length of the table:
“Your cursed interpreter has nearly killed my secretary! He struck him in the mouth and knocked all his teeth out. What courteous servants you employ!”
“What was your secretary trying to do to him?” I retorted, but he saw fit not to answer that. He poured some more brandy instead for Ali Shah al Khassib.
So that was what Anazeh had been laughing at! The old humourist had either seen the fracas, or had come on the injured old-rose messenger of death nursing a damaged face. I began to share Grim’s good opinion of ben Hamza. But though I watched Grim’s face, and knew that he knew German, I could not detect a trace of interest. He kept on talking against Abdul Ali until after ten o’clock. By that time most of the notables were about as full as they could hold. Those who were not too drunk appeared ready for anything in or out of reason.
At that stage of the proceedings they ushered in the dancing girls. The servants cleared away most of the food, removed the table-cloths, and a ring was formed practically all around the room, the notables leaning their backs against the wall to ease overworked bellies. I set my cushion down next to a very drunken man just by the narrow door that opened on the stairway leading to the ramparts. He fell asleep with his head on my shoulder within five minutes, and as that, for some subtle reason, seemed to make me even more unnoticeable I let him snore away in peace.
Over in Abdul Ali’s corner of the room there was a real council of war going on in whispers. Opposite to him, ten paces or so distant from me, Jimgrim Suliman ben Saoud was holding a rival show. It seemed about an even bet which was making greater headway. Those who were more or less drunk, and all the younger sheikhs had eyes and ears for nothing but the dancing girls.
