The Walking Drum (Louis L'Amour's Lost Treasures)

by Louis L'Amour

  And I knew that I could kill him.

  Mine was the stronger arm, the better blade. He had robbed me, sneered at me, insulted me.

  “You!” he said. “I should have slit your belly that first day! I should have killed you rather than make you pilot. I knew it then.”

  “You can try to kill me now.”

  “You are too lucky. I shall not fight you.”

  “Coward!”

  He shrugged, watching me from under heavy brows. “Who is not a coward sometimes? You will let me go. You robbed me of my ship—”

  “How did you get that ship?”

  “—and you sold me as a slave.” He leered at me. “I escaped before I could be chained. As for you, you have done enough.”

  Angrily, I glared at him. He was a treacherous, cowardly man. Had he stood in my place, he would have killed me, but it was not in me to simply run him through.

  “Get out! But drop your sword before you come near me, or I shall dirty my blade in your fat belly!”

  The sword fell, then he darted past me into the courtyard. Somebody shouted from the inn, then I heard a rattle of retreating hoofbeats.

  A sentimental fool…such an act would kill me someday…one’s enemies are better dead.

  Or was that true? Did not a man’s enemies make a sharper, more decisive man of him?

  Remembering the scoundrel he was, I should have cut him down, then quartered him to be sure of his death, but with him at the point of my sword I no longer hated him. He was beneath contempt.

  Hassan was at the door. “Did someone escape?”

  “A thief, a coward and a thief who will suffer more alive than in dying.”

  9

  DAWN DAPPLED THE tawny hills with alternating sunshine and shadow. One by one the travelers emerged from the inn, gathered their belongings, and departed. The little world of the inn where we who until the night before had been strangers, who shared battle and blood together, now shattered like fragile glass. Again we would be strangers to recall only at intervals the events of this night.

  Today, I rode beside John of Seville who believed himself in my debt for the warning given. As we rode, he explained much that was to prove important in the months to come, much that was to bear upon my own future.

  We in Brittany knew too little of the world outside—our news coming only from passing travelers or men who returned from the sea, occasionally from a merchant caravan traveling the remnants of the old Roman roads to the great markets and fairs in the towns.

  As he talked, our world of ship, shore, and fishing began to seem small indeed, for he spoke of kings, castles, and Crusades, of ideas and the men who pursued them.

  My father had returned from the sea with tales of swift attacks and bloody retreats, of faraway shores and strange beliefs, of silks, ivory and pearl, of battles and sudden death. These stories colored my youth, and I longed for such adventures myself.

  Little did I know of kings and courts, or the means by which men became kings. Well I knew that Henry II was wedded to Eleanor of Aquitaine, and that Henry claimed our land for fief as he claimed much of the land of the Franks.

  Of Louis VII, so-called Louis the Young, I knew little, but of Manuel Comnenus, ruler of the Byzantine Empire, the Roman Empire of the East, I knew nothing at all. Nor did I know this land through which we rode, but as we traveled John explained much that had set the stage for the situation that presently existed.

  In 1130 Abd-al-Mumin had become leader of the rising power of the Almohads or Unitarians, and ten years later had begun a career of conquest, defeating the Almoravids in 1144. A year later his armies invaded Spain, and in the five years that followed he reduced all Spain to his control.

  Torn by strife, Spain had existed under a variety of rulers, then came a handsome youth of twenty-one, Abd-al-Rahman III, and in a few short years he defeated his enemies both Christian and Moslem and welded Moorish Spain into one empire, building Córdoba into the greatest center of intellectual activity in the western world.

  Tolerant to all creeds, especially Christians and Jews, known as People of the Book because they, too, followed the Old Testament, Abd-al-Rahman welcomed scholars from everywhere.

  Moslem fleets commanded the Mediterranean; Moslem armies were victorious in Europe, in Africa, and in Asia. Moslem rulers controlled lands from far south of the Indus to past Samarkand, from the Atlantic coasts of Africa to the deepest reaches of the Sahara.

  Later, when al-Hakam became caliph in Córdoba, there came to power both a scholar and a lover of books. More inclined to a life of study than to rule, he resigned many of his powers to a prime minister, a slave named Giafar-al-Asklabi.

  From all corners of the world al-Hakam gathered books by the greatest of scholars. His agents ransacked the libraries and book marts of Baghdad, Samarkand, Damascus, Tashkent, Bokhara, Cairo, Constantinople, and Alexandria for books. Those which could not be bought were copied. He had been known to pay a thousand pieces of gold for a single manuscript.

  At Seville, Toledo, and Córdoba he gathered scholars to translate these books into Arabic and Latin. The books of Rome and Carthage…John assured me Carthage had the greatest libraries of the ancient world and vast collections of records from her commercial colonies established in many lands.

  Al-Hakam passed on, but the library remained. There were, John assured me, seventy public libraries in Córdoba to say nothing of the great libraries in private homes. The love of learning was of first importance, the poet and scholar ranked with the general and the statesman. Nor were these latter respected unless they, too, were poets and scholars.

  Yet Abd-al-Mumin was a savage warrior who suspected all books but the Koran. “He destroyed the Idol of Cádiz,” John said. “You may have seen the ruins in the harbor.”

  No man knew the origin of the huge figure. Built upon a series of columns one hundred and eighty feet high, the platform had been surmounted by a gigantic figure of a man, done in bronze. The right arm of the figure stretched toward the Straits of Gibraltar, and held a key. The entire statue was plated with gold and could be seen at a great distance by all ships approaching Cádiz from the open Atlantic.

  Of unknown antiquity, the Idol of Cádiz, as it was known to the Arabs, may have been of Phoenician origin. It was said that Cádiz was founded by them in 1100 B.C. But what of the ancient Iberians who preceded them? Despite the hatred of orthodox Moslems for all idols—the Koran forbade representation of the human figure—the huge statue had survived nearly five hundred years of Moslem control. The Romans and the Goths had left it untouched, even though it was believed to be of solid gold, and the Vikings had tended to avoid the city, fearful of the power of the colossal image. Then, in 1145 it was destroyed by Abd-al-Mumin. It was discovered the idol was of bronze, and not gold.

  “Who could have built it?” I wondered.

  “No man knows,” John assured me, “only that it was very ancient. Some have said the Phoenicians built it, but they came for commerce and had no reason to expend enormous sums in a town like any other coastal village.

  “Others believe it was built by the ancient Iberians who are said to have had a great civilization and fine literature.

  “The figure held a key…to what? Its hand stretched out toward the empty sea…toward what? Someday divers may go down and find some clue near the base of the figure. Until then we shall not know.”

  My thoughts, I knew, would be forever haunted by the mystery of the colossal figure, an image of what? Reaching out toward what mystery? Who built it? When? Why? What lock awaited that gigantic key?

  “Are there records,” I asked, “of wars and battles? I wish to find knowledge of my father’s death—if he is dead.”

  “Recorded? I doubt it. He was a corsair, and there have been many such. Many die whose valor is forever unknown.”

  The next day, traveling
alone, I crossed the ancient stone bridge over the Guadalquivir, a bridge built by Romans. On the right stood the Great Mosque, one of the holiest places in the Moslem world. “See it,” John advised, “it is an amazing sight.”

  The bazaars and streets teemed with people of every race and color. Strange sights met my eyes; strange scents tingled my nostrils; strange women walked veiled or unveiled along the busy streets, women with undulating hips and dark, expressive eyes.

  Dusty though I was, and tired from travel, the expressions in their eyes told me they found me not unhandsome, and I sat the straighter because of it. What man does not like the attention of women?

  A narrow street opened on my left, shadowed and cool. Turning my mount, I walked him into that haven of stillness, away from the crowd. Immediately, I was lost to the noise and confusion behind, yet where the street might take me I had no idea. Yet when I turned a corner, there was an open gate.

  It was a corner where another street entered, and that one passed on into a maze of buildings, but before me lay the open gate, a stable where horses fed, and a glimpse beyond of trees, green grass, and a fountain. To the left and on the far side stood a colonnade of graceful Moorish arches.

  Without thinking, I walked my horse into the gate and drew up, his shod hooves making a clatter against the stone walls. For a moment I sat there, drinking in the coolness and the beauty.

  A movement drew my eyes, and I saw a tall old man beneath the arches. “You have peace,” I said.

  “Do the young respect peace?” He spoke gently, walking toward me. “I believed the young looked only for movement, for action.”

  “There is a time for peace and a time for war. From the hot plains of Andalusia to your court is a movement into paradise. I am sorry to have disturbed you.” I bowed. “May your shadow never grow less.”

  “You have come far?”

  “From Cádiz. Before that, the sea.”

  “How did you come to this place?”

  “The street invited, your gate was open, there was a sound of water splashing, a smell of gardens. If you have traveled, you know how welcome are such sounds.”

  “Why do you come to Córdoba?”

  “To study. I am very young, and not very wise, so where else would one come if not to Córdoba?”

  “Your sword is not enough?”

  “A sword is never enough. The mind is also a weapon, but like the sword it must be honed and kept sharp.”

  “Why do you wish to learn? Do you seek power? Riches?”

  “What I shall seek tomorrow, I do not know. Today, I seek only to know. My mind asks questions for which I have no answers. Within me there is a loneliness for knowledge. I would know what is thought by wise men and what is believed in other lands, far from here. I would open the dark and empty avenues of my mind to the brightness of a new sun and populate it with ideas.”

  “Please get down. My house is yours.”

  He was old, but a man of fine bearing, his clothing worn but of quality. He shook his head as I moved to remove the bridle and saddle.

  “A slave will care for him, and it will be done at once. Please come in.”

  He led me along the gallery to a small room where there were rugs, cushions, and a low table. In an alcove there was a tub, and water falling.

  “Refresh yourself, and then we shall talk.”

  Alone in the shadowed room, I disrobed and bathed, then dusted my clothing. As I settled my scimitar into place, I heard a girl singing, a fine, sweet, haunting refrain. Pausing, I listened.

  This—this was what made life: a moment of quiet, the water falling in the fountain, the girl’s voice…a moment of captured beauty. He who is truly wise will never permit such moments to escape.

  Who was she? Did she sing for love or the longing for love?

  It was not necessary that I know her, for she was romance, and romance is so often in a garden, behind a wall, along a twilit street.

  Opening the door, I stepped into the passage, and beyond the colonnade, sunlight fell across a garden where hibiscus, rose, and jasmine grew. A few minutes I stood there, letting the last of the tension flow from me.

  The gate by which I had entered was closed, and it was barred from within.

  10

  OVER A PILAF my host explained that his name was ibn-Tuwais, and that he was an Arab of the Quraysh, the tribe of the Prophet. He had been both a soldier and an official of the caliph.

  “I have known many Franks, and was for a time a prisoner in Palermo.”

  “My father often spoke of the place.”

  “He is dead?”

  “So it has been said, but perhaps the man lied, or was mistaken.”

  Many times stories are told merely to make the teller seem important, and how many times had men said they had themselves seen things of which they had but heard?

  “What are your plans?”

  “To remain here, to study, to learn, to listen for news. It has been said that all news comes to Córdoba.”

  “My roof is yours. I have no son, and kismet has brought you to me. In the meanwhile, I am not without sources of information. I shall seek news of your father. His was a name well known on the sea, and there will be stories.”

  “You must forgive me. I cannot share your home unless I am permitted to pay. It is a custom among my people.”

  Tuwais bowed. “Once I might have taken offense, but I am a poor man. You see a house of wealth, and so it was under the old caliphs, but the Berbers have offered me no position.

  “Your company will please me, for in my youth I made great talk with the scholars of Baghdad and Damascus. Moreover, I have a few books, some of them very fine, very rare.”

  He arose. “An old man’s advice? Speak little, listen much. In Córdoba there is beauty and there is wisdom, but there is blood, also.”

  That night I read myself to sleep with the Chronology of Ancient Nations by al-Biruni, reading also from the Almagest of Ptolemy.

  My thoughts turned to Aziza. Where was she? Did she fare well? Was she with her friends? Her beauty was a memory that would not be forgotten.

  * * *

  —

  DURING THE DAYS that followed, I read, walked in the streets to learn my way, and listened to the spoken tongues, learning more of Arabic and something of Berber.

  It was now more than four hundred years since the Moors had conquered Spain. Their invasion of France had been repelled by Charles Martel.

  The corrupt empire of the Visigoths had collapsed before the first attack by a small band of Moslems led by Tarik, a veteran soldier. The Visigoth Empire had been a mixture of peoples and languages, many of them inherited from bygone years. The Iberians, Phoenicians, and many others left their mark. The Phoenicians were a Semitic people, settled in many places along the coast, opening trading establishments and sending their ships into the Atlantic. Their ships and those from Carthage, which had once been a Phoenician colony, sailed around Africa, went to the Scilly Isles for tin, sailed the coasts of Brittany and into the North Sea. As each mariner was jealous of his sources for raw materials and trade goods, we shall probably never know the true extent of their voyages.

  The Greeks, the Romans, the Vandals, and the Goths had all invaded Spain, and left their mark upon it. Invading armies then, as well as now, left behind them an outbreak of pregnancy, destroying forever the myth of a pure race.

  Never did I tire of roaming the streets, one of which, as Duban the soldier had told me, was ten miles long and lighted from end to end. The banks of the Guadalquivir were lined with houses of marble, with mosques and gardens. Water was brought to the city through leaden pipes, so everywhere there were fountains, flowers, trees, and vines.

  It was said there were fifty thousand fine dwellings in Córdoba, and as many lesser ones. There were seven hundred mosques where the fait
hful worshiped, and nine hundred public baths. And this at a time when Christians forbade bathing as a heathen custom, when monks and nuns boasted of their filthiness as evidence of sanctity. One nun of the time boasted that at the age of sixty she had washed no part of her body but her fingertips when going to take the mass.

  There were thousands of shops, with streets devoted to workers in metal, leather, and silk; it was said there were one hundred and thirty thousand weavers working with silk or wool.

  Upon a side street I discovered a lean, fierce man who taught the art of the scimitar and dagger, and each day I went there to work with him. My long hours at the oar as well as a boyhood of running, wrestling, and climbing rocks had given me uncommon strength and agility. My teacher suggested another, a huge wrestler from India, a man of enormous skill, now growing old. He spoke Arabic fluently, and between bouts we talked much of his native land and those that intervened.

  As black-haired as any Arab, my hair was curly and my skin only a little lighter than most of theirs. Now I cultivated a black mustache and could easily have passed for an Arab or Berber. In my new clothing, with my height, I drew attention upon the streets where I spent my time, learning the ways of the city, listening to the bargaining, the gossip, debate, and argument.

  As yet I had chosen no school, yet each night I read myself to sleep with the writings of al-Farabi on Aristotle, and I was learning much. Among other things I learned that one could attain to no position unless one was adept at extemporaneous poetry, and poetry of all kinds was appreciated by men in the street as well as by the leaders in the brilliant intellectual and artistic life for which Córdoba was famous.

  Knowing no one, I often sat alone in one of the coffeehouses that were springing up in the cities of Moslem Spain.

  At first, when coffee became known, it was pressed into cakes and sold as a delicacy; later it was made into an infusion and drunk. It was said to be inspiring to the mind, a contribution to thought. The coffeehouses became the haunts of intellectuals and poets.