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

by Louis L'Amour

  The Southern Sung fought a reluctant war with the restless tribes to the north.

  In 1161 explosives were used by Yu Tun-wen in defeating the Chin.

  In ceramic art the magnificent Sung white was created and the Southern Sung artists were turning away from the beetling, picturesque crags and mountains to misty lakes, hills, and trees of softer landscapes.

  In India, Mohammed of Ghur had begun the conquest of Hindustan, and Arab vessels were trading down the east coast of Africa as they had done for as long as men could remember. Their ships had sailed to China, explored the last islands of Indonesia, and returned with cargoes to Red Sea and Persian Gulf ports.

  Merchants and travelers from all the world came to Córdoba, drawn by the wealth and brilliance of its society. This society centered about the homes of a dozen beautiful women who held court in Córdoba, gathering about them the creative intelligence of the Arab world.

  Córdoba was where I wished to remain, yet much would depend on what happened when I met Aziza again. Ibn-Haram was not a man to be crossed with impunity. He would quickly decide that the fight in the bazaar was not the accident it appeared to be but a plot to free Aziza. He would not rest until he discovered who had been involved.

  Somehow I must meet Aziza and help her return to her friends. Any attempt to do so could mean my death, and in a quarrel that was not my own.

  Was I a fool to become involved because of a girl I had scarcely met?

  Aziza had escaped into the city. She undoubtedly had friends to help her, but she had wished to meet with me, a risk she seemed willing to accept.

  Restlessly, I paced the garden at the home of ibn-Tuwais. The Court of Oranges and the mosque were familiar to me, but in the event one of the soldiers had overheard her, I must be prepared to escape quickly.

  “At noon in the Court of Oranges!” The words sang in my ears, beat a rhythm in my blood.

  Had Mahmoud and Haroun escaped? They might have been picked up after leaving me, but if so, I had no word of it. Nor did I trust Mahmoud. We had been acquaintances, talking together, drinking coffee together. He was, I knew, a man of intense vanity, and he had declared it was he at whom Aziza had looked, to discover otherwise might have been a blow. Nor would an aspiring young man wish to cross ibn-Haram, who, if he aided him, might confer favors. There had been something in his eyes I did not trust. I said as much to ibn-Tuwais.

  The old man nodded. “Trust your instincts. Life teaches us much of which we are not aware. Our senses perceive things that do not impinge upon our awareness, but they lie dormant within us and affect our recognition of people and conditions. But you must be patient. In impatience there is danger.”

  He was right, of course, but patience is never the easiest of virtues, and outside these walls events were moving forward that could mean recapture for Aziza and death for me.

  When at last I lay down to sleep, I did not expect to sleep, but weariness lay heavily upon me, and sleep I did. My last thoughts were of a man with a scarred face. Wit and a sword, he had said. It was a time for wit, but for caution also.

  Worst of all, I might have to abandon Córdoba, my enchanted city. It was, with Constantinople and Baghdad, one of the three intellectual centers of the world, yet I think that with reservations, for I have begun to learn something of India and the far land sometimes called Cathay. What lies there? Surely, from the few books I have found their cities must be as great as these, or greater.

  Córdoba, I had learned, came to its true greatness under Abd-erl-Rahman III and his successor, al-Hakam II from 961 to 976 A.D., and under the dictatorship, if such it can be called, of Ali Mansur from 977 to 1002. Miles of streets had been paved and lighted; there were many parks, bazaars, and bookshops. It was a city where I loved to roam, and I was only beginning to learn its ways.

  What of the queenly Valaba? Of her my thoughts were guilty ones, for was I not in love with Aziza? Or was I?

  No matter, if she needed my help, she would have it, but I must move with utmost caution. After all, Valaba was but a beautiful woman with whom I had exchanged a word or two. By now she had forgotten me, although my vanity shied at the thought. Or was it something else than vanity? Some affinity, perhaps, of which we were both aware?

  Long before daylight I finally fell asleep, while wind stirred the vine leaves and wafted over me the scents of jasmine and rose mingled with the coolness from the fountains.

  Would it be today? Would Aziza meet me in the Court of Oranges?

  Would love await me there? Or adventure and death?

  12

  AT NOON IN the Court of Oranges the sun was hot. The air was heavy with the scent of flowers and lazy with the sound of running water. At noon in the Court of Oranges there was a shuffling of feet as the white-robed thousands moved slowly into the mosque. Above them the palms cast slender shadows over the orange trees, and golden fruit shone through the glossy leaves like the Golden Apples of legend.

  There were four great basins in the Court of Oranges and water tumbled into them with a pleasant, sleepy sound. The air hung still and hot, thick with the scent of jasmine and rose, and along the walls were hibiscus, great soft red flowers beside others of pale gold or white.

  On the north side of the Court was a minaret, one hundred and eight feet tall, so beautiful it might have been dreamed rather than constructed by the hands of men. Stately, beautiful, and created of stone intricately woven with threads of gold in fantastic tracery. At noon in the Court of Oranges I moved along with the shuffling throng, one of them but not of them, for my mind was not on things devout, nor my eyes upon the ground.

  Here and there people stood about in groups or waited alone, muttering prayers or soaking up the hot, sultry beauty of the place. And among them might be Aziza.

  Also among them might be the spies or the soldiers of ibn-Haram, for I knew what might be expected of that cold-faced soldier.

  During my weeks of listening to the idle talk of the bazaars, I had overheard a good bit of gossip about ibn-Haram. Skilled in intrigue, merciless to his enemies, he was utterly without scruple, a strong, dangerous, intelligent man, inordinately ambitious and a supporter of the caliph. It was whispered that he aspired to the caliphate himself.

  Against him and against Yusuf was arrayed an army of quiet but determined people, some of whom were supporters of the Umayyad dynasty, long out of power, and others linked to the Almoravids. In addition to these were those who belonged to no party: the poets, philosophers, and men of intellect who feared the ignorance, the bigotry, and destructive policies of Yusuf. So far the caliph had interfered little with such groups, but many believed their time was short.

  Of these Count Redwan was one. He had long been an antagonist of the Almohads, and it was his plan to bring the daughter of ibn-Sharaz to Córdoba and unite her in marriage to a descendant of the Umayyads. Then, with the power of William of Sicily behind them, they would seek the caliphate once more.

  It was a bold plan and might well succeed, for William had strong friends in Africa, and even more friends among the pirates of Almería with their great wealth and many ships.

  Ibn-Haram no doubt intended to hold Aziza as hostage to keep ibn-Sharaz and William II out of the picture.

  Feet shuffled softly in the Court of Oranges, and easing from the crowd, I stood in the shade of the orange trees, inhaling the perfume of the blossoms and watching the crowd from under my brows, my head lowered.

  Aziza was no fool. In all of Spain, perhaps in all of Europe, there was no place so easy to lose oneself as here, at this hour.

  A gentle hand touched my sleeve, and it was she.

  Her dark eyes looked into mine, and I wanted to take her in my arms, to forget the place, the time, the danger.

  “Do not look at me like that!” she protested, in a whisper. “You frighten me!” But if the look in her eyes was fear, I could wish th
at all women would be so frightened.

  “How else could I look at you? You are beautiful!”

  “We cannot stay here.”

  “Where is Redwan?”

  “I do not know. He is a prisoner. I know not where.”

  Soldiers appeared at the outer gate. There were four…six…eight.

  Not seeming to hurry, I took Aziza’s arm and stepped into the shuffling throng. Within the temple was a long vista of arches and columns, shadowed and still but for the rustling of garments.

  Across the mosque was a door, a very small door not often used, but one I had located before this, recognizing its possibilities. Escaping the crowd, we slipped through the door to the small garden beyond. Across it, then out in a public park.

  We moved sedately then, yet I was thinking as we walked. It was unlikely my connection with ibn-Tuwais was known. Mahmoud knew of it, and Haroun, but if I could get there, horses would be available, and I had scouted several escape routes through the alleys of the city.

  Past the stalls of sellers of incense, past the merchants of silk, past the astrologers and seers, we turned a corner into an empty, high-walled street where nothing moved but the wind, nothing loitered but the shadows.

  Ibn-Tuwais greeted us and led us into the house. “You need explain nothing. This house was built in a time of trouble.”

  We followed to an inner chamber. He turned sharply in an alcove and leaned hard against the wall. The wall swung soundlessly inward, revealing a dark, narrow stair. “It has been used before this.” He handed me a candle. “You will find food and wine.”

  When Aziza had taken the candle and gone down the stairs, the old man whispered, “It was near here where she disappeared, and they have begun a search of the entire quarter. You must remain until the search is completed.

  “But”—he had started to walk away—“if anything happens to me there is a passage behind the wall. It opens in the same way and leads beyond the walls. When you leave the passage ride to the Castle of Othman. It is a ruin inhabited only by owls. You may hide there until you can escape.”

  “How can we ride?”

  “The passage is for horses. It was made for sorties by cavalry. There is an entrance from within our stable, and your horses have already been taken below. There is food for them and for you, and a spring flows through a channel there. If necessary, you could remain hidden for weeks, but I would not advise it.”

  He paused, then his eyes hardened. “You are not a Moslem, but you have a lady in your care, a very important lady. If it should chance that she is harmed in any way, it would mean both your lives.”

  “Hers too?”

  “Hers most of all. She would be killed, without question. Guard yourself, and her as well.”

  He hesitated again. “If circumstances permit you to return, my house is yours, always.”

  “At the Castle of Othman? There is a place to hide?”

  His detail of the ruin was quick, explicit, and with military efficiency. “Quickly now! You must go!”

  The door closed behind me, and I descended the steep stairs in darkness. Aziza had removed her veil and was placing food and wine upon the low table.

  Above us there was a dull sound like the slam of a heavy door, only louder. I drew my sword and turned to face the stair.

  Nothing.

  Had I brought trouble to ibn-Tuwais? What had happened?

  Aziza pointed to the table. “Eat,” she said. “We must be ready when night comes.”

  We ate in silence. Of what she thought I know not, but I was brooding about the old man up there. Had I brought torture and death to one I so admired and loved? Yet I could not return to help. To reveal myself now would prove what might be only suspected.

  Packs lay upon the floor, for it seems ibn-Tuwais had considered everything. He knew what I was about, and where his sympathies lay. After all, he too was an enemy of Yusuf.

  Upon a low table were piles of books. Ibn-Tuwais had expected trouble and had moved his precious library here. In Paris such books might buy a province, or a bishopric. The packs themselves contained food and four books. Obviously, he wished me to have them.

  “Sleep,” I told Aziza, “for with night we must go.”

  When she lay down I covered her with a robe. It had been early afternoon when we reached the house of ibn-Tuwais. Say four hours of waiting, another hour to travel the passage to a place beyond the wall, and we could emerge in darkness.

  From the stack of books I chose one, a translation from far-off Cathay, Essays of the Dream Pool by Shen Kua.

  A long time later when the candle’s length indicated the time had passed, I replaced the book among the others. Someday, perhaps, I would complete it.

  Aziza awakened at my touch and, rising, took up a fresh candle and lighted it. Shouldering the packs, I followed her along the passage.

  The horses stood waiting, saddled and ready in their underground stable. Mounting, we rode through the passage toward the outer walls of the city.

  The top cleared my head by only a few inches, some of it carved from solid rock. Several times we rode through small pools of water, and once for several hundred yards we rode along a stream of clear, cold water.

  The passage ended abruptly. We faced a slab of rock; beside it was a lever of bronze. The work here looked like no work of Moor, Goth, or Phoenician, nor had I seen its like before. I thought of the Idol of Cádiz…by the same hands, perhaps?

  Dismounting, I lay hold of the lever. An instant I paused, and then I pulled down.

  Nothing happened.

  Our eyes met in the candlelight. Suppose it would not open? Were we trapped, then?

  Waiting an instant, I mustered all my strength, swinging my weight on the lever. Slowly, sluggishly, it yielded. The great slab of rock swung slowly inward, stiff with age and untold years of disuse.

  There was a rush of cool night air, of damp vegetation, a sound of trickling water.

  Stepping outside, sword in hand, I found myself in a narrow gorge, above me the stars. Only a few feet further along, our trickle of water flowed into a larger stream.

  Searching, I found the other lever, artfully concealed in a crack of the rock. Aziza emerged, and I swung the lever down and the door closed, more easily this time, merging perfectly with natural cracks in the rock. Marking the place in my mind, I concealed the lever and all signs of the movement of the door.

  Mounting, we walked our horses down the rocky bed of the stream, and after riding for some distance we left the water for an ancient trail, then rode along a lane used by workers going to and from the fields. Far off, we believed we could already see the tower of the Castle of Othman.

  Built long ago, already a relic when the first Visigoths came to Spain, it may have dated from the Romans or even the ancient Iberians. Destroyed and rebuilt several times, it had become a place of ill omen, and few cared to risk the dangers that seemed a part of it.

  We rode in silence, depressed by our fears for ibn-Tuwais. He might be put to torture or slain. To have returned would only prove that he had aided us, leading to his certain death, and what he had done for us would be wasted.

  How long could we maintain ourselves at the Castle of Othman? How long before some passerby stumbled upon us or glimpsed some movement among the ruins?

  Yet when we fled the castle, where could we go? For me alone it would be simple enough, yet one did not wander the countryside with a beautiful girl without causing talk, and in no case without a guard of horsemen.

  Dawn still lingered beyond the horizon when we rode up the slope to the tower, and a huge old tower it was. There was little else, a ragged battlement, moonlight falling over the broken walls. A lonely, haunted place it was, forgotten upon its hill, a place with the smell of death upon it.

  We walked our horses into the open gate and drew
rein in the courtyard. It was dark and still when our echoing hoofbeats ceased. A bat fluttered by my head, and an owl spoke inquiringly into the shadows.

  We had come to our hiding place, two ghosts to join our companion ghosts, yet my fears were for discovery, not things of the night. We who lived upon the lonely Armorican moors were accustomed to werewolves, vampires, and tursts.

  “Mathurin,” Aziza whispered, “I am afraid!”

  Stepping down from the saddle, I lifted my hands to her. “The darkness is a friend to the pursued, Aziza, and where we are, love can be. Here we shall stay.”

  13

  AT DAWN, IN the Castle of Othman, the sun was bright. The ghosts, if such there were, had fled with the shadows. Water bubbled in the ancient fountain, but where gardens had been, lay a tangle of rank grass, unpruned shrubbery, and trees. Bark fallen from the trees lay on the grass, and over all was a carpet of leaves.

  The wall had been breached in some forgotten battle, and the stones lay awry, often covered with vines.

  Situated on a hill, the castle dominated the countryside, as much a part of the landscape as an outcropping of rock or an old tree.

  At one time the hill must have been more abrupt than now, but debris from the castle itself had made the approach more gradual. On the north were three round towers, all partly in ruin, and on the south three towers, one of these square. This and the tower at the opposite end of the south wall were relatively intact.

  The court or bailey was enclosed almost completely but the great hall was in ruins, its roof fallen in. My first action was to make a thorough search of the ruin. The curtains around the inner bailey provided a carefully contrived series of stairs and passages that communicated with every part of the castle so reinforcements might be rushed to any point from the keep.

  The keep itself was of three stories, vaulted and pierced by arrow loops at each story. At each level, doorways offered access to all parts of the fortification.