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

by Louis L'Amour

  Then one day John of Seville visited the library and spoke to the various translators. When he greeted me as an old friend, there was a subtle change in the atmosphere. In the cloistered stillness of the library, among rolls of parchment, my big shoulders must have seemed out of place. Despite my efforts at maintaining a subdued profile, it was obvious I was a man of the out-of-doors, of the sea, and the battlefield. John of Seville was a noted scholar, and to be his friend was to command respect.

  “You have lived an eventful life, Mathurin,” John suggested, his eyes twinkling.

  “I was not aware it had attracted attention.”

  “You have made enemies, but you have also won friends.”

  “Friends? I have no friends.”

  “Am I not your friend?”

  “I am honored, but I scarcely believed you would remember. But other friends? I know nothing of them. The one friend I thought I had was he who betrayed me to my enemies.”

  “But when you escaped, was there not a horse waiting for you?”

  “You know of that? Then who am I to thank?”

  “I am not at liberty to say. Let it suffice that somebody believed you were too good a man to die in such a way, at such a time.

  “Someone,” he added, smiling, “who believed in your somewhat unique abilities to believe that given a chance you could escape.”

  No more would he tell me. He asked about my work and was impressed when I repeated pages of an ancient manuscript.

  “I envy your memory. It was training, you said?”

  “For generations, on my mother’s side of the family, there were Druids. They were the masters of our history, lore, and ritual, all committed to memory. I do not know if a good memory can be inherited, but we all had such memories, and then there was the training—”

  “Yes?”

  “I cannot speak of it. Only this I can say. It is a method of using the mind as one uses a burning glass. If one focuses the sun’s rays through such a glass, the heat becomes intense and will start a fire. With us it was a matter of focusing the attention, so that what we saw once was ours forever. Although I must say, repeated readings are a help.”

  After the visit of John of Seville, I found myself included in small gatherings of the translators when they met away from the library, so in a small way I became a part, a listening part, of that great city.

  Often I heard of Valaba, the beautiful woman I had seen in a coffeehouse with Averroës. Her home, it seemed, was a gathering place for beauty and intellect.

  In the library I read translations of Heraclitus, Socrates, Plato, Empedocles, Pythagoras, and Galen. Hunayn ibn-Ishaq, who translated Hippocrates and Galen, had also translated Plato. I made several copies of each of these works, for at first I was given more copying to do than translation.

  Then I was given a book to translate from the Persian, The Qabus Nama, written by Kai Ka’us ibn-Iskander, Prince of Gurgan, in 1082. It was a book of advice to his son, considering all aspects of his life as a prince and as a man.

  In his chapter on enemies, I came upon this passage: Ever remain aware of your enemy’s activities, secret or otherwise; never feel secure against his treachery against you, and consider constantly ways in which you may outwit or defeat him.

  My eyes lifted from the page. How could I be sure ibn-Haram or Prince Ahmed did not know of my presence? How could I be sure I was hidden from them simply because I stayed away from old acquaintances?

  Thus far I had not followed the advice of Kai Ka’us. My enemies had acted against me, not I against them. Should I give thought to preventive warfare? And to securing my own position, for was I not vulnerable?

  Thus far I had trusted to my blade, my strength, and my luck. It was insufficient. I must build defenses, and the only defense possible was that offered by influential friends. I had none.

  Could I not spy out his position? Discover his intentions? Duban had told me ibn-Haram was a supporter of Yusuf but was himself ambitious for power.

  So then, I needed friends; I needed information; and if not able to defeat my enemy, I could at least elude him.

  My face had healed; my strength returned. New blood seemed to flow in my veins. The coffee shops were beyond my small income, but there were other shops to which I might go and drink sherbet and listen to the idle talk.

  Desperately, I wanted a sword, but dressed as a scholar, I must proceed carefully not to excite curiosity.

  On a warm day I found myself in a remote bazaar and was glancing at some sandals while actually studying the swords in an adjoining booth. They were fine weapons of Damascus and Toledo steel.

  Suddenly, a man stopped almost beside me and chose a scimitar from among those exposed for sale. He tried the balance of the weapon, whipping it through the Persian manual with skill. I started to move away when suddenly he spoke. “Here, Scholar, try your hand. Would you not say this was a fine weapon?”

  I knew that voice. It was Haroun.

  Keeping my face averted, I said, “I know little of weapons, emir. I am a mere student.”

  He spoke in a lower tone. “Do not play with me, Kerbouchard. I know you.”

  Looking directly into his eyes, I said, “I have had little reason to trust my old friends.”

  “Because of Mahmoud? He was always jealous of you, and when Aziza showed interest in you rather than him—he is very vain, you know.”

  “And you?” I asked bitterly.

  “I am still your friend,” he replied calmly, “if you will have it so. Did I not let you pass at the gate?”

  “You knew me?”

  “Not at once. Only after you had passed. It was your walk. I dared not speak to you, for the soldiers would have been curious. After that I looked for you but could find you nowhere.”

  We went to a cubbyhole of a place to drink sherbet and talk.

  He wore the uniform of one of Yusuf’s crack cavalry regiments. He was a square-built man of great physical strength and was maturing rapidly under the harshness of the military training. Less agile in conversation than Mahmoud, he never spoke without thinking.

  Haroun was one of those calm, relaxed men who are capable of tremendous outbursts of dynamic action. I knew the type well, for my father had been such a man.

  “You have plans?” he asked.

  “To learn, and to learn more. To find if my father lives, and then to see more of the world. I have thought of India.”

  “I, too, have thought of it, but who knows anything of India?”

  “I know of it.”

  “You?”

  “There are books. Arab ships sometimes sail there, and there is a route through the desert.” Looking around at him, I said, “My destiny is there, Haroun. I feel it.”

  He arose. “Perhaps one day we will meet there, or we might go together.” He gripped my shoulder. “It has been good to see you. Like the old days.”

  He stepped outside into the evening. “And Mahmoud? Do you see him?”

  “Mahmoud is an important man now. He is close to Prince Ahmed.”

  “I think of him,” I said, “but there are others who come first.”

  “Be careful,” he warned, “you tread upon loose sand.”

  “One thing more. Do you know the name Zagal?”

  “He commands many soldiers, and rules a taifa. Is he your enemy, too?”

  I told him the story of Sharasa and of Akim. Until now I had believed the attackers had been men sent by Yusuf; now I discovered Zagal was a minor ruler of one of the smaller principalities into which Moorish Spain was divided.

  “It is nothing,” I said. “I would simply like to know if she fares well.”

  “From what you have said I imagine wherever she is, she will be doing well.” He smiled. “If you attempt to protect all the girls you meet, I foresee an active life.”
>
  We parted, but I felt better. It was good to know Haroun was still my friend. However, I had not told him what I was doing, and I wandered about to make sure I was not followed before going home.

  It was that night I told Safia of my father, and that despite reports of his death I believed he still lived. She asked me a number of questions about the galley, its crew, and where he had been bound. Then his age, description, and any scars or marks upon his body.

  “You should have told me sooner, but no matter. It is possible I can learn something about him.”

  Before I could ask her how she could possibly get such information, she handed me a key. “Go to this place.” She described it. “You will find four horses. Look at them and decide if they have speed and strength. Then I wish you to take one day each week for the next four weeks and buy supplies for a trip.”

  “You are going away?”

  “We are going. I told you I might have need of you.” She turned to look at me. “Mathurin, if I have need, it will be a desperate need. I want nothing spoken of this. Do not go near the horses by day, and when you go, be sure you are not followed.”

  “When?”

  “When I will. You seemed to be a man of enterprise, and it was such I have needed. Is your friend Haroun to be trusted?”

  “I am sure of it.”

  She smiled at my surprise, for I had not mentioned his name to her. “It is my business to know. It is yours to be ready to help me as I have helped you. One day—soon, I shall have to leave this city quickly.”

  “You have only to speak.”

  “Please do not misunderstand. I have done what was necessary, and you came offering your services.”

  “And I shall not withdraw them.”

  The scent of jasmine was heavy in the garden, and I thought of that night, months ago, when I came over that wall, hungry and in rags, in a city filled with enemies. Yes, I was in her debt.

  Moorish Spain was a hotbed of intrigue, and plots were forever developing across the Strait of Gibraltar in North Africa, the homeland of the Berber. In Navarre, Castile, and León their rulers looked south toward the luxury of Andalusia with envy.

  Realizing time was short, I intensified my study. Medicine and military tactics held first place, but navigation, history, philosophy, chemistry, and botany I studied also.

  The key to success in Arab countries of the time lay in none of these. The Arab is by nature a poet. His language is filled with poetry and wonderful sounds, so much so that even state papers were written in poetic form, and the extemporaneous poet was the most sought after of all men.

  The Qabus Nama had a chapter of advice on the writing of poetry. Whether the son of the Prince of Gurgan profited by his father’s advice, I did not know, but I did. The prince had died a hundred years or more before my time, but his advice was still good.

  One by one I checked escape routes from Córdoba, and I became familiar with the hours of closing the gates, and which guards were most strict or casual. From time to time I shared a bottle with those who would drink, for most Moslems would not.

  Sometimes I frequented the low dives, making the acquaintance of mountebanks, jugglers, troubadours, and even thieves. I listened to the storytellers in the bazaars, thinking this might someday be of use. I practiced with the lute, and here or there I dropped a coin in a hand, or bought a meal.

  It became known among them that I was the Kerbouchard who had sold the galley and who escaped from the castle where Prince Ahmed had me imprisoned. Bits of information came my way. Ibn-Haram had gone to North Africa. Prince Ahmed had still no son.

  No longer was I employed at the great library, for Safia wished me ready to move at a moment’s notice, yet the library was open to me, and the scholars welcomed me. Safia supplied me with money, and the fact that I was earning the money removed my reluctance at accepting it.

  There were elaborate catalogues listing the books of the library, some of which were illustrated with great beauty, bound in aromatic woods and embossed leather inlaid with gems.

  Among the books that came to the library were some written on the bark of trees, upon palm leaves, among bamboo or the wood of trees cut in thin slices. Others were written on animal skins, bones, thin plates of copper, bronze, antimony, clay, linen, and silk. Papyrus, leather, and parchment were common.

  Some were in tongues none of us could translate, such as those from Crete or Thera or Etruscan ruins.

  There were scholars at the library who read in Sanskrit, in Pali, Kharoshthi, and even the ancient Kashmir script, Sarada.

  Day after day I buried myself in my work, and now that I no longer was engaged in copying or translation, my studies went further afield, for I delved into that great storehouse of manuscripts untouched and unread.

  One night Safia came to the room where I slept. “I have news.”

  “News?”

  “Your father may yet live.”

  “What?” My heart was pounding.

  “His galley was sunk off Crete, but he or somebody who resembled him was taken from the sea and sold into slavery.”

  “Then I must go to Crete.”

  “He is no longer there. He was sold to a merchant in Constantinople.”

  My father was alive!

  “I must go.”

  Safia shook her head. “It would be foolish. Those who discovered this are making further inquiries. When I have news, you shall have it.”

  Filled with impatience, I had yet to wait. Safia was right, of course. To dash off without further knowledge would be to set myself adrift once more. First, I must know what merchant bought him and if he was still the owner, or if he had sold him, to whom?

  I had waited this long. I could wait longer. I would have to trust that Safia would not fail me just as I would not fail in my duty to her.

  21

  WHERE SAFIA PROCURED the horses I did not know, but all were of the Al Khamsat al Rasul, the five great breeds superior to all other Arabian horses. Two were Kuhaila, one a Saglawi, the last a Hadbah. Only the third horse was a stallion, the first two and the last were mares, preferred by the Arab.

  They were handsome animals, and the groom who cared for them was a desert Arab, a deaf mute.

  Obviously, the horses were his life and could be in no better hands, but I took time to caress them and become acquainted, feeding each a few fragments of naida, a confection made by soaking wheat for several days, allowing it to dry, then pounding it into cakes.

  After visiting the horses a second time, I left by a roundabout route so that I might not be followed, and I discovered myself in the corner of a bazaar where there were several karob and wine shops. Hurrying past, I was stopped by a cool but familiar voice.

  “If you wish to know, ask Kerbouchard!”

  The voice was that of Valaba.

  Turning, I saw her standing in the entrance to a wine shop, two young men beside her. She wore the Byzantine costume affected by some of the fashionable women of Córdoba, a tunic of pale blue that reached to her ankles and a mantle of dark blue embroidered with small Moline crosses of gold.

  “Kerbouchard,” she said, “knows the far regions of the world. Ask him.”

  One of the young men, slender and pale, merely glanced at me, taking in my rough student’s clothing. The other, a big, loose-jointed young man with mildly amused eyes, was more interested.

  “We were speaking of the earth. Is it true that some Christian theologians believe the world to be flat?”

  “Theologians,” I said, “should go to sea. The roundness of the world is proved every time a ship disappears over the horizon.”

  Valaba turned toward the interior of the shop. “Kerbouchard, it is good to see you again. Will you join us? I would have you tell us of the lands beyond Thule.”

  “Beyond Thule?” The tall young man put his hand
on my shoulder. “Are there such lands?”

  “They are a mystery only to scholars and writers of books. Fishing boats go there each season. I am a Celt, from Armorica, in Brittany. Fishing boats have sailed to those far lands from our isle of Brehat since before memory. Nor were they alone. Basque and Norman boats have been there also, and those from Iceland.”

  “Tell me of those lands.”

  “That I cannot. Our boat went for fish, and the land is remote, its people savage. When we caught our fish we came home.”

  The fair-skinned young man was bored. He was also haughty. His look was disdainful. “A fisherman? In a student’s clothing?”

  “We are all fishermen after a fashion,” I said. “Some fish for one thing, some for another.” I smiled at him. “Tell me? What are you fishing for?”

  He stared at me, shocked at my reply. Before he could speak, Valaba said gently, her eyes showing her amusement, “You do not understand, Roderick. Mathurin Kerbouchard is Count Kerbouchard. In his country it is customary that all boys learn the way of the sea.”

  The title, of course, was nonsense, although it had been said there were such at some bygone time. The rest of what she had said was simply the truth. I wondered how she knew so much. Or had she merely surmised? Titles had never impressed me. They were given to the servants of kings. I knew one who got his by helping the king on with his trousers each morning, or whatever he wore. We Kerbouchards were servants to no man. My father often said that he knew of no king with a family half as old as his own. Not that the age of the family was important, many an old tree bears bad fruit.

  Roderick did not like me, but the other young man was interested. He ordered wine for us, coffee for himself. “You are a scholar, yet you have been a man of the sea. It is a rare combination.”

  “There is knowledge at sea to be found nowhere else. Lately, I have been reading accounts of many voyages, but so much is left out. The sea has an enduring knowledge passed from father to son for generations.