Chapter 4

The prison guards sat hunched in the meager shade afforded by the squat, square gatehouse, their backs pressed against the cool wall that had not yet been baked by the sun. It was nearly noon and the shade was dwindling rapidly. Soon the heat of afternoon would drive them inside the gatehouse itself. They avoided that as long as possible. Entering the claybrick dwelling was tantamount to entering an oven. But though the heat inside was intense, it had at least the advantage of providing shelter from the sweltering sun. As the last vestige of shade was vanishing, the guards, grumbling, rose to their feet. One of the younger nudged an older man, his superior, and pointed.

“Soldiers.”

Squinting into the sunlight, the commandant peered out toward the souks, always thankful for some change in the monotony of his watch. Several of the Amir’s soldiers, splendid in their colorful uniforms, were urging their horses through the crowds in the bazaar. The people scattered before them, mothers grabbing up small children, the merchants quickly removing their most valuable items from display and shoving their daughters behind the curtained partitions. If the crowd was too thickly packed together, and the horses could not get through, the soldiers cleared a path, lashing out efficiently with their riding sticks, ignoring the cursing and the angry shouts that died away to a hushed awe when the crowd caught sight of the man riding behind the soldiers.

“The Amir,” the commandant muttered.

“I think he’s coming here,” said the young guard.

“Pah!” The older guard spat on the ground, but his gaze was fixed warily on the retinue that was making its way through the bazaars. “I think you’re right,” he said slowly, after a moment’s pause. Whirling around, he began bellowing orders that brought other sleepy guards to their feet, hastily stumbling across the compound at the commandant’s call.

“What’s the matter with Hamd?” he bellowed, noting that one of the guards was not responding. “Drunk again? Drag him inside the gatehouse! Quickly! And look to your uniforms! What’s that? Blood? Yours, too? Tell him it’s from the thief. What’s that? The man died two days ago? Worse luck! Keep out of sight, then! The rest of you—try to look alert, if I that’s possible, you sons of pigs. Now go on! Back to your places!”

Muttering imprecations on the heads of everyone from the Amir to the comatose Hamd, whose limp, flabby body was being dragged unceremoniously across the ground to the gatehouse, the commandant began pushing and shoving his blearyeyed men toward their assigned positions, some of the slower being assisted on their way by sound thwacks from the commandant’s thick cudgel.

The clattering of horses’ hooves drew nearer. Gulping for breath, sweating profusely, the commandant cast one final glance around his prison. At least, he thought thankfully, the prisoners had been put back in their cells following the midday exercise period. In the darkness of the Zindan, swollen cheeks, split lips, and blackened eyes were not readily apparent. Neither were blood stains on tunics, for that matter. Just to be safe, however, the commandant’s dull mind was fumbling with excuses for going against the Amir’s express orders that the prisoners—particularly the nomads—were not to be physically abused. The commandant was just fabricating a fullscale riot that had forced him to resort to the use of force when the younger guard interrupted his lumbering thoughts.

“Why is the Amir coming here? Is this customary?”

“No, by Sul!”

The two were standing at some semblance of attention in front of the gatehouse and the commandant—keeping eyes forward with a grin of welcome plastered across his face—was forced to talk out of the side of his mouth.

“The old Sultan never came within a thousand paces of the place, if he could help it. And when he was forced to ride past, he did so in a covered sedan chair with the curtains pulled tightly shut, holding an orange stuck all over with cloves to his nose to ward away the smell.”

“Then why do you suppose the Amir’s coming?”

“How in Quar’s name should I know?” the commandant grunted, surreptitiously mopping his face with his sleeve. “Something to do with those damn nomads no doubt. It’s bad enough we have the priest skulking about, sticking his nose into everything. Quar forgive me.” The commandant glanced warily up at the heavens. “I’ll be glad when the lot of them are out of here.”

“When will that be?”

“When they convert, of course.”

“They’ll die first.”

“All the same to me.” The commandant shrugged. “Either way, it shouldn’t take very long. Shhh!”

The men fell silent, the commandant shifting uneasily, longing to turn his head and look behind him to see that everything was in order but not daring to allow his nervousness to show. Behind him, he could hear Hamd’s drunken voice suddenly raise in a bawdy song. The commandant’s blood began throbbing in his temples, but then came a sound as of someone thumping an overripe melon, a muffled groan, and the singing ceased.

The soldiers on horseback trotted up to the gate. At their leader’s command, they spread out in a straight line, sitting stiffly at attention in their saddles, their magical horses standing as still as if they had turned back to the wood out of which they were created. The Captain raised his sword with a flourish. Qannadi, who had been riding a short distance behind his troops, cantered forward. Returning his Captain’s salute, he dismounted. Eyes flicking here and there over the prison and its yards, he slowly approached the sweating commandant. The Captain followed.

In the old days, if the Sultan had taken it into his head to visit the prison—which was about as likely as if he had taken it into his head to fly to the moon—such a visit could never have been accomplished without hundreds of guards surrounding his sacred person; slaves carrying his chair and rolling out velvet carpets so that he might not soil his silken shoes upon the unworthy ground; several other litters bearing his favorite wives, who would be peeping out between the curtains and holding their veils over their mouths; more slaves carrying huge feathered fans to keep away the flies that found the prison a veritable feasting ground.

The Sultan would have stayed four minutes, five at the most, before the hot sun and the stench and the general unpleasantness of the place drove him back into the perfumed silken shelter of his palanquin. Watching the Amir walk with long, purposeful strides over the hardbaked ground, appearing cool and calm, his nose not even wrinkling, the commandant heartily missed the old days.

“O Mighty King!” The commandant dropped to his belly on the blisteringly hot ground, looking—in this undignified attitude—very much like a toad and adding nothing to the already deplorable state of his uniform. “Such an honor—”

“Get up!” Qannadi said with disgust. “I’ve no time for I that. I’m here to see one of your prisoners.”

The commandant scrambled to his feet but left his heart lying on the pavement. Which prisoner? Hopefully not one who had been chastised too severely.

“Filthy wretches, O King. Unworthy of such attention! I beg of you—”

“Open the gate.”

The commandant had no choice except to obey. His hands shook so that he could not fit the key into the latch, however, and Qannadi made a sign. The Amir’s Captain stepped forward, took the keys from the shaken guard, and opened the gate that rotated on its hinges with a shrill squeak. Thrusting his way past the stammering commandant, the Amir entered the prison compound.

“Where is the cell of Achmed, the nomad?”

“On. . . on the lower level, third to your left. But do not offend your spirit by entering the House of the Damned, Your Majesty!” Panting, the commandant waddled about six steps behind the swiftly walking general. “My eyes are accustomed to the sight of these dregs of humanity. Allow me to bring the kafir into your Exalted Presence, O King.”

Qannadi hesitated. He had intended to enter the prison and talk to Achmed in his cell. But now that he stood before the ugly, windowless building, now that he could smell the smell of human refuse and despair, now that he could hear faintly the moans of hopelessness and pain coming from inside, the general’s courage—whose flame had never once died on the field of battle— wavered and dimmed. He was accustomed to death and misery in war, he would never grow accustomed to death and misery where men were caged like beasts.

“The gatehouse is quite comfortable this time of day, O Magnificent One,” the commandant suggested, seeing the Amir hesitate.

“Very well,” Qannadi said abruptly, turning his steps and attempting to ignore the audible whoosh of relief that escaped the commandant.

“Go ahead!” the commandant shouted at the young guard, who was standing rooted to the spot, staring at the Amir in awe. “Make the gatehouse ready for His Majesty!”

By dint of several frantic hand motions behind the Amir’s back and a series of threatening grimaces, the commandant managed to convey the message to the dumbfounded young guard that he was to make certain the drunken Hamd was out of sight. Catching on, the young man bolted away, and Qannadi entered the sultry shadows of the bare brick room just in time to hear a scuffling sound and see the soles of the boots of the unfortunate Hamd disappear into a back room. A door slammed shut.

Picking up an overturned chair, the Captain of the Amir’s guard placed it at a crude table for Qannadi who, however, seemed to prefer pacing about the small dwelling. The commandant appeared, gasping for breath, in the doorway.

“Well?” said Qannadi, glaring at the man. “Go get the prisoner!”

“Yes, O King!” The commandant had completely forgotten this small matter. He vanished precipitously from the doorway. Glancing out a small window, Qannadi saw the man running across the compound, headcloth flapping in the wind of his exertions. Glancing at the Captain, the Amir raised his eyebrows. The Captain silently shook his head.

“Clear everyone out,” Qannadi ordered, motioning toward the back room.

The Captain acted immediately on his orders and by the time Qannadi saw the commandant returning across the compound, shoving a reluctant and unwilling Achmed along in front of him, the building had been emptied of all its occupants, including a dazed and bloody Hamd. The Captain of the guard took up his post outside the door.

The puffing and panting commandant appeared in the entrance. Dragging the young man by the arm, he thrust Achmed inside the gatehouse. The nomad stood in the cool shadows, dazed, blinking his eyes, glancing around in confusion.

“Bow! Bow to the Amir, dog of an unbeliever!” the commandant shouted angrily.

It was obvious to Qannadi that the sunblinded young man had no idea an Amir or anyone else was in the room. But when Achmed did not respond fast enough to suit the commandant, he kicked the youth painfully in the back of the knees, causing his legs to buckle. Gripping him by the back of his tunic, the commandant bashed the young man’s head on the floor.

“I apologize for the dog’s ill manners, O Exalted One—”

“Get out!” said Qannadi coldly. “I want to speak to the prisoner in private.”

The commandant glanced uneasily at Achmed, lying prostrate on the floor, and spread his hands in a deprecating manner. “I would not be so bold as to disobey an order of my king but I would be remiss in my duties if I did not inform His Majesty that these kafir are wild beasts—”

“Are you saying that I—General of the Armies of Quar’s Chosen—cannot deal with one eighteenyearold boy?” Qannadi inquired smoothly.

“No! No! Assuredly not, O King!” babbled the commandant, sweating so it appeared he might melt into a puddle on the spot.

“Then leave. The Captain of my guard will be posted outside. In case I find myself in any danger, I can always yell for him to come rescue me.”

Not knowing exactly what to make of this speech, the dullwitted commandant stammered out that this knowledge would be of great comfort to him. Disgusted, Qannadi turned his back upon the prison guard and gazed out a square window at nothing with magnificent aplomb. The folds of the haik hiding his face, the Amir was able to turn his head slightly to see what was happening behind him out of the corner of his eye. The commandant, casting a swift, fearful glance at his king, administered a swift, savage kick to Achmed, catching the boy painfully in the crook of his knee. His face dark, the commandant raised a fist at his prisoner threateningly, then, bobbing up and down like a beggar’s monkey, backed out the door, fervent in his praise of the Amir, the Emperor, Quar, the Imam, the Amir’s wives, and anyone else he could think of.

His hand itching to draw his sword and rid the world of this specimen of humanity, Qannadi kept his back turned until a scuffle, the sound of his Captain’s voice, and a whine assured him that the commandant had been hustled off the premises.

Still Qannadi did not turn around.

“Get up,” he ordered the young man gruffiy. “I detest seeing a man grovel.”

He heard the sharp intake of breath as Achmed stood upon his injured leg but even that indication of weakness was quickly choked off by the young man. Qannadi turned around just in time to see the nomad draw himself up, standing straight and tall and facing the Amir with defiance.

“Sit down,” said Qannadi.

Startled, seeing only one chair and realizing—barbarian though he was—that no one ever sat in the presence of the king, Achmed remained standing.

“I said sit down!” Qannadi snapped irritably. “That was a command, young man, and—like it or not—you are in no position to disobey my commands!”

Slowly, his face carefully impassive, Achmed sank down into the chair, gritting his teeth to keep the gasp of pain from slipping out.

“Are the guards mistreating you?” Qannadi asked abruptly.

“No,” lied the young man.

The Amir turned his head back to the window again to hide the emotion on his face. The “no” had not been spoken out of fear. It had been spoken in pride. Qannadi remembered suddenly another young man who had nearly died of a festering arrow wound because he was too proud to admit he’d been hit.

The Amir cleared his throat and turned back again. “You will address me as ‘King,’ or ‘Your Majesty,’ “ he said. Walking over to the door, he glanced outside to see his men, mounted on their horses, waiting patiently in line in the hot sun. He knew his men would remain there uncomplaining until they dropped but—magic or not—the animals were beginning to suffer. Cursing himself, aware that in his preoccupation he’d forgotten them, the Amir ordered the Captain to disperse the guard and see that the horses were watered. The Captain left, and the Amir and the young man were alone.

“How long have you been confined here?” Qannadi asked, coming over to gaze down upon the young man.

Shrugging, Achmed shook his head.

“A month? Two? A year? You don’t know? Ah, good. That means we are starting to break you.”

The young man looked up swiftly, eyes glittering.

“Yes,” Qannadi continued imperturbably. “It takes spirit, an effort of will, to keep track of the passing of time when one is in a situation where each day of misery blends into a night of despair until all seem alike. You’ve seen the wretches who’ve been here for years. You’ve seen how they live only for the moment when they receive their wormy bread and their cup of rancid water. Less than animals, aren’t they? Many forget how to talk.” Qannadi saw fear darken the young man’s eyes and he smiled to himself in inner satisfaction. “I know, you see. I was in prison myself for a time. I wasn’t much older than you, fighting the warriors of the Great Steppes.

“They are fierce fighters, those men of Hammah. Their women fight alongside them. I swear by Quar that is the truth,” Qannadi added gravely, seeing Achmed’s stare of disbelief. “They are a large, bigboned race—the women as big as the men. They have golden hair that, from birth, is never cut. Men and women both wear it in braids that hang down below their waists. When they fight, they fight in pairs—husband and wife or couples betrothed to be married. The man stands upon the right to wield sword and spear, the woman stands to his left, holding a great, huge shield that protects them both. If her husband is killed, the wife fights on until either his death is avenged or she herself falls beside his body.” Qannadi shook his head. “And woe betide the man who takes the life of a shieldmaid.”

Pain forgotten, Achmed listened with shining, wondering eyes. Gratified, Qannadi paused a moment to enjoy this audience. He had told this story to his own sons and received only stifled yawns or bored, glazed stares in return.

“I was lucky.” Qannadi smiled wryly. “I didn’t have a chance to kill anyone. I was disarmed the first pass and knocked unconscious. They took me prisoner and cast me into their dungeons that are carved out of rock into the sides of mountains. At first, I was like you. My life was over, I thought. I cursed my bad luck that I hadn’t fallen among my comrades. The Hammadians are a just people, however. They offered all of us the chance to work out our servitude, but I was too proud. I refused. I sat in my cell, wallowing in my misery, day after day, blind to what was happening to me. Then something occurred that opened my eyes.”

“What?” Achmed spoke before he thought. Face flushed, he bit his lip and looked away.

Qannadi kept his own face carefully smooth and impassive. “When the Hammadi first captured me, they beat me every day. They had a post planted in the center of the prison yard and they would put a man up against it like so”—the Amir demonstrated—”and chain his hands to the top. Then they stripped the clothes from my back and struck a leather thong across my shoulders. To this day I bear the scars.” Qannadi spoke with unconscious pride. He wasn’t watching Achmed now, but was looking back, into his past. “Then one day they didn’t beat me. Another passed, and another, and they continued to leave me alone. My comrades—those that still lived—were being punished. But not me. One day I overheard another prisoner demand to know why I alone was spared this harsh treatment.

“Can you guess their answer?” The Amir looked at Achmed intently.

The young man shook his head.

“ ‘We do not beat the whipped dog.’ “

There was silence in the gatehouse. Because it had been many years since he had thought of this incident, Qannadi had not realized that the pain and shame and humiliation was still within him, festering like that arrow wound of long ago.

“ ‘We do not beat the whipped dog,’ “ he repeated grimly. “I saw then that I had let myself become nothing but an animal—an object of pity, beneath their contempt.”

“What did you do?” The words were forced through clenched teeth. The young man stared at hands clasped tightly in his lap.

“I went to them and I offered myself as their slave.”

“You worked for your enemy?” Achmed looked up, his black eyes scornful.

“I worked for myself,” the Amir replied. “I could have proudly rotted to death in their prison. Believe me, young man, at that point in my life, death would have been the easy way out. But I was a soldier. I reminded myself that I had been captured, I had not surrendered. And to die in their foul prison would be to admit defeat. Besides, one never knows the paths the God has chosen one to walk.”

The Amir glanced surreptitiously at Achmed as he said this last, but the young man’s head was bowed again, his gaze fixed upon his clenched hands.

“And, as it turned out, Quar chose wisely. I was sent to work on the farm of a great general in the Hammadi army. Their armies are not as ours,” Qannadi continued. Staring out his window, he saw not the crowded souks of Kich but the vast, rolling prairies of the Great Steppes. “The armies are under the control of certain rich and powerful men, who hire and train their soldiers at their own expense. In time of war, the king calls these armies to come fight for the defense of the land. Of course, there is always the chance that the general might become too powerful and decide that he wants to be king, but that is a danger all rulers must face.

“I was put to work in the fields of this man’s farm. At first, I regretted that I had not died in the prison. I was thin, emaciated. My muscles had atrophied during my long confinement. More than once, I sank down among the weeds with the thought that I would never rise again. But I did. Sometimes the overseer’s lash helped me up. Sometimes I myself struggled to my feet. And, as time passed, I grew strong and fit once more. My interest in life and, more importantly, my interest in soldiering returned. My master was constantly exercising his troops, and every moment I could escape from my labors I spent watching. He was an excellent general, and the lessons I learned from him have helped me all my life. Particularly, I studied the art of infantry fighting, for in this these people were most skilled. At length, he noticed my interest. Far from being offended, as I feared, he was pleased.

“He took me from the fields and set me among his troops. My life was not easy, for I was different, a foreigner, and they did everything they could to test me. But I gave as good as I got, most of the time, and eventually earned their respect and that of my general. He made me one of his personal guard. I fought at his side for two years.”

Achmed stared in blank astonishment at this, but Qannadi seemed no longer aware of the boy’s presence.

“He was a great soldier, a noble and honorable man. I loved him as I have loved no other, before or since. He died on the field of battle. I, myself, avenged his death and was given the honor of placing the severed head of his enemy at his feet as he lay upon his funeral bier. I cast my lighted torch onto the oilsoaked wood and I bid his soul godspeed to whatever heaven he believed in. Then I left.” Qannadi’s voice was soft. The young man had to lean forward to hear him. “I walked for many months until I reached my homeland once more. Our glorious Emperor was only a king then. I came before him and laid my sword at his feet.”

Sighing, the Amir withdrew his gaze from the window and turned to look at Achmed. “It is a curiosity, that sword. A twohanded broadsword it is called in the north. It takes two hands to wield it. When I first was given one, I could not even lift it from the floor. I still have it, if you would like to see it.”

The young man glowered at him, dark eyes wary, sullen, suspicious.

“Why are you telling me this tale?” He rudely refused to use the proper form of address, and the Amir—though he noticed— did not press him.

“I came because I deplore waste. As for why I told you my story, I am not certain.” Qannadi paused, then spoke softly. “You take a wound in battle and it can heal completely and never bother you again. Then, years later, you see a man hit in exactly the same place and suddenly the pain returns—as sharp and piercing as when the steel first bit into your flesh. When I looked into your face, Achmed, I felt the pain. . .”

The young man’s shoulders slumped. The pride and anger that had kept him alive drained from his body like blood from a mortal wound. Looking at Achmed, Qannadi had one of those rare flashes of illumination that sometimes, in the dark night of wandering through this life, lights the way and shows the soul of another. Perhaps it was seeing once again in his mind Khardan and Achmed together, standing before his throne—one brother proud and handsome, the other looking at him with complete and total adoration. Perhaps it was the Imam, telling him the strange tale of Khardan’s alleged flight from the battle. Perhaps it came from within the Amir himself and the memory of his own starved childhood, the father who had abandoned him. Whatever it was, Qannadi suddenly knew Achmed better than he knew any of his own sons, knew him as well as he had come to know himself.

He saw a young man deprived of the light of a father’s love and pride, growing in the shadow cast by an older brother. Instead of letting this embitter him, Achmed had simply transferred the love for his father to his older brother, who had—Qannadi knew—returned it warmly. But Khardan had betrayed him, if not by an act of cowardice (and the Amir found it difficult to believe such a wild tale) then at least by dying. The boy was left with no one—father, brother, all were gone.

Going up to the young man, Qannadi put his hand on his shoulder. He felt Achmed flinch, but the boy did not pull away from the Amir’s touch.

“How old are you?”

“Eighteen,” came the mulled response. “I—I had a birthday.”

And no one remembered, Qannadi thought. “I was the same age myself when I was captured by the Hammadi.” A lie. The Amir had been twenty, but that was not important. “Are you a whipped dog, Achmed? Are you going to lie down on your master’s grave and die?” The boy cringed. “Or are you going to live your own life? I told you I deplore waste. You are a fine young man! I could wish my own sons to be more like you!”

A touch of bitterness crept into the voice. Qannadi fell silent, mastering his emotions. Achmed was too preoccupied with his own to notice, although he would recall it later.

“I came here to make you an offer,” Qannadi continued. “I watched the Battle at the Tel. My men are good soldiers, but it took four of them to one of yours to conquer your people. It is not that you are more skilled in handling your weapons, I believe, but in handling your horses. Quar has given us magical beasts but, it seems, He has not seen fit to train them in the art of warfare. Instead of your people breaking your hearts in this prison, I give you the chance to earn your freedom.”

Achmed’s body held rigid for a moment. Slowly he raised his head to look directly into Qannadi’s eyes.

“All we would do is train the horses?”

“Yes.”

“We would not be forced to join your army? Forced to fight?”

“No, not unless you wanted.”

“The horses we train will not fight our own people?”

“My son”—Qannadi used the word unconsciously, never realizing he had spoken it until he saw the eyes looking into his blink, the lids lower abruptly—”your people are no more. I do not tell you this to attempt to trick you or demoralize you. I speak the truth. If you cannot hear it in my voice, then listen to your own heart.”

Achmed did not respond but sat, head down, his hands grasping spasmodically at the smooth top of the crude wooden table, seeking something to hold onto and not finding it.

“I will not make you convert to our God,” the Amir added gently.

At this, Achmed raised his head. He looked, not at Qannadi, but eastward, into the desert that could not be seen for the prison walls.

“There is no God,” the young man answered tonelessly.