pleasure of the cruise is enough. To you shall go the ransom the
Shawar scanned Giles Hobson with new interest. In that rubicund countenance he failed to find any evidence of royal parentage, but reflected that few Franks showed royal lineage in their features: ruddy, freckled, light-haired, the western lords looked much alike to the Arab.
He turned his attention again to Shirkuh, who was of more importance than any wandering Frank, royal or common. The old war-dog, with shocking lack of formality, was humming a Kurdish war song under his breath as he poured himself a goblet of Shiraz wine – the Shiite rulers of Egypt were no stricter in their morals than were their Mameluke successors.
Apparently Shirkuh had no thought in the world except to satisfy his thirst, but Shawar wondered what craft was revolving behind that bluff exterior. In another man Shawar would have despised the Emir’s restless vitality as an indication of an inferior mentality. But the Kurdish right-hand man of Nour ed din was no fool. The vizier wondered if Shirkuh had embarked on that wild-goose chase with el Ghazi’s corsairs merely because his restless energy would not let him be quiet, even during a visit to the caliph’s court, or if there was a deeper meaning behind his voyaging. Shawar always looked for hidden motives, even in trivial things. He had reached his position by ignoring no possibility of intrigue. Moreover, events were stirring in the womb of Destiny in that early spring of 1167 A.D.
Shawar thought of Dirgham’s bones rotting in a ditch near the chapel of Sitta Nefisa, and he smiled and said: “A thousand thanks for your gifts, my lord. In return a jade goblet filled with pearls shall be carried to your chamber. Let this exchange of gifts symbolize the everlasting endurance of our friendship.”
“Allah fill thy mouth with gold, lord,” boomed Shirkuh, rising; “I go to drink wine with my officers, and tell them lies of my voyagings. Tomorrow I ride for Damascus. Allah be with thee!”
“And with thee,
After the Kurd’s springy footfalls had ceased to rustle the thick carpets of the halls, Shawar motioned Giles to sit beside him on the cushions.
“What of your ransom?” he asked, in the Norman French he had learned through contact with the Crusaders.
“The king my father will fill this chamber with gold,” promptly answered Giles. “His enemies have told him I was dead. Great will be the joy of the old man to learn the truth.”
So saying, Giles retired behind a wine goblet and racked his brain for bigger and better lies. He had spun this fantasy for Shirkuh, thinking to make himself sound too valuable to be killed. Later – well, Giles lived for today, with little thought of the morrow.
Shawar watched, in some fascination, the rapid disappearance of the goblet’s contents down his prisoner’s gullet.
“You drink like a French baron,” commented the Arab.
“I am the prince of all topers,” answered Giles modestly – and with more truth than was contained in most of his boastings.
“Shirkuh, too, loves wine,” went on the vizier. “You drank with him?”
“A little. He wouldn’t get drunk, lest we sight a Christian ship. But we emptied a few flagons. A little wine loosens his tongue.”
Shawar’s narrow dark head snapped up; that was news to him.
“He talked? Of what?”
“Of his ambitions.”
“And what are they?” Shawar held his breath.
“To be Caliph of Egypt,” answered Giles, exaggerating the Kurd’s actual words, as was his habit. Shirkuh had talked wildly, though rather incoherently.
“Did he mention me?” demanded the vizier.
“He said he held you in the hollow of his hand,” said Giles, truthfully, for a wonder.
Shawar fell silent; somewhere in the palace a lute twanged and a black girl lifted a weird whining song of the South. Fountains splashed silverly, and there was a flutter of pigeons’ wings.
“If I send emissaries to Jerusalem his spies will tell him,” murmured Shawar to himself. “If I slay or constrain him, Nour ed din will consider it cause for war.”
He lifted his head and stared at Giles Hobson.
“You call yourself king of topers; can you best the Emir Shirkuh in a drinking-bout?”
“In the palace of the king, my father,” said Giles, “in one night I drank fifty barons under the table, the least of which was a mightier toper than Shirkuh.”
“Would you win your freedom without ransom?”
“Aye, by Saint Withold!”
“You can scarcely know much of Eastern politics, being but newly come into these parts. But Egypt is the keystone of the arch of empire. It is coveted by Amalric, king of Jerusalem, and Nour ed din, sultan of Damascus. Ibn Ruzzik, and after him Dirgham, and after him, I, have played one against the other. By Shirkuh’s aid I overthrew Dirgham; by Amalric’s aid, I drove out Shirkuh. It is a perilous game, for I can trust neither.
“Nour ed din is cautious. Shirkuh is the man to fear. I think he came here professing friendship in order to spy me out, to lull my suspicions. Even now his army may be moving on Egypt.
“If he boasted to you of his ambitions and power, it is a sure sign that he feels secure in his plots. It is necessary that I render him helpless for a few hours; yet I dare not do him harm without true knowledge of whether his hosts are actually on the march. So this is your part.”
Giles understood and a broad grin lit his ruddy face, and he licked his lips sensuously.
Shawar clapped his hands and gave orders, and presently, at request, Shirkuh entered, carrying his silk-girdled belly before him like an emperor of India.
“Our royal guest,” purred Shawar, “has spoken of his prowess with the wine-cup. Shall we allow a Caphar to go home and boast among his people that he sat above the Faithful in anything? Who is more capable of humbling his pride than the Mountain Lion?”
“A drinking-bout?” Shirkuh’s laugh was gusty as a sea blast. “By the beard of Muhammad, it likes me well! Come, Giles ibn Malik, let us to the quaffing!”
A procession began, of slaves bearing golden vessels brimming with sparkling nectar.…
During his captivity on el Ghazi’s galley, Giles had become accustomed to the heady wine of the East. But his blood was boiling in his veins, his head was singing, and the gold-barred chamber was revolving to his dizzy gaze before Shirkuh, his voice trailing off in the midst of an incoherent song, slumped sidewise on his cushions, the gold beaker tumbling from his fingers.
Shawar leaped into frantic activity. At his clap Sudanese slaves entered, naked giants with gold ear-rings and silk loin-clouts.
“Carry him into the alcove and lay him on a divan,” he ordered. “Lord Giles, can you ride?”
Giles rose, reeling like a ship in a high wind.
“I’ll hold to the mane,” he hiccuped. “But why should I ride?”
“To bear my message to Amalric,” snapped Shawar. “Here it is, sealed in a silken packet, telling him that Shirkuh means to conquer Egypt, and offering him payment in return for aid. Amalric distrusts me, but he will listen to one of the royal blood of his own race, who tells him of Shirkuh’s boasts.”
“Aye,” muttered Giles groggily, “royal blood; my grandfather was a horse-boy in the royal stables.”
“What did you say?” demanded Shawar, not understanding, then went on before Giles could answer. “Shirkuh has played into our hands. He will lie senseless for hours, and while he lies there, you will be riding for Palestine. He will not ride for Damascus tomorrow; he will be sick of overdrunkenness. I dared not imprison him, or even drug his wine. I dare make no move until I reach an agreement with Amalric. But Shirkuh is safe for the time being, and you will reach Amalric before he reaches Nour ed din. Haste!”
In the courtyard outside sounded the clink of harness, the impatient stamp of horses. Voices blurred in swift whispers. Footfalls faded away through the halls. Alone in the alcove, Shirkuh unexpectedly sat upright. He shook his head violently, buffeted it with his hands as if to clear away the clinging cobwebs. He reeled up, catching at the arras for support. But his beard bristled in an exultant grin. He seemed bursting with a triumphant whoop he could
