SILK AND SECRETS (39 page)

Waiting was hard. Ross chafed at his inactivity and the fact that he could do nothing except behave in a manner that would not excite suspicion. Juliet was much busier, for no attempt was made to keep her in the compound. After securing the help of the Kasems, she took advantage of her voluminous robes to bring in items they would need and smuggle out what they wanted to take on their journey. Apart from gold, weapons, and the
bozkashi
cap Dil Assa had given him, Ross wanted to save only his journals, which recorded his observations on Turkestan and its inhabitants. They were, however, discreetly silent on the much more interesting subject of his personal life.

Two things made Ross’s confinement bearable. The most important was the nights with Juliet, which were passionate and fulfilling beyond anything he had dreamed possible, and were equally rich in the subtler, more enduring rewards of companionship. Though death was an ever-present threat, in a way Ross had never been happier in his life. He supposed that death itself was what made each moment with his wife infinitely precious; it was as if a lifetime of possible happiness was being compressed into a handful of enchanted hours.

But their oasis of joy was surrounded by invisible barriers more impassable than the mud-brick walls of the nayeb’s compound. The subjects which must not be mentioned included much of the past, all of the future— and neither of them ever spoke of love.

Ross’s other diversion was the friends who continued to visit him at the nayeb’s house. He was grateful, for in a city saturated with spies, it took some courage to call on a man under the amir’s displeasure. Two or three guards were always in the reception room where Ross received guests, which tended to inhibit discourse, and all conversations had to be carried on in Persian so the guards could understand what was being said.

Ross found that his ability to understand Uzbeki made for interesting eavesdropping. The guards had put together some sort of betting pool on the subject of whether Lord Khilburn would be executed outright or put in the Black Well, and if the latter, how long he would survive.

No one offered to bet on the proposition that the ferengi might leave Bokhara in good health.

Three days had passed since Juliet’s meeting with the Kasems. As usual, she was out. Ross had spent the afternoon playing chess with an Armenian merchant whose stately demeanor masked a killer instinct for “the game of kings.” The Armenian’s first visit had been a courtesy call on a fellow Christian, and since he and Ross had enjoyed each other’s company, the merchant had come often since. Ross was just saying good-bye to him when three more friends arrived.

The newcomers were prominent in the local Jewish community and included Ephraim ben Abraham, whom Ross had met on his earlier visit to Bokhara. At that time Ephraim had asked Ross to take a letter to England and give it to Moses Montefiore, a financier and philanthropist whose fame reached even to Turkestan. Montefiore had sent a reply to the Bokharans, and eight years later the parties were still in occasional communication with each other.

When Ross arrived in Bokhara for the second time, he had been invited to Ephraim ben Abraham’s home. After thanking Ross for his part in establishing the correspondence with London, Ephraim had asked for the latest news of the British philanthropist, so Ross had offered the story of how Montefiore had been knighted by Queen Victoria in spite of opposition from some of her ministers. The young queen had declared that a Briton was a Briton, no matter what his religion, a sentiment that was received with great approval in Bokhara.

Even more popular was the story of how the newly dubbed Sir Moses, wearing his ceremonial robes as Sheriff of London and Middlesex, had personally carried a kosher chicken into the Guildhall so that he could dine with the other dignitaries without breaking the dietary laws of his faith. The listeners had roared with laughter and Ross had since been asked to tell the story several times at other people’s homes. Now that he was confined, his friends called on him instead.

After the usual elaborate greetings and ceremonial cups of rosewater-flavored tea, Ephraim ben Abraham said, “Honored Khilburn, pray do us the honor of singing a Hebrew song, for your voice is sonorous and sweet.”

Ross gave Ephraim a puzzled glance, for it seemed an odd request. As a boy, he had coaxed the local vicar into teaching him Hebrew, which was the only Middle Eastern language available in the wilds of Norfolk, but while his knowledge had endeared him to the Bokharan Jews, he had never sung for them. Still, he had been in the school choir when he was a boy, and he enjoyed singing, so he began one of his favorite psalms.

As senior officer in the household, Yawer Shahid Mahmud was above menial tasks like guard duty, but every day he stopped by for an hour or two so he could glower at the ferengi. He was present now, talking with his subordinates on the other side of the reception room. After hearing a few bars of the psalm, he broke off his conversation and raised a hand to stop Ross. Suspiciously he asked, “What are you saying?”

Ross obligingly translated the words, starting with,
“By the rivers of Babylon we sat down and wept, for we remembered Zion.”
By the time he reached,
“How can we sing the Lord’s song in a strange land?,”
Shahid had lost interest. With a snort, he turned his back and resumed his conversation.

Ross started the song again. By the time he was halfway through, his throat was tight, for the sense of exile that the ancient words conveyed struck close to his heart. Perhaps a different psalm would have been better.

When he was done, there was a deeply respectful silence. Then Ephraim said, “Many thanks, honored Khilburn. Now I shall teach you a hymn of the Jews of Turkestan. I will sing a line, then my friends will sing the refrain. It is simple and you will be able to learn it easily.”

After the first few phrases, Ross was able to join in with the others. As Ephraim had said, the song was simple, a prayer of rejoicing. After a bored glance, none of the Uzbek guards paid attention.

When the hymn was done, Ephraim beamed at Ross. “Excellent. Now we will do another, more complicated song. If you do not understand the words, just ask me to repeat them.” His expression became intent. “You understand?”

Beginning to be intrigued, Ross nodded.

Plaintively Ephraim chanted in Hebrew, “
I have just learned that not one but two Europeans were condemned to the Black Well, though they had committed no crime.”

His two friends intoned, “
The Mighty of the Mighty is He
.”

“One was thy brother,”
Ephraim sang,
“the other an officer of great Russia.”

Arrested, Ross stared at his visitors, too startled even to join in the following refrain.

Catching Ross’s gaze with his own, Ephraim continued,
“One prisoner was taken to the place of execution, where he died proclaiming his faith, may peace be upon him.”

The other men chorused, “
The Blessed of the Blessed is He
.”

Ross’s heart began pounding as he realized that this was no song, but a bold attempt to pass information under the very noses of his guards, in the guise of liturgy. And the message was a stunning one.

“The other man still endures the living death of the Black Well,”
Ephraim sang,
“but no one knows his name.”

Unable to listen in silence any longer, Ross interrupted tensely, “Excuse me, I did not catch the words of the last line. Does it go like this?” A slight tremor in his voice, he asked,
“You do not know which man lived and which man died?”

His visitor answered sadly,
“Alas, I do not. Witnesses who knew both men were there at the fatal hour, but they cannot agree which one was killed.”

The others chimed in, “
The Great One of the Great is He
.”

Once more Ross put a question.
“And the survivor still dwells in the Black Well?”

“Aye, he lives, more than that we cannot say.”

Ross swallowed hard. When the refrain was over, he said,
“So my brother may yet be among the living.”

“Aye, but he may also be dead. I know only that a European still languishes in the Black Well,”
Ephraim answered.

His friends added, “
The King of Kings is He
.”

Eyes compassionate, Ephraim finished,
“Surely this knowledge is as bitter fruit to thy tongue, but a brother has a right to know his brother’s fate.”

Ross burned with questions, even though they would be futile, since Ephraim had said he knew no more. Before Ross could decide what to say, Abdul Samut Khan entered the reception room.

Immediately Ephraim gave a bland smile. “Please, honored Khilburn, tell us the story of Sir Moses Montefiore’s chicken.”

Before Ross could begin, the nayeb said, “Lord Khilburn, I would like you to join me for an early dinner.” Turning to the Jewish visitors, he said, “Of course, you would also be welcome.”

It was an invitation for form’s sake, and everyone present knew it. Rising to his feet, Ephraim ben Abraham said, “You do us great honor, Abdul Samut Khan, but alas, the dietary laws of our faith forbid our acceptance. It is time we took our leave.”

Ross stood and bade his guests farewell. As he shook Ephraim’s hand, he said quietly, “I thank you for your songs. I shall carry them in my heart always.”

“As your songs will be in our hearts,” Ephraim replied.
“Shalom,
my brother Khilburn.”

As they left, Ross knew that he was unlikely to see the three again, for in a few days he would be gone or dead. Then the nayeb made an impatient gesture and Ross pulled his chaotic thoughts back to the present. It would take time to think through the implications of what he had just learned, but for the moment it was necessary to play the amiable guest.

In spite of his host’s initial hurry, the meal was a leisurely one. When they had finished eating, Abdul Samut Khan called for a
nargileh,
a water pipe. Smoking in public was a criminal offense, but the custom was common indoors and the nayeb often indulged. This particular
nargileh
was a beautiful specimen with an elaborately cut crystal bowl.

The water burbled softly as the nayeb drew on the flexible tube. He gave a sigh of satisfaction, then withrew his mouthpiece and offered the tube to Ross, along with a fresh ivory mouthpiece for his guest’s use. “Please, join me.”

Ross had never developed a taste for smoking, but at least the water pipe cooled the smoke and made it less objectionable. As he fixed the mouthpiece and inhaled, his host said, “Have you had time to consider the matter we discussed several days ago?”

So Abdul Samut Khan was still hoping to make some profit from his guest. “I have thought it over, and my answer is the same,” Ross replied as he returned the smoking tube. “I have not the gold required, nor the desire to thwart the amir’s will. What shall be, shall be.”

The nayeb’s expression hardened and he inserted his mouthpiece in the tube with a snap. “Yawer Shahid Mahmud will stay here to supervise your confinement. Naturally he is disappointed that he will not go to war with us, but your dignity requires that you be guarded by an officer of rank.” Abdul Samut Khan’s voice dropped. “Though he is in my household, his loyalty is to the amir, and I cannot predict what he might do if the battle reports are not good.”

In other words, Shahid might decide to slaughter his prisoner if the war went badly, Ross accepted the
nargileh
tube and drew a mouthful of mellow smoke, then exhaled it slowly. It sounded like a none-too-subtle attempt to frighten Ross into bolting. And it was a good threat; if Ross’s only choice was between Shahid and Abdul Samut Khan, he would choose the nayeb, who might possibly do what he was bribed to do. But luckily there was another choice. “I appreciate your concern for my welfare, but with your artillery skills, surely the Bokharan army cannot help but triumph.”

“You have a smooth tongue, Lord Khilburn.” The nayeb gave a reluctant smile. “I cannot decide whether you have great innocence or great guile. But enough of gloomy topics. On a more pleasant note, I intend to give a small feast for a few friends the night before the army leaves. It will take place in my gardens and there will be music and dancers—Persian dancers, who are much more skilled than those of Turkestan. You shall find it most enjoyable. To go to war is to risk death, so one should celebrate life. As the great Persian poet Omar Khayyam said,
”Make the most of what we have to spend, Before we into dust descend.“
Is that not so?”

Ross smiled to hear the same verse he had quoted to Juliet. On this he and his host were in complete agreement.

When Ross returned from dining with Abdul Samut Khan, Juliet waited until he had barred the door, then pulled off her veil and came over to give him a hug. “It has been a successful day,” she murmured as she wrapped her arms around his broad chest. She never tired of touching him. “I had no trouble leaving the city, and our rifles and ammunition were right where we left them. Now everything is hidden on the Kasem estate, just waiting for us. In two days, Saleh and Reza will be leaving for Persia, and three days after that, we’ll be on our way home.”

Ross didn’t respond to the remark, just held her tightly and buried his face in her hair. Juliet’s brows drew together. “Has something happened?”

“I’m afraid so.” He released her and took off his coat. “And I don’t honestly know if it is good news or bad.”

Intrigued but unalarmed, Juliet followed Ross as he went into the bedroom. Picking up her comb, she plumped down on a silk cushion. “So it can’t be that bad. Tell me about it.”

Ross pulled off his cravat, then wearily rubbed the back of his neck with one hand. “I was visited by Ephraim ben Abraham and two of his friends today. They told me that not one but two Europeans were imprisoned in the Black Well. One was Ian, the other a Russian officer, and one of the two was executed while the other was spared.” He took a deep breath. “The hell of it is, they don’t know which was which.”