Sinbad and The Eye of the Tiger (2 page)

The ambassador leaned forward and whispered to his companion, “Who is that with Queen Zenobia?”

“Her son Rafi,” the noble answered. He seemed disinclined to add any more and the European ambassador stepped back. He watched as the procession came to the throne dais and went to their stations. He saw Rafi glance to the side, near him, and the curious ambassador followed the look, which seemed to have some significance. He saw a man, dressed in rich clothing, but somehow not looking at home in the silks and brocades. His hands were scarred and callused, as few nobles’ were, and the ambassador grew very interested.

Commoners were sometimes elevated to the purple for unusually meritorious service in every country, and indeed, the ambassador thought, many kings had been generals before ascending to the throne. Or there were kings whose fathers or great-grandfathers had been ambitious commoners who amassed the loyalty of an army or the gold of trading and connived or murdered their way to the throne. That a prince had a friend whose hands told more of him than his clothing was no surprise to the ambassador. Such men had their uses, and the ambassador had often employed them himself, though not against his own liege lord. His curiosity aroused, the ambassador edged his way past the incense burner, ducked under a cluster of hanging oil lamps, and moved closer to the throne, stopping behind a carved pillar.

The musicians had joined the others in the alcove, sitting cross-legged on the thick rugs. The courtiers prostrated themselves on the floor before Kassim as he walked the last few steps to the throne dais. They kissed the carpet and tile under them, their voices murmuring, “Peace be upon you,” in a ragged chorus.

The ambassador lost the hard-handed noble in the crowd as they moved to prostrate themselves, but his attention was caught by a one-eyed officer, a lean, dark man with the air of command about him. A patch covered one eye, but the other eye was as alert as a hawk’s. As the ambassador prostrated himself between a turbaned baron and a bejeweled general, he saw the one-eyed officer’s hand touch his dagger, as if to verify it was ready to hand. The ambassador’s heart began to pound.
Something was up!

The High Priest, attended by others, ascended the dais and stood by the throne, holding the crown upon a purple pillow. The incense smoke hung in the air like-drifting light as the young prince turned from the homage and mounted the steps to the ornate and ancient throne. Two courtiers behind the prince arranged his long train skillfully, spreading it artistically down the low steps as he sat upon the throne.

The prince, smiling slightly, inclined his head toward his sister Farah, at the foot of the dais. She acknowledged his look with pride and encouragement and the light that shone from her eyes was that of love. The prince then bent his head toward Balsora, the Vizier, in the faintest of bows, the proper sort of recognition given by a king.

Then the prince looked out oyer the heads of the people and the High Priest began the coronation. If he saw Balsora lean over to whisper to the one-eyed officer he gave no sign. The two astrologers moved to the brazier. One lifted the lid and placed it nearby while the other, saying a prayer in the sing-song of priests everywhere, gestured with his ringed hands over the glowing coals.

The coals began to glow more hotly, their light building, reflecting off the bearded faces of the brightly robed astrologers. The incense began to intensify, spreading still more streamers of pungent aroma throughout the great throne room.

The High Priest lifted the crown from the silken pillow, which was taken by the aides. He held it high and a roll of drums filled the high-ceilinged throne room. The High Priest held the crown over Kassim’s head and began intoning an ancient oath.

Something made the European ambassador turn his head. At the edge of the dais, partially hidden in shadow, stood the veiled Zenobia. Her eyes burned with such a hatred that the ambassador gasped to himself. He saw her look at the brazier between the two astrologers and his own eyes went to the burning coals.

Smoke curled from it, boiled in gray clouds, wafting over the turbaned and helmeted heads of the throng that stood watching the coronation. The ambassador saw Rafi look from the brazier to his mother, then to Kassim, an expression on his face that the bearded European found difficult to analyze.

The High Priest was intoning a prayer as he placed the crown upon the head of the prince, anointing him Caliph. As the crown touched Kassim’s head a sheet of flame shot from the brazier, startling everyone. They recoiled in fear. The ambassador staggered as the men about him cursed and moved back.

Then a woman’s scream sliced through the air.

Balsora gasped. The one-eyed officer drew his dagger and took a step toward the throne, a curse upon his lips. Farah screamed again, a scream that became a throttled cry of incredible fear and loathing. The ambassador was buffeted by the throng, but through a split he saw Rafi, a slight smile upon his face. He looked toward his mother and the ambassador twisted around, then himself gasped in fear.

In the shadows and flickering light Zenobia’s eyes seemed like those of a great tiger. The European was certain it was but a trick of the swirling smoke, flickering oil lamps, and the reflections from the gold-encrusted walls of the throne room. But the effect was still startling. He staggered, once again struck by the struggling bodies pulling back from the throne. Through the incense he caught a glimpse of what was upon the throne.

I
t was night, but the men scrambling over the side of the ship had not been given leave for many weeks. The waters of the bay lapped against the side of the ship and made the small boat bob. One of the last men into the boat carried a small monkey on his shoulder, a present for a woman ashore who he hoped would remember him. His mates had jeered good-naturedly at him for weeks, saying that Aboo-seer’s woman would have forgotten all about him, or would more readily take the monkey as her lover than the burly sailor.

They all looked toward the city eagerly. It was an ancient city, its origins lost in time and legend. A crescent moon silvered the bulbous domes and slender towers of Charak and glittered in a long path across the still, dark sea that all but surrounded the high-walled town. The thick stone walls were dark and silent, the mossy edges unseen in the darkness.

A flutter of black night birds passed across the moon as the long boat came toward the jetty. A harsh and sinister cawing cleft the night and echoed off the smooth stones of the main gate. But the tough, good-natured sailors ignored the high dark walls, their eyes on the tent city before the walls. There was a bustle of activity around the cooking fires before the tents. Men were drinking and eating in the company of boldly unveiled native girls. There was the buzz of conversation heard by the sailors as they tied off their long boat and scrambled onto the worn stone jetty. They strode toward the land, grinning in anticipation, hearing the music that came in sinuous waves from the tents.

One man strode ahead of the others, followed by his mates, and from a group of musicians at the head of the jetty came a cry.

“Sinbad!” They waved and the leader of the sailors grinned back at them.

One of the bearded sailors called to Sinbad, “Why the haste, Captain? The city will not vanish!”

The man with the monkey, Aboo-seer, turned to the speaker. “It is not the city of Charak he is anxious to see, Hassan—but someone who resides within!”

Maroof, a muscled black sailor, grinned. “The poet has said, ‘Love makes the heart fly!’ ”

Sinbad looked back at his men. “After a long voyage—” he grinned—“it is good to stretch one’s legs.”

Hassan snorted as they climbed the shore and went into the cluster of low, dark Bedouin tents. “The only good thing in this port is the Inn of Jamil-the-Squint.” He licked his lips. “For six months I have dreamt of his roasted sheep’s eyes . . .”

“. . . and I of the eye of his daughter!” Aboo-seer exclaimed happily. The men laughed and Sinbad looked over his shoulder.

“You dreamt of more than that when you bought her a monkey in Calcutta!” Aboo-seer laughed as Hassan clapped him on the back.

The sailors exchanged greetings with the Bedouins, who called out “Welcome to Charak!” and hailed Sinbad by name. Sinbad strode on, his eyes glancing up toward the dark walls as he left the tents, with some of his men following. One by one the sailors were diverted by the bold blandishments of the women, by merchants and others who offered food and drink. Dancing girls were caught up in the sudden flurry of activity and swirled their way onto carpets spread over the sand of the shore, their hips swaying seductively and the bodies moving in increasingly more erotic movements. The musicians who were sleeping came back to their drums and flutes and soon the entire encampment was a flurry of music and laughter.

Aboo-seer stopped Sinbad as they started up the embankment toward the city walls. “Captain, wait! My mouth is dry—”

“Mine, too!” Hassan added. He gestured back toward the tents. “Let us stop and sample the wines of Charak—”

“My thirst is the thirst of a thousand men!” the black-skinned Maroof said in his deep voice.

Sinbad laughed. “Stop and drink here and I promise you will go no further.” He grinned at them. “Remember the last time?”

He turned away and started up the path again. The others reluctantly followed, casting glances back at the tents where their mates were already caressing the muscled bellies of dancing girls and swilling wine. Hassan laughed at Aboo-seer. “They stripped you of all your possessions!”

Aboo-seer grunted. “Because of that I added four more eunuchs to the population . . . and subtracted another!”

They all shared the joke, often told in the weeks at sea, as they followed Sinbad. But then Maroof stopped. The others glanced back at him.

The black sailor gestured toward the tents and campfires. Over the jingle of dancers’ costumes and the beat of drums he said, “All the paradise I seek is here!” He gestured them on. “Allah go with you. I shall stay behind.”

The other sailors laughed and waved as Maroof turned back. They were approaching the heavy timbers and ornate bronze knobs of the big gate when they heard a rumble of laughter as Maroof joined the others below.

Here, at the base of the dark city walls, there were a few tents, quiet and dark, where Bedouins slept. A few dusty camels sat with imperious heads, looking at the night intruders with lofty and unfathomable expressions. Some mules grazed morosely nearby, disturbed by the night birds’ cries and the entry of the sailors into their dark encampment

Aboo-seer grunted. “Why is the gate closed?”

Sinbad looked around, puzzled, glancing up at the stars to tell sailor’s time. “Curfew is not until midnight.”

A dog appeared, scrawny and wary. It stopped, then slunk its way back into the shadows, its eyes upon the three men. Hassan stepped back and scanned the ramparts above. “All silent . . . and no sentries about.”

Sinbad strode to the gate and hammered at it with his fist. His voice, toughened by years on a pitching deck, shouting over thunderous waves and the whine of winds, bellowed out. “Ho there! Captain of the Watch! Open the gate!”

Hassan and Aboo-seer stepped forward to help hammer and to add their rough voices to the cry.

“It is Sinbad,” Hassan bellowed. “Friend to the Caliph Kassim!”

Aboo-seer’s hard fists thumped the heavy timbers. “And a better friend to the Princess Farah!”

At another time Sinbad might have given the monkey-laden Aboo-seer a friendly cuff for his impudence, but now he was worried. The sixth sense that had so often saved him from harm rang an alarm in his mind. He started to turn even as he heard a voice come from behind.

“Captain Sinbad . . .”

The three sailors turned and all of them had their hands upon their daggers or swords, weapons worn easily and as much a part of them as their clothes.

“You know me?” Sinbad said to the dark figure emerging from the shadows between two tents.

“I am a merchant,” the man said in a bland voice. “I hope to purchase some of the cargo you will unload tomorrow.” Sinbad saw his face dimly, a lean, handsome young man. A memory stirred within him, a faint memory of having seen this dark-clad figure before, on a previous visit. Was Rafi his name? Before Sinbad could ask, the youth gestured toward the closed gate.

“No one is to be admitted to Charak after sunset,” he said apologetically.

“But why?” asked Sinbad.

“The plague.” The young man shrugged. “Many have died.”

Aboo-seer spat in disgust, then patted his agitated monkey. “Each time we put into this port some misfortune strikes us.”

“Plague!” Hassan said, spitting to ward off the evil spirits.

“The will of Allah . . .” The young merchant sighed.

“The Caliph Kassim and his sister, Princess Farah,” Sinbad asked. “Are they . . . ?”

“They are well,” the dark-clad stranger said quickly. “But . . . Kassim is not the Caliph . . .” He hesitated, then added, “Not yet . . .”

Sinbad frowned and was aware his hand had not left his sword. “I was told in Jerash that the Caliph . . . Kassim’s father . . . died three months ago.”

“True,” the young man nodded. “But Kassim has not yet been crowned.”

Hassan stepped to Sinbad’s side and muttered in his ear. “Captain, we had best return to the ship.”

Aboo-seer added his assent. “Aye, best to leave and sell our cargo elsewhere.”

Sinbad shook his head. “I’m not leaving Charak until I see Princess Farah . . . and Kassim.”

Hassan spread his hands. “But . . . but it’s the plague! You know I’ll face anything a sword can kill . . . but the
plague . . . !”

Sinbad turned to the young man who had accosted them at the gate. “Is there another way into the town? A sally port? Some secret passage that a few gold coins might knock ajar? A lovers’ trysting spot where the walls are low?”

The young Charakian shook his head. “No. But if you wish to take the risk . . .” His voice was hesitant and by his manner he challenged their courage in a subtle fashion. “Perhaps you may enter at daybreak when the curfew is lifted. Until then we can only offer to relieve your disappointment.” He gestured toward the tents below. “My tent has wine, food, and music.” He bowed slightly, his face hidden in the faint moonlight. “My people are your servants . . . please . . . be welcome.”