He waited while I could have counted a slow ten, then said, “Get down. Come in.”
“I would care for my horse first.”
“Alan will do it.” He gestured toward a slim, dark young man with quick, intelligent eyes.
Swinging down, I said, “Take good care of him. He’s a fine animal.”
His eyes lighted up. “Of course,” he said. Then under his breath he warned, “Be careful of my uncle. If you touch Sharasa, he will kill you. And,” he added, “he may kill you, anyway.”
“A man who wishes to kill,” I said, “must also be ready to die.”
Sharasa held the door for me as I entered. Her father was already at the rough board table, pouring wine from a flagon. There was bread on the table, cheese, and a haunch of mutton. Suddenly, I realized I was ravenously hungry. A half hour earlier there had been nothing else on my mind but Sharasa—such influences can be distracting.
He stared at me from the opposite end of the table. “I am Akim,” he said. “This is my valley.”
“And I am Kerbouchard, a soldier.”
“Bah!” he sneered. “There are no soldiers now! In my young days—”
“In your young days,” I said, “the soldiers were no better than now. I will share your food and wine, my friend, but do not think I am one of your goats, or one of those sheep you call men. I am as good a man as you are, or ever were.”
He glared at me, furious. He liked me not one bit, and I liked him no more, nor was I to be put upon by boasting. I could match him, lie for lie, boast for boast. It was true I was no soldier, although trained in arms. My blade had been blooded as a good blade must be, yet at such a time the truth is only for those lacking imagination. If it was war he wanted, I would match him war for war, battle for battle, and lie the better as I was the better read.
Reaching across the table, I took the mug from in front of him and shoved mine at him. “You would poison me,” I said, “before you would try me with a sword. I trust you not at all.”
He tore meat from the slab of mutton before me, but taking out my dagger, I cut thin slices from mine, letting him appreciate its razor-edge.
He drank with me, eating some of the bread, but my eyes were busy. These were no simple shepherds, but thieves when opportunity offered. No doubt this place had seen the spilled blood of many an innocent traveler, but I would not be among them.
Akim had the look of a seasoned campaigner, and he would be a dangerous man in battle, but such as he would not be turned aside by soft words. Such as he would kill those who submit, respect only those dangerous to them. My seat, purposely taken, allowed me to watch the door, and no one could come up behind me. Akim had noticed this, and there was surly respect in his eyes.
Sharasa brought more food, a bowl of fruit and some choicer slices of meat. She walked away from me swaying her hips, and Akim swore at her. She flipped a corner of her skirt at him, and he half started from his seat.
“She’s a likely girl,” I said. “Have you found a man for her?”
There was a glassy look to his eyes when she stared back at me. “I will kill the man who touches her.”
I grinned at him, cheerful with filling my stomach. “Is that what the sheep are afraid of? Well, it does not frighten me. She would be worth it. And as for the killing, two can play that game.”
“When you finish eating, get out of here.”
“You mean you have decided against robbing me? Better think again. That’s a fine horse out there.” My dagger slid into my hand, and again I cut a paper-thin slice from the roast. “You might be able to get it, and then again, you might not.”
Sharasa returned with a pitcher of cold goat’s milk. I could see the sweat on the sides of the pitcher. She had taken this from a well or a cave.
Pouring some into my empty cup, I drank, and over the edge of the cup I closed one eye at her. She put her chin up and flounced away.
“I shall stay the night,” I told Akim.
“All right,” he said mildly, and I was wise enough to be afraid.
Akim was no coward, and he had a half-dozen men to help him, but he was accustomed to fear. In the old days he would have met my challenge at once, but he had been spoiled by the fear of those around him, and the idea of facing again a man who was unafraid took some getting used to.
For me the bold way was the only way. Had I come to the valley in fear, I would be dead by now. As for Sharasa, I had no time for dalliance even should such be possible. Yet she was such a woman as could topple kingdoms and lay dukedoms in the dust. Given her presence and manner, with the proper clothing …
Akim got suddenly to his feet and strode from the room. I remained, finishing my goat’s milk. Sharasa came quickly. “You must go! He intends to kill you! I know him!”
“Even with your hair uncombed and in that rag of a dress,” I told her, “you are more beautiful than any princess, and I have seen a few.”
She flushed, and unconsciously, a hand pushed at her hair. “I haven’t—I mean there’s nobody—” She fled from the room.
A few days ago I had been in prison, expecting to be strangled, yet I had escaped. By now half of Spain was searching for me or aware of my disappearance. Too often had death brushed me closely. I had faced it in the Castle of Othman and again on the sheer face of the cliff. Now each moment of life was a moment stolen from eternity. I wished to live, and tonight Akim planned for me to die.
Sharasa could be trouble, yet a woman worth having must be fought for, or stolen.
Akim returned to the room putting a fresh bottle on the table. “More wine?”
Cheerfully, I reached around the bottle to the flagon Sharasa had brought earlier. He liked it none at all, but said nothing. The others came in then, and Sharasa returned. Despite their animosity they were hungry for news, so I told them of Córdoba and Yusuf’s plans to rid the country of banditry.
The various governments of Moorish Spain had been until this time unanimously tolerant, accepting Christians and Jews alike and allowing them to practice their religion. Visigoths who owned land were permitted to keep it, paying only a small tax.
The Almohads, mostly Berbers from North Africa, a strong white people long resident there, were a strict, fanatical lot, and Moorish Spain was changing under their control. Yet there continued to flower there a brilliant society alive with creativity.
Only in the Athens of Pericles, the Alexandria of a few centuries later, the Gupta period in India, or that great Tamil renaissance from 300 B.C. to A.D. 300 had there been such a period as now existed in Moorish Spain.
The Arab mind, deprived of any but casual contact with the world of art and intellect until after the time of Mohammed, was an infinitely curious and acquisitive mind, and the Arabs fell upon knowledge, the science and skills of the Persians and the Central Asiatics, as rapaciously as they had fallen on their enemies with the sword.
Under the caliphs of Islam, scholars were honored as never in the world’s history except, possibly, for some periods in China. This was true in Baghdad and Damascus, in Tashkent and Timbuctoo, in Shiraz, Samarkand, and Córdoba.
Yet now, in this lonely valley in the hills of Spain, I came for the first time to really appreciate the power of the spoken word. So far the sword had been my weapon, and I had not learned that wit and wisdom are keys to open any door, win the heart of any woman.
There is power in the word whether written or spoken, for words can create images for those who have not themselves seen. Carried away, for when was a Celt not eloquent?—I spoke of Cadiz, of Seville and Córdoba. I spoke of the crowded streets, the bazaars, the women, the clothing, the weapons. I spoke of sword dancers and jugglers, of the magic of color, lights, and beauty. The candles smoked and the hours drew on, but all sat spellbound.
And I? I was the captive of my audience, yet not eager to escape, knowing that with every word I made myself more secure, and with every word doors opened wider.