# Rusudan/Chapter 5

pp. 103–110.

### CHAPTER V
#### THE MESSAGE

HUGH followed the man toward Tphilis. The torch made deeper the night mist, and his guide was silent as the chapel of the ikons wherein lay the body of the late king. They halted at a wall of gray stone until a postern door opened and bearded spearmen peered at them curiously; then they plunged into alleys where lights bobbed forth and disappeared, and the smells were of mastic and charcoal and steaming rice. Below them somewhere a river swirled and roared and ice crackled.
The night was full of sound and half-seen shapes—a queer little priest with a full beard and rosy cheeks and a veil that fell from his sugar-loaf hat to his plump shoulders; a bold-eyed Jew clutching his shuba about him with one hand and dragging a laden donkey with the other.
All the men who thronged the narrow streets bore weapons, and all ceased talking to stare after the crusader with his heavy sword. Then they crowded past the stalls of merchants—Armenians selling embroidery beside hawk-nosed Moslems of Daghestan who sat among curved kindhjals and gleaming yataghans, and leather, tasseled shields.
And the snatches of talk that reached his ears seemed the very gossip of Babel, harsh Arabic mingling with plaintive Persian, and an oath compounded of all the saints in the Greek calendar. His guide turned aside from the alleys and plunged up into deeper mist. The tumult of the river and restless men subsided, and Hugh could hear distant church bells chiming slowly.
He saw that the road they ascended was hewn out of sheer rock, and full of turnings. He guessed it was the ramp of a castle, before they reached a stone gate and passed under the jaws of the lifted portcullis. In the half darkness of an outer courtyard the guide laid hand on the charger's rein.
Hugh listened to the steady tramp of men-at-arms along the parapet over his head and he drew a long breath of satisfaction. After twelve years of wandering he stood at last within the walls of Christian folk.
A young Georgian emerged from a door with a serving knave bearing a lanthorn, and the crusader was led through the halls of the donjon to a chamber where a fire glowed on the hearth and the Georgian esquire-at-arms brought him food and wine and a silver basin of water.
“The mighty lord,” he said in barbaric Greek, “awaits you. Eat, therefore, and robe yourself.”
Hugh satisfied a huge hunger, but change his apparel he could not, lacking other garments than the ones he stood in, and the eyes of the Georgian widened when he rose in his worn steel hauberk and stained leather gambeson and wet leg-wrappings. Even the steel of the light helm he carried on his arm was dark with oil and weathering, and had more than one dent in it.
“Lead, youth,” quoth Hugh, picking up the sword Durandal in its stained leather scabbard with his free hand, “to this mighty lord.”
IN THE hall of the donjon a hundred pairs of eyes paid tribute to the fairness of Rusudan, child of the race of Karthlos, Keeper of the Gate.
Armenian elders, Georgian thawads and aznaurs, Circassian and Avar chieftains from the higher ranges, and the many vassals of Ivan, whose family ruled the domain about Tphilis—all these were standing in the rushes of the lower hall. The upper end of the hall was raised, and covered with rich carpets. Oil-lamps flared and smoked in their niches in the wall that was adorned to the rafters with weapons and heads of boar and stag.
The long table had been cleared of food, and the three men who sat in converse, glancing from time to time at the entrance, were sipping wine from silver goblets. The central figure was Ivan, or John the Constable, Protector of Georgia, who alone of the three wore mail.
Small of stature, he sat erect, seldom moving hand or head. A cloak of good gray homespun was cast over his chair, and the weapon-bearer behind him held a short, black ax, heavy and whetted to a keen edge. Like the ax, the face of the constable was broad and heavy and unchanging—a curling jaw, a beak of a nose and grizzled hair close-clipped. A daring man and obstinate.
“The envoy of the Khan!”
So cried the young squire, stepping into the hall. The uproar of talk died away to a murmur. At one end of the table an aged Katholicos in black robe and glittering cope set down his goblet of wine and stroked his beard.
Opposite the priest, Rusudan turned her head to look down the hall. Troubled and anxious she might be, but gave no outward sign of it as she sat, her high-backed chair raised a little above the others, her clasped hands hidden in long embroidered sleeves of whitest linen, a scarlet over-robe hanging from her thin shoulders, the mass of her brown hair penned by a silver fillet studded with square turquoise. Against her breast was the weight of a great emerald, cut in the form of a shield. Silent she must be, for Ivan's was the power, but in the admiring eyes of the Khaukesh chieftain she was the child of their king and the seal of their loyalty.
At Hugh they stared angrily as he advanced to the steps of the upper hall and bent his head to John the Constable, who acknowledged the salute curtly.
An Italian at the left of the protector rose and greeted the crusader courteously.
“Ivan of Georgia bids me welcome you to Tphilis, Sir Envoy.”
Hugh saw that this was a Genoese, punctilious in finest linen and velvets, his dark curls oiled, his eyes shrewd—a man who would take much and give little, but master of all the amenities of life. Since the other addressed him in the lingua franca that was the common speech of the crusaders, it must be known in Tphilis that he was a Frank, serving the Mongols.
“To John the Constable,” said Hugh at once, “I bear greeting from Subotai Bahadur, marshal of Genghis Khan.”
When the Italian, who was called della Trevisani, had translated this, Hugh was bidden to come to the table, where he stood facing the constable.
“It is passing strange,” observed the Genoese, “that a Frankish knight should find service in the pagan Horde.”
To this Hugh made no answer.
“And where,” went on Trevisani, “is the warranty of your mission?”
Hugh touched the falcon tablet at his throat, and the constable looked at him curiously.
“The protector,” Trevisani hastened to explain, “is pleased to say you have the seeming of a potent warrior—a noble who hath seen service in war.”
The crusader inclined his head, and John the Constable spoke again.
“Where is the message of the Mongol?” the Genoese interpreted. “Is it written in Arabic?”
“It is not written. It was said to me.”
“Ha! And what?”
Trevisani bent over the table eagerly, and the throng of chieftains, sensing happenings, crowded closer.
Hugh faced the Lord of Tphilis.
“Thus says Subotai Bahadur: 'Our horses are swift, our arrows sharp and our hearts hard as yonder mountains. It is ours to command; the Georgians', to obey. Let them not molest us when we pass over the roads of their kingdom.'”
When he had done, Trevisani started, and hesitated before translating. When he had rendered the message in harsh Georgian, the swarthy face of John the Constable grew dark, and he snatched at the ax in the hand of his weapon-bearer.
“Was that all?” the Genoese asked.
Hugh glanced at Rusudan who was sitting bolt upright, her cheeks the hue of the scarlet robe.
“Subotai pledges this,” he answered quietly. “If the Georgians will swear a peace and keep it, the Mongols will do likewise.”
“Has he written that?”
“He can not write,” Hugh explained impatiently, “nor can any of the Horde, except the captive, Rabban Simeon. But he will not violate his pledged word.”
The Georgians who had been muttering behind the crusader now rushed up to the table, clutching sword hilts and roaring their rage, while John the Constable crashed the flat of his ax upon the table and set all the goblets to dancing. The patriarch raised a quivering hand and seemed to bless the tumult, while Rusudan twisted her fingers in her white sleeves, her eyes shining.
It was John the Constable who thrust back the unruly nobles and stepped to Hugh's side.
“Bold are you,” the modulated voice of the Genoese translated the grim words, “to bear such defiance to Tphilis. Harken, now, to the answer.”
The tumult quieted while warriors and serving knaves alike held their breaths to listen. The constable signed to the third man at the table and together they went to stand at Rusudan's chair and talk, low voiced. Hugh uttered an exclamation when he looked more closely at John's companion.
The Georgians around him nudged one another, and a bearded Circassian whispered to his neighbor—
“Daroga Padishah.”
The officer of the emperor! Hugh had heard there were Greeks at Tphilis, and surely this was one of high rank. So much he knew by the man's white cloak edged with scarlet, by his leggings bound with gold cord and the jeweled medals that gleamed on his chest. Rusudan spoke to the twain, but her glance went over the throng and rested on Hugh defiantly.
She lifted her head and cried one word, and the hall rang with the approval of her chieftains. Fifty swords were snatched forth and raised overhead, and the warders at the door, taking heart from the sight, began to clash their axes against their shields. Rusudan stood up, and the Georgians cried her name until she stretched out her hands to them, tears in her eyes.
“Thus,” observed della Trevisani at Hugh's ear, “is the pagan Khan answered. You will perceive, my Frank, that it means war.”
Rusudan summoned her women and swept from the hall, and at every step the warriors cheered her. Though Hugh watched the girl's every motion, she ignored his presence, and shrewd Trevisani saw the knight's lips tighten.
“Ha, my Frank, a firebrand, that royal child. The constable makes the decision, but it is for Rusudan that these mountaineers would willingly be hewn in pieces—or boiled and salted down, for that matter.”
Meanwhile the constable approached the envoy.
“No need of delay,” he said curtly. “If the Mongol ventures into the Kaukesh he will be driven out by Georgian swords.”
Hugh lifted his hand.
“My Lord,” he responded slowly, “God give you fortune of your choice. You have spoken bravely—and heedlessly.”
“Rusudan hath spoken, and the thawads and azaurs, the princes and nobles, have echoed her choice. Messer Frank, you will bear our answer hence on the morrow.”
Hugh had been brought to Tphilis in a heavy mist at evening, and would doubtless be led away before he could have a fair sight of the stronghold that was the gate of Europe.
“Lord Prince,” he said bluntly, “men say you are wise in battle. The Horde is not like other foes. Is the answer yours—or a young girl's, echoed by her henchmen?”
The broad chin of John the Constable thrust out and his powerful hands gripped the ax.
“By the tomb of Tamar—it is mine! What would you, Frank?”
“This! I have seen the host of the caliphs melt away before the onset of the Horde. Take thought, my Lord Constable, for your villages and the lives that are in your charge.”
“Now, by all the saints!” John the Constable laughed harshly. “Doth a warrior of Frankland cry truce?”
“Aye, so.” Hugh folded his long arms on the handguard of Durandal and looked into the faces that pressed close to him—like his own, bearded and scarred and weather-worn. “Messers, many days have I spent in the Horde. And I know there is a mighty power in the Mongol onset. They reck not of death, nor do they yield them captive. They seek no war with ye, but mean to find a way through the Khaukesh. I say to ye, wait—for two days or three—and do not answer out of hand.”
When this was interpreted by the Genoese, the men of Tphilis murmured anew.
“Truce with pagans is not to be thought upon!”
“A renegade! Look that he play not the part of a spy.”
“'Tis said he was a warrior of the Cross. He bears no sign upon him—no device upon shield or shoulder.”
But the regent of Georgia smote the flat of his battle-ax against the table.
“Ho, in three days shall the Khan be answered fittingly! And you, Sir Conscience-Keeper, will know our mind.”
IN A corner tower of the donjon Trevisani and the Greek burned low their candles, sitting late over a board of chess, until their servitors dozed by the door.
The eyes of the Genoese played restlessly over the miniature warriors of ivory and ebony, wandered to the curtains of the door, to the flickering candles and swept ever and anon over the dark and lean countenance of Choaspes the strategos, the general of the eternal emperor. Choaspes was strategos of the Khaukesh region, the eastern frontier of the Greek empire. And the edge of his white silk cloak was dyed so deep a scarlet that it looked more like the imperial and forbid den purple.
“Your high Excellency,” observed Trevisani, pushing forward one of the tiny horsemen that were the pawns, “is listless this night.”
“By the wreath and the belly of Bacchus,” murmured the Greek, “I am colder than a Hyrcanian tiger, if ever there were such a beast.”
He drew a sable wrap over his shapely shoulders and cursed the brazier that gave out, as he truthfully said, more smoke than smell, and more smell than heat.
“To think, Messer Antonio, that my galley is laid up at the Golden Chersonese, with fat Philipo killing flies and drinking my best Cyprian, his only worry the price of slave girls at Tanais and the vagaries of the dice box. He always was unlucky, but now he hath all the best of it.”
Choaspes had the full throat, the curling lips and the level eyes of a Greek, but the ruddy color under his swarthy skin bespoke Persian blood. He was rather proud of his slender hands, which were adorned with rings of matched opals set in gold.
“The Chersonese,” he sighed, “would be gay just now with the new year's feasts, and I hear the emperor is there to take the mud baths.”
“The health of his eternal Magnificence is not of the best?”
“By Hercules, no!”
“Ah, but is not your Excellency's illustrious family the Comneni, who are the bulwark of elder Rome and the empire itself in Asia? If a successor to Theodore Lascaris—may he live for ten thousand years!—is to be chosen—”
“It will be in the Chersonese, my dear Messer Antonio, where no doubt the very knowing princes are this minute—” he smiled at the merchant—“attending the sick man. A bulwark, Messer Antonio—and I felicitate you upon the apt simile—is never crowned. Only the pillars of the palace are given capitals, whatever their pedestals may be.”
“And still, your Excellency will reflect that a bulwark is venerated, when it stems a flood.”
“Of course. Theodore Lascaris sits on the throne of the Cæsars because he cut to pieces an army of Seljuk Turks a dozen years ago.”
Antonio della Trevisani surveyed the slumbering servitors and smiled.
“At Antioch? I seem to remember that some hundreds of Frankish crusaders won that victory for the eternal emperor. None of them lived to tell of it.”
Choaspes' glittering hand moved over the board and shifted his king from an ebony to an ivory square safe from the attack of the Genoese' bishop.
“Ehu! One lived, but not to tell of it. We sought him and hunted, and a Syrian traced him as far as Jerusalem. There was a price of five thousand bezants on his head, but even the Jews never unearthed him. Crowned a martyr, no doubt, in the Holy City where the Moslem fellows who blotted him out never got a dinar for their pains.”
“Why the price on his head?” Trevisani was interested.
Choaspes fingered the goblet at his elbow and sipped a little wine.
“Eh, we are exiles here among the barbaros, you and I, Messer Antonio. Boon companions, you might say. Still, though a dozen years have passed—” he smiled—“let us say that his most compassionate Majesty desired to reward this solitary Frank fittingly, this young Norman, who was, as I remember, most wayward and daring as an offspring of Mars and Diana—assuming that Diana ever had offspring.”
“Five thousand bezants,” quoth Messer Antonio, fingering his lip, and not perceiving that the Greek had led the talk skillfully from his own political ambitions and the possible death of the emperor. “A goodly sum—”
“That was never paid.”
“A foolhardy youth. Well, the Frank who has found sanctuary in the Mongol Horde is quite the opposite—stoic and cautious.”
“Too stupid to lie and too stubborn to keep silence. The other ventured rashly against the Seljuks with his eight hundred barbarians, whereby all but he, the leader, left their bodies on the field.”
Choaspes knew well enough that the eight hundred crusaders had died because Theodore Lascaris, the Greek emperor, had sacrificed them; but he did not intend to admit as much to the merchant.
“A bold man is usually honest,” commented the Genoese, who was a judge of character, as all money-lenders must be. “What does your Excellency think of his warning?”
“Ask the Sibyl—ask the astrologers. These Georgian mountaineers are barbarians; the Mongols, savages.”
“And horsemen. Is it not true that cavalry can not maneuver in mountain passes?”
“True, Messer Antonio.” Choaspes laughed and sipped again of his wine. “At least, if I am denied the solace of the Golden Chersonese I shall be amused by the coming battle.”
Trevisani breathed an inaudible sigh of relief. Though the strategos was an exquisite, a fop in dress, a cynic in philosophy, he understood thoroughly the waging of war.
“Your Excellency,” ventured Trevisani, “must appreciate the urgent necessity of keeping the Mongols out of—the empire.”
“I do. The gods have arranged the matter beautifully. Ehu, the fire-eating Georgians will destroy the man-eating Mongols.”
It was the duty of the strategos to watch the passes of the Khaukesh and to keep his finger on the pulse of the Georgians. The day was long since past when the legions of Pompey and Justinian had made their camps in the shadow of the mountain girdle of Tphilis. Now the soldiery of the Empire was kept under arms at home, around Constantinople and the sacred person of Theodore Lascaris.
And the host of the empire numbered its barbarian Northmen and Goths and wild tribesmen, as well as Greeks, and of late the coffers and ships of Genoa had revived the failing strength of the last of the Cæsars.
“Our interests lie together in this,” murmured the merchant. “John the Constable must not make truce with the invaders.”
The strategos raised his eyes.
“Our interest?”
“You promised him the aid of the empire,” observed Trevisani. “How?”
The strategos bent over the chessmen. He had no armed strength with him at Tphilis, and little at Trebizond, the nearest Greek port. In various wars the Georgians had served under the standards of the empire, loyally, because the Holy City of Constantinople was still the Mecca of their faith. Nevertheless, Georgia was a kingdom and jealous of its liberty.
“Ask, in the Chersonese,” he said slowly, and Trevisani sank back in his chair. It was not well to inquire too closely into the secrets of the emperor.
“And yet,” resumed the strategos, “here in the Khaukesh a child has done my work for me. The chit Rusudan has fired the blood of these mountaineers. She is old enough to delight in the love of men, and too young to dread the sting of wounds.”
Trevisani glanced at his companion shrewdly.
“Eh, a tearing little beauty! Her eyes have not missed you.”
“But they, my good Comptor, are not yet the eyes of a woman. And she is a mere bundle of whims and—affection. She hugs the flea-ridden hunting dogs and sheds tears with the Gipsy wenches.”
“And still, she is beautiful—” Trevisani wagged his long head knowingly—“as shining gold.”
“A poor simile. Say rather, pallid, edged steel that wounds when you grasp it. A real lure, my dear Antonio, lies in these round-armed and wanton Circassian girls with not a thought in their yellow heads save for sweetments and perfumes.”
“Eh—eh!” Trevisani blinked and smiled as if he, too, wished to express the charms of the Circassians.
“I have heard that those with sound teeth and delicate skin sell for a hundred and fifty gold pieces at the Chersonese.” He filled his goblet and stood up. “I yield the game to your Excellency. My king is lost. Let us empty a cup—to success.”
“To victory,” smiled the strategos, “for—the emperor.”
He thrust back his chair and reached for the flagon of wine. Even as he did so, a gust of icy air entered the embrasure, and the candles flickered, dying to pinpoints under the blast. Silver crashed and tinkled on the chess-board, and when the candles flared up again the two men saw the flagon on its side and red wine flooding the miniature battlefield.
“A fair portent!” cried the merchant. “Here is blood among the pawns.”
But Choaspes, drawing clear his cloak from the dripping wine, shivered a little.
“These accursed winds!”
Trevisani, taking up a candle, withdrew; and no sooner had the merchant reached his own chamber than he felt in the wallet at his girdle and drew forth a roll of thin parchment, no larger than his finger. Over this he bent eagerly, tracing out the delicate Syraic writing.
   To the merchant Antonio at Tphilis, greeting. Know, most generous patron, that I, Rabban Simeon, have met with the man you were seeking in the eastern caravan roads. Know that he is without doubt the Frank whose death is desired by the eternal emperor. He is to be recognized by his yellow hair, his gray eyes and the straight sword he bears. The search was long; the reward to be bestowed by your generosity is certain. I send this by the hand of Daim, the Tcherkessian horse dealer, who has been promised ten dinars.
This missive had reached the worthy della Trevisani at the last harvest time. Since then he had heard no more from the Syrian physician, who had been seeking patiently for news of the wandering crusader.
“Five thousand pieces of gold,” the Genoese murmured. “And now this Frank hath come to Tphilis. But the proof of his death must be sure. Either his head—or he must be taken to the emperor a captive.”
And Messer Antonio fell to musing. It was not a simple matter to cut the head from the stalwart shoulders of this Frank who was, besides, serving as ambassador of the Khan. Messer Antonio did not wish to see Sir Hugh return to the camp of the Mongols. All things considered, he decided to tempt the crusader to journey with him to Trebizond, and to take ship for the Chersonese. Once on shipboard he could be disarmed and chained and so brought to the emperor.
“Though time presses,” he reflected, “if the emperor lies ill.”
He rolled up the parchment and sought his couch, well content. He was even more pleased two days later when a rumor in the town assured him of the constable's final answer to the Khan. It had been sent down the valley, this answer, in a basket. And the basket held the severed heads of the two Mongol envoys who had been detained outside Tphilis. Messer Antonio now saw his way clear to claim the five thousand pieces of gold.