# The Grand Cham (Lamb, Adventure magazine)/Chapter 12
### XII TAMERLANE DECIDES

IT WAS the night set for the Tatar attack. The Lame Conqueror had been riding slowly among his host, listening as was his wont to the talk of the warriors about the camp-fires. Tamerlane, what with his age and the pain of his old injuries, seldom slept.
When the middle watch had ended and quiet had fallen in some degree on the Mongol army, he retired to his small tent and lay down on the plain mattress that served him for a bed. He read slowly, because of his poor sight, the annals of his ancestors and the tales of past battles written down by the chroniclers.
The plan of attack for the coming day had been decided upon, and every khatun had his orders, which in turn were transmitted to the tumani—the commanders of a thousand and to the khans of the hundreds. Tamerlane, however, was restless. News had reached him from the fisher-folk of the river that the Turkish grandees were at revelry, and Bayezid himself had ordered a hunt, even within sight of the Tatar array.
This puzzled the Conqueror.
Impatiently he ordered his ivory and ebony chess-board set before him, then brushed it aside, for there was no one in attendance who could play the mimic game of warfare as Tamerlane desired. He lifted his broad head and signed to a Mongol archer at the tent's entrance.
“Bring hither the Franks. I will pass judgment upon them.”
It would amuse him, perhaps until dawn, to probe the souls of the Christians from the end of the world who had tried to throw dust in the eyes of the conqueror of the world.
He surveyed them grimly as they knelt before him, their finery rumpled by the confinement of the past few days. Fear was plainly to be read in their white faces save that of Bembo. The jester was a philosopher.
Bembo was thinking that Clavijo's Grand Cham had proved to be a strange sort of monarch indeed. Steel and wool that clad Tamerlane's long body were hardly the silks and chrysoliths about which the Spaniard had boasted.
The brazen city of Cathay had become a city of tents. The gold house of the khan was constructed, so Bembo perceived, of bull's hide. And instead of winning wealth, joined with perpetual life, they had been deprived of their own goods—or rather Soranzi had—and bade fair to earn a swift death.
The others had not failed to remind Bembo that Michael Bearn had not appeared as he had promised. To this the jester returned only a wink.
He had recognized Michael in the courier who had come in native attire from Angora. He knew that Michael was in the camp and would seek him out.
The moon was already five days old. “Does this Frank,” Tamerlane observed to the interpreters, indicating Soranzi, “confess that he is a merchant and a thief?”
At this Soranzi, reading Tamerlane's harsh countenance, broke forth into feverish words, which the interpreters explained to their lord.
“Aye, sire. Great Khan. Splendor of the World! O monument of mercy and essence of forgiveness! O Conqueror of Asia. Grant but one small iota of mercy to your slave.”
Tamerlane nodded, unsmiling.
“I will. See yonder weapons?”
“Aye, my lord.” Soranzi's eyes widened at sight of jewel-inlaid simitars and gold-chased helmets and silver camails hung upon the walls of the tent.
“They were taken from my enemies, merchant thief. It will now be the duty of your life to furbish and cleanse the spoil that I shall take. Dog, do you understand? You may smell of the riches you may not taste. Pocket but one zecchin of this store and your bowels shall be let out with a knife. Go, to your work.”
Soranzi trembled and could not refrain from a frantic plea.
“But my goods?”
“Begin by writing down an account of them—for me.”
The Tatar was not lacking in a rough sense of humor. He was naturally merciless, yet he had no love of torture. A man without a god, a man fashioned for dealing destruction, he could still tolerate another man's faith in God, and he admired courage.
“You say that you are a warrior.” He addressed Rudolfo, who was watching him in sullen dread. “Good. You have seen my ranks and the camp of my foe the sultan. Tell me how your Frankish king would plan the battle.”
Rudolfo licked his lips and tried to speak out clearly, but his voice quivered. He described the order of battle of the Italian mercenaries—skirmishing by irregulars, the entrenchment of pikemen behind abattis, the feints and countermarches that produced the bloodless battles of his knowledge.
This recital Tamerlane ended with a grunt of anger.
“I did not ask you how your children played. I will have you placed with the Tatar boys and girls tomorrow by the river, where you may see a battle.”
Glancing contemptuously over Clavijo, he stared at Bembo's sad face and gay attire.
“What kind of man is this?”
The jester rose and bowed ceremoniously.
“I am your cousin, O king,” he stated cheerily.
Tamerlane frowned, puzzled.
“Because,” pointed out the jester, “I am maimed for the fight, whereas you are lame for the flight.”
“If you are maimed, you are useless and need not live.”
“So be it,” agreed Bembo. “I am not afraid. Nevertheless, I would fain set eyes upon my other cousin who is only maimed in the arm.”
“Who is that?” asked the matter-of-fact khan.
“A wiser man, Messer Tamerlane, than all of us put together.”
Tamerlane looked around as if to mark this other Frank. He noticed a helmeted amir who salaamed within the entrance of the tent.
“The other Frank,” announced the new-comer, as Tamerlane signed for him to speak, “seeks admittance to the presence of the Lord of the East and West.”
Two archers of the guard held Michael Bearn by the arms. Bembo and Rudolfo—Soranzi and the Spaniard had been dismissed—stared at him in surprize.
He had grown leaner, his face blackened by the sun. Around his shoulders was a rich fur kaftan and silk trousers covered the tattered bindings of his legs.
The amir who had announced him bowed again before Tamerlane.
“O Kha Khan, we know not this man. Yet, because of his claim, we could not refuse him admittance.” The officer glanced at the silent khan and pointed to Michael. “He claims that he is to play with you at chess—as you play it.”
In contrast to the flowery etiquette of Bayezid's court, Tamerlane, who was impatient of ceremony, always encouraged direct speech. Now he frowned at Michael as if trying to recall something that escaped his mind.
“I have come to play,” assented Michael gravely, “the game that the great khan plays. It is known to me.”
Tamerlane's brow cleared. Michael had spoken in his good Arabic, and with this the Tatar, who liked to read the Moslem annals, was familiar. The Lame Conqueror made a practise of treating well all scholars, astronomers and men of learning whom he took prisoner.
“You are a bold man,” he said. “Three days ago when you came to me as a courier from Angora I ordered that you should not let me see your face again. I gave you horses. Why did not you ride hence?”
Bembo had known that Michael was the horseman who had reached the purple tent in the plain three days before. As Michael had not greeted him at that time Bembo had kept silence, trusting that what his friend did was for the best.
The jester did not know what a desperate game his friend was playing nor that Michael, having heard that evening of Bembo's plight, had resolved to stake their lives on a single throw.
“Because, O Kha Khan,” the Breton rejoined, “it came to my ears that you lacked a man to play at shahk (chess) in the manner of Tamerlane, which is not that of other men of feebler minds.”
THE khan weighed this in silence, then motioned for the amir, the captives and interpreters to withdraw to the farther side of the tent, in the shadow. He signed for the two archers to kneel at either side of the chess-board which lay in front of him under the flickering candles.
“So be it,” he assented grimly. “Frank, set up the men. Your daring earns you the chance. If you have deceived me, and can not play as you profess, these two dogs of mine will cut you in two. Your country-men, Frank, have deceived Tamerlane. Beware lest you do likewise.”
It was a long speech for the blunt Tatar to make. He was interested. His small, black eyes gleamed as he watched Michael squat on his heels before the board. Only the Persian, the Grand Mufti, Nur ud deen Abderrahman Esferaini, who had come to Tamerlane from Baghdad, and the Chinese general of Khoten had been able to cope with the Conqueror on the enlarged board and with the double number of pieces.
Now Tamerlane set up his men swiftly on his side of the board and motioned for Michael to do likewise.
Bembo, whose ready wit had grasped much of what was happening, knew that his friend could not play even the simpler game of chess as brought to Venice by the crusaders of the century before. So the jester grimaced and bit his thumb, invoking the lion of Saint Mark to Michael's aid.
The Breton fingered the array of miniature gold warriors, fashioned in the likeness of tiny horsemen, archers, elephants and rohks—castles—and with a single large effigy of a king. He knew neither the pieces nor their moves.
“Break off the head of one of your arrows,” he ordered an archer.
The warrior hesitated, glancing at his chief, and then obeyed. Michael laid the wooden shaft carefully across the board mid-way between him and Tamerlane.
Then, smiling, he set up the pawns along his side of the arrow's shaft, and behind them the knights. Taking the thin gold chain given him by Contarini from his throat, he placed it near his end of the board, and within its circle the castles and the towering figure of the king.
In the clear space behind the gold circlet he stood up the jeweled castles. Tamerlane surveyed him fixedly, evidently growing angry. The Tatar's pieces had been set up in the orthodox fashion, very different from the queer array of the European's men.
“Explain!” he barked.
Michael touched the arrow. “The Khabur river.” His finger rested on the tiny pawns. “Ships and archers.” He pointed to the gold circlet. “Angora and its troops. Bayezid, the king who is the prize of the game.” Last he indicated the castles. “The sultan's heavy cavalry on the plain of Angora.”
Leaning forward, he ran his finger along the gold pieces—his own were silver. “The army of Timur the Lame, Conqueror of India, and the Caliphate.” He looked at the impassive Tatar. “This is the game that you play, O Kha Khan. And there is no other in the world today who can play it with you—save Bayezid the Sultan. His pieces will I play as he has planned. It is for you to make the first move.”
The lines in Tamerlane's withered face deepened and his black eyes snapped.
“You are a spy!”
“Perhaps. You may call me so.” Michael's thin nostrils quivered, and the smile left his face. “I have been in Angora. I heard the whistling arrow fall. Before that for three years I marched with Bayezid.”
Tamerlane did not shift his gaze. “Proof!”
Thrusting his hand under his kaftan, Michael drew forth the long folds of a Janissery's turban, spotted in places with blood. He pointed to the scars on his wrists.
“A slave, O Kha Khan.” He touched again the gold chain. “A gift for service rendered at Nicopolis where the host of Frankistan was broken by the craft of the sultan. Ten thousand Christians were slain there, after they had been taken captive.”
To this Tamerlane seemed indifferent. One religion, to him, was the same as another. He was trying to judge Michael's purpose. His interest in the strange maneuver of the Christian upon the chess-board still held him passive.
Bembo plucked at the arm of the watchful condottiere.
“See you, Rudolfo, Cousin Michael holds the Cham in leash, but methinks 'tis a thin, silken leash whereby our lives hang——”
Decision had cone to Tamerlane.
“You are an enemy of the Ottoman.”
“Slavery under the Ottoman crippled me.” Michael's gray eyes lighted. He had risked much to lead Tamerlane to make the statement that, spoken first by Michael, must be received with natural suspicion. “His men slew my brothers-in-arms. I have waited six years to strike a blow against him who is the greatest foe of my faith. I have heard in the Angora palace Bayezid boast that he will set your head, O Kha Khan, upon a spear before the Gate of Paradise at Damascus. Yet you alone can humble Bayezid. Will you let me serve you?”
“How?” It was typical of Tamerlane that he did not ask what reward the other might expect. Those who aided the Lame Conqueror received kingdoms; those who failed, death; unless flight saved them, which was seldom.
“It is for the Kha Khan to move.” Michael smiled again and motioned at the chess-board. “The sultan's men have caught a flying pigeon that bore one of your messages to Tatary saying that you would force the passage of the Khabur at Angora and drive Bayezid before you.”
“True. The dog hunts. Aye, after he has seen my army. Disaster will come upon him for that effrontery, and the slaughter of my envoys.” Tamerlane's eyes glowed fiercely. “Our Tatar hearts are mountains, our swords the whirlwind. We count as naught the numbers of our foes. The greater numbers, the greater glory for our chroniclers to write. Aye, thus will Tamerlane move, at dawn——”
His gaunt, calloused hand swept Michael's array of chessmen off the board in a single motion. Michael still smiled. He had won his throw.
“So,” the Breton said, “did the Christian host at Nicopolis attack. Tamerlane has grown blind, and his wisdom is dust before the storm of the Thunderbolt.”
The dark blood flooded into the forehead of the Kha Khan. Veins stood out on his forehead and the yellow around the black pupils of his eyes grew red.
“Think ye, slave, Christian cur—” his deep voice cracked. “Think ye, sucking child, the horsemen of Turan and Iran are like to the mongrels of Frankistan?”
His great hand clenched and writhed in front of the eyes of the younger man who drew back before the vehemence of the Tatar's wrath. The two watchful archers gripped Michael's arms, and Bembo sighed mournfully.
“Is it thus,” said Michael swiftly, “that Tamerlane plays at skahk? You have made your move. I have not made mine. And Bayezid will make such a move. Do not doubt it, my khan.”
The cold rebuke of the Christian wrought upon Tamerlane's anger and he became silent—as motionless as a snake coiled to strike.
“Aye,” snarled Michael, twisting in the grasp of the archers, “your horsemen will sweep across the Khabur, my khan. They will carry the line of boats Bayezid has drawn up along the farther bank and filled with archers, hidden from your sight. Aye, my lord khan. Your warriors of Turan and Iran and the Horde will not be stayed by the trap that Bayezid has set for them in the tents on the shore. Within the tents is an entrenchment of lances sunk into the ground. It will not check your myrmidons.”
He laughed in the face of the old Conqueror.
“And then, verily, your Tatars will carry the town. By midday they will have beaten back the Sipahis stationed on the crest of the Angora plateau. Aye, Timur. But then what? Your ranks will be faced by forty thousand fresh cavalry—the Janisseries. Aye, and by the Mamelukes, hidden in the valleys beyond—the pick of Bayezid's army.”
The black eyes of Tamerlane riveted on Michael's face.
“More than that,” cried Michael, “the line of boats will be ablaze, my Conqueror. Casks of naphtha are hidden within them, to be set alight. Your men will find no water to drink upon the plain of Angora; the river is foul. Your back will be to the river. Bayezid will turn aside from his hunt, which is meant but to cast dust in your eyes, and set his heavy cavalry against your tired and thirsty followers. By nightfall the riders of Turan will be slain or in the river. Aye, there are war-galleys awaiting you, around the upper bend of the Khabur. Your men have never fought against the Turkish ships.”
At this Tamerlane brushed his hand across his near-sighted eyes, and a hissing breath escaped his hard lips.
“Bayezid revels—to make you the blinder,” concluded Michael bitterly. “He ordered your emissaries slain, to anger you to attack. In this manner, not otherwise, will he make of your name a mockery, O Kha Khan, and of your empire—dust.”
For the space of several moments there was complete silence, while a dozen men hung upon the next word of the old Conqueror.
Instead of speaking, Tamerlane rose and limped to the tent entrance, while the guards fell back with lowered heads. He glanced at the stars, marking the hour, and at the dark masses of men assembling under the wan gleam of the new moon, low on the horizon.
“Take the captives hence,” he said at last to his attendants, “save the Frank in the kaftan. Summon Mirza Rustem, my grandson, Mahmoud Khan, and the noyans (barons). Take through the camp the new command of Tamerlane; my men are to sleep. The order of battle is to be changed.“
ALONE with Michael and a single servant in his tent, Tamerlane signed to his cup-bearer to fill two bowls with wine.
Obeying the request which was virtually a command, Michael bent one knee, touched the cup to his chest and forehead and put it briefly to his lips. The Tatar emptied his with a single gulp.
“Have you a thought,” he asked bluntly, “how this sultan who has set a trap may be caught in his own deceit?”
Michael looked at the old Tatar thoughtfully, and smiled, reading the purpose under the other's words.
“Does a sparrow,” he countered, “give counsel to a falcon—when the hood is removed from the eyes of the falcon?”
If he had made a suggestion, it would in all probability have been futile and would have opened him to the suspicion of being, after all, a secret agent of Bayezid, who had many such.
“Aye, if Tamerlane commands!”
“Then send a hundred of your horsemen to cut out a river-galley, to learn whether the boats be not manned and equipped as I said. Dispatch another hundred up the Khabur, to locate the war-galleys that I have seen.”
Tamerlane tossed the empty bowl from him and poured Michael's scarcely tasted wine upon the rugs of the tent. It was an unpardonable offense to fail to empty a bowl bestowed by the khan; but Tamerlane dealt with such things in his own way.
“Those men have already been sent,” he grunted. “I bade you spit out your thought how Bayezid may be attacked. He is too shrewd to force the crossing of the Khabur, and by the sun of heaven, my Tatars would throw dirt in my face if I sit here in my tents like a woman with child.”
Thoughtfully Michael traced out the imaginary line of the river upon the chess-board.
“The sultan has shaped his strength to meet an attack,“ he responded slowly. “It is true that he is too wise to cross the river. It is written, O Kha Khan, in the memoirs of the Ottoman that he who trusts too greatly in his wisdom shall stumble and eat dirt. Bayezid's strength would be more like weakness were he forced to attack——”
“Speak a plain thought!”
“Pretend to fall into the sultan's trap. And meanwhile get the pick of your army above or below Angora and across the river——”
“How?”
Michael smiled.
“If Tamerlane wills, a sparrow may become a falcon. I have taken the hood from the eyes of the falcon.”
For a space the Tatar considered this, while one after the other the councilors and leaders of his army stepped into the tent—lean-faced men in armor—the few who had been selected by the Lame Conqueror from the warriors of mid-Asia.
“What reward claim you for this?” demanded the old man abruptly.
“I would ride with your horsemen to see the downfall of Bayezid.”
Tamerlane grunted and glanced at the scattered miniature warriors of the chess-board.
“So, Frank,“ he growled, “you can not play chess!”
Michael shook his head.
“That is a pity,“ said Tamerlane regretfully. “You would make a rare player.”
DAWN had broken over the river and the Tatar standards before the tents were outlined against the streaks of sunrise when Michael walked alone from the council of Tamerlane and sought Bembo.
He found the fool huddled beside a cage of the khan's beasts, guarded by a black Kallmark.
“San Marco heard my prayer, Cousin Michael,” cried the hunchback joyously. “I prayed right lustily and bravely while yonder giant of Magog was washing his hands i' the air and bobbing his head i' the wind and talking with the sun.”
Bembo had been interested in the dawn prayer of the Muhammadan Tatar. He skipped to Michael's side and grimaced at the warrior.
“Now make what magic ye will, son of Eblis,” he chanted, “and the devil take ye, as he will, for his own. Cousin Michael, did the mad Cham outroar you, or are we saved? What's to do?”
“Where are the others?”
Bembo could not forbear a chuckle. “Rest you, good cousin. The master-merchant Soranzi is counting a myriad gold coins for the Tatar wazirs, as the pagans name their money-tenders; Rudolfo is departed with good grace and Gian to be escorted by Tatar children to the river.”
“And Clavijo?”
Bembo nodded toward the cage. “With the apes, who love him like a brother. This black giant was to cut off my head——”
“You will be safe with me. Come.” Michael smiled. “The Cham, as you call him, has given us some good sport. We will fly pigeons and when that is done, sleep. Then this night will you see a rare jest, my Bembo.”
“So said Rudolfo to Gian when they went off. Gian has been grinning like a dog that scents a bone. Two days agone did I ask them what was i' the wind. That was before they knew that you were with us in pagan garb. Rudolfo cursed me, but bis henchman, forsooth, muttered that my master was not the only man who could devise a plan.”
Michael frowned, but could learn nothing more from the jester, except that Rudolfo had talked at times with a certain wazir who was open-handed with his gold and knew many tongues.
He could not waste time to search into a possible new intrigue on the part of the Italian, For Tamerlane had ordered him to assist in preparing messages to be sent up with carrier-pigeons—messages intended to fall into the hands of Bayezid.
In the annals of the Ottoman dynasty it is written that during the space of that day Bayezid, surnamed the Thunderbolt, hunted with falcon and dogs upon the plain of Angora, having in his heart naught but contempt for the Tatars.
With his grandees and picked cavalry the sultan rode from sunrise to sunset, his beaters spread across the steppe, without thought of water or bodily comfort. His men stood under arms all that time. His ships in the river remained at their moorings. His spies reported that Tamerlane was taking more time to muster the Tatar horsemen to cross the river.
But Bayezid had burned and broken down the few bridges on the Khabur, and knew well that, save at Angora, there was no ford. This gave him assurance that Tamerlane could not cross except at the point where the sultan awaited him.
Further assurance came with a carrier-pigeon, struck down by one of Bayezid's hawks. From the bird was taken a message addressed to the court of Samarkand, saying that Tamerlane would that night cross the Khabur and crush the Ottoman army.
Whereupon Bayezid retired to the palace by the lake at Angora, hearing fresh news at sunset that the Tatars were assembling in their ranks.
So Bayezid feasted and received praise from the leaders of the Moslem world.
“The beast,” he said, “may see the trap; yet, being a beast, he has no wit to do aught but charge upon the bait.”
“Nay,” amended his advisers, “where else could the Tatar cross the river, having no bridges or boats?”
Well into the night a tumult arose on the shore opposite Angora. Many lights were to be seen in the camp of Tamerlane and the neighing of horses could be heard clearly across the river. Soon came the ring of weapons and the shout of the Mongols. A line of fire grew along the waiting galleys. Flights of arrows sped into the masses that were moving toward the ford. Bayezid laughed, well content.
Rumors reached him from fishermen that Mongols had been seen far down the river, but Bayezid could see and hear the conflict that was beginning at the ships. Moreover the torches of the Tatar camp were plainly to be seen.
It is written likewise in his annals that at this time a Christian captive, escaping from Tamerlane's camp, swam the river.
This man, who was attended by another Frank of powerful build, was taken captive by guards at the Khabur shore and carried up into the town where the officers of the Janisseries had assembled near Bayezid.
The two were Rudolfo and Gian, who had discarded their mail and broken loose from the half-grown Tatars, slaying one with their hands—so stoutly had the boys pestered them with miniature weapons.
Once safely in the town, they made signs that they would be taken to the sultan and offered as proof of the urgency of their mission a ring that bore the signet of a Turkish wazir.
When the litter of the sultan passed, attended by torches and mounted grandees Rudolfo and Gian knelt. Bayezid halted. He examined the ring and his brows went up. It was the signet of one of his spies.
“Where is the wazir?” he demanded of the Greeks in his retinue who could converse with Rudolfo. The wazir who was the sultan's man had not been able to leave his post in the Horde without discovery and he had sent the ring by Rudolfo, who was prepared to seek reward from Bayezid for information given.
“’Tis small gain I seek from the Thunderbolt,” he assured the Greeks. “Some gold and goods of mine taken from me by Tamerlane, who is a foul fiend. Lists have been prepared of the stuff and when the sultan overwhelms the camp of the Horde I will point it out. For this small gear I have tidings for the ear of the sultan.”
Meanwhile up from the river-front came the clash of steel and the shouting of men. Bayezid, never impatient, scanned Rudolfo's face and observed that the man did not meet his eye. “More like,” he whispered to the Sheikh of Rum, “that this Frank has had the slaying of my spy and has come to beguile me with words of Tamerlane's. Promise him his gold and get his news.”
Rudolfo's message caused a stir throughout the grandees.
Tamerlane, he said, had left the camp across the river at dusk with the bulk of his cavalry, which meant the bulk of his army. The demonstration at the ford was being made by old men and boys slaves, and horse-herders. The array of fires that winked at Angora from the other shore had been lighted to deceive the sultan into thinking that the mass of the Horde was still there.
As he spoke the tumult seemed to dwindle, and for a second doubt was written on the hard face of the Thunderbolt.
“If the Tatar has tricked me—” He thought of his preparations to defend Angora on the river side and the men he had thrown into ships and trenches on the shore.
“But there are no bridges and no fords,” his councilors pointed out. “Where else could Tamerlane cross the Khabur? Perhaps he was fleeing with his army.”
Bayezid had never met defeat. Astrologers had assured him that the greatest event of his destiny was to come to pass. He felt sure of his plan and of himself. Had not his hunters' falcons struck down a carrier-pigeon that day with news of Tamerlane's purpose to attack?
So Bayezid laughed and questioned Rudolfo lightly as to which way the Tatar riders had passed from the camp. When Rudolfo replied that they had headed down the river, the sultan gave orders that a detachment of Mamelukes should ride down the Angora side of the Khabur and report if they sighted any Tatars. Meanwhile the two Franks were to be kept in attendance on him, for they would be useful.
The scouts never returned. Quiet settled upon the Khabur.
Some hours after dawn a Turkish war-galley was sent down the river to reconnoiter. So it was after midday that the vessel arrived at a point a dozen miles down the river and learned that here during the night the Horde had crossed the Khabur to the Angora side—the Tatars swimming their horses and the foot-soldiers holding to the beasts' tails.
Tamerlane, in fact, was now drawn up on the Angora plain with all his strength.