That was the subject of their conversation. What game should the humble Shamil of Ghimri employ to conquer the emperor of all the Russias?
“First of all, tell me about him,” murmured the imam, finally breaking the silence.
“Their padishah—”
“No, Jamal Eddin. How do you find him?”
“Almost like you at the same age,” Yunus replied reluctantly.
He could not understand how Shamil, whose wisdom and judgment he admired, could keep asking about his son. A man should never mention his wife or children before a third party. He must not even refer to their existence.
“Almost like me?” Shamil insisted mischievously.
Yunus had no sense of humor. He tried to explain himself seriously.
“Your son is training himself to run long distances, with a pebble in his mouth to force himself to breathe regularly.”
“You’re the one who gave him the pebble?”
“No need, your son knows. He imitates you all the time, in every possible way. He walks barefoot, bare-chested, and on an empty stomach. Like you. He wrestles and practices with the saber, he swims and high jumps. Like you. But he’s still—” Yunus hesitated, searching for the right words.
“Still what?” Shamil repeated, smiling.
Yunus scratched the back of his neck. He was going to say, “still green,” but he restrained himself, thinking that the boy’s father would take it as a reproach or an insult.
“Young.”
“Young? Well, of course he’s young. What do you mean by that? That he’s weak or lacking in courage?”
“Your son is not weak. Sheik Jamaluddin al-Ghumuqi, your own mentor, who is instructing him in the Koran, can tell you about his progress better than I.”
Shamil wouldn’t let it go.
“But you’re the one who’s educating him. I’m listening.”
Yunus sensed Shamil’s dismay at his embarrassment and was afraid that this would lead to a misunderstanding. He decided to speak frankly.
“The imam Shamil should have fifty sons like Jamal Eddin.”
Relieved, Shamil nodded. “And Mohammed Ghazi?”
“The youngest promises to have all his brother’s attributes.”
Shamil savored the information. The subject was closed, and Yunus knew it would not come up again. Finally he worked up the nerve to say, “Two sons are not enough to ensure your lineage. Allah protects them, but if either of them came to harm, what would happen to the imamat?”
Shamil scowled but said nothing. He feared disunion too much not to have considered making his position hereditary. He vividly remembered the power struggles that followed the deaths of the first two imams.
He patted his horse on the neck to make sure his coat was dry. The gentle slap of his palm resonated in the mountain air.
Yunus wanted to get this over with. He felt that what he was about to say was immodest and crude, and he tackled the subject only with extreme reluctance.
“Take another wife,” he said in a rush of words, “among the daughters of the Chechen chiefs, and a third and a fourth, since Mohammed permits it. You should form alliances everywhere, ties to all the peoples and all the tribes of the Caucasus. I’m telling you so on my own behalf, and on behalf of all your naïbs.”
“Enough! You’re talking like a woman.”
Shamil pretended to be angry, but he shared the same intuition that only blood ties could seal the union of the Caucasian tribes, with him as their leader. He should marry into the most powerful families and leave many successors in the service of God. He would need several sons to create a dynasty that would perpetuate his work. It was another wise piece of advice from Yunus. Beneath the red beard that hid his expression, a smile crept over his lips. All these circumvolutions to explain to him that he should procreate. Poor Yunus, he could not possibly know that his advice was late in coming. With his baggage, Shamil was bringing home a young girl of sixteen whom he had married last month. Her name was Jawarat. Born in Ghimri, she was the daughter of the khan of Irganai and the niece of the late Ullou Bek, who had corrupted the elders. In her belly she carried a third heir. Tomorrow she would arrive at Chirquata to take her place next to Bahou-Messadou.
Shamil had asked the witnesses at his marriage to say nothing until he had the chance to announce the news to his mother and the mother of his sons himself. Yunus’s words reassured him that the secret had been properly kept. His nights with the very young Jawarat changed none of his feelings for Fatima. She was still the beloved, and his fear of hurting her had not a little to do with his desire to meet his lieutenant outside the village before he returned there. Decisions of state must be made before he saw her or talked to her. In any case, his sister, who had been nagging him for years to take a second wife, would be satisfied. Well, no, she would not, for he had committed an unforgivable act against Patimat.
Four months earlier, the giaours had burned the mosque at Ashilta, symbol of his power, and recaptured Kunzakh. The leader of the hypocrites, Mohammed Mirza Khan—a puppet the Russians had placed on the throne of Avaria to do their bidding—had surrounded the murids in the aul of Tiliq. The siege had gone on for weeks, but the khan still had not taken the village. Negotiation was the only means open to Shamil to extricate himself from this stalemate. Before the negotiations, the khan had demanded hostages, as was customary, an unavoidable condition that Shamil was not in a position to reject.
It was customary for the party suing for peace to send its children to the enemy as a gage. Called amanats in the Caucasus, these human guarantees had to be the sons of influential families between two and eighteen years old, proof in the flesh of good faith. If negotiations fell apart, they could be executed or taken captive, but only breaking one’s word or an act of high treason justified such treatment. And that was rare. Once the accords were sealed and the peace concluded, the amanats returned home.
The regent of Kunzakh’s demands at Tiliq were extravagant. He wanted Shamil’s two sons as amanats. The khan himself did not believe his enemies would respond to such excess, but the murids, still in control of the village, were strong enough to make a counter-proposition. The imam offered the khan not two but three prestigious hostages: the sons of his two allies here in the aul and his own nephew, the first-born of his only sister. The khan was pressed for time and accepted. On July eighteenth, Shamil had taken little Hamzat from Patimat’s arms and given him to the hypocrites. This was the price of liberty.
Never could he have imagined that Mohammed Mirza would keep the child. When the peace had been agreed upon, he had returned the two other children, but not Hamzat. The khan had given the imam’s nephew to the infidels, and even the Polish spies could not find out what had happened to the boy. Had the Russians killed him?
This betrayal haunted both Shamil and Yunus. Two sons are not enough to ensure your lineage. If anything should happen to them…
A glacial wind was rising, and nightfall was near. It was time to let their horses drink and address the issue that Yunus could not resolve without his chief’s approval. What message of their reaction should he give the messenger, who awaited a response at this very moment in the village? The urgent decision of what stance to assume was sufficient reason for Shamil to return to Chirquata.
“Their man, the Russian emissary, did he bring news of my nephew?” he asked somberly.
Yunus shook his head no.
Shamil repressed a gesture of anger and nudged his horse in the direction of the fountain. It stood on a narrow strip of land that was part of the cliff, facing the abyss.