In all, hundreds of horsemen strode forward, their sabers in bandolier, daggers at the waist. Over their shoulders, they wore the burka, a broad black goatskin cape impermeable to wind, rain, or snow, so stiff and wide it fell in heavy folds over the horses’ rumps.
Jamal Eddin’s pony pranced amid the troops. Standing up in the stirrups, all his senses alert, he was discovering the joy of belonging to the greatest army on earth, the one fighting for the triumph of God. He was giddy with this feeling of belonging. With bravery and devotion, he and his brothers would fill the void between man and God. All Sheik Jamaluddin’s lessons were intended to render him capable of crossing the chasm between human existence and divine existence to reach union with God. He knew that he was part of a long chain that ran from Allah to his faithful, from Mohammed to Shamil.
He stopped with the others at the narrow groove in the earth that formed a recess between the cliffs. There was no one in the rocky corridor; the Russians had not arrived. The wind howled, carrying the faint whistles of the sentinels Shamil had posted above the gorge, signaling the enemy’s approach. Jamal Eddin’s heart beat faster.
He wouldn’t miss a second of this adventure, and this time he would understand.
Jamal Eddin saw the first Russian advance. A murmur rippled through the crowd of horsemen. Klugenau. He was riding a bay horse, bigger than most. He rode alone, a colossal figure on the ledge, nearly as imposing as Shamil. His arms were hidden beneath the burka that covered him like a shell, blacker than their own, with longer, shinier hair that curled with the humidity in the air. He wore a blue cap, gloves, and boots. His chin was clean-shaven, but the odor emanating from his thick gray moustache was perceptible all the way to their lines. A vile stench. He was smoking! Tobacco was a sin that merited corporal punishment, like wine or alcohol in general. The Sharia forbade smoking. And here he was, chewing on a cigar. A Russian through and through. He carried a crutch across his saddle. A second officer followed, wearing a blue coat that matched his cap instead of a burka. He was young and slender, and his cheek was marked by a fresh scar.
Behind them rode fifteen Cossacks wearing cherkeskas and papakhas, like the Montagnards. These Russians were difficult to tell apart from the Kiranis tribe, a neutral tribe whose men served as intermediaries and interpreters.
Jamal Eddin waited for the rest. But no, there were no more, just these thirty horsemen. Shamil did not move as he watched them approach. He waited.
He turned to his naïbs and issued brief orders that Jamal Eddin did not catch. Word traveled down the lines. Do not move, do not follow. Be prepared, but remain at a distance. Shamil would advance alone.
The Russian had undoubtedly given similar orders, for his troops gathered at the entrance to the corridor.
The Russian and Shamil nudged their horses toward each other. Each kept two men with him—the aide-de-camp with the scar and the Kirani interpreter accompanied the Russian, Yunus and the naïb Akbirdil, Patimat’s husband, escorted Shamil. The six horsemen met at the fountain and dismounted. The Russian, still smoking, set himself down on one leg, hopping in place as he reached for his crutch. His limping caused Shamil to wonder whether one of his boots was empty. It must be an old wound, in any case, since he handled the crutch adroitly.
The naïbs and the aide-de-camp spread out their burkas at the foot of the fountain. Shamil and the Russian sat down cross-legged with the interpreter. Yunus and Akbirdil Mohammed sat down behind Shamil, while the young officer remained standing a little way away.
Jamal Eddin took advantage of the moment to dismount from his pony too. He threw the reins to his neighbor and rapidly made his way to the front row, heedless of the remonstrances and the firm hands that tried to prevent him from doing so.
Even this close, he could only hear snatches of conversation; the rest was lost to the wind.
Turning to Shamil, the interpreter translated the Russian’s long introduction.
“I have come in peace. I have never broken my word, and you can count on it for your personal security. Look around us. Only thirty soldiers accompany me, while you, you have come with three hundred horsemen. Which of us is the most fair? Which of us has not lived up to his honor, you or me? But I know you are a man of integrity, and I have confidence in your noble intent, as you must have confidence in mine. Do you remember the three sacks of flour I sent you, when your people needed them so badly? You know that I have always supported you and offered good advice. Now I would like to help you obtain prosperity, and this is what I want to discuss with you.”
Shamil listened phlegmatically.
The Russian’s cigar stunk up the air. He smoked nonstop and talked on and on and on.
The interpreter used all his eloquence to persuade Shamil to come to Tiflis, in Georgia, to meet the Great White Czar. It would be a meeting between chiefs. Though not equals, they could at least engage in a friendly meeting between two sovereigns. Klugenau guaranteed the clemency of his padishah. He would grant pardon, liberty, and peace, to say nothing of untold wealth for the imam and his sons, gifts for his people, and the numerous advantages of an honorable and pacific surrender.
Shamil heard him out politely.
Jamal Eddin’s eyes were glued to his father, whose actions interested him as much as those of the Russian, whose odor turned his stomach. Inscrutable beneath his beard, Shamil said nothing. Eyes half-closed and looking inward, this was the look he assumed on his nights of prayer and fasting.
Klugenau seemed to be growing irritated and spoke more loudly, more rapidly, and more passionately as time passed. The cigar he had just lit kept going out. Fighting the wind, he relit it with difficulty.
Jamal Eddin heard the naïbs grumbling behind him. Enough of this playacting. It’s all hot air.
The horses pawed the ground impatiently as the army fidgeted restlessly. Everyone sensed the negotiations were going nowhere.
Still energetic and lively, Klugenau pulled out all the stops. At every one of his exhortations, Shamil nodded his head in assent and replied with extreme courtesy. He was not at liberty to commit himself; it was not in his power. He would have to consult with his naïbs and his council. He would not fail to do so.
With one last drag on his cigar, Klugenau rose awkwardly to his feet, grabbing the crutch to put under his left arm. Shamil followed suit. Then, cordially, in a gesture of conclusion and farewell, Klugenau held out his hand. Shamil did the same. At that instant, Jamal Eddin saw his uncle Akbirdil throw himself between them, dramatically interrupting the handshake. He shouted in Klugenau’s face, his words full of hatred.
“Giaour! The imam cannot touch the hand of a dog of an infidel!”
Livid with rage, the Russian brandished his crutch, waving it in the air in an attempt to knock Akbirdil’s turban off his head. Jamal Eddin instantly comprehended the magnitude of the insult he tried to express with this most outrageous of offenses. To uncover one’s head before Allah was to insult God. A Muslim must remain covered. Shamil caught the crutch in midair with one hand. With the other, he held back the kinjals of Akbirdil and Yunus. He shouted to his men to put back their sabers and back off.
Pushed by the threatening mass of murids, Jamal Eddin was thrown forward, landing between his father’s legs. With the back of his hand, Shamil pushed the boy behind his back. He continued to yell, his voice finally dominating the tumult.
By this time, the Cossacks had marched forward to come to the aid of the Russian. The murids continued to advance. It was their turn now. Three hundred against thirty, here was their opportunity to avenge the massacres of Ghimri and Ashilta.