She stood there silently, waiting for them to ask why she had come. Fed by surprise and hostility, the silence went on and on.
She noticed that they rolled their amber prayer beads between their fingers, like all good Muslims. Their shaven heads were covered, as the prophet wished, as a sign of respect for God. All of them wore the papakha—a tall hat of black sheepskin. Not a single one wore the turban of the followers of Shamil.
The very fact that none of them had tied a white sash around his papakha made the biggest statement of alclass="underline" their opposition to the consecration of Shamil as supreme leader. It was also a means of preventing the Russian spies, who understood the significance of the turban, from mistaking them for the disciples of the imam, his murids.
For the Sufis of the Naqshbandi order, the word “murid” designated the pupil of a spiritual guide. The Russians, however, had broadened it to mean rebel, warrior, and fanatic. Since the arrival of the first imam, the Murid Wars were, for the Russians, simply synonymous with gazavat, the holy war.
Every head of family took special care to avoid confusing “murid” with “Montagnard,” well knowing the danger any mix-up might cause. The Russians couldn’t tell one from the other—or didn’t bother to do so. The turban was the only mark that distinguished the warriors of Shamil from the other men of the Caucasus.
They wore identical hats of black sheepskin and the same long, collarless coat, one lapel crossed in a V over the other, the cherkeska. Tightly cinched at the waist, it fell in folds to their boots. They all wore rows of cartridge belts, ghizirs, across the breast, which held powder and simplified reloading the pistols they carried at their waists. All were armed with kinjals.
They valued the dagger in particular and wielded it like a saber. It was a straight knife about two feet long with a double-edged blade that was striated with grooves for the blood to run down. Bahou-Messadou used it to cut the throats of stray dogs, slicing their necks elegantly, without transpiercing them, in contrast to the giaours, who stabbed their victims in the belly with bayonets.
The Montagnards also carried shashkas, slightly curved scimitars, and on their backs, muskets that obliged them to stand up straight.
None of them would have considered parting with a single piece of this heavy arsenal, not even for an hour sitting at the council. An unarmed man was not a dead man; he was a man without honor.
Sitting with their legs tucked under them, their prayer beads around their wrists, they were ready to attack, so it was a relief when the head of the council, Urus-Datu, pointed at Bahou’s bare face.
“Immodest woman, is this how you obey your son’s commandments?”
“My son commands only what the Koran dictates: that believers respect their elders, and that you listen to what they have to say.”
Ullou Bek, whose sharp tongue she had feared from the first second, interrupted her.
“Shamil does not respect the elders. Shamil respects nothing.”
Bahou particularly disliked him. She sensed that whatever vestiges of prestige she retained were worthless in his eyes. He did not come from the village. Richer, younger, and more oriental, he had slightly slanted eyes and full lips beneath his moustache. A quick glance at his splendid white papakha and the chasing on the silver cartridges decorating his cherkeska distinguished him clearly from the others.
He had the same emaciated face, the same aquiline nose and high cheekbones, the same height and slender build of the Montagnards. A neighbor from the East, he had been invited to sit with the council. Since he hadn’t the power to throw her out, he simply ignored her. This woman counted for nothing. He took up his discourse at the precise point where her unexpected arrival had interrupted him.
“Shamil cares nothing for our laws, Shamil does not respect tradition. What right has he to scorn the adats, our laws of the elders, which have settled our conflicts since the beginning of the world? What right allows him to keep us from respecting the law of blood and vengeance, the kanly that commands us to avenge our insults and our dead privately, without the intervention of the qadi? He declares that our debts of blood decimate our families, our communities, and our tribes, and prevent us from uniting as Muslims. Lies! Honor dictates that we take a life for a life, but Shamil wants them all. All for him alone, not for the glory of God, but in the service of Shamil.”
Ullou Bek knew how to influence his audience. Your lives, Shamil wants them all, he wants them all for himself. At Ghimri, this was a sensitive point. Here the inhabitants were born free and equal; their sole governing authority was this annually elected council. Even the infidels called some of the mountain communities “democracies” or “republics.” Ullou Bek, however, was a khan who governed in sovereignty over his province. His title and his prerogatives had bought him the support of the Russians, who pretended they sought to deal only with a noble. They had immediately dubbed him a “prince” and conferred upon him the rank of major in their army. He was a sellout.
Bahou-Messadou hadn’t been mistaken. The presence of Ullou Bek was proof of the enormity of what was at stake at this meeting.
Suddenly addressing her presence here, he looked her squarely in the eye.
“Your son does not order us to act according to the commands of the prophet. Your son takes himself for the prophet!”
This phrase provoked such an outcry that Bahou knew she had lost. She was not up to dealing with such a dreadful accusation of sacrilege and impiety.
Ullou Bek waited for things to calm down before going on. “Shamil named his cat after Mohammed’s cat. He divulges his proclamations on little bits of paper, like Mohammed. Shamil wants to think he is the reincarnation of Mohammed on earth.”
Bahou-Messadou had no answer.
“Ullou Bek is right,” the men all cried out at once. “Shamil’s election at Ashilta is illegal!”
She was overcome with emotion. She could no longer follow the discussion or even register the meaning of their comments.
“Several different living imams cannot coexist in Islam. The only spiritual chief of Islam is the Ottoman sultan.”
Ullou Bek. She should listen only to Ullou Bek, to his arguments, his deductions and conclusions. They were the real source of danger.
“The Ottoman sultan, the only imam we recognize, signed a peace with the Russians. If we continue to fight the Russians, we are flouting the authority of the legitimate imam, the sultan.”
“My son respects the authority of the Ottoman sultan,” Bahou insisted heatedly. “He worships him.”
Her clear, metallic voice, distinct from all the others and trembling with emotion, cut through the melee. For a moment, all were silent.
The head of the council pointed at her again.
“Speak,” he ordered her.
Bahou, once again speaking in her usual measured tones, seized the occasion to prevail. Outwardly calm, she repeated, “My son worships the authority of the sultan. But Sheik Jamaluddin, his revered guide, told him that the sultan’s authority cannot extend to our lands. He said that the sultan’s authority can no longer be felt in our mountains, for the infidels have cut us off from the rest of Islam.”
She chose her words carefully, measuring their influence and subtly shifting the attention to someone everyone in the room respected, the major figure absent at this assembly.