CHAPTER XI
The Sacrificial Ceremony
At the very hour that Czar Nicholas’s coffin was being lifted into the crypt of the Romanovs in Saint Petersburg, five thousand murid horsemen amassed on one bank of the Mitchik River in Grand Chechnya.
Except for the crunching of hooves upon the shingles of the beach, all was silent.
Behind the warriors lined up on the beach, one could hear the distant sound of occasional falling rocks and earth, the click of cocked guns, and the pawing of other horses. Another army waited, hidden in the forest.
It was impossible to judge how many were in there.
Higher up and far beyond the treetops, smoke from the auls drifted above the crags and boulders.
An immense red sun rose over the chasm, passing between the ice fields and the snowy peaks to hover over the horsemen.
A warm wind, a breath of spring, swept the sky, leaving it cloudless and blue.
The first dawn of the world was rising over the Caucasus, these mountains that both believers and infidels considered closest to God and agreed were the most magnificent of all His creations.
Lost among the horsemen, four heavy covered wagons were parked on the riverbank. No sound came from them either, not a sign of life, not so much as a whisper. Even the six geldings that drew the wagons were as still as statues.
At the foot of the teams of horses, a few slaves knelt to complete the path they were building to facilitate the wagons’ descent to the riverbed. The Mitchik was nearly dry. The backfill would allow them to cross from deep puddle to puddle over the gray sandbanks and the little islands of gravel.
The only luminous spot to break up the ashen line along the riverbank was a splendid white stallion nervously pawing the ground, his scarlet saddle blanket as bright as the silver-work of his tack. One of the naïbs held him firmly by the bridle. The horse awaited his master, the djighit who would know how to ride him.
Thursday, March 10, 1855. Shamil had not chosen this date by chance. Thursday was his lucky day.
Recalling allegories, symbols, and strategies, he had carefully considered every detail of this glorious morning. Everything, today, must have significance.
The imam had taken even further precautions for the success of this day that was just beginning.
The opposite bank of the Mitchik was Russian territory. It was a vast plain without so much as a single tree or bush—it offered no shade from the sun that streamed down, nor any place to take cover. It rose in a gentle slope from the riverbank and ended at the foot of a hill.
Both sides of the riverbank were deserted at this hour, as was the plain.
But at the summit of the hill overlooking the river, the giaours had just finished setting up their artillery; their cannons were ready to bombard the enemy in the event of the least incident.
Prince David was wary of the Chechens and fully expected some treacherous move on their part. His troops were ready to charge, his infantry and cavalry lined up and ready to tear through the valley and cross the Mitchik.
Their orders were clear: they were not to move and not to fire, under any circumstances, unless ordered to do so by Prince Chavchavadze.
On the hill, the officers took out their binoculars.
Accompanying his fellow officers, sitting up straight in his saddle, Jamal Eddin looked down over the valley. For the moment he felt nothing. He had thought of this scene too many times, dreaded this moment for too long, to be surprised. He must take in his surroundings and understand—quickly—what awaited him.
On the Russian side, five hundred paces from the river, he saw a black spot. A dead tree whose twisted trunk was clearly visible above the high grass. Shamil had chosen this solitary, lightning-struck tree as the site of the rendezvous. Its five twisted branches reached toward the sky like an open hand.
Fine. He had located where the exchange was to take place.
Now he looked through his binoculars to the opposite bank.
Straight ahead of him, above the bank, a mountain path led to a platform, a promontory much like the hill he was standing on.
There, a circle of huge dark flags embroidered with half-moons and Koranic verses whipped in the wind. These were Shamil’s standards, flying above his camp.
Through the binoculars, Jamal Eddin watched the men ride down the path and dismount on the platform before a broad, black parasol, the same color as the banners and the horsemen’s cherkeskas. A Montagnard held the canopy over a seated figure.
Jamal Eddin could make out the large red rectangle of a carpet on the stone plateau. The figure did not move. At this distance, he could not distinguish the man’s features or even his costume. Only his white turban and a shadow, the shadow of the imam himself.
Jamal Eddin squinted through the lens, his eyes never leaving the figure. Shamil gestured briefly and leaned on his elbow to look through a telescope fixed upon a tripod before him. He pointed the glass toward the Russians gathered on the opposite hill.
The telescope swept over the line of officers and came to rest for an instant upon Jamal Eddin. But how could the imam recognize his son among all these lancers in uniform?
The young man’s heart beat faster as he zeroed in on his father through the incandescent lens.
Neither of them could see anything more than these shadows.
Each was searching for the other.
Standing next to Jamal Eddin, the Russian interpreter commented on the scene as he watched.
“Their weapons are magnificent,” he remarked. “Look at the pommels of their kinjals, the saber hilts, the pistol grips—they look like they’re all chased in gold! And even—look—even inset with precious stones. They’re so much richer than usual. And the fabrics, the carpet, and the canopy are all infinitely more sumptuous! Shamil has obviously gone all out to welcome his eldest son home. It’s so unlike his usual austerity measures and the murid laws that stress renunciation and abstinence.”
The interpreter pointed out the most physically imposing of the naïbs, a tall murid whose mount danced around the canopy. Dressed in white, riding a bay stallion, Mohammed Ghazi, the younger brother—and the heir—stood out among the mass of black-clad horsemen.
Near him was an adolescent dressed in an indigo cherkeska that shone brightly as his horse pranced back and forth in the sunlight. It was Mohammed Sheffi, the youngest of the three brothers. Born in the forest of Akulgo as his parents fled, just days after Jamal Eddin was kidnapped, he was nearly sixteen now. He was said to be a lightweight, as scatterbrained and generous as Mohammed Ghazi was fearless, religious, and disciplined.
Yunus stood to the right of Shamil, and behind him waited the rest of the cavalry, five thousand men. To say nothing of those hidden in the forest.
On Chavchavadze’s order, and according to the agreement concluded with Shamil, the interpreter left Jamal Edd in’s side.
Carrying a white flag, he rode down the slope, past the dead tree and across the river, around the wagons, then strode up the hill to take his place a few steps from Shamil.
The Russians watched and tried to imagine what he was saying.
Everything in this strange ballet had been planned during the night, down to the last word. The ceremony must follow its course according to the established formalities.
“Imam, what are your orders?” the Russian said.
“Take my two sons, Mohammed Ghazi and Mohammed Sheffi, thirty-five of my men, and the wagons with you. Lead them across the river to the dead tree and signal me when you have arrived. Thirty-five Russian soldiers will then descend from the hill on your side, with the wagons carrying the money and your sixteen prisoners, along with my son. The two groups shall meet at the tree and each will take back what the other has brought.”