Hartner shuddered with the cold and poured himself another cup of steaming coffee.
“A very good question. Let us give the voice to the Persian chronicle.”
XI
MESOPOTAMIA, DJABAL SINDJAR MOUNTAINS, THREE DAYS ON HORSEBACK WEST OF MOSUL. SECOND SAFAR OF THE SIX HUNDRED FIRST YEAR OF HIDJRA
Here speaks Ibn Sahim, son of Hussain, may Allah have mercy on him. This chapter contains information about the just vengeance taken by Allah’s soldier on the children of the Satanic pir, may his name be cursed for ever and ever …
The evening sun was slipping ever lower across the blue firmament. The outlines of the mountains were becoming sharper and the air clearer. Above the steep crag, the suite of riders moved slowly. At its head rode two leaders: a Crusader and a Turkish warrior. When they had reached the edge of the mountainous ravine beyond which stretched a gentle slope, they brought their horses to a halt and with obvious satisfaction stretched out beneath the stone meanderings of rocks which brought to mind cathedral spires. About forty of the accompanying riders, half of them Christian, half Muslim, did the same. With relief, the Crusader removed his helmet, called a salada, the elongated back end of which had impressed a red, swollen band on his wet neck. Rivulets of sweat escaped from beneath the basinet and ran down the tunic adorned with Maltese crosses. His mount, harnessed in a nose-band of finely wrought work, was breathing freely; white sheets of froth slipped down its sides.
Tiredness did not seem to trouble so much the Turkish knight, who was examining the Crusader’s crossbow with curiosity. He wore, as did his soldiers, a basinet, a helmet bound in a piece of white material, a coat of mail, white trousers reaching just below his knees, and high, black boots. The weapons of the Turk and his men consisted of horn bows and quivers with three-feathered arrows, and Arabian swords called saif. On top of that, the leader wielded an iron pick-axe embossed with silver in shapes of Arabic ornaments.
After a moment had passed, the Christian knight stopped wiping away the sweat, the Saracen lost interest in the crossbow. Both attentively observed the valley which stretched beyond the rocky slope. A low yet wide temple stood among green palm trees. Small alcoves had been hewn into its walls where olive lamps burned, blackening all around with smoke. Every now and then, someone approached the fire, passed their right hand over the flame and, with blackened hand, touched their right brow. The horsemen were paying less attention to this strange behaviour; they were more interested in the number of people in the valley. With a great effort and independently of each other, they counted and arrived at a similar result: in the vicinity of the temple and houses adjoined to it, milled around about two hundred people of both sexes and all ages. The men dressed in tight hair shirts and black turbans drew their attention in particular — they were making sure that not a single oil lamp went out. When a lamp began to burn down, they dipped fresh wicks into olive oil and the flame, hissing, fired up again.
Night fell on the land. In the light of the oil lamps began rituals — wild, violent dances. Singing, full of passion, soared over the valley. Guttural cries tore the air. The Crusader was sure he was witnessing an orgy to Semiramida, the Turk felt a painful arousal. They looked each other over and gave orders to their soldiers. Slowly, cautiously, they rode down the gentle slope of the hill. The names of seven angels vibrated in the air: “Djibrail”, “Muchail”, “Rufail”, “Azrail”, “Dedrail”, “Azrafil”, “Shamkil”. The thunder of drums, flutes and tambourines split the valley. The women were falling into a trance. The men, as if hypnotized, spun around their own axis. The priests were now offering sheep and their extremities in sacrifice, and feeding the meat to the poor. Those waiting for their turn were nibbling on strings of dried figs.
The stampede of horses’ hooves thundered; the faithful — terrified — turned their faces from the sacred fire. It had begun. The armoured horses, covered in crosses, trampled and jumped over living barriers. The Crusader, cleaving human torsos with his sword, was intoxicated by the sweet sensation of justice: here, under his loyal instrument of God’s glory, were falling the worshippers of Satan and the seven fallen angels, whose names had reverberated so proudly in the air a moment ago. The Turk showered arrows into the smoke of the bonfires and oil lamps. Blood poured over brightly dyed jackets and colourful turbans. A few of those attacked drew fantastically curved weapons from their belts and tried to stand up to the enraged assailants. The hiss and whistle of crossbow strings created strange music. Arrows pierced soft flesh, crunched against bone, tore apart tense muscle fibres. A moment later, the assailants’ passion was turned against the women, the only survivors. In the embraces of steel arms, the brown faces paled, the beautiful, regular features froze; under stress from abrupt and violent movement, the intricately plaited braids fell apart, the flowers decorating the hair withered, the silver and gold coins tinkled on their temples, the polished stones covering foreheads clanked, glass beads cracked. Some of the women hid in the alcoves and rocky ravines. The Crusaders and Saracens dragged them out and took them in frenzied convulsions. Those who had not yet come upon such a reward were finishing off the few men still alive. The captive women humbly accepted their fate. They knew they would be put up at the slave market. Over the valley silence gradually fell, only rarely interrupted by moans of pain or ecstasy.
Both leaders stood in the temple courtyard in front of the entrance to the home of the man for whom they had been searching so long: the holy pir Al-Shausi. Five symbols were hewn in the walls of the house: a serpent, an axe, a comb, a scorpion and a small human figure. Next to them appeared a delicately engraved Arabic sign: GOD. THERE IS NO GOD BUT HE, THE LOVING, THE ETERNAL. ALL THAT DWELLS IN THE HEAVENS AND ON EARTH BELONGS TO HIM.
The Turk looked at the Crusader and said in Arabic:
“It’s a verse from The Throne of the Second Sura of the Koran.”
The Crusader was acquainted with this famous fragment. He had heard it on the lips of dying Saracens, listened to it in the evenings coming from the lips of praying Arabian captive women. But he was not put out by the lofty sacred inscription intended to protect and bless Al-Shausi’s house just as a year ago he had not been troubled by the Byzantine God when, in search of loot, he had desecrated and defiled the temple in Constantinople.
They entered. Two Turkish soldiers blocked the door so that nobody could slip out; the rest went in search of the holy elder. Instead of him, they brought in two rolled carpets which were moving violently. These they unfurled and, at the leader’s feet, there appeared a desperate, perhaps thirteen-year-old girl and her slightly older brother — children of the man they were looking for and who had escaped into the desert. The leader of the Crusaders threw himself at the girl without a word, pushed her to the uneven, stone floor and, very shortly afterwards, won his successive spoil of war. The girl’s brother said something about their father and vengeance. In the light of the oil lamps, the rapist saw several scorpions which had crawled out of a broken clay vat. He wasn’t afraid of them; on the contrary — the presence of these sinister creatures flamed his passion all the more. All around, men were yelling — aroused, olive oil stank, shadows danced on walls. The satiated Crusader had decided: the children of the satanic cult’s highest priest would be punished by way of example. He ordered the boy’s and the girl’s bellies to be stripped bare. He raised his sword, the faithful companion in the fight ad maiorem Dei gloriam and dealt a sure but not very hard blow. The blade traced a semi-circle and with its tip tore the girl’s velvet belly and the boy’s, covered with its first growth. The skin separated, revealing their innards. The Crusader removed his helmet and very efficiently, with the help of his dagger, threw several scorpions into it. Then he tipped it like a sacrificial vessel over the victims’ entrails. The enraged, arching scorpions found themselves among warm intestines. They stung blindly with the sharp thorn of their abdomens and slid around in the blood. The victims lived a long while yet and did not take their flaming eyes off their executioner.