Even as the black swordsman drew breath for a stroke that the cumbered Turk could not have parried, he heard the swift rush of feet behind him, cast a wild glance over his shoulder, and saw the Moor close upon him, eyes blazing, lips asnarl in the starlight. Before the negro could turn, the Moorish saber drove through him with such fury that the blade sprang its full length out of his breast, while the hilt smote him fiercely between the shoulders; life went out of him with an inarticulate cry.
The Turk caved in the shaven skull of the other negro with his scimitar hilt, and shaking himself free of the corpse, turned to the Moor who was twisting his saber out of the twitching body it transfixed.
“Why did you come to my aid?” inquired the Turk. Yusuf ibn Suleyman shrugged his broad shoulders at the unnecessary quality of the question.
“We were two men beset by rogues,” quoth he. “Fate made us allies. Now if you wish, we will take up anew our quarrel. You said I spied upon you.”
“And I see my mistake and crave your pardon,” answered the other promptly. “I know now who has been skulking after me down the dark alleys.”
Sheathing his scimitar, he bent over each corpse in turn, peering intently at the bloody features. When he reached the body of the giant slain by the Moor’s poniard, he paused longer, and presently murmured softly, as if to himself: “Soho! Zaman the Sworder! Of high rank the archer whose shaft is panelled with pearls!” And wrenching from the limp black finger a heavy, curiously bezelled ring, he slipped it into his girdle, and then laid hold on the garments of the dead man.
“Aid me, brother,” said he. “Let us dispose of this carrion, so that no questions will be asked.”
Without question Yusuf ibn Suleyman grasped a blood-stained jacket in each hand, and dragged the bodies after the Turk down a reeking black alley, in the midst of which rose the broken curb of a ruined and forgotten well. The corpses plunged headfirst into the abyss, and struck far below with a sullen splash; and with a light laugh, the Turk turned to the Moor.
“Allah hath made us allies,” he repeated. “I owe you a debt.”
“You owe me naught,” answered the Moor in a rather surly tone.
“Words can not level a mountain,” returned the Turk imperturbably. “I am Al Afdhal, a Memluk. Come with me out of these rat dens, and we will converse.”
Yusuf ibn Suleyman sheathed his saber somewhat grudgingly, as if he rather regretted the decision of the Turk toward peace; but he followed the latter without comment. Their way led through the rat-haunted gloom of reeking alleys, and across narrow winding streets, noisome with refuse. Cairo was then, as later, a fantastic contrast of splendor and decay, where exotic palaces rose among the smoke-stained ruins of forgotten cities; a swarm of motley suburbs clustering about the walls of El Kahira, the forbidden inner city where dwelt the caliph and his nobles.
Presently the companions came to a newer and more respectable quarter, where the overhanging balconies with their richly latticed windows of cedar and nacre inlay almost touched one another across the narrow street.
“All the shops are dark,” grunted the Moor. “A few days ago the city was lighted like day, from dusk to sunrise.”
“That was one of Al Hakim’s whims,” said the Turk. “Now he has another whim, and no lights burn in the streets of al medina. What his mood will be tomorrow, only Allah knows.”
“There is no knowledge, save in Allah,” agreed the Moor piously, and scowled. The Turk had tugged at his thin drooping moustache as if to hide a grin.
They halted before an iron-bound door in a heavy stone arch, and the Turk rapped cautiously. A voice challenged from within, and was answered in the gutturals of Turan, unintelligible to Yusuf ibn Suleyman. The door was opened, and Al Afdhal pushed into thick darkness, drawing the Moor with him. They heard the door closed behind them, then a heavy leather curtain was pulled back, revealing a lamp-lit corridor, and a scarred ancient whose fierce moustachios proclaimed the Turk.
“An old Memluk turned to wine-selling,” said Al Afdhal to the Moor. “Lead us to a chamber where we can be alone, Ahmed.”
“All the chambers are empty,” grumbled old Ahmed, limping before them. “I am a ruined man. Men fear to touch the cup, since the caliph banned wine. Allah smite him with the gout!”
Bowing them into a small chamber he spread mats for them, set before them a great dish of pistachio kernels, Tihamah raisins, and citrons, poured wine from a bulging skin, and limped away, muttering under his breath.
“Egypt has come upon evil days,” drawled the Turk lazily, quaffing deep of the Shiraz liquor. He was a tall man, leanly but strongly built, with keen black eyes that danced restlessly and were never still. His khalat was plain, but of costly fabric; his spired helmet was chased with silver, and jewels glinted in the hilt of his scimitar.
Over against him Yusuf ibn Suleyman presented something of the same hawk-like appearance, which is characteristic of all men who live by war. The Moor was fully as tall as the Turk, but with thicker limbs and a greater depth of chest. His was the build of the mountaineer – strength combined with endurance. Under his white kafiyeh his brown face showed smooth shaven, and he was lighter in complection than the Turk, the darkness of his features being more of the sun than of nature. His grey eyes in repose were cold as chilled steel, but even so there smoldered in them a hint of stormy fires.
He gulped his wine and smacked his lips in appreciation, and the Turk grinned and refilled his goblet.
“How fare the Faithful in Spain, brother?”
“Badly enough, since the Vizir Mozaffar ibn Al Mansur died,” answered the Moor. “The Caliph Hischam is a weakling. He can not curb his nobles, each of whom would set up an independent state. The land groans under civil war, and yearly the Christian kingdoms wax mightier. A strong hand could yet save Andalusia; but in all Spain there is no such strong hand.”
“In Egypt such a hand might be found,” remarked the Turk. “Here are many powerful emirs who love brave men. In the ranks of the Memluks there is always a place for a saber like yours.”
“I am neither Turk nor slave,” grunted Yusuf.
“No!” Al Afdhal’s voice was soft; the hint of a smile touched his thin lips. “Do not fear; I am in your debt, and I can keep a secret.”
“What do you mean?” The Moor’s hawk-like head came up with a jerk. His grey eyes began to smolder. His sinewy hand sought his hilt.
“I heard you cry out in the stress of the fight as you smote the black sworder,” said Al Afdhal. “You roared ‘Santiago!’ So shout the Caphars of Spain in battle. You are no Moor; you are a Christian!”
The other was on his feet in an instant, saber drawn. But Al Afdhal had not stirred; he reclined at ease on the cushions, sipping his wine.
“Fear not,” he repeated. “I have said that I would keep your secret. I owe you my life. A man like you could never be a spy; you are too quick to anger, too open in your wrath. There can be but one reason why you come among the Moslems – to avenge yourself upon a private enemy.”
The Christian stood motionless for a moment, feet braced as if for an attack, the sleeve of his khalat falling back to reveal the ridged muscles of his thick brown arm. He scowled uncertainly, and standing thus, looked much less like a Moslem than he had previously looked.
There was an instant of breathless tension, then with a shrug of his brawny shoulders, the false Moor reseated himself, though with his saber across his knees.
“Very well,” he said candidly, tearing off a great bunch of grapes with a bronzed hand and cramming them into his mouth. He spoke between mastication. “I am Diego de Guzman, of Castile. I seek an enemy in Egypt.”