The hall echoed with the sound of weeping. He looked for Elif and found her asleep in a dark corner of the monastery. The desire to lie down beside her was overpowering. Instead he let his hand rest on her shoulder. It came away sticky with blood. He lit a flare and in its light examined her. Although covered in blood, he saw no obvious wounds, and she seemed not to be in distress. He extinguished the light and kissed her cheek. “Sleep,” he whispered. “I’ll come back later.” It had been enough just to see her. He saddled his horse and, opening the gate, slipped out.
The path was slick with mud, but the stars bright enough that he could follow the churned tracks left by the attackers’ horses. He heard hoofbeats behind him and pulled up, gun drawn, until Omar’s familiar bulk materialized beside him.
“Running away, Magistrate?” Omar asked.
“Levon saw a man in uniform giving orders. I’m going to find him.”
“And do what. Make him apologize? It’s too late.”
“I have my own plans.”
“I’m coming with you.” As Omar spurred his horse forward, his face turned white and he almost slipped from the saddle.
“Go back, Omar,” Kamil pleaded. “You can’t ride with that leg. You’ll just be in my way.”
Omar sat hunched over, panting with pain. “You’ll get in trouble.”
“I’m only going to observe. I want to know what this commander plans to do next.”
“We gave those bastards a good beating today,” Omar commented.
“Yes, we did. Now go back.” Kamil waited for Omar to turn his horse before riding into the darkness.
87
Vera was holding up a small flare to guide Alicia as she examined the wound on Apollo’s shoulder that had reopened. Omar had returned and sat beside them, tense and silent, his eyes on the gate. No one had lit torches, unsure of what attention the flames might attract. The courtyard was illuminated only by a brilliant cover of stars that flowed like an icy river across the sky.
“Look how bright the stars are,” Vera said in order to distract Apollo from his pain and herself from the memory of Gabriel’s death that accompanied her everywhere.
Apollo leaned his head back and gazed upward. “That’s Hartacol, the Straw Thief’s Way,” he told her. “According to the legend, the god Vahagn stole some straw from the Assyrian king Barsham and brought it to Armenia to protect the people from a cold winter, just like this one. When he fled across the heavens, he spilled some of the straw along the way.”
“So Vahagn stole the straw but managed to drop most of it along the way? What a useless deity!” Vera exclaimed, her voice bitter. She extinguished the flare now that Alicia had finished bandaging Apollo’s shoulder, and they all sat back to gaze at the stars.
“In another legend,” Apollo continued, “the straw was dropped by Saint Venus after she was stolen from Saint Peter. And an even earlier legend says that the stars are corn ears dropped by Isis in her flight from Typhon. It’s an ancient name. The Arabs call it Darb al-Tabanin, the Path of the Chopped Straw Carriers, or Tarik al-Tibn, the Straw Road. The Persians call it Rah Kakeshan. And even in China, it’s called the Yellow Road, from the color of the dropped straw.”
“We call it the Milky Way, as if a cow had knocked over a pail,” Alicia said. “To me, though, it looks like a field of diamonds. I don’t think I’ve ever seen this many stars at once.”
“All those clumsy gods and heroes, where are they now?” Vera complained.
“When we need their help,” Apollo added softly, scraping up a handful of straw from the ground and scattering it in the air.
“Do you know all those languages, Apollo?” Alicia asked admiringly, getting up to help Victor tend to the other wounded.
“I’m a philosopher, my dear. We collect the cream clotted at the rim of every civilization. We don’t need to see it milked and churned.”
88
Kamil followed the trail of the Kurdish tribesmen to the nearby village of Karakaya, the scene of one of the massacres. He tied up his horse and walked through the forest to the edge of the village, his boots of special soft leather making no sound. He heard their voices and saw a fire in the village square. He edged his way through the forest until he had a better view. The men had opened a barrel of wine and were feasting on the carcass of an animal, part of which still hung in tatters from a spit over the fire. From the size of the pile of bones and trash, Kamil guessed they had camped in this village for days. Why hadn’t they attacked the monastery sooner?
He waited for a while, changing position every so often to get a better view, and was about to give up and return to the monastery when he was rooted to the spot by a woman’s high-pitched wail. It ended abruptly. The men around the fire laughed uneasily. The sound had come from one of the houses-the headman’s house, to judge by its size. The door opened onto the square where the men were sitting. Kamil ran silently to the back of the house and crept up to a window. He lifted a corner of the hide that covered the opening and peered inside.
The room was brightly lit by a lamp. A naked girl of around fifteen was splayed out on the floor, her arms and the inside of her thighs sheathed in blood. A thatch of hair had fallen over her face. A man in a black uniform knelt hunched over her, knife in hand. Kamil couldn’t see his face, but he knew. Vahid raised a fistful of the girl’s hair and cut it off. She moaned and turned her head.
Vahid wrapped the hair in a piece of cloth and slipped it into his jacket pocket. Then he turned his attention back to the girl, as if wondering what to do next.
Kamil thought furiously. How could he save the girl with an army of Kurds at the doorstep? He drew his pistol and hoisted himself through the window. He landed on his feet, gun aimed at Vahid. The Akrep commander was still on his knees. His gun was pointed at the girl’s temple.
“You are so predictable, Kamil Pasha.” Vahid smiled. “Look.” Vahid ran his free hand over the girl’s breasts and then, to Kamil’s outrage, plunged it between her legs. She bucked but seemed unable to move. Kamil wondered if she was drugged. As long as Vahid had his revolver pointed at the girl’s head, he could do nothing.
“Would you like a turn?” Vahid grinned at him. “No?” He moved the gun from the girl’s head but kept it trained on her body. “That’s too bad.” Vahid shoved the mouth of the revolver between the girl’s legs. “Because no one will know whether you did or not.”
Vahid twisted and aimed his revolver at Kamil just as Kamil fired.
Expecting the Kurds to rush through the door, Kamil leaped out the window and ran into the forest, keeping to the tufts of grass that he knew wouldn’t take the impression of his boots. But he didn’t go far. The pistol still smoked in his hand. He planned to return for the girl. And if the tribesmen were going to take retribution on the surrounding countryside for his rash act, he had to know and do what he could to stop them, or at least to warn people. Much to his surprise, the Kurds hadn’t charged into the house after the shot had been fired. When Kamil looked back from the forest, they were still sitting around the fire. They thought Vahid had shot the girl, Kamil realized.
He wedged himself into a cleft of rock, close enough to see the men with his field glasses. One stood and shouted something at the others. An argument ensued, with some of the men gesticulating toward the mountains. Finally one of them knocked on the door of the headman’s house. Hearing no response, he went in, then hurried back out and strode angrily to the edge of the square, staring out at the forest. The others crowded in and emerged, shaking their heads in disgust. Within minutes they had saddled up, strapped their wounded to their mounts and set off at a rapid pace along the lane in a direction that led away from the monastery. Still, Kamil couldn’t be sure they wouldn’t return once it was daylight. Perhaps they were simply going to a less blood-soaked village to spend the night.