9 HISTORICAL MYSTERIES
by R.T. Lawton
Copyright 2011
Smashwords Edition
Smashwords Edition, License Notes
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“The Little Nogai Boy” previously published in Alfred Hitchcock Mystery Magazine, September 2010
“Dark Eyes” previously published in Alfred Hitchcock Mystery Magazine, January 2005
“The Wild Country” previously unpublished
“Ransom” previously published in Alfred Hitchcock Mystery Magazine, November 2006
“The Length of a Straw” previously published in Alfred Hitchcock Mystery Magazine, March 2008
“False Keys” previously published in Alfred Hitchcock Mystery Magazine, December 2006
“Of Wax and Watermarks” previously published in Alfred Hitchcock Mystery Magazine, November 2007
“Boudin Noir” previously published in Alfred Hitchcock Mystery Magazine, December 2009
“The Alchemist” previously published in Alfred Hitchcock Mystery Magazine, January 2011
Cover art and formatting services by Michael Kliewer @ KGraphics
TABLE OF CONTENTS
1660's PARIS UNDERWORLD SERIES
ARMENIAN SERIES
THE LITTLE NOGAI BOY
In my first seven years of life I had never been robbed, but then I owned little of any value to anyone else, only the clothes on my back and a small bladed knife in the belt at my waist. My master was a different matter. He was a trader of goods and had many objects of much worth to sell on both sides of the Terek River, that winding border between the Cossack lands to the north and the Chechen tribes below.
Thus it was, those many years ago, while approaching through a shallow valley between two rolling grass hills in the Wild Country south of the river that we met the horseman. He appeared to have been waiting just for us.
#
I am Timur of the nomadic Nogai people. It is said that my long ago ancestor was of direct descent from the Great Khan, the one the Round Eyes called Temujin, the one who led our Mongols in their conquest of the known earth. His swift ponies carried the yak-tail standard north as far as the frozen lands where nights are long, and south to the deep blue waters of the Mediterranean and the sweltering jungles of the once great Hindu Kingdom. Our people raided east to the Tien Shan Mountains of China, then turned and pursued the setting sun to white-faced races beyond the edge of the Western Steppes.
At the death of Temujin rose arguments, red power struggles and old grievances. In time, our people split into the Greater Horde and the Nogai Horde and we continued our wandering ways. But in those days of my childhood, our once vast herds of horses were plundered by both Mountain and Lowland Chechen tribes, plus the bearded Cossacks who slipped south of the Terek River to raid the Wild Country. For me to survive in this decline of our once mighty people, I tied myself to the merchant who became known in this land only as The Armenian, and even I have no knowledge of his real name.
I first saw this Armenian when he came south from the Terek with a string of ponies bearing trade goods to barter in one of the distant Chechen villages. As our paths crossed, he rode wide of our yurts and horse herds travelling west in search of better grazing. In passing, we stared at each other. To me, he seemed uncomfortable on horseback and scarcely adequate to lead such a string of pack animals. His laden packs rode unbalanced and loose. He had evidently allowed his ponies to suck much air into their bellies when he tightened the leather girth to the loads on their backs. At the first sign of serious trouble, he would no doubt lose his entire stock of trade goods, and perhaps his life. I was surprised he had made it this far along from the Turkic lands where he first started. To travel this great distance, he must have been one to whom the gods had granted much luck, a circumstance we Nogai hold in high esteem.
That night, I crept away from my uncle’s over-crowded yurt and followed the trail of the Armenian. No one in my uncle’s family would miss this one small boy not of direct line blood. I was merely another mouth to feed, just another little boy in quilted pants and jacket with a fur cap on his head, almost indistinguishable from the other round-faced boys except my clothes were more worn and faded.
After a few hours walk, I came to the Armenian’s camp on the high bank of a small creek. Here, his ponies, tied to stakes in the ground, had quickly eaten all the available grass in individual circles for as far as their short ropes would allow them. I quietly approached his riding horse, gave it several tufts of long grass I’d pulled and let the cautious beast smell the back of my hand. The smooth grey hide of his neck shivered at my first touch, his long mane rippling in the moonlight. Soon, I breathed into his damp, quivering nostrils so that he would always know me. Then I untied his rope from the wooden stake in the ground, fashioned the twisted hemp to make a halter and climbed up on the horse’s back. As he slowly munched his way through the Steppes grass which he could now freely reach, I fell asleep on his back. I was at home.
Before the sun rose, I set about to make myself useful, but the sounds of my labors must have awakened the Armenian. He came out of his tent with a start, a stout piece of firewood in his hand.
“Who are you?” he demanded.
I picked up the samovar near the camp fire and poured a small cup full of fragrant dark tea. Dregs of loose black leaves swirled against the white porcelain, finally settling to the bottom. I placed the steaming cup before him and stepped back.
“I am called Timur. In the Turkic lands, it means...”
He finished my sentence, “...iron.”
I nodded. Only later would I learn that he spoke many languages, a necessary trait if one is to be a successful trader of goods in this land of different tribes from many races.
Seeming to relax now that he found himself confronted only by a small, insignificant boy, the Armenian sat cross-legged on his Persian carpet in front of the tent door. This was a carpet which I had unrolled from one of his packs while the eastern sky was barely showing a pink band of light upon the distant horizon. And, I had spread this rug there upon the earth so he could avoid contact with the early morning dew upon the ground. He ignored this obvious service of comfort I had provided for him and merely sipped from his tea cup before inquiring.
“What are you doing here?”
“I am taking care of you.”
His lips sputtered tea back into the cup. Dark drops fell onto the expensive Persian weave.
I would have patted him strongly on the back to ease his discomfort of swallowing hot liquid down the wrong part of his throat, but as he had not yet come to realize my true worth to him, I ignored the sudden coughing and went to gather our horses. Words from me would mean nothing; he would have to learn for himself.
By the time I returned with the animals, he had eaten the breakfast of dried fruits and flat bread I’d laid out on a yellow napkin in one corner of the carpet. He saved no food for me, but I had already served myself from his food stocks before he awoke, so felt no hunger. I had learned early how to take care of myself in this ever changing world where life was fragile if you didn’t pay attention to events around you.
For the next two days we traveled together, with him trying to do matters in the way he always had, and me rebalancing the packs before he loaded them onto our animals. Eventually, he came to accept that mine was the better way. Under my care, the pack ponies became stronger and we covered more versts in a day. In time, the Armenian grudgingly acknowledged my tending to his own daily needs much as a man servant would do for him.
I quickly saw he was ignorant of our ways, and could not read the thoughts of our people in the same manner he presumed to read the thoughts of other races by observing their facial expressions. At times when I caught him studying my stolid face, I realized this man truly had no idea how independent I was, nor how close I held my heritage.
In return for my labors, he protested that he would only feed me and provide a place to sleep. After all, as he frequently said, he hadn’t asked me to come along.
How little he knew. If need be, I could live off this land abundant with wild game, and as for a place to sleep, I often made my bed on the back of a horse much the same as my warrior ancestors had during times of constant warfare. Truth be told, I went with him to absorb some of the luck the gods were obviously granting to this wandering Armenian, but only I was aware of my reasons.
And, that was the way things stood between us when we rode into the shallow valley between two rolling grass hills deep in the Wild Country.
As I squinted into the sun, a black silhouette at the head of the valley caught my eye. I shielded my vision with a hand to my forehead. The silhouette appeared to be a horseman waiting patiently for us to approach. How long he had been biding his time I had no way of knowing, but we were the only ones in this valley. We had to be the focus of his interest.
“Master,” I pointed at the rider, “there is one who concerns me.”
The Armenian gazed in the direction I had indicated. Then he settled himself in the saddle and straightened his back. “Surely a Chechen,” he said at last, “one of the lowland people I hope to trade with.”
Normally, I would hold my tongue, keeping my thoughts to myself, a lesson learned at the rough hands of my uncle who believed only men had words worth listening to, not the small mouths of little boys. But, there was something in this Chechen’s manner, like a lean wolf waiting patiently to feed, knowing full well that his meal was coming to him. I glanced round at the hill crests on either side of the valley. No other riders appeared in view.
“This may be one of those Abreks,” I tried to explain, “a brigand from the mountains.”
“Then I’ll trade with him,” replied the Armenian. “His coins are as good as any.”
“Do you at least have a weapon to defend us if necessary?” I inquired.
“I do,” he said, but seemed unconcerned. “There should be a flintlock pistol in amongst the bundle of Turkic trade knives in a pack on one of the ponies behind us. I have never seen need to carry a weapon upon my person.” He turned to look me in the eyes. “Take heed, little one, physical violence only breeds more violence. It is better to use one’s brain.”
I tried to keep my face impassive, only groaning silently to myself at this turn of bad luck. I had obviously made an error in judgment and therefore tied my future to an idiot. If we both survived this trip south, then my master was truly more blessed by the gods than even I had hoped.
As we continued up the trail over rising ground to the head of the valley, the sun rose higher and I could see the rider more clearly. His boots were made of soft Morocco leather, and above them he wore blue, loose-fitting trousers that tied below the knees with leather straps. Beneath his open sheepskin vest, he wore his beshmet, a tight-waisted almost knee-length shirt with long sleeves. A wide leather belt encircled his waist, and here was thrust a long dagger of good Turkic quality. His dark face showed a trace of Tartar blood with a short cropped beard dyed red while his head was clean-shaven in the fashion of many young Chechen braves.
His welcome sounded genuine, but I suspected otherwise.
“Good day to you, travelers upon my land.”
We halted some distance below him and were forced to look upward at his position of dominance. I couldn’t help noticing the flintlock musket, inset with bright Turkic silver, which rested across his lap. As yet it wasn’t pointed in our direction, but still I had a feeling.
“I thought this land belonged to all Chechens,” ventured the Armenian.
“Wherever Yarbay goes,” replied the rider as he touched the flat of his palm to his chest, “that land where I stand belongs only to me, and all who pass through must pay me yassak.”
He gestured toward us, and even though this Chechen spoke his words with a friendly smile on his face, I knew he hungered for our trade goods.
“Abrek,” I whispered to my master.
“A matter of tribute,” said the Armenian aloud as if he hadn’t heard me. “I see.” He nodded his head as though he’d come to a decision known only to himself. “Then we will ride around your piece of land and find others to trade with.” He reined his horse to the right.
I kept my pony where he stood.
The Chechen stepped his horse sideways to block my master’s new path. The musket had now come off of Yarbay’s lap, the butt of the flintlock resting on his thigh with the barrel pointing up at the bright blue of sky overhead.
My master sat still for several heartbeats as if pondering the circumstances. Then he spoke in a stern voice. “If I must pay yassak as you call it in order to cross your piece of land, then we will do it in a civilized manner.”
Yarbay’s eyes widened as if the reaction was not one he was expecting.
Indicating a solitary tree growing a short distance away, the Armenian continued, “We will talk there. The boy can spread a carpet for our comfort.” He then rode past the Chechen, so close their knees almost brushed, but my master paid no more attention to this brigand or his musket.
Yarbay turned far enough to watch the Armenian ride slowly toward the indicated tree, then the brigand swiveled his attention back to me. I met his questioning glance, but only shrugged my shoulders before nudging my horse forward. What did I know?
At the base of the tree, I spread two carpets and built a small fire nearby. Water soon boiled, and I found myself serving tea, flat bread and salt, while both men haggled over the terms of safe passage for ourselves, our horses and our goods. After much conversation and laughter, which this mountain Abrek seemed to enjoy much more than if he had simply robbed us of everything we owned, he settled for a red and green scarf of fine Turkish silk and a pair of silver earrings. As he explained, the scarf and earrings were to impress a young woman who had caught his eye. She was the daughter of an ataman whose clan lived not far from the Blue Mist Gorge, and if Yarbay were to press his suit for her acceptance, then he needed small gifts from the southern lands. Having received these gifts so freely given by us, as Yarbay put it, he would in turn guide us safely to the nearest village, where we could engage in trade with the Lowland Chechens.
With those two having come to an agreement, I packed up our belongings and the three of us continued south toward the snow-capped Caucasus. I still had my doubts about this wolf in a sheep skin vest who was now our guide, but with him present I had no chance to catch my master’s ear in private.
We had scarce travelled less than a verst in the late afternoon when our guide reined in his horse and threw out his arm to stop my master from going forward.
“What is it?” inquired the Armenian.
“Quiet,” commanded Yarbay. Then he cupped one hand to his ear and turned his head as if listening to something in the distance. “Musket fire,” he said at last.
I heard nothing at the time, but soon detected the rumble of hoof beats headed in our direction. Whoever they were, they were in a hurry. Suddenly, two riders on lathered horses erupted from the gully in front of us. We moved to one side to avoid being trampled.
As they thundered past, Yarbay cursed their parentage and birth in terms my young ears had not heard before.
The riders rapidly disappeared into the mouth of the valley we’d ridden out of a short time ago. A slight trail of swirling dust blowing off to the north was all that remained of their passage.
“Who were they?” inquired the Armenian.
“Ossetes dressed in Chechen clothing,” muttered Yarbay. He spat on the ground. “They are lap dogs and spies for the Russians. Probably scouting our land in preparation for the Muscovy Army’s Spring Campaign. No doubt someone discovered their deception, thus the hurried departure.”
“And the shooting?”
“We shall go see,” replied our guide. He spurred his mount forward along the rim of the gully.
A few minutes later, we gazed down where the other side of the gully had broadened out into a sweeping plain. A short distance away, several mounted Chechens were gathered around a fallen horse and a man lying on the ground. The man rose up on one elbow to a sitting position.
“Looks like they caught one of the dogs,” Yarbay ventured.
A Chechen on the far side of the circle happened to glance up and notice our interest. He pointed in our direction. Others turned to stare at us.
“They’ve seen us,” commented the Armenian in a level voice. “Now what?”
“If you run in this country,” replied Yarbay, “then you are perceived as an enemy. It is better that we go down to show them we are friends.”
Letting his horse find a safe route down the face of the earth wall without too much sliding in loose dirt, Yarbay led us toward the Lowland Chechens.
As we got closer, Yarbay whispered, “that man on the ground is no Ossete, he is too pale of skin.”
“I know him,” replied my master in a low voice. “He is a Russian Staff Captain I’ve seen in one of the Cossack villages along the Terek. He often boasts when drinking that he is a relative of the Tsar himself.”
“Bad luck for him,” whispered back our guide.
“Talk to them,” urged the Armenian, “perhaps we can buy his freedom.”
It was at this time that I began to see a small portion of my master’s wisdom. If he could buy back the Russian officer from certain death, then “the Tsar of all the Russias” would owe a debt to this wandering trader of goods. Ah, my master did have some luck after all.
“We shall see,” muttered Yarbay, “whether the Russian’s death has yet been written in the Book.”
At first the Chechens and their ataman, Azamat, met us with hostile gazes and quick speech. Even though Yarbay was also of Chechen blood, he was mountain and they were lowland, only recently allied together against the Russian incursion. Eventually, they warmed to Yarbay’s words and the prospect of viewing the Armenian’s trade goods from the Turkic lands.
As the darkness of evening set in, the captive was dragged off some distance where he was bound to the trunk of a small tree and guarded by one of the larger Chechens. A camp fire was started for the group, with Yarbay and the Armenian on one side, and the ataman with his clan on the other. I sat behind my master, but soon became restless with all the bickering and negotiating.
Though tempted by the possibility of receiving trade goods in return for the Staff Captain’s life, Azamat argued for the Russian’s death. Under the Islamic law of sharia, the Captain’s demise was required to pay for the death of one of their own clan who had been slain during the pursuit of the Captain and the two Ossetes. However, as the ataman subtly relented, there was the possibility of negotiating a blood price if both sides reached an agreement.
I knew the old fox was merely trying to drive the price as high as possible, but all this talking only hurt my ears. To relieve my boredom, I slid off into the shadows and went to see the prisoner up close. Curiosity suggested that I should observe this man who was having a price put on his life, or upon his death.
The Russian Staff Captain sat cross-legged on the ground with his head bowed. A thin line of blood trickling from his hairline had dried down across his forehead and one cheek.
I left the shadows, came near and squatted low with the intent of viewing his face better by the flickering light of the campfire. But, my luck was bad and I never got the chance. A strong hand clamped onto the back of my neck, twisted me around and raised me up until the toes of my boots no longer touched earth. A dark face glared at mine from the distance of his arm’s length.
“No one gets near our prisoner, not even a little Nogai boy,” growled the guard.
I hadn’t noticed the large Chechen anywhere in the vicinity when I walked over, so he must have been standing off to one side and closer to the campfire, trying to eavesdrop on the bargaining. Having detected my approach, he obviously realized he needed to return to his guard duties. Now I was left dangling, barely able to choke out my words.
“I meant no trouble.”
“And you will be no trouble,” he replied as he ran his free hand over my body. At finding the short bladed knife in my belt, he removed my personal weapon and held it up to the light. Laughing at its smallness, he stuck my knife under his own belt. “My daughter will find good use for this little toy.”
Then, he tossed me backward toward the campfire. I landed on my padded hindquarters without physical injury. My mind however was another thing, it twisted and burned as a result of this theft from my meager possessions. Who was this man to steal from me?
Rolling over to one side and upright, I stared at my tormentor for a few heartbeats before walking off into the shadows. His laughter trailed behind me.
Seeking my place of comfort, I crawled up on the back of my master’s grey horse and contemplated my circumstances. What I should have done on my approach to the prisoner, I quickly realized, was to have made a more circuitous route, staying completely within the protection of darkness and out of sight of all prying eyes. A lesson to be remembered.
Tired in mind and body, I sought the peace of sleep, yet found the heat of my frustration working against all efforts. It was little comfort to make a vow of never forgiving the Chechen guard who had robbed me. But then, what chance had one little boy against a full grown man in this violent land?
In the grey wolf hour before sunrise, when the world is neither night nor day, I was violently awakened. Rough hands shook me from my bed.
“The little Nogai boy was asleep on the back of a horse,” one of the Chechens shouted back in the direction of the campfire. Then, he dragged me from my perch.
Even though still half asleep, I quickly noticed there seemed to be a great commotion in the camp. Yarbay and the Armenian stood on our side of the now blazing fire, Yarbay with a hard set to his face and his cocked musket in the crook of his arm. Opposite of them, Azamat screamed at his men. Three of his braves ran for their horses, mounted and galloped off across the Steppes toward the Terek River. The remaining two warriors seemed occupied near the small tree where the Russian had been tied.
As the ataman gradually ran out of curses and orders, he turned his attention to Yarbay and the Armenian. “How is it that the Russian got loose to make his escape?”
“Why ask us,” replied Yarbay in a hard voice. “We’ve been here within your own eyesight since talks began. And, we were still here when all of us heard the Russian riding away on one of your horses a few minutes ago.”
The ataman rubbed his chin.
“Much of that may be true,” Azamat allowed in a grudging voice, “but now the man I set as guard on the prisoner has a knife in his belly, and the Russian officer is no longer in my grasp.” He clenched his splayed fingers as if they held the Russian’s throat.
Yarbay muttered a low curse and narrowed his eyes.
My master said and did nothing.
“This matter is a mystery to my mind,” continued the ataman as if searching for answers in the air around him. “As you say, both of you have been within my sight this full night, a fact you use as claim of innocence on the murder of my guard.”
He paused and we waited for his next words.
“Yet in truth, my men would not have killed one of their own clan in order to free a hated enemy, and I seriously doubt the guard stabbed himself.” He stopped all movement and locked his gaze on us. “Speak now if you think otherwise.”
My master cleared his throat and stepped forward.
“We agree with your summation of the facts. However, there is another answer. Obviously, the Russian had a knife concealed upon his person and used it on your guard in order to effect his escape on one of your horses.” He raised his hands, palms out. “What other possibility could there be?”
Azamat leaned his head to peer around the Armenian. He looked directly at me.
I stared back. I knew it wasn’t me who had stabbed the guard.
My master caught the direction of the ataman’s gaze. Then, he too looked at me for a moment before making a suggestion.
“Let me examine the guard’s body, and see if I can offer any help or solution to his death.”
Azamat nodded his agreement, and the four of us walked forward to the small tree where the Russian had been bound.
Six feet in front of the tree, we came to the crumpled body of the dead man lying on his side. The other two Chechens stepped back at our approach, muskets at the ready.
My master went down on one knee to observe the corpse up close. Without touching anything, he studied the protruding knife handle and the upward angle in which it had been driven all the way up to the hilt. For several minutes, he said nothing. When he looked back at us, I saw his eyes searching the belt at my waist, but I knew there was nothing there to find. My small bladed knife was gone, and it wasn’t in the belly of the Chechen.
Returning his attention to the dead guard, my master rolled the corpse onto its back.
I quickly saw there were no weapons stored in the dead Chechen’s belt.
And, so did my master.
His long silence made me uneasy, but then he spoke in the direction of the ataman.
“This killing weapon, is it the knife of your guard?”
“No,” replied Azamat, “I have never seen this weapon before today.”
The Armenian stood up. “Then once again, I suggest that the Russian had a knife concealed on his person and your men did not find it. It is the only answer.”
Azamat seemed reluctant to accept that possibility. “Perhaps,” he muttered and cast his eyes in my direction a second time.
The Armenian shook his head. “The boy is not yet strong enough to drive a large knife that far into a grown man’s body.”
An awkward silence fell upon the camp.
Finally, Yarbay took my master’s elbow. “Come, we must be on our way. Let them care for their dead as is the custom. This is no longer any business of ours.”
As we walked away, the ataman seemed to keep a thoughtful eye on our departure, but said nothing to stop us.
This time, I did not care if the packs were properly balanced. I threw trade goods into bundles without regard for weight or bulk. Fortunately, not every pack had been unwrapped this night, as my master had not yet displayed all of his goods to the Chechens.
We left as soon as the pack animals were loaded, taking a direction leading away from the Chechen’s back trail and away from our original heading. For the first two hours, Yarbay set a fast pace to put distance between us and Azamat in case the ataman had second thoughts about our involvement in his guard’s death. For those same two hours, the Armenian seemed lost in thought and never once glanced my way. At last, he finally turned his eyes upon me, and I knew his mind was trying to put parts of the mystery together.
When I had left the campfire earlier that night, I had noticed my master observing my roundabout departure and my return along the same shadow fringe of the fire’s flickering light. He would have been able to guess my destination, even though the bright campfire blocked his vision of the small tree where the Russian Staff Captain had been tied. Of course, he would not have seen me climb up onto the back of his grey riding horse afterward, but he did know that was where the Chechens had found me sleeping the next morning. And that was all he saw of me that night.
Now in the clear light of day, my master could see that my short-bladed knife was still missing from my belt, yet it had not been among the dead guard’s possessions nor had anyone mentioned finding the blade, so he had to wonder where my knife had gone. I too wondered, and if I ever saw the Russian again, perhaps I would ask him for it back. In my mind, he was the logical person to have taken it from the guard’s belt during his escape.
As for my master, if he hadn’t already recognized the killing knife, then he would soon solve enough of the mystery the next time he counted those Turkic knives in his bundle of trade goods where he kept his unused flintlock pistol which I had earlier wished him to use for our protection. I remembered his philosophy on violence and hoped his luck would hold, for both our sakes. For the future, it remains to be seen whether he will reap a benefit from the Tsar as a result of the Captain’s escape. Perhaps the boastful Captain will claim he freed himself from those tight knots in the rope around his wrists.
On the matter of the Chechen guard, I can faithfully swear by earth and salt and my dead parents’ graves that I was not the one who stabbed him. Although when I think back on it, I had made a surreptitious, but rather sharp contribution to his death. To my way of thinking, he deserved what he got.
As I said before, in my first seven years of life I had never been robbed, but then at that time in my life I owned little of any value to anyone else, only the clothes on my back and a small bladed knife in the belt at my waist.
...return to Table of Contents
DARK EYES
“Armenian, come with me. The Russian requests your presence.”
I left off sorting the bright silk scarves the southern traders had brought in the day before and glanced up. The school teacher for the Tereski Cossack Regiment stood in the doorway of my hut, a hut that I had rented on a previous trip for my business here. During the few other times I’d seen the teacher, he had carried himself with the air of authority, but on this early morning he seemed perturbed over some weighty matter that occupied his mind. Ah, those sorts of things were for the local officials to handle. I had no wish to meddle in the affairs of the Tsar’s representatives, nor to be drawn into them. I was merely a seller of goods in this foreign land.
“If His Honor wishes a silver dagger from Turkey or some trinkets for the village girls, then pray let him come here. I cannot carry my entire shop around on my back.”
The Regimental School Teacher cast a hard gaze on me.
“He doesn’t wish to buy.”
“Then what does he want with me?” I asked.
In answer, the school teacher grabbed my elbow and hurried me out into the yard.
“I can’t tell you much for now, he only said to bring you.”
I yelled over my shoulder for the Nogai boy whose sun-browned face displayed the stolid features of his Mongol forbearers. The youth had somehow attached himself to me in the last year and found ways to assist in my trading concern. In return, I fed him and taught him the business. But, for right now, I wanted him out on the front steps with an eye on the goods. If anyone came to buy, he should tell them to come back in the late afternoon after the Cossack girls drove the cattle through the main gate and into the yards of their owners. I should return by then and have everything ready for sale.
The school teacher led me up the wide dirt street, past the wattle fences that enclosed every Cossack yard with its hut set up on posts a few feet above the ground. A dirt embankment then surrounded each hut. Few people were about the village at this time of day. Most of the Cossack men were out on expeditions against the Chechens or stood guard at one of the cordons along the brown waters of the Terek River sweeping down from the snowy Caucasus. As for the women, they worked out in the vineyards with the ripening black grapes or else kept an eye on the cattle in the fields.
Along our way, the school teacher spoke very little other than to say that something of importance had happened during the night, something upon which the Russian Staff Captain wished to consult with me. Further than that he wouldn’t explain, even though I tried to draw him out with small talk.
“Where are we going?”
“To my second house.”
“The one that you rented to the Staff Captain after he and his orderly were quartered on you by the army?”
The school teacher glanced at me, then seemed to ignore my presence as much as possible under the circumstances. We passed two more huts before coming to his yard and entering through the arched gate.
As we approached the house, I observed the Staff Captain sitting calmly in a wooden chair on the front porch. His right leg was crossed over his left at the knee, and his right foot, encased in a brightly polished black leather riding boot, swung lightly back and forth. He was young, with a stern look of self-importance and a reckless black mustache. In his mouth, a lit pipe drifted with white tendrils of smoke.
We were all the way up the stairs before I noticed a body—it looked like the Staff Captain’s orderly—stretched out on the porch to the far side of the Russian officer. Judging by the knife protruding at a slant from the orderly’s chest, I was fairly sure the man was dead. And recently so. But what did this have to do with me?
The Russian spoke first.
“Is this the Armenian?”
The school teacher nodded.
“Good. Now listen to me, Armenian. It seems your reputation precedes you in your travels. I am told that you are good at finding things that have been lost.”
I had trouble taking my eyes off the dead orderly, but the Russian officer had fixed his attention on me and I had to answer.
“I’ve had some luck in the past. Yes sir.”
“Very well.” He reached into the pocket of his scarlet Circassian coat and brought out a small stack of gold coins. Selecting one off the top, he held the coin out toward me. “This is advance payment.”
Gingerly I took the coin.
“For what, your honor?”
“My favorite horse was stolen last night. He’s a Karbada horse, sixteen hands high, with dark color and a long low stride. I named him Karagyoz, Turkish for ‘black eyes’. Find where he is and more of these coins will be yours. You would be wise not to fail me.”
My gaze kept drifting back to the dead man on the porch.
The Staff Captain deigned to look at the limp heap lying at his door step.
“Whoever stole my horse also killed my orderly with his own knife. The serf I can replace, but Karagyoz is one of a kind.”
“Chechens,” spoke up the school teacher. “It was those Abreks from the Tartar side of the river. I’ll tighten the cordons and see if we can catch them before they cross back.”
“Not so,” replied the Staff Captain in a dry voice. “I think it was one of your local Cossacks and when I find him out, I will whip him, then hang him.”
The school teacher turned away in the direction of the Caucasus Mountains off in the distance, south across the river. From the little I knew of the man, he appeared to be engaged in some inner turmoil.
To break the silence, I inquired, “What has been done so far?”
It was the Russian that answered. “My Moscow soldiers have searched every hut, shed and yard, one at a time. Not a trace was found. But they can’t hide him for long. See if you can find my Karagyoz.”
I wasn’t sure where to begin.
After some parting words with the Russian officer, the school teacher grabbed my elbow again and led me off the porch. We were through the gate and back onto the broad dirt street before I ventured a question in his direction.
“The Russian disturbs you?”
“He is a noble and is closely related to the Tsar. We must be especially careful around him.”
“And beyond that?”
“We Cossacks were a free people once. That’s the meaning of the word ‘cossack’ from the old ‘kazak’. At one time or another we successfully fought off the separate armies of Poland and of Russia and of the Turkish sultan. In the end, we allied ourselves with Russia because they are of the same faith, Old Believers, like us. Even so, they squeezed us tight. But after we Cossacks lost the rebellion, Moscow took away many of our freedoms. Now we have Russian troops quartered in every village. They pollute our homes with pipe smoke and treat us like underlings.”
I pondered his statements and wondered.
“You dislike the Russians, but they are your allies. And your Cossacks dress like Chechen braves, yet you fight these same Chechens across the river.”
“In the beginning, our Cossacks intermarried with the hill tribes. We respected the Chechens and adopted their dress, but today’s politics demand that we fight against them.”
These machinations of governments were not my concern, except as possible pieces to the puzzle of a crime. Personally, I wanted nothing more than to trade with both the Cossacks on this side of the river and the hill tribes on the far bank of the Terek. Now I found myself dragged into the middle. And, I had the feeling that neither the Russian nor the school teacher had told me everything.
At the next intersection of dirt streets, the school teacher left me alone with my thoughts, not even a farewell, just a meaningful glance that I couldn’t interpret.
I stood in the dusty road, wanting to return to my unpacked trade goods, but the gold coin in my pocket said I had to look for a stolen horse. The best person I knew for information in this village was Daddy Eroshka, a giant Cossack with a long white mane and full beard. Most of his time was spent hunting and fishing, the rest in drinking parties with the Cossack girls where he heard all the latest gossip. He’d be the one.
I found him still asleep in the back of his two room hut. The walls of the bigger room in front were covered with brass basins, weapons, fishing nets, drying animal skins and a couple of blankets. On the floor under a wooden bench rested pumpkins and melons. Three hunting dogs lay on a pile of rags in the far corner. In the back room, amongst rugs and bedding, sat a well-worn camp bed where the old man lay snoring. His musket stood against the nearest wall. I gently shook his shoulder.
His eyes opened and fixed on me.
“What do you want so early in the morning?”
“I would like to talk with you.”
“If you want me to be sociable at this time of day you will have to stand me to a pail of chikhir.”
For myself, I too like a good wine, but with my supper—this was not yet breakfast. However, if that’s what it took to loosen his tongue, then so be it.
I nodded.
Daddy Eroshka immediately sat up on the camp bed. His voice roared out into the yard. “Lukashka, come quickly. Your uncle has money for a drink.”
With grimy hands, he reached under the camp bed and picked two bottles off the floor. Blowing a light film of road dust off the bottles, he held them up by their necks in one hand, then stuck out the callused palm of his other hand. It took me a minute to realize what he wanted.
As I counted out several small coins into his palm, a young boy rushed into the room. With the two bottles, the coins and instructions to go to Auntie Ustenka’s hut, the boy left in a hurry. Daddy Eroshka lay back on the bed and closed his eyes. Not sure what I was supposed to do, I waited quietly until the youngster returned. At this point, the old Cossack resurrected himself.
He handed me a cracked porcelain cup with brown streaks on the inside and made as if to pour wine into it for me. I quickly wiped it out with my sleeve. He filled my cup halfway, then he drank straight from the bottle. I noticed that the second bottle had gone under the bed, presumably for later.
He wiped his lips on the back of his sunburned hand and raised his bottle again.
“To your health, Armenian.”
Having no wish to buy more wine, I began my questions.
“You hear all the gossip in the village. What have you heard about the Staff Captain?”
“Ah, the Russian noble, related to the Tsar they say.”
“Yes, that one.”
“Of course. It is said that he receives a large monthly allotment from his family estates back in Russia. And it must be true because he parties with the prettiest girls, buys them sweetmeats and silver trinkets, drinks to all hours of the night and plays their games. He lives well.”
“Any problems there?”
“Not as far as the Russian himself is concerned. He favors one girl, beautiful Marushka, who carries herself like a queen. Oh, the Captain spends a lot of money on her, but she is undecided. You see, sometime back, her mother spoke to the mother of one of our Cossack lads, Yermack, and the two of them were to be married some day. You should know this, our Yermack is a fine lad. After his father was killed by the Chechens, I trained him myself to ride a horse in the Cossack way. I taught him everything he knows about horses.”
“Anything else for me?”
The old man drank from the bottle again and screwed up his face as if he were trying to remember something important so I could get my money’s worth.
“There’s some of the other village girls, who are not as pretty as Marushka and her friends. And I hear that the Staff Captain’s orderly sells some of the household silver bowls and cups for money to party with those girls. But then all the Moscow soldiers quartered here flirt with the village girls if that means anything to you.”
I wasn’t sure it did, but there wasn’t much else the old man seemed willing to give up. I thanked him and left. Out on the broad street, my stomach complained about how high the sun had risen in the sky, which settled the matter of priorities.
Back at my hut, I brewed tea, munched on a piece of bread and mulled circumstances over in my head. Marushka herself probably wouldn’t talk to me about Yermack, but maybe one of the other girls would, ...especially if I had something to offer.
Once again, I left the shop in the hands of my Nogai helper and walked up the main street. This time I continued out the village gate and less than a verst up the road to the vineyards. Lowing of the oxen that pulled the grape-laden carts, interspersed with the voices of the girls calling out to each other, rose above the dusty vines.
Eventually, I found one of Marushka’s friends. She was cutting bunches of the sugar black grapes and piling them into an ox cart.
“Good morning, Bela. How is the harvest?”
She paused to wipe the sweat off her handsome face.
“Armenian, you’ve come to help me.”
“No, no, I merely wished to talk.”
Immediately, she returned to cutting the next bunch of grapes.
“No time to gossip. I have work to do.”
I whisked a bright yellow silk scarf from out of my sleeve and dangled it in front of her face.
She stopped cutting and looked at the scarf, then me, then back to the scarf. Cleaning her hands on the hem of her smock, she reached for the yellow silk.
I let her have one end.
“Tell me about the Russian and Marushka,” I said.
“Oh that.” Bela laughed. “That’s nothing. The Captain buys all of us sweetmeats and silver lockets, but he wants only Marushka for his ‘little soul’, his mistress.”
“And what does Yermack say about that?”
Bela’s smile faded.
“In front of Marushka, he pretends it doesn’t matter. He laughs and says there are plenty of other beautiful women in the next village to love him, so what does he care.”
“Do you believe him?”
“Not really.”
“Why not?”
She puckered up one cheek.
“Because in private he mutters that the Russian stole something he loved away from him, and therefore he will steal away something that the Russian loves.”
“Could that something have been a horse?”
Bela snatched the scarf out of my grasp and turned away.
“I have grapes to cut before they dry on the vine. Go ask your questions of someone else.”
She was right, and I had a fair idea whom to speak with. Only this time, I would be better prepared.
In the late afternoon as the heat of the day began to cool, I was seated on Daddy Eroshka’s porch, waiting for his return. Down the street he trudged, with still wet nets thrown back over his shoulder, his naked back carrying the weight of both fish and equipment. A pelt of snowy white hair covered his massive chest and he walked barefoot with his pants legs rolled up to his knees.
I knew he saw me sitting here on his porch, but he ducked his head as if to give himself time to consider what business I might have with him now. His whistling stopped, but his outward appearance seemed cheerful enough as he came up the steps.
“Armenian, you’ve come back to me.”
He unslung the nets and dropped them onto the porch.
I held up the small pail of vodka I’d had the foresight to bring along this time.
His voice boomed.
“And you’ve brought me a present. We may become kunaks, yet. Yes, we may become very good comrades.”
Using the only drink container in the hut, I scooped up some of the vodka and held the cup out to him. He toasted my health, downed the liquid in two swallows and returned the empty porcelain. This time, after refilling the cup, I held it in sight, but made no proffer.
“You forgot to tell me about the horse. But then it was early morning when I came to your hut, and it’s possible that you were still groggy from your sleep.”
He stared at the vodka.
“Which horse is that?”
“The Karbada horse that belonged to the Staff Captain, the one that Yermack stole. As I recall, it was you that taught Yermack everything he knows about horses.”
The old Cossack had a troubled look on his face.
“I wish no evil on the lad. He is a brave one like the Cossacks in my youth.”
“There will be no worries from me. I will only speak with Yermack and then he can do whatever he wishes.”
I extended the cracked porcelain halfway.
Daddy Eroshka’s large hand wrapped around the cup of vodka, but I wasn’t ready to let it go yet.
“I’ve heard rumors,” he said at last, “that a dark colored Karbada horse, much like the Staff Captain’s, might be found tethered in the dense woods along the Terek.”
I released my grasp.
“And when will Yermack come to the village again from the cordon?”
The old Cossack eyed the pail of vodka on the floor at my feet.
“Tonight,” he replied, “at sunset. Some of the girls are having a party and he will be there.”
I handed him the pail and left.
By early evening, I had stationed myself by the main village gate. The girls in their beshmets and smocks with their hair tied up in colored kerchiefs had already herded the cattle through the gate and into the yards. All the ox carts with their loads of black grapes had also come home. I’d seen Marushka with her long black hair, bold figure and dark eyes, and knew why both the Cossack lad and the Russian Captain sought her affections. Now I waited for Yermack.
As the sun began to set, a young rider on a grey horse came down the road. He wore a tattered light brown Circassian coat with the coat’s long skirts covering down to his knees. A white cap set back on his head like a Chechen brave. His musket was strapped to his back in a warrior’s carefree manner and it made no noise as he rode.
When the horseman approached the gate, I stepped into the road and inquired, “Yermack?”
He stopped the grey horse with its shoulder almost touching mine.
“I am. Who are you?”
“I’m a friend.”
He leaned forward on his saddle.
“I know all my friends, but I think you are the Armenian trader from the south.”
“I know about the Karbada horse, Karagyoz, hidden in the forest.”
Yermack shrugged the musket off his shoulder and into his hands.
“You picked a poor place to die, Armenian.”
“And you would be killing the wrong man.”
“What do you mean?”
“I have an answer to your problems,” I replied.
His countenance remained stern; there was no joy in the hard smile on his lips.
“Go on.”
“First, take the Karbada horse across the river and sell him to the Chechens.”
“He’s an excellent horse, I will keep him.”
Ah, I had forgotten the stubbornness of youth. I now reconsidered the situation before us.
“Then is there a Chechen on the other side that you trust to hide the horse for a while?”
“Yarbay Khan is my kunak, we’ve raided the horse herds of the Nogai together. He will do anything I ask.”
“Good. Take the horse across the river to him tonight. Secondly, find an elder from the pro-Russian Chechen village near your cordon and send the man to me at this gate just before the sun rises tomorrow. He and I will take care of the rest. Now go.”
Yermack had a disappointed look on his face.
“There’s a party tonight.”
“You’ll have several parties if we do this right. Otherwise, you may lose both of your ‘dark eyes’ to the Staff Captain.”
He brandished his musket. A frown creased his forehead.
“I would gladly shoot that Russian right off his porch, but then I would become an outlaw with no village, no family.”
His horse stood motionless for a while before Yermack spoke again.
“Maybe I will try your way this one time.”
Reining his horse partway around, he suddenly stopped, his head turning back in my direction.
“You and I have not known each other that well. Why do you do this for me?”
“I have an inherent distrust of Turks and Russians. Besides, who knows what the future holds, perhaps sometime you will do a favor for me.”
Yermack nodded and rode off up the road toward the woods along the Terek. He had no idea how soon I might request this favor I’d mentioned, but with the manner of man we were both dealing with, I felt sure I would be in need of Yermack’s services, probably within a day. There was nothing else to do now except sleep and see what the morning brought.
As the stars winked out of the fading night and the sky grew pale blue in the east, I once again stood at the main village gate.
Red streaks had covered the bottom of the distant clouds hanging on the mountain tops before I saw the old man walking out of the morning mist along the river. When he drew closer, he hailed me.
“Are you the Armenian?”
“I am. Are you the friend of Yermack?”
He greeted me in Chechen fashion. In turn, I pressed silver coins into his palm and explained his part in what we were about to do. He agreed and asked no questions.
From there, we walked to the school teacher’s house and I roused the teacher from his morning samovar.
“We must speak with the Staff Captain,” I said.
“He may still be sleeping,” replied the teacher. Perhaps we should wait until he stirs.”
I shrugged.
“We can wait until tomorrow if it pleases you. But yesterday, the Russian noble seemed anxious to hear word about his horse. The choice is yours to make.”
The school teacher pursed his lips.
“I see. And this is a matter of great importance?”
I assured him that it was. Also, that I needed himself and one other male as witness.
The teacher glanced at the Chechen elder, then studied my face as if he could read my mind. And perhaps he could, for he immediately sent his oldest son to get fully dressed, and bawled for his old wife to get his regimental coat ready. The one with all the medals. As he slid into his jacket, his daughter hurried forward with his black leather riding boots.
Made ready, the four of us trooped across the yard and up the steps of the second house. The Staff Captain must have heard the thud of the Regimental School Teacher’s boot soles on the porch boards. He slung the door open and leaned insolently against the door frame.
“So much noise. Must be important.”
“We know where your horse has gone.” This I could say without a lie upon my lips, because I had made these arrangements myself. And since the Chechen elder had come to me at dawn, I could assume that the rest of my message was true, therefore I could speak with a relatively clear conscience. I tugged on the elder’s sleeve until he stood beside me on the porch. “This old man from a village across from one of the cordons has word of your Karagyoz.”
The village elder proceeded to relate a story of watching a Chechen Abrek ride across the Terek leading a dark colored Karbada horse while yesterday’s morning mist was still upon the water. Horses and rider then disappeared in the direction of the foothills.
The Staff Captain stared at me.
“How does he know it was an Abrek and not one of the local Cossacks?”