The Grand Cham. Harold Lamb

IT WAS was evening on the plain of Angora in the year of Our Lord 1394. The sun was a glimmering ball of red, peering through a haze of dust at the caravan of Bayezid the Great, surnamed the Thunderbolt, Sultan of the Osmanli and Seljuk Turks, master of the Caliphate and overlord of the Mamelukes of Egypt.

Bayezid reined in his white Arab.

“We will sleep the night here,” he announced, “for this is an auspicious spot.”

At Angora a decade ago, as leader of the hard-fighting Osmanlis, Bayezid had won his first pitched battle. He had been acclaimed sultan and straightway had slain his brother with his own hand. From that moment Fate had been kind to the man called the Thunderbolt.

“To hear is to obey,” cried his followers. “Hail to the Mighty, the Merciful, the All-Dispensing One!”

Bayezid glanced around through the dust haze and saw the quivering shapes of silk pavilions rising from the baked clay floor of the plateau as his camp-followers scurried about. A line of grunting baggage-camels stalked into the nest of tents that marked the quarters of his grandees. Attended by Negro slaves, the several litters of his women halted beside the khanates that separated his household from the small army that attended him.

A slow smile crossed his broad, swart face. A powerful hand caressed the pearls at the throat of his tunic. Fate had indeed exalted him. He had been called the spiritual effigy of the formerly great khalifs of Damascus and Baghdad. He knew himself to be the supreme monarch of Asia, and in that age the courts of Asia were the rendezvous of the world.

True, on the outskirts of the sultan’s empire, to the East, was Tamerlane the Tatar and his horde. But had not Tamerlane said that Bayezid, given the men to follow him, was the wisest of living generals?

As for Europe, Bayezid had advanced the border of his empire into Hungary; Constantinople, glittering with the last splendor of the Byzantines, was tottering; Venice and Genoa paid tribute for permission to use the trade routes into the Orient.

Bayezid glanced curiously at the group of Frankish slaves whose duty it was to run beside his horse. They were panting, and sweat streaked the sand that coated their blackened faces. Fragments of cloth were wrapped about their bleeding feet.

Five of the six captives bent their heads in the salaam that had been taught them. The sixth remained erect, meeting the sultan’s eye.

Bayezid half frowned at this boldness which broke the thread of his thoughts. His hand rested on the gold trappings of his splendid horse. To the side of this horse slaves were dragging a cloth of silver carpet that stretched to the opening of the imperial khanates.

This done, the hawk-faced Sheik of Rum, through whose territory mid-way in Asia Minor the sultan’s caravan had been journeying from Constantinople to Aleppo—the lord of Rum approached his master respectfully.

“O Light of the Faith,” the old man observed gravely, “it is the hour of the namaz gar, the evening prayer.”

“True.” Bayezid started and his glance went once more to the white man who stared at him. “I will dismount. Bid yonder Frank kneel by my horse that I may step upon his back.”

All around Bayezid the grandees were kneeling in their heavy robes upon clean prayer carpets, washing their hands and faces in fresh water brought by slaves from the springs that marked the site of the camp. The sheik bowed and gave a curt command to the master of the slaves, El-Arjuk, a stalwart, white-capped Janissary, whip in hand.

“The body of the Frank will be honored by the foot of the Great, the Merciful.”

At this the captive stepped forward before the Janissary could touch him. Bayezid reflected that the white man understood Turki, which was the case.

And then to the surprise of the onlookers, the captive folded his arms and shook his head.

“Kneel,” hissed the sheik. “Dog of a caphar—unbeliever——”

“I hear,” said the captive. “I will not obey.”

The Janissary reached for his whip and the old Moslem for his scimitar. The sultan checked them, springing easily from his peaked saddle to the cloth of silver carpet. From his six feet of muscular height he looked down at the white man. His beaked nose seemed to curl into his bearded mouth and his black eyes snapped.

Then the sultan knelt, facing toward the southern sky-line beyond which was Mecca, and repeated the Allah akbar in his clear, deep voice. When the last of his followers had completed the evening worship Bayezid arose, his smile cold as the glitter of steel, his nervous fingers playing with the jeweled sword-hilt at his girdle. He noted the wide brown eyes of the captive who still stood quietly at his side, and with the interest of a born leader of men he scrutinized the square high shoulders, the long chin and the wide, delicate mouth upturned in a half-smile.

The man’s face was burned by the sun to the hue of leather; his ragged tunic fell away from a heavily thewed pair of arms. His body had the lines of youth, but his eyes and mouth were hard with fatigue.

“You know my speech,” observed the deep voice of the Thunderbolt. “And your eyes tell me that you are not mad. What is your name and rank?”

“Michael Bearn,” responded the Christian.

“Mishael Bi-orn. Your rank?”

“None,

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