But when he returned to his apartments, and found his companions sleeping the early and healthy sleep of the steppe-dweller, he was no longer amused.
“I have been insulted by a mean priest!” he said aloud. He dropped the curtains that hid the bedchamber of Chepe Noyon and Kasar, and went to his own bedroom. He sat down on his couch, and resting his hands on his knees, supported his chin, and glowered before him. The immense amount of wine he had consumed made a singing in his ears like a thousand gnats. But he was not jubilant and excited as he usually was when he had drunk too much.
Then he had forgotten the bishop. He could think only of Azara, and suddenly all his body was pervaded with an anguished desire for her. Unable to sit still now, he stood up and paced up and down the room with rapid and feverish steps. He could not understand himself. He had desired women before, but never like this, with a sort of terror and feeling of doom, of agony and tenderness and love. Her face, pale with fear and suffering, stood before him. He could see it, though he closed his eyes, and clenched his fists convulsively. “What aileth me?” he asked himself aloud, as though frightened. “This is only a beautiful woman, after all!”
But then he knew again that no other woman would be to him as Azara was. She seemed to be flesh of his flesh, part of his breath and his heart. Her thoughts of him appeared to enter the room and mingle with his, like living exhalations.
He had come to the palace. But he was no nearer Azara than before. The bride of the Caliph of Bokhara was being guarded like the most precious treasure, in order that she be delivered up to her lord like a pure and unsullied jewel. He realized, with an exclamation of mingled wrath and despair, that he did not know what to do next. But see her he must, though he had to strike down every guard in the palace.
He forced himself to sit down. “This is madness,” he groaned. To attempt to see her, to force himself past her guardians, would be to make a mortal enemy of Toghrul Khan, and the mighty Caliph. There would be no spot on earth where he could hide from them, and he would bring ruin down upon his people. All that he had gained, at such cost of blood and death and fortitude and torment, would be lost.
But somehow he could only look at the cost, and not feel it in his mind. In his terrific effort to realize it, to pierce through the numbness in his brain, he seized his head in his hand and feverishly ran his fingers through his thick red hair. He rolled his head from side to side. He sweated. He gasped. But still nothing mattered but Azara. The world was well lost for her.
But, strangely, he could not make himself completely believe this, either. Nothing mattered, however, but the consuming passion and mournful desire for her which now convulsed him. His thoughts ran out to her like winged messengers of fire. His whole flesh trembled, was bathed in cold dew. He recalled to himself that he had always done as he wished, and evaded the cost later.
Once Kurelen had said: “Bite off more than thou canst chew, and then chew it.” All at once he laughed a little, but the laugh was like a groan.
Should he finally, by some miracle, see her, what could he do after the brief assauging of his passion in the cool waters? How could he rescue her from the arms and harem of the old Caliph?
“I shall not think of that, yet,” he said, still speaking aloud. He got up and tore off the white silken finery of Toghrul Khan. He flung it from him with a grimace. He dressed himself in the only other garment he had brought with him, a loose tunic of red-and-white striped linen. He pulled on his deerskin boots. He thrust his dagger through his belt, and took up his saber. He ran his finger delicately along its edge. In the mingled moonlight and lamplight of his bedroom, the broad curved blade glimmered like pale lightning. He flung his cloak over his shoulders, pulled the hood over his head. From its dark depths his eyes shone like those of a wild and ravenous beast’s.
Then he stopped, motionless, like a statue, all his savage mind concentrated on a faint sound. He heard it again, the soft slithering of muted footsteps. He tore aside the draperies. A huge eunuch stood before him, and when he saw the young Mongol, he bowed deeply. He put his finger to his lips.
“Come with me, my lord,” he whispered.
Temujin regarded him piercingly. “Who hath sent thee? Where art thou to take me?” he asked in a low and imperious voice.
But the eunuch merely bowed again, and whispered: “Come with me.”
Temujin hesitated, biting his lip. He scowled forbiddingly at the eunuch. But the man’s expression, faintly seen in the dimness, was amiable, though somewhat frightened. He kept glancing over his shoulder. Temujin felt for the dagger on his belt. He lifted his saber from the bed, and gripped it tightly in his hand.
His heart was beating wildly. Had Azara sent for him? There could be no other explanation. Suddenly every pulse in his body was singing, every vein trembling with a savage joy. He was incredulous, however. She would not do this thing, however she desired him. It was not in her to do this thing.
“Let us go,” he said abruptly. The eunuch reached out and quenched the lamp. Now only pale bright moonlight filled the rooms. Temujin could hear the deep breathing of his sleeping companions.
He followed the eunuch out into the long dark corridor. No one was about. This section of the palace was quiet and sleeping. But at the far end of the corridor a eunuch was leaning on his long saber, and drowsing, his head bent. Again, Temujin’s guide fearfully put a finger to his lip, and tiptoed ahead. Temujin followed, holding his saber tightly. The eunuch pushed aside a heavy crimson curtain, and Temujin found himself in a tiny private court, filled with tremendous vases of flowers. The moonlight flooded the court, and the warm night wind dried the sweat on Temujin’s face. The air was pervaded with a thousand flower scents, and he could hear the musical and drowsy twinkling of the distant fountains. Beyond the courts were the gardens, dark and still, though glow-worms flashed their eerie lights continually in the grass.
He followed his guide, the hood pulled far down over his face, his naked saber still in his hand. They walked over the grass, drifting like shadows. Now they rounded a wall, and a flood of yellow lamplight streamed far into the darkness. Toghrul Khan and his son had joined the envoys of the Caliph of Bokhara for a late festivity. Temujin could now hear the tinkling of instruments, the gay muted sound of cymbals, the licentious laughter of dancing women and the hoarse roaring of men. Temujin felt a momentary rage and affront that he had not been invited to join this festivity. The barbarian from the barrens was no fit company for the elegant men from Bokhara, the soft Persian gentlemen of the great city! He ground his teeth. He halted, and stared up at the flooding yellow light.
He felt a tug at his cloak. The eunuch, alarmed, was motioning him to continue. He flung off the man’s hand, his heart beating with outraged fury. Again, the eunuch tugged at him and whispered: “Lord, we must go! If we are found here by the guards, they will run us through at once!”
Temujin gave a last ominous scowl at the light, and followed again. The eunuch approached the end of the low wall, and held up his hand warningly. Soldiers, carrying torches, armed and alert, were pacing up and down near the entrance to the palace. As they passed each other, they challenged, went on. The eunuch, peeping around the wall, watched them intently. Temujin peeped, also. “Only four!” he whispered. “I can attack them, myself.”
Terrified, the eunuch shook his head. “Nay, wait, lord. We must wait. There is no other way.”
An unusually loud burst of laughter and song and music issued from the palace. The great brass doors opened, and several gentlemen came out into the coolness of the night for refreshment. One of them called to the soldiers, jingling coins in his hand. A soldier ran to him, his torch streaming red in the darkness. But the gentleman, with a contemptuous laugh, flung the coins in the air, where the torchlight caught them, glittering. The red light shone on his dark and exquisite Persian face, and on his jewelled turban, jewelled belt and jewelled hands. Now the other soldiers, with laughter, tried to catch the coins before they fell.
It was an auspicious moment, and the eunuch signalled to Temujin. They fled through the shadows, only a few paces from the shouting soldiers and the laughing gentlemen. They reached the safety of a thick copse of rustling trees. There they stopped, panting, listening. But the soldiers had not seen them. They resumed their pacing, carrying their torches, in high good humor. The doors closed again after the Persian gentlemen. The night resumed its close warm heaviness. Temujin was conscious of the thick and slumbrous odors of roses.
Now they wound their way through the trees, emerged into the gardens where the fountains sang. A nightingale suddenly broke out into lustrous song, filling the night with the purest and most poignant of notes. Another joined him. The moon span over the treetops like a silver wheel, emitting beams of argent light.
Temujin felt a fresh dark coolness on his face. They were descending into a grotto, where water dripped. The odors of tree and flower were overpowering. Here were silence and dampness, and complete darkness. He could hardly see his guide, though he was but a pace ahead.
The eunuch stopped. “I go no farther, lord,” he whispered. “But I shall wait here for thee. Go ten steps more, and then halt.”
Temujin hesitated again. Was this a trap? But why should Toghrul Khan go to such secrecy? There were easier and less involved ways to kill a man. He gripped his saber more tightly, then passing the eunuch he walked slowly, counting to ten paces. Then he stopped. He could see nothing but complete darkness, and hear nothing but the sighing of the heavy trees, and the singing of the nightingales, who were filling the night with a thousand aching songs.
He felt a touch on his arm, like the touch of a falling leaf. He started, reached out and seized some one’s arm. But the arm was soft and covered with a silken veil, and he knew he held a woman. He pulled her to him roughly. He caught her in his arms. “Azara!” he whispered. His body swelled as though his blood had become hot and his veins could no longer hold it.
He heard a soft laugh, felt veiled lips touch his own. It was a lewd laugh, and the breath caught. He felt the pressure of a woman’s firm soft breast against his own, the pressure of desirous limbs bending against his thighs. His nostrils were full of the scent of a woman’s flesh, perfumed and warm. But he knew now that it was not Azara, but only the lady of the litter.
His heart plunged sickeningly. He thrust her roughly aside. He could see a little. A few wan beams of moonlight were struggling through the thick shade. He saw the veiled form before him, and heard a light amused laugh. The form approached him again. She was standing on tiptoe, and her lips were against his ear.
“Fear not, my lord! I am a virtuous wife, but could not resist embracing thee. Ah, thy lips are like fire! It is enough. I have come to lead thee to thy love, who awaiteth thee.”
His heart was still plunging. His senses swam. He felt his arm taken, but he could not move a step for several moments. But his mind was as clear and sharp as ice. He put his hand to the lady’s throat. She drew a sharp breath, and trembled, and pressed her warm tender flesh against his hard fingers. But they were not closing desirously on her throat, but only on a necklace which he remembered she had worn, a necklace of pearls and gold. He jerked at it fiercely; there was a slight breaking sound, and the necklace was in his hand. She cried out, faintly, fell back from him. But he suddenly seized her by the hair. One soft strand curled on his fingers. He lifted his saber and slashed it free from her head. She saw the flash of the blade in the moonlight, and uttered a muffled scream.
He smiled grimly. He caught her in his arms again, and pressed his mouth savagely upon hers, partly to stifle her cry, and partly because he remembered that she was very desirable, and that she had desired him for all her virtue. She subsided in his arms, and lay quietly, returning his kisses with a lustful passion. She put her soft palms against his cheeks, in order to hold him to her. His hand closed over her breast, and held it. She panted a little. Her breath was hot and perfumed. She seemed almost fainting in his arms, and moaned under her breath. And again Temujin’s pulses sang, and his senses were caught up in a silver spinning cloud.
But finally, after a long time, he thrust her from him again. His teeth flashed in the gloom.
“And now I have thy necklace, and a lock of thy hair, to remember thee by,” he whispered, mockingly. “A sweet remembrance! I shall treasure them forever, remembering the lovely moments I dallied with thee! But I shall also hold them as ransom, in order that thou shalt play me no tricks, my delicious one.”
He heard her panting. He knew she was full of rage. He laughed a little. “If I did not love a woman so deeply that my blood is cold to another, I should remain with thee,” he said. “But, who knoweth? Mayhap tomorrow night, in this selfsame spot?”
Now she began to laugh, almost silently. “I did not bring thee here for myself, Temujin, but to lead thee to Azara, who doth languish for thee. Have I not told thee I am a virtuous woman? But who knoweth if I shall not be here tomorrow?” She added, in a quieter tone: “Follow me.”
But he caught her arm again. “Why dost thou do this thing?”
She laughed, with a low vicious note in her laughter.
“Because I hate Toghrul Khan, and my husband, who treateth me like a dog, the Moslem serpent! And because I hate Azara, too! It will be a happy remembrance in the days to come, to know thou didst tarnish the gem reserved for the great Caliph of Bokhara, and to conjecture if Azara’s son is not the fruit of thine own loins!”
“Thou art a Christian?” Temujin was beginning to understand.
“Yes, a virtuous Christian woman, my lord.” And she laughed again, with that cold vicious laughter.
Temujin was silent. A sick spasm of contempt twisted his stomach. These women! Crafty as serpents, cruel as death, cold-hearted as stone! He, who had killed his own brother with his own hand, felt repulsion at such treachery, such lewdness and wickedness. Then he laughed to himself, with amusement at his own thoughts.
The lady was moving away. He saw her dimly beckoning. He followed, cautiously. He could hardly see her, for the light was so wan, and her movements were so spectral. They emerged from the thicket. Before them stood a long flight of white steps, shimmering in the moonlight. They mounted the steps. They reached a narrow colonnade, unguarded. They entered a faintly-lighted room, the bedchamber of the lady. No one was about. It was apparent that she had dismissed her attendants. She looked at him, and he could see her clearly. Her lips laughed at him through her veil, and her dark eyes sparkled wantonly. He thought swiftly: “My love for Azara will lead me to doom and ruin. Mayhap I could quench my desire in this golden bowl, and no longer yearn after a woman whom I dare not touch?”
She read his thoughts in his flaming eyes and suffused face. But she shook her head at him archly, and lifted a dainty warning finger. “Not tonight!” she whispered. “But who knoweth what tomorrow might bring?”
She lifted the curtain, and led him through a series of empty, lamplit luxurious rooms. She reached a tall narrow doorway of bronze, intricately chased. She opened it without a sound, and motioned him through.
On the threshold he stopped, looked at her, then seized her in his arms, and covered her mouth with his lips. She struggled a little, then sank against him. Then, after an instant or two, she pushed him away, and laughed at him with her gay and beautiful eyes.
“Save thy passion for Azara,” she said, mockingly, “or I shall be denied my revenge.”
“Tomorrow night?” he asked urgently, convinced that he must have her.
She nodded. Her teeth gleamed through her veil. “Tomorrow night, my lord, my panther!” She added: “And fear no intrusion. I have guarded against this.”
She pushed him through the doorway, then closed the door after him. He found himself in a little narrow corridor. At the end, a blue-and-gold curtain wavered in a faint wind. Now he forgot the lady of the litter, Taliph’s wife. Behind that curtain Azara waited for him, and again his heart pounded and there was no one else in all the world. He walked swiftly down the corridor, tore aside the curtain.
He had expected to find Azara standing there, awaiting him, her arms outstretched, a smile of langurous desire upon her lips. But instead, he found himself standing only in her bedchamber, lighted only by the moon. Tt was a vast room, and the floor was covered by Persian carpets. A delicate scent, fragile and illusive, filled the warm dim air. For a moment he could sec nothing, then slowly the objects in the room took vague form. Near a distant wall was Azara’s couch, and she was lying upon it, asleep.