Chapter XXXVIII

Morning of the twenty-third broke fair and bright, but still no Haidar. The day wore on, Stepan making no comment, Jaffer busy with the books in the selamlik.

After dinner Stepan Beg left word where he might be found, and took Jaffer for a long walk to the north, to the ancient burial ground. Vast horizontal stones were there, such as Jaffer had noted elsewhere as he rode over from Kadri Beg’s. But also there were scores of graves marked by pillars, many with tops like turbans to indicate the resting place of male Moslems. Beside a white new pillar that bore no turban, Stepan knelt and prayed. Then he approached one of the ancient monoliths, pointed out the inscription, and translated it. The name appeared in a depression, as if some older name had been chiselled away to make room for it. Thus it read:

In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost. Here
rests Saadi of Isfahan. He had neither father nor mother, nor
son nor brother nor sister, only his sins. This stone has been
erected over him by Voivod Stepan, who buried the saviour of
Starigrad, invoking Allah Bog.

“A strange inscription, Stepan Beg.”

“Yes, Rasul, yes, as strange as life itself. Here let us sit in the shadow of the tomb, and speak of it, for we shall not meet again on earth. It is clear that my ancestor buried Saadi in a Bogumil grave, lifting the stone that protected it against the wolves. Do you know of the Bogumils?”

“A mere name to me, my lord.”

“Perhaps it should remain such. After all, the young are not interested in these matters. Let us speak, rather, of the late wars. Both were wars of extermination. Southeast of here, in the district annexed by Bulgaria, four hundred thousand Turkish males out of seven hundred thousand were slain, and the process would have been completed had time permitted. Due south it was the same; Montenegro aimed at extermination. What else could you expect? The great powers had felt no duty to civilise the Balkans, but had egged them on these many years. In the second war Greece tried to exterminate the Bulgarians in Macedonia. If she dared, Austria would slay every male in the kingdom of Servia.”

“Life hardly seems worth living in the Balkans,” said Jaffer.

Stepan laid his hand upon the great monolith and brushed away some lichens from the inscription. “There have always been people who wondered whether life was worth living. Millions have slain themselves. And since the world was, many have refused to marry. Do you yourself expect to marry?”

“Yes, Stepan Beg. When I have finished my preparation for life.”

“May Allah grant you peace. But many have found no peace, and have thought that some restless evil spirit made the world. I think of one such prophet—Mani. He was crucified at Bhagdad ten years before the bastard Constantine was born at Nish. You passed within a few miles of Nish, on your way here. In those days the religion of Mani and the religion of Issa strove to possess the world. But the son of the innkeeper’s daughter became emperor, and Christianity conquered.”

“I have heard of Mani. Did he not travel into India?”

“Even so, preaching that there is but little light in a dark world, and that it is better that our race should cease. Thousands heard him gladly, and thought that his doctrine was that of Issa. Mani thought that Issa was an angel of light in the form of a man, and that he neither married nor truly died. Hither into Thrace came the followers of Mani, and Theodora put a hundred thousand of them to death.”

Jaffer shrugged his shoulders. “They got what they wanted, Stepan Beg.”

Stepan stroked his close trimmed beard, and proceeded. “My ancestors were Christian nobles in Servia. They listened to the preaching of Bogumil, the beloved of God, who brought the doctrine of Mani from Thrace. It appealed to us who were sad with knowledge. We broke away from the church, declaring that all its mummery was the work of Satan, and that it is better not to bring children into so bad a world. Stepan Nemanya drove my family into Bosnia about seven hundred years ago. Other Bogumils were already here, but many had followed up the Danube or along the sea-shore to Venice, and these became the first protestants of Bohemia, and Switzerland, and Italy. We who remained built strongholds in the mountains, and resisted the Hungarians whom Rome sent to annihilate us. We wished to die out, but we did not wish to be killed off.”

Jaffer could not help laughing. “You ended by doing neither, Stepan Beg.”

“Who can say? Go where you will in Bosnia or the Duchy, you find one vast graveyard of such stones as this. Thousands of us died celibate.”

“That made the rest an easier prey for the Turk, Stepan Beg.”

“It is true. But the persecution was what weakened us most. Europe has yet to pay for slaughtering her most enlightened men. Europe invited the Turk.”

“And did he not in turn persecute the Bogumils?”

“No, Rasul. He saw that our creed was like his own, free from idolatry. It was no great effort for us to embrace Islam, and we resigned ourselves to the desire to live.”

Again Jaffer could not restrain gentle laughter.

Stepan Beg entered into the spirit of it. “We even resigned ourselves to make life very hard for the Christian. We never treated our peasants as unkindly as born Turks did—as unkindly, for instance, as my nearest neighbours, the Tshengitch. But we have duly helped to keep the peasant down, and taught the Austrian how to do it. My father died fighting the Christian insurrectionists in ’76, and in ’82 I had to fight my neighbours for refusing to join them against Austria. But I was justified by events. Hard as the Austrian is, he was the next step to take. He has made travel safe for you, my son.”

“The man of peace has a hard time of it,” said Jaffer.

“Too hard for me to understand. I cultivate my polje and think about it, but I do not understand. Young men wish to slay, and so Allah lets them be slain. My ancestors prayed to be delivered from war and marriage, but Allah granted only half the prayer. He sent them war, which is indeed the great preventer of marriage. Allah foils us at every turn, my Rasul. Now that our unmarried boys have been slain for centuries, you would think that only women would be left. But it is not so. Bosnia and the Duchy swarm with men who can find no wives.”

“Saadi has found one, my lord, and I note that it gives you pleasure.”

“You say rightly, my son. Our Saadi will do better things with Starigrad than I have been able to do. Perhaps you know the lady Ilsa. She must be a friend of Trench Hakim’s wife.”

“Dr. Trench is not married, my lord, nor have I seen Saadi’s pearl.”

“Not married! Is Trench a Bogumil? Bear to him this message: The Servant of Starigrad greets the revered teacher of the Son of Starigrad where he sits in the garden of learning, and bids him know that the great Experiment has failed. The battle of Bog with Shaitan must be won sangar by sangar, ell by ell, generation by generation. But when all these dying nations have reached the set hour, as it is written in Sura seven—our sons shall see peace on the earth.”

“I have borne many messages on this strange journey, my lord, and have many yet to deliver. But none is so precious a burden as yours.”

“In turn, my son, I must call you well named.—I am sorry that Haidar comes alone.”

Jaffer looked up and saw a man limping towards them. Stepan went forward to meet him, and Jaffer followed.

“Mohammed Beg is in Serajevo, my lord. Here is his house address. Have I done wrong not to bring him?”

“No. You have done right to bring me Haidar back alive. You limp. Was there shooting?”

“No, my lord. But in the dark we did not see the slide of rock that lay across the road. Sharats stumbled and flung me over his head.”

“And Sharats?”

“The rocks were slippery. He could not regain his feet. He went over. I lay long to hear some cry from below, but there was only the noise of the stream.”

Stepan put an arm around the shoulders of his retainer. “We will not speak of another horse, or of returning the revolver. But the guslar knew Sharats, and the guslar shall sing of him. And there shall be mention of Haidar the faithful, who limped through darkness home.”

“To Stolaz, my lord. The Basitch gave me a horse to return on. One of them has set out for Serajevo to send the boy hither.”

Stepan Beg knotted his brow. “That we will think of later. You are pale, Haidar. Here, between us, quickly, with an arm on each man’s shoulder. Praise Allah that the Hakim is with us.”

The three men made their way back to the castle, and Jaffer attended to the injured knee. Twenty miles of limping had done it no good.

Later, in the selamlik, Stepan Beg spoke to his guest. “If Mohammed Beg comes, he will be here to-morrow night. If he knows where Saadi is, and wishes me to know, he will come. If he does not know, or if there is mischief brewing, he will not come. Saadi is still young, and there is Tshengitch blood in him.”

“Stepan Beg, I have kept back something. I have reason to believe that Saadi and Mohammed will meet in Sarajevo on Vidov Dan.”

Stepan Beg merely nodded. “If you have kept back still more, let it rest beneath the stone of forgetfulness. If Mohammed Beg fails to appear, you shall bear from me a signed note to the Landeschef, Potiorek, with two words—‘Remember Vareshanin.’ These words you do not understand, or need to understand. Meantime, I beg you to give your best attention to Haidar.”

So it came to pass that for the next four and twenty hours Jaffer bent over Haidar with healing applications. Mohammed Beg did not come. On the morning of the twenty-fifth, doctor and patient were ready to set out for the north.

“It is better that I remain here,” said Stepan Beg. “Who knows what nonsense Allah is permitting? The walls of Starigrad are strong, and there is room for all the village, and for you and Saadi and Mohammed Beg.” He laughed, and some spark of long concealed, hereditary fire flashed from his eyes. “But go in the safety of God, my boy, and may there be no need to return. Your praises are safe with the guslar forever, and within ten days a thousand kronen shall be sent to Trench Hakim for the expenses that his messenger has borne. As soon as you reach town, carry this note to the Koniak. It will not be necessary to insist on a personal interview. Potiorek would only detail a man to watch you.”