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Dimitri had oodles and oodles of time to think over his personal problems on the long trek southward to the regiment's new post at Sebakar, across 700 miles of the Kenzankian and Sebakar deserts. Zykov's regiment had been transferred to Shahpur, the chief garrison of the Russian Army in the southern oblasts, and Dimitri, with the Arkhangelsk Volunteers, had joined a small convoy as the regiment's leading element in the advance southward. Alexei's company and the rest of the regiment would soon follow.
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There was little pleasure in looking back on his previous venture in interfering in Alexei's affairs. They were barely on speaking terms since the day Alexei's marriage to Raisa Milekhina had been arranged. Dimitri was having irksome second thoughts on that matter, too, as the cavalry formation he led stole across the rocky, inhospitable Babakar Plain and advanced into the Sebakar Desert late one afternoon. If the marriage turned out badly, as many predicted, part of the burden would be on his conscience. He enacted the rather ignoble role of matchmaker.
Alexei's escapade with Mrs. Alyokhin had created quite as much scandal as had been anticipated. Word of their disappearance had circulated around Korosumska with telegraphic speed; it is one of the wonders of the East how fast gossip spreads. Their sojourn in the desert only confirmed suspicions that they'd been having an affair. Dimitri wondered how they should have been so indiscreet, especially Alexei; how they could have hoped to get away with it. The truth was, as Dimitri later divined, that they were so engrossed with each other (momentarily) that they would have risked anything for consummation of an affair that until they had consisted of furtive kisses and hurried embraces.
The rumors, reaching against ears not ordinarily inclined towards such tattlings, were highly offensive to General Alyokhin's superiors. It may not have been a military matter, but it bruised military dignity. Somehow the damage to General Alyokhin's honor would have to be fixed; too bad dueling had long ago been forbidden. A tribunal might only make matters worse. The rumors simply had to be proven false by the future conduct of the guilty parties. The Alyokhins, the Milekhinas, and Alexei were seen everywhere on the best of terms. General Alyokhin and Alexei, in particular, were publicly convivial.
And a marriage had to be arranged with decent haste. That was Dimitri's job. It was particularly delicate in regard to Raisa. Especially after the evening that they had spent in his room at the Hafrar Inn. It was not pleasant to remember. She had virtually thrown herself into his arms and he had thrust her away, not gently, but in haste and anger. But not in revulsion, not with all his instincts propelling him towards taking her as she wished. He could remember her saying, "You are a cold, cruel, priggish man, Dimitri Karamazov. You're afraid of your own shadow. You hold yourself in as if something terribly precious might spill out. Are you really such a sacred vessel?" He remembered trying dispassionately to tell her that he refused to be used any more, either by her or by Alex, in their curious emotional conflict in which other people were always the casualties. Raisa refused to understand and said, "You've done the cruelest thing you could do to a woman, and you want to wipe it away with a few mealymouthed words. If you ever mention this to anyone, I'll murder you!"
Raisa insisted upon going downstairs and waiting in the lobby until the thunderstorm had passed. Fortunately, it was only the tail of a cyclone which had lashed at Korosumska and she was able to depart shortly before midnight.
Days later Dimitri accompanied a downcast Alexei when the latter proposed to Raisa. Negotiations, at that point, were being conducted with a businesslike and unemotional briskness. It was an army matter now, and Raisa spoke like a doubtful army daughter. "I'll marry you, Alex. Whenever you say. Or whenever our well-wishers say. You're a vain, unreliable and selfish man, and I suppose you always will be. You won't be faithful to me, and I won't expect it. At least I'll always know where to find you. At least you're a man, a whole man, and not a ---- mealy-mouthed hypocrite."
11 days later they were married by an Orthodox priest and passed under an arch of sabers held aloft by the regiment's officers. The bride was radiant. The groom was debonair. The best man, Dimitri, was stalwart in dress whites and perhaps a little too hearty. The matron of honor, a role carried off with great gallantry by Mrs. Alyokhin, was "neither matronly nor honorable," as one of her sharp-tongued sisters observed from a pew, watching a suspicion that had not been entirely quelled by the wedding.
Now the regiment was headed for Serari country, and the rear-echelon groups would have to search out other morsels. Dimitri could only hope that the marriage would work out better than anyone had reason to think. It was one marriage, he reflected, that started with a minimum of illusions on either side.
Dimitri, stretched out in a chair on the afterdeck of the transport, was thankful for a few days' respite from responsibility. The Archangelskis under Captain Karnaukhov's command swarmed over an isolated oasis (dubbed Osahar-a-Beyan on the map) with a great deal of harmless noise and horseplay. All that Dimitri had to do was strip to the waist, soak up the sun, doze in his chair, and surrender himself to the anodyne of sea and sunlight. His problems, personal and military, seemed faraway and unimportant. The landscape beyond the little palm forest was an endless delight. This was, as the Russian explorer Igor Kholod had said, a summer land, milky tan under the blazing Asian sun. And above the Sebakar Desert was the billowing fantasy of its cloud shapes; off to the northeast, towards China, the sky was piled up with battlements of fleece stretching to the heavens. With the approach of sunset, they would turn a dozen shades of saffron, jade and crimson. Only occasionally the bulky form of a camel, bearing a single turbaned Serari rider, would trot across the horizon and quickly vanish. It was a reminder that this could be a dark and bloody land sometimes, the hunting preserve of the Serari bandits and slavers.
Dimitri's reflections were interrupted when a shadow fell across him, and another man dropped into the chair beside him with a sigh. Annoyed at the unwanted company, Dimitri glanced over at the intruder. He was a sun-blasted Englishman, the color of strong orange pekoe, who had been intercepted by two Cossacks and hustled into the bivouac the previous morning before the just as the regiment were about to break camp. At supper the previous evening he had introduced himself as Captain Lane Hall, formerly of the Indian Army, "now a private businessman."
There was something a little too plausible about Hall---his watery blue eyes, his close-cropped cavalry mustache, his wrinkled but probably expensive pongee suit---in Dimitri's opinion. Still, he might have impressed someone at HQ or come highly recommended in order to secure passage with a military convoy. Dimitri couldn't help wondering whether Hall's resignation from the Indian Army hadn't been coincident with the disappearance of the regimental mess funds.
"Have you ever been to the Karamheb Valley, Major?" Captain Hall asked, lighting a long thin cigar.
"No," said Dimitri, leaning back in his chair again and hoping the curt answer would discourage his companion.
"I did a bit of trading around Sebakar and the Dharpar Pass a few years ago," Hall offered. "Perhaps, as a military man, you'd be interested in my view of the situation."
"I didn't know there was a 'situation' to be considered," Dimitri said.
"If there is no situation, then why is the Czar moving a full regiment to the Karamheb Valley?"
"There's been no trouble down there so far."
"There will be, old boy, trust me. The Moslem's a fighting man. I served on the Northwest Frontier with the Queen's Own, 'y'see, and those chaps all have the best of reasons for fighting like devils. A good Moslem who takes a few Christians out of this world with him believes he'll have a private harem in heaven waiting for him. Something worth fighting for, eh, what?"
The Englishman's eyes were slicked over with a companionable lechery, Dimitri noted with distaste. Where was that famous British reserve?
"No, Major, the Serari of Sebakar and the Karamheb Valley will never bow meekly to your Czar, especially since he's a Christian. I was there when the Sultan ruled---bad time that was, too, for trade."
"And what is it you trade in, Captain Hall?"
"Oh, anything that'll find a buyer---pearls and pepper, opium and hemp, gold, tobacco, beef.... wood, pears and apples..... brass lamps and Oriental rugs....anything that comes to hand."
"I suppose all that is what attracts you to the Karamheb Valley?"
"Don't look down your nose at trade, Major. I did before I realized there were pots of money to be made with the snap of a finger here in Asia. It occurred to me that men were getting rich while idiots like me were protecting them in exchange for the privilege of wearing a scarlet tunic and looking brave on the parade ground."
"You have a point, Hall."
"Those lands to the south are treasure troves, Major, just waiting for development under a firm hand. I hope you Russians will be firm. You're new to this business, have a lot of sentimental ideas, judging by your performance up north, and think you can get along with these people by playing nature's noblemen. It can't be done, old bean. They look on that kind of thing as a sign of weakness. You've got to come down heavy on them, as we bloody well learned in India."
"I don't think the Czar would tolerate the iron hand, even if we were forced to wield it."
"You'll be forced to show your fist soon enough---mark my words. Wait'll the Seraris takes up his churry and runs wild on you. Can't give a man a soft sword when he's bearing down you with a yard of blade swinging for your neck. These people are fanatics. They fight like hell. The Sultan knew how to handle them but couldn't muster enough force to do his job. His troops had to sit in their forts under virtual siege for years before you kicked him out of this land. You ever hear of pariyamuwa?"
Dimitri shook his head.
"The time will come when that word will make your blood run cold."
"Look here, Hall," Dimitri said with considerable irritation, "I've been trying to imagine, with some success, that this is a pleasure trip. I'd looked forward to a few days' time in the countryside as a time to forget the trouble we make for each other in the cities. Now you come along with a proposal to make my blood run cold."
"Sorry, old boy," Hall said huffily. "I was only trying to give you a few clues, as one old soldier to another."
They sat in silence for a while, but Hall could not sustain the role of tight-lipped Britisher for long.
"We've met before, y'know, Major," Captain Hall said.
"I'm afraid I don't recall the occasion."
"Just a few weeks ago, really."
"I'm really not good at guessing games."
"Well, it was at your brother's wedding. General Malekhin saw to it that I was invited."
Dimitri wondered whether his acquaintance with General Hall was not the true reason for this aimless conversation.
"Splendid old dodger, that general," Hall ventured.
"Forgive me for disagreeing with you."
"That's unfortunate," Hall said, shaking his head.
"It is not. His family and mine had been friends for years, but the general has never quite approved of me. We look at things differently, nothing more."
"I gather he's greatly admired in the army, long and magnificent career, and all that."
"The Boy Brigadier they still call him. Maybe that's significant."
"I twig. You mean a sixty-odd a man should have sloughed off the boyishness? Ah well, soldiering is a perpetual adolescence, from one viewpoint. I couldn't see it as a life's work, myself. Still and all, I imagine the general is widely respected. The new G.O.C. at Karamheb, for instance...."
Dimitri was conscious of the fact that he was being pumped but curious about what Hall was after. "G.O.C.? I'm not familiar with the term."
"General Officer Commanding."
The commanding general at Karamheb is Major General Arthur Smotrov."
"Old friend of General Malekhina's?"
"They've known each other a long, long time, let's just put it that way."
"Not such good friends, then?"
"They've had their disagreements from time to time."
"Oh, jolly bad," Hall groaned.
"They're separated by the whole length of the territories," Dimitri pointed out.
"Not for long, maybe. You've probably heard that General Alyokhin is considering resigning from the army."
"I know he's not very happy about being kept in Korosumska without a command."
"The general and I have been discussing the possibility of his joining Anglo-Russian Oriental Trading Company, Ltd. That's my show. In fact, it's more than a possibility that he will join Anglo-Russian. Frankly, my partners and I considered that his army friendships would be invaluable in securing various concessions. Some of your fellows---I had to say this, old man---seem to be a big prejudiced against the British. Naturally we hoped his influence would be an ameliorating factor."
The "probability" that General Alyokhin would embark on a business career might have been more shocking to Dimitri had he not heard the general railing against the "indifference" and "ingratitude" of HQ in Korosumska. Dimitri had also heard the general on more than one occasion, expound on his belief that an army officer, because of his executive ability and his diversified experience, should make a first-rate businessman. Yet it was hard to imagine the general, whose uniform seemed to have grown over him like a second skin, and whose peremptory manner was military to an extreme, engaging in the wheedling, dickering, and cozening essential to the commercial arts. Dimitri tried to picture Kortney Alyokhin enduring the devious and endless process of negotiating with, say, a bazaar merchant, sipping tea and exchanging flowery compliments with him---and failed miserably.
Dimitri couldn't help grinning, and Captain Hall, more perceptive than his appearance and manner indicated, remarked on it. "You find the idea of General Alyokhin going into business a little ridiculous?"
"Ridiculous? No. Incongruous, yes."
"This may surprise you, Major, but I've found that nearly anyone with a modicum of intelligence and due respect for money is likely to make a good man of business." Hall heaved himself to his feet and just before strolling down the deck suggested, "Look me up one day when you also decide to hang up your gilt sword. Makes a nice decoration over the mantlepiece. I fancy you'll outgrow it long before you reach General Alyokhin's age."
Late the next afternoon the regiment at last reached the inner hinterland of Sebakar. It was Dimitri's first glimpse of a trading post in the southern lands, all grace and indolence. The rolling dunes of the Sebakar Desert yielded to a scrubland lined with Serari farms and vineyards. From there jutted a busy railroad station where a twelve-car passenger train had just now pulled in, its weary passengers disembarking from their long journey. Just inland from the station and the magnificent train could be seen the sheet-iron and adobe warehouses of the British and Chinese trading companies. Even that far away, above the rank odors of the railroad yard, Dimitri could smell the odd perfume of the southern lands---goatgrass and bergenia mingling their scents with that of wild tulips.
Above the clutter of the frontier land, with a menacing dignity, rose the massive walls of the Royal Fortress of Gazga Muwa and Maruduk, for three centuries the seat of the Sultan's power in the southern lands. Its buttresses extended to the sandy suck of the desert, dominated both land and sky. Bronze cannons and brass swivel guns swept the approaches from all sides. Yet they only heightened the impression of medieval impotence, it seemed to Dimitri. Not all the ingenuity of military engineers and artillerists could hide the fact that the Fortress of Gazga Muwa and Maruduk was a grandiose monument to a failed state. No real tyrant can hide behind the walls of a fortress.
Dimitri did not leave the company of the regiment until the Arkhangelskis had made camp under the supervision of Captain Karnaukhov and marched off to their barracks in the fortress. Then, accompanied by Captain Karnaukhov and several of the regiment's senior officers, he rode away on his horse, but not before saying goodbye to Hall. The Englishman hurried off to his company's local headquarters and promised to "have another chin-chin" with Dimitri as soon as their various duties allowed.
Dimitri decided to present himself right away to General Smotrov at his HQ in the fortress, now simply designated Susnin Barracks as an earnest of the Russian intention to move out among the people at any cost.
Despite its new designation, Dimitri felt he was entering some dim military past as he strode into the sally port of the fortress, returned salute, crossed the barrack square, walked over stone worn smooth by generations of drilling soldiery, passed through an archway and climbed into the upper regions of this empty and echoing beehive of masonry. Only a company of infantry, in addition to Dimitri's newly arrived Arkhangelskis, was stationed here now. Occasionally a wall torch or army lantern flickered along the dark passageways. It was easy to imagine the ghosts of robed Moslem warriors tramping here on their way to the ramparts looking out over a forbidding landscape. It was a relief to find General Smotrov's offices brightly lit, peopled with familiar Russian faces, fitted out with such non-medieval devices as the telegraph and typewriter.
General Smotrov greeted him with the same easygoing manner that had characterized him in the tough post of chief of staff to General Azarov. With his white hair, pink cheeks and lively blue eyes, he was the kind of officer who inevitably acquires the sobriquet "Papa" from his subordinates over the years. No general of Dimitri's acquaintance wore his stars more lightly than Arthur Smotrov---unless and until the situation demanded it. Then Smotrov could be the embodiment of stern authority. Dimitri supposed that every general officer in command of troops must assume some easily understood pose or attitude to impress the men under him. One could play the father, or the Dutch uncle, or the jut-jawed hero, or the professional roughneck---but one must be consistent in the characterization. Otherwise, the troops became uneasy, fearful of being gulled by a pretender. The "Papa" role, easygoing or authoritative as the circumstances warranted, came easily and naturally to General Smotrov, the father of one son and five daughters.
"You and the advance company of your battalion are mighty welcome sights in Sebakar," the general said, after both men had seated themselves at the huge pinewood desk once used by a captain of the Sultan's army. "We were getting lonely out here at the end of this wishbone land. Nothing but one company of the 23rd Imperial Infantry between us and a populace of uncertain temper." He waved at the map behind him, which represented Kenzank, Sebakar and Karamheb. "Fifty-thousand square miles and thousands of Persians, whose religion teaches them to hate all non-Moslems, and we're ruling the bastards with a company of infantry!"
"Do you expect trouble, sir?"
"Damn well better, even if it doesn't come. Who can say? There's been no trouble so far, but these aren't the kind of people who will submit even to a reasonable form of conquest, not when they've had the chance to digest the news. We've got to be prepared to show a firm hand. We've got to garrison some of these towns and villages. But all that will come later, when the whole of Spravtsev's regiment is on hand. Meanwhile, Major, until your battalion moves out in one direction or another, I'm appointing you as my acting chief of staff."
Noting the disappointment in Dimitri's face, General Smotrov added, "I promise you that's a temporary appointment, and that you'll go with your battalion. I just don't want your talents to wither away while you're in garrison here."
Dimitri did his best to hide his relief at this promise, his spell of duty at Makhan-e-Maroun Palace had given him a strong, distaste for the life of a staff officer.
"I might as well pass along a few pointers, although you'd pick them up yourself in time," the general said, brushing away an inch length of cigar ash which had fallen on his white tunic. "The main thing to remember, I think, is that these aren't the same kind of people as the Korosumskis or Turanians up north. The people of northern Turania are fairly reasonable, quick to respond to just treatment, more docile. The Seraris, on the other hand, are warriors. They fight for the pleasure of it. The only people who ever conquered them were a handful of Mughal missionaries who were armed with nothing more than a string of prayer beads and the Quran. To make a rough comparison: the Korosumskis and Turanians are like the Ukrainians back west, the Serari are like the Germans and Swedes the brave Alexander Nevsky battled. Bitter-enders, to the last man and woman.
"There's been no fighting down here, as you know. The Seraris have no sympathy for the people up north or their rebellion. Fighting's a personal, not a political, thing with the Serari.
"Recently we negotiated a treaty with the Khan of Sebakar and lesser dignitaries, and so far, it has held up. We've put the Khan on the government payroll at two hundred rubles a month, along with the datus or headmen at one hundred rubles a month and the wazirs, balashis, rihatis and maharajahs of lesser political or religious rank at fifty rubles a month. This is a polite form of bribery, naturally, but these fellows have more respect for a bright new gold piece than for all the massed artillery of Imperial Russia.
"The treaty we signed with the Khan and his advisers provides that we must have his permission to occupy any of his lands. We must also respect the Mohammedan religion---and that's a point that can't be stressed too strongly. The Sultan didn't stand a chance when he tried to subjugate the Serari. One royal general, I've been told, covered the bodies of Serari warriors he had killed with the carcasses of pigs, which meant they couldn't go to heaven. Even that didn't stop them. We'll never win the respect of these people unless we keep our hands off their mosques and imams, no matter how much outraged Christianity comes boiling to the surfaces at some of their customs.
"In return, the Khan is supposed to suppress banditry and slave trading. So far he hasn't shown much vigor in trying to keep this part of the bargain.
"Now, as far as the Khanate of Karamheb is concerned, we haven't been able to come to terms. We're here on sufferance. Whatever we take, outside this fortress, presumably will have to be at gunpoint. The Khan of Karamheb says he never heard of the Treaty of Minsk, wasn't consulted when Karamheb was signed away by the Europeans and won't recognize any of its decisions. He says, simply, that we have no right to be here."
"A difficult argument to counter," Dimitri said.
"Even more difficult, from the standpoint of applying force, when you consider certain reports that I've received. They're hearsay and guesswork, maybe, but I'm disinclined to dismiss them. In the Shammina district alone there are supposed to be thirty-six hundred warriors ready to cut loose, and each of their settlements is built around a milta. A milta is a sort of rude fort, wood and rock, built on high ground. Not at all easy to take by force. I just hope the people in Korosumska send down an adequate compliment of mountain howitzers. We might be needing them, and badly, before another year passes."
"You think the Serari are about ready to start fighting then, sir?" Dimitri asked.
"Maybe a month, maybe a year....it all depends on how great a show of force we can make. If active resistance breaks out, we've got to smash it with one quick, decisive blow. If we fumble, they'll hit us from northern Sebakar all the way to the Dharpar Pass. Miles and miles of practically nothing out there, Karamazov. we can't be everywhere at once, not even if we had a full army corps and ten thousand Cossacks to back us up."
"I suppose the Khans are stirring up trouble."
"We really don't know, but they seem to be fairly conservative chaps. They've got their emoluments, their harems, their unctuous wazirs, and their court intrigues to amuse them. They exercise only a limited control over the warriors and bandits; it's a delicately balanced system of mutual respect. The troublemakers are the imams---the Moslem holy men---and the missionaries, who come over from Persia, some of them from as far away as the Indian Punjab. They're the ones who harangue the warriors and remind them that it's their duty to honor Allah by killing off the infidels. That's us, the infidels."
"Wouldn't it be possible to get in touch with these missionaries, convince them that we're not going to interfere with their religion?"
"Look, they're blind fanatics. To them, the only good Christian is a dead Christian. They can't be appeased or persuaded, and they can't be kept out of these lands."
"I'd say we're in a bind then, General. Damned if we do and damned if we don't."
"I'll feel a lot more comfortable when your whole regiment marches through the gate...."
Within the next two weeks three larger transports brought Colonel Spravtsev, the other companies of his regiment, a battery of mountain guns, a Signal Corps detachment, and the wives of the officers to Sebakar. All were quartered in the fortress. The married officers occupied quarters along one side of the barrack square, the bachelors on the opposite side.
Outside the military reservation, too, a foreign colony was springing up and new arrivals disembarked from every train from northern Turania and the trucial provinces of China. Among the men of commerce were Russians interested in the hardwood trees of the Karamheb Valley, French and German expatriates looking for new markets, British traders from Bombay, and diamond hunters from everywhere, many of them veterans of the Brazilian, South African, Indochinese and Korean diggings. Not a few of the fortune seekers, especially those experienced in dealing with restive or hostile native populations, were frankly ready to fly at an hour's notice. Seven hundred Russian troops against a hundred thousand Seraris seemed like poor odds.
As the weeks went by, however, the civilians gathered confidence that the Seraris would stay silent. Maybe the Russian policy of keeping a light hand on the reins---though viewed at first with the upmost skepticism by those familiar with the doctrines other imperialist powers---would work after all.
The only outspoken dissenter to this growing optimism was Captain Lane Hall, who kept insisting that no Moslem people would tolerate the rule of infidels. On a number of occasions Dimitri joined Hall for what the latter called a "sundowner," a whisky and soda or more likely a pink gin, to which the English traveler seemed to be addicted, and they wrangled amiably over political and military matters. Dimitri did not entirely trust Hall or his motives but found him a constantly irritating and stimulating companion, an antidote for the gossip and grumbling at the officer's club. Hall prided himself on being hardheaded and made no secret of the fact that, having reached the age of forty-five, he had discovered that money was the key to happiness. At least he was no hypocrite; unlike some of his American competitors, he did not pretend the gimcrackery of civilization would better anyone's lot.
"One of these days it'll start," Hall said late one afternoon as they sat at the bar of the Russian Club near the train station. "A wiry little man dressed in flowing robes and a turban will come running down a street butchering every live thing that crosses his path. That'll be the beginning of the terror, the kind of terror that we Europeans simply do not have the ability to face, just because they can't understand that human life is the cheapest thing in the world."
"I haven't the faintest idea what you're talking about, Hall!" Dimitri thundered. He was beginning to feel a little woozy from the effort of trying to match the hardy Hall drink for drink. Hall could stow away vast amounts of whiskey or gin with no visible effect except that his blue eyes grew more vague and watery.
"Pariyamuwa." Hall spoke the word softly as if merely uttering it might summon up the horror itself. "I tried to tell you about it the first time we met," Hall said. "It's been a sort of hobby of mine, learning all I can about these blokes, especially what they don't want others to know about. This hobby, as you might say, led me right down that little avenue of horrors called pariyamuwa. What do you think I carry this heavy revolver around for? Because I know about pariyamuwa, because I'd feel naked without it in any Moslem country---never know when one of those sword-maddened wogs is going to turn rogue.
"Tell you what'll happen one of these days," Hall continued, pausing only to slide a large portion of his whiskey and soda down his gullet. "One of the Serari hereabouts, perhaps that bloke serving our drinks, will present himself to a Moslem priest and announce that he's ready to kill a few Christians in return for a free ride to heaven, which is supposed to be fitted out with a plentiful supply of blue-eyed dancing girls.
"The priest will prepare him for the massacre, shave his head and eyebrows, wash his body, clean his teeth and trim his nails so he'll appear before Allah in tiptop condition. A tight band will be tied around his waist in the hope that he won't bleed to death from his wounds before he has taken his full quota of Christians. The imam---the priest, that is---will wrap a turban around his head and give him a flowing white robe.
"Then the pariyamuwa will take an oath on the Quran to slaughter every non-believer he comes across.
"He'll give his weapon a lick and polish, and then he's ready to take on all of Christianity. The ithril in his hand will make him feel ten feet tall. It's a single-edged blade fashioned like a cleaver and can chop a man into mincemeat in less time than it takes to tell about it.
"He'll slip into the street from the mosque and head for the largest group of Christians he can find, and flail away with that ithril until he finally drops dead. Chances are he'll take a half dozen whites along with him. One pariyamuwa in the days of the Sultans killed seventeen of his loyal subjects before he was cut down. He can carry more lead than a grizzly bear in his state of exaltation, and nothing will stop him but a heavy slug in the heart or brain."
"It all signifies nothing!" Dimitri roared. "The Czar would order these---what did you call them--- pariyamuwa stripped naked and sent to a frozen doom in Siberia if they dared to slaughter us. This land now belongs to Mother Russia, and no one will take it away from her!"
"Do not underestimate the effect a campaign of pariyamuwa can have on a garrison. Everybody's on edge all the time. Women and children are no safer than the men. Your wife can't walk to the bazaar without an armed escort; even then she isn't safe with a madman slashing away. Every noise in the night will bring you awake in a cold sweat---might be a pariyamuwa sneaking up to murder you and your family in your beds. It's sheer terrorism, old boy, and that's only the prelude, the softening-up process. After that comes the blood bath, with Mohammedan warriors coursing down the streets and slaughtering without mercy."
....Captain Hall's warning struck like a burr to Dimitri in the succeeding weeks, especially when he saw Russian women strolling around Sebakar with nothing more lethal than a parasol in their hands. General Smotrov did not want to give the populace any indication that the Russian garrison was getting edgy, but agreed to issue an order that the officer's wives were not to leave the confines of Susnin Barracks without an armed escort.
Even Dimitri was inclined to forget Hall's warning, however, as the New Year approached. A new century, the 20th century, which Russians liked to believe would be their century, would begin on January 1, 1900. Actually, the new century wouldn't begin until 1901, but the occasion was advanced by general consent and the uncertainties of the near future. It was to be celebrated with all the enthusiasm the occasion seemed to demand. The center festivities would be the officers' club on the pavilion overlooking the sea near the ancient fortress, with British, French, and Russian civilians invited to join the officers of the garrison and their wives.
That New Year's Eve Dimitri accompanied Alexei and Raisa to the club through dusty streets crowded with Sebakaris eager to watch the celebration. Alexei's marriage seemed to be working out fairly well, at least on the surface. Conscious of the gossip, both Alexei and Raisa had sufficient pride to pretend it was the best of all possible marriages, and enough stubbornness to want to confound those who predicted, "It won't last a year."
Raisa was easiest the prettiest woman of all those gathered under the lanterns and colored paper streamers which decorated the rafters of the club. Her blonde hair and blue eyes shone as if burnished by some mysterious process, and only a flimsy lace shawl covered her bare and shapely shoulders.
At one end of the large and crowded room was a huge silver bowl of "Elixir of Youth" punch, a sweet but potent concoction of cognac, rum, vodka and other ingredients which had caused more trouble in the army than low pay, snooping politicians and questions of seniority. It was a sneaky libation that had a tendency to bring out the worst in people who refused to recognize its authority. Dimitri noticed that it was being well patronized, considering that it was two hours before midnight, and shuddered to think of the tears and recriminations that might come out of that ornate bowl.
A short time after their arrival everyone went outside to watch the fireworks display. The Signal Corps detachment had offered to supply this part of the program. Flares and rockets, fountains of colored fire and sky-splitting explosions burst over Mt. Qanbar. To the natives in the streets, Dimitri thought, it must have been an awesome demonstration of European genius, and he heard the excited chattering of the people outside.
Back inside the club, following the fireworks display, the dancing started to music played by a small but enthusiastic band organized by Battery D of the field artillery. Dimitri dutifully waltzed with Mrs. General Smotrov, a vivacious little woman who was enjoying herself like a girl a third of her years, and with Mrs. Colonel Spravtsev, who was much hunger than her husband but lacked his uproarious zest for living.
He also danced with Mrs. Captain Karnaukhov, the wife of his company commander. Elvira Karnaukhov was probably the second most attractive woman attending the party, a handsome brunette with an olive complexion and flirtation brown eyes. Dimitri was unofficially aware of a discomfiting rivalry between his brother and Captain Karnaukhov, the banal and irksome resentment that arises between career soldier and volunteer. Thus far, fortunately, Dimitri had not been placed in the awkward position of arbitrating any dispute between his two captains. But the rivalry had, unfortunately, communicated itself to their wives---and this was likely to be more explosive than any mere male differences. From the glances that Mrs. Karnaukhov kept darting at Raisa as she danced with Captain Karnaukhov, it was clear that Mrs. Karnaukhov was jealous of Raisa on personal grounds too. There could be only one belle of the ball, and Raisa definitely was the belle.
"How do you like your new sister-in-law, Major?" Mrs. Karnaukhov inquired.
"I've known Raisa since she was a schoolgirl."
"That long?"
"She carries her years lightly," Dimitri said with a grin that his partner could not see.
"She has a way with men, doesn't she?" Dimitri saw that Captain Karnaukhov and Raisa were laughing and obviously enjoying one another's proximity. Karnaukhov was withholding none of his Slavic charm from the wife of his professional rival.
"Don't all women have a way with men?" Dimitri said.
"Some are rather arrogant about exercising it."
When the dance ended Dimitri quit the floor in search of less exacting company. He found Captain Hall at the bar brooding over a double whiskey. Dimitri ordered whiskey too.
"Cheers," muttered the Englishman, tilting his glass.
"Mud in your eye," Dimitri responded. "You sound morose."
"Wife's in Kabul. Trade's at a standstill, waiting for you Russians to deploy through the territories. Nothing to be happy about."
"Do you still think there's going to be trouble?"
"Definitely. Any day now that little man in white will come screaming down the street. Come to that, it was very sensible of you to post sentries outside the club tonight. It'll show the blighters you're on guard and don't take this peace and quiet for granted."
Just then the guns of the ancient fortress roared out a salute signifying the stroke of midnight and the first minute of the new century. An immense euphoria filled the club. People cheered and kissed and clapped each other on the back, feeling an odd triumph over having lived to see the start of the 20th century.
Not far away from the bar where Dimitri and Hall were standing, Captain Karnaukhov exhilarated by Elixir of Youth and the sentimentality of the moment, lifted Raisa up in his arms and kissed her with the utmost enthusiasm. It was such a spectacular performance---unlike the circumspect kisses other people were exchanging---that it attracted quite a lot of attention. Including that of Elvira Karnaukhov. Raisa and Kharnaukov held the kiss while his wife looked on in mounting anger and jealousy.
Captain Karnaukhov finally released Raisa, and they laughed together at the mock passion of the embrace. Mrs. Karnaukhov, further enraged by the laughter, stalked over to them.
"Here comes a nasty little scene," Hall murmured, taking it all in with a sardonic smile.
Hall was right. The next moment Mrs. Karnaukhov took Raisa by the shoulders, shook her violently, slapped her face and apparently called her a number of uncomplimentary names. Dimitri could hear only the last fragment of this denunciation. "....and hereafter keep your hands off my husband, you brazen hussy!"
Raisa was white-faced with shock. Since Alexei did not seem to be anywhere around, Dimitri went over to her and led her to the bar.
"We were only having a little fun," Raisa said miserably, "Did that crude creature have to shame me in front of the whole garrison?"
"She hasn't become accustomed to army ways," Dimitri said. "A lot of civilians get the idea that there's an abundance of loose living on an army post, just because we're forced to share each other's company and get on more familiar terms with each other."
"An innocent little kiss on New Year's!"
"It may have been innocent, but it wasn't so little...." Alexei had come up to join them at the bar. "No, my darling, you can't expect a woman from the boglands of the Baltic coast to be as broadminded as you are."
"I don't find it very humorous, Alex," Raisa said. "Take me home. This is all too tiresome."
"Let the Karnaukhovs drive a general's daughter away from a party? I daresay not. Besides, I think it's funny as hell, and I'm having the time of my life!"
"Alex!!!!"
Alexei gave her a tight little smile and strolled away.
Raisa turned to Dimitri with an unspoken appeal, and he said, "I'll take you home, Raisa."
Dimitri paused to finish his drink, then took Raisa's arm.
They had taken a step or two toward the door when he heard a commotion barely audible above the sounds of merriment within the club. It sounded as if a brief but desperate struggle had taken place, followed by a half-strangled cry.
Hall took a few steps up to the bar to stand beside Dimitri, clutching his arm and listening intently.
A few seconds later a small dark man, white-turbaned and white-robed sprang through the entrance. He planted himself there in the doorway of the club for a moment and looked about him with feverish eyes. A blood-stained ithril hung loosely in his hand, and there were crimson splotches on his ceremonial robe.
A woman giggled.
The matronly wife of an artillery captain apparently was the first person, aside from Dimitri and Captain Hall, to catch sight of the Serari standing in the doorway. She quit dancing, laughing uncertainly at what she took to be a joke, and directed her partner's attention to the intruder.
One moment later the other dancers on the floor paused to stare at the little man. His feet spread wide apart, his arms dangling at his sides, the Serari glared wildly around the room as if challenging someone to throw him out. He was evidently taken aback by the swarm of elegantly gowned women and splendidly uniformed officers, appalled by the immoral spectacle of men and women brazenly dancing together in public. His thick lips and nicotine-stained teeth, bared in ferocious grimace, were prominent against his completely shaven face. He had not counted on so many victims to lay at the feet of Allah.
"How did he get in here?" Dimitri heard an officer ask.
"He must have come to the wrong party," the woman with him said with a giggle. "Or maybe someone has come in masquerade."
"No, no, it's a local all right," the officer said in puzzled annoyance. "I wonder what he thinks he's doing here---and with a knife in his hand?"
Dimitri felt as if he had been turned to granite. He was unarmed, as were all the men in the room, as far as he knew.
"What on earth is that doing here?" he heard Raisa ask in a querulous tone. "Don't these people know that locals aren't allowed in the officer's club?"
"I doubt he's come to pay you Russians a New Year's call," Hall said quietly. "My guess is that your sentries are lying dead at their posts outside."
By this time the men on the bandstand had caught sight of the Serari, noticed that people had stopped dancing to stare at the apparition in the doorway, and instrument after instrument stopped playing. The cornetist, intent on the sheets of music before him, had to be nudged by a neighboring musician before he realized that he was playing solo and put his cornet down with a great deal of embarrassment.
The room was completely silent now. People closest to the entrance slowly retreated, grasping the fact that the Serari had come on a murderous mission.
Raisa, standing only 10 or 15 yards from the entrance with Dimitri and Hall, suddenly noticed the blood on the Serari's robe and weapon. She began to scream. Hall clapped his hand roughly over her mouth and kept it there despite her frantic struggles.
The scream, brief as it was, attracted the intruder's attention to the bar and decided him on a course of action. He raised his ithril and started moving towards Raisa and her companions.
Nobody in that room could ever describe just what followed. The men started pushing their womenfolk behind them, towards the rear of the room. One officer started towards the Serari to grapple with him, but his wife flung her arms around him and held him back. General Smotrov and Colonel Spravtsev had been strolling together on the terrace overlooking the desert and came back into the room just at that moment. They gazed in bewilderment at the Serari in the doorway.
"Is that man insane?" Colonel Spravtsev said in a voice that sounded artificially loud in the hushed room.
"Stand back, everyone," General Smotrov ordered unnecessarily. "If anyone in this room is armed, I want that fellow dealt with at once!"
Those officers who had worn dress swords to the party glanced sidelong at the rack where they had been hung after the dancing started, and several started sidling towards the wall---but it was too late. The Serari had started moving towards the bar.
Dimitri knew they'd be slaughtered inside a few seconds if someone did not take drastic action. Above the back bar, he saw, were a pair of crossed Cossack sabers and the guidon of the 24th Army.
He vaulted on top of the bar, jumped to the back bar and reached up for the sabers. They were firmly bracketed to the wall and resisted his desperate attempts to wrest them away from their fastenings. Finally, they gave way while he had his hand on the hilt of one of the sabers. The guidon and the other saber clattered down and crashed into the glassware.
The Serari was coming towards them now with a catlike tread, his ithril raised over his shoulder in the assault position.
Just as Dimitri leaped back to the bar, he saw Hall draw his .38-caliber revolver from a holster attached to his belt. The Britisher was steady as a rock, and there was a clear line of fire between him and the advancing pariyamuwa. The Serari's eyes were wild with a holy exaltation. He gave voice to a high-pitched ululating cry in Arabic, "La ilaha il-lal-allah [There is no God but Allah]." It was a battle cry whose meaning would soon be known to every European in the Serari country.
The Serari's attention was diverted from the bar for a moment as a young infantry lieutenant stumbled in retreating from the Serari's path.
The Serari whirled on him with a flash of the ithril, the blade cut the air with lightning speed. Flinching instinctively, the lieutenant caught the slashing cleaver on the forearm and went reeling backwards in a spray of blood. His left arm, neatly severe, white uniform cloth and all, lay on the floor.
Captain Hall fired three quick shots, one of which went wild, two striking the Serari in the torso. The Serari merely grunted and came on, despite the blood pouring out of his chest. Hall fired twice more, aiming more carefully this time by resting his gun hand on his left elbow to steady himself. One shot missed, the other tore into the Serari's face. Stumbling a little, the Serari kept on coming.
Hall vaulted over the bar, alone and Hall vaulted over t he bar, alone and unprotected. In a second or two the Serari would be flailing away at her with his ithril.
At that moment Dimitri leaped off the bar and interposed himself between Raisa and the Serari. He caught the Serari's down-swinging weapon on the flat of his saber. Steel rang on steel with a vibrating clangor that resounded through the room. Before the Serari could raise his ithril for another chopping blow. Dimitri brought his curved blade up and plunged into his opponent's midriff, eviscerating him. The pariyamua fell down at Dimitri's feet. Dimitri, running no risks, kicked the ithril out of his tight grip and it went skidding along the polished floor. It was a wise precaution. When Dimitri bent over the little man in white and turned him over, the dying Serari raised himself slightly and spat squarely in Dimitri's face. Captain Hall had reached Dimitri's side by that time and held the man down with a heel on his throat until hill died.
From the moment of the Serari's appearance in the doorway to his violent death less than a minute had elapsed. In that minute one little man managed to impress on a hundred Russians and their guests the horror that could be imposed on their lives if they stayed in Turania. Women fainted, screamed, or stood rooted to the floor white-faced with shock. Men ran to fetch their weapons and search around for the deceased possible accomplices. Senior officers found their tongues and began roaring out meaningless orders.
Raisa was weeping hysterically and permitted herself to be led away by Mrs. Karnaukhov and Mrs. Smotrov.
It was some time before her spouse showed up. Alexei had gone for a stroll and did not return to the club until his attention was attracted by the crowd of excited locals mustered around the entrace. The pariyamua had killed the two sentries on duty with two strokes of his ithril, beheading one and almost severing the shoulder of the other. Their bodies lay under blue wool blankets. Just as Alexei returned an ambulance wagon arrived to take the lieutenant to the post hospital. Someone carried his severed arm out to the ambulance in a towel and placed it in the wagon with a kind of witless efficiency.
As a measure of calm was being restored in the club, Captain Hall came around the bar with two large glasses of cognac, one for himself and one for Dimitri. "Here, Karamazov, I imagine you can use this," he said. Dimitri bolted half the cognac down while Hall strolled over to the Serari's body and examined its wounds.
"Not bad shooting, under the circustances," Hall remarked, straightening up and returning to Dimtri's side. "3 out of 6. One through the heart, one in the lung and one in the head. But it took a nice piece of sabering to take him down. I told you they keep coming at you until they're half torn apart."
Dimitri finished off the cognac and put the glass down with a shaky hand. Now that it was all over he felt a cold sweat of horror breaking out of every pore.
"Yes, good show all around," Hall continued, speaking as casually as if they had just come in from a spot of pig-sticking.
"That was a splendid leap you took over the bar," Dimitri said.
"Yes, it's amazing how agile a man can be with sheer fright prodding him on. I had no intention of facing that madman with one bullet left inthe gun. Not very gallant to leave the lady standing there alone, I suppose, but I didn't fancy leaving my wife a widow for the sake of a strange young lady."
Colonel Spravtsev joined them at the bar, shaking his head in bewilderment. "What kind of peashooter were you using on that maniac?" he asked Hall.
"A .38-caliber revolver," Hall said. "Same weapon your officers carry as a sidearm. I wear it only on dress occasions. Otherwise I carry a .45---only gun that'll stop a pariyamua. I've made a study of those fellows, Colonel, and maybe you'd be interested in hearing...."
Dimitri did not care to hear any more of Hall's dissertations on Moslem religious fanaticism and drifted away. He stepped over the body of the little Serari he had killed and headed for the door. Various people shook his hand along the way, and General Karnaukhov's wife reached up and kissed him on the cheek. Dimitri felt sick; the combined odors of burnt gunpowder, blood, spilled drinks, sweat and perfume---maybe he only imagined that blood had a smell---almost made him reel with a sudden disgust for his surroundings. In a curious and puzzling way, and only for a moment, he felt a greater kinship with his victim lying on the floor than all these people, now shedding their fear and gabbing away with a defiant gaiety. Happy New Year, Happy 20th Century. No, that was wrong; only the local sentimentalists really believed this was the first day of the new century. Tonight's occurrences only verified their suspicions that it would be wise to celebrate while they had the chance.
Outside the club he turned his face towards the wind stirring off the sea and felt it wash over him with gratitude.
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