She invented new verses out of old lyrics, varying the rhythm and droning away.

Patimat rocked beside her, her eyes closed. As her mother’s threnody went on and on, she relived the dark days in 1832 when cannon fire had destroyed Ghimri. From the forest where she hid, by the river, she had imagined what was happening in the aul above as she listened to the death chants of the last survivors.

In their gutted home, her husband and their very young son had stood with the rest of the warriors, sabers drawn, ready to fight the enemy hand-to-hand. Following tradition, each murid had taken his belt and tied his thigh to that of the man next to him, forming one body, a bastion of flesh. They would fight together and die together as one. Praying in unison, they asked God to forgive their sins, chanting the shahada as Bahou was just now:

There is no other god but Allah.

La ilaha illa Allah.

The earth will be consumed by the fire of the sun,

The mountains will have melted,

Before we shall lose our honor in combat.

There is no other god but Allah.

When the infidels finally surrounded them, they leaped upon them, howling in vengeance, and cut them to pieces.

Patimat, Bahou-Messadou, Fatima, and all the other women standing on the ruined ramparts of Ghimri had watched them fight the Russians, hand-to-hand. They saw their men force them back to the ledge, grab them, and throw themselves into the abyss, taking the enemy with them in a final, fatal embrace. They had seen them fighting even in midair, falling in a slow spiral with the infidels in their arms before all were crushed, with a dull thud, on the boulders of the torrent below.

We were born the night the wolf howled, Bahou-Messadou continued to sing softly.

We grew up in the eagle’s nest,

We owe our dignity to our people and our mountains,

There is no other god but Allah.

That evening, Patimat remembered, the village had been taken. Only two refuges remained.

She recognized in her mother’s song the call that had resounded through Ghimri that evening, a raucous cry that had come from the forest. It was Khazi Mohammed Mullah, the first imam, rallying his murids.

Shamil had so respected this man, his friend and mentor, that he had named his second son, the boy now drowsing in Bahou’s arms, Mohammed Ghazi in memory of him.

Of all four hundred warriors, only a dozen were left to answer his cry. But the battle had continued. Someone was still firing from one of the refuges. The Russians tried to take the house, but they fell like flies, one after another. Their officers ordered them to clear it out with the cannon.

The explosion reverberated throughout the forest. At last, calm reigned over Ghimri.

From the river below, the women could smell the acrid odor of fire and hear the crackling of flames and the cries of vultures, already come to hover over the mutilated bodies.

And then.

Sitting in the straw next to her mother, Patimat never tired of listening to Bahou-Messadou’s litany of legends. Recited even in the forts of the Russian lines below, the images themselves were so familiar to the Montagnards that they had the feeling they had all lived through the events.

And then the last of the warriors, a colossus with a piercing stare, his beard tinted red with henna, had sprung from the heart of the inferno. He stood immobile for a moment on the threshold, as though giving the infidels time to aim, and then, bounding suddenly like a wild animal, he leaped over the heads of the soldiers who were ready to slaughter him. In the same motion, he beheaded three of them with the saber in his left hand just as a fourth ran him through with a bayonet. The blade penetrated his chest to the hilt. He seized it, tore it from his breast, and killed the soldier. In another gravity-defying leap, he bounded over the wall and disappeared into the shadows.

This warrior, the sole survivor, was Shamil.

Listening to Bahou chant the ballad of her son in a low murmur, Patimat’s courage, faith, and hatred were renewed.

Oblivious to her surroundings, Fatima saw and heard nothing. Anguish pressed upon her heart and turned it to ice. She thought only of her lost child. She longed only for the warmth of Jamal Eddin against her breast.


The little boy, squeezed into an opening in the rocks, watched the long line of figures in white threading their way arduously up to the promontory, pulling their mounts behind them. Fascinated, he looked at the saddles laden with equipment as they scraped against the rock surface of the ledges and the animals who refused to advance. He watched as horses fell into the abyss, taking their loads with them. Like his father, Jamal Eddin loved horses and weapons. He inspected the rifles, sabers, bayonets, and grenades that hung from the soldiers’ belts as the disembodied boots tramped by his hideout at the level of his nose.

He saw Urus-Datu and the khan approach the entrance to the village, accompanied by the muezzin and carrying a white flag.

He listened attentively to their long discourse, the interpreter’s translation, the discussions and answers in a foreign tongue. Nothing escaped him, not old Urus-Datu going back and forth between the army and the village, not the soldiers who set up their tents and lit fires. He was intrigued by a golden object placed upon the fire. It was round and shiny and seemed heavy. A samovar. Inhaling the perfume of the tea that they poured into their glasses, Jamal Eddin was suddenly thirsty.

Instinct told him to stay put. He was not afraid. He was used to going without and to sleeping alone. For nearly a year now, since he had begun to ride, he no longer lived with his mother. Custom dictated that a boy not be softened by women, so he lived in the house next door with Yunus, his father’s companion at arms. Yunus, also his tutor, was at this very moment at Ashilta.

No, Jamal Eddin was not afraid. But Yunus had warned him that if the Russians took him, they would scalp him, as was standard practice. They scalped the shaved heads of both the dead and the wounded. Jamal Eddin had seen cadavers his father had bought from the infidels to bury in the cemetery here. The foreheads of all the murids had been cut, the scalp stripped to the crown with a knife.

Their skins swung at the end of a banner, there in the camp, a standard for the Christians. Like the severed heads of the Poles that the khan had waved in his face before Jamal Eddin managed to escape from him a short while ago.

The child fell asleep.


On this evening of September 25, 1834, he was the only one to sleep. In the officers’ tent and in the council room, the heated discussions went on until dawn.

By morning, the elders had agreed upon their duties and their demands. At ten, the Russians ratified the commitments of the two parties. At noon, the interpreters drafted a treaty with the following terms:


1. Each of you may practice your religion, and no one may object to your rites.

2. You will not be conscripted into the army by force, and no one will turn you over to the law.

3. All the lands of Avaria, situated on the plateau where you lived before the rebellion of 1832, will be returned to you.

4. You will govern Ghimri yourselves, according to your adats and the Sharia.

In exchange:

1. You will swear by Allah never to break the peace you are signing today.

2. You will give us three of your sons as hostages, and you will give us back all the Russians you are holding as prisoners.

3. You will return the treasure of the khans of Avaria to us.

4. You will hand over the imam Shamil and his entire family.


These two last points preoccupied the elders, who continued to discuss the terms of the contract in the privacy of the council. Some mentioned, not without concern, that they were not holding Shamil, only his women. As for the bounty—it was out of the question to give it to these dogs!

Urus-Datu pointed out that the infidels had no idea what was included in the treasure of the khans of Avaria. It would be easy to keep a portion of it. The most pressing thing was to save the harvest and ensure the immediate survival of the aul. As for the rest, patience and craftiness would get their due.

A promise from these pigs was not to be taken seriously.


To the Russians, the eight clauses seemed satisfactory, all the more so since, among all the officers, none was authorized to sign such an accord.

General Klüge von Klugenau, one of the two generals who had destroyed Ghimri before, was busy with skirmishes around Kunzakh and had no intention of coming here. He had only dispatched this contingent to facilitate the passage of his superior, Major General Lanskoy, who was on his way from the fort at Temir-Khan-Chura, the Russian base twenty-six miles from here. Lanskoy planned to bring his cannons along the path across the mountain ridges.

So much the better if the skill of the scouts resulted in the pacification of these “savages,” as the general staff called the Montagnards with arrogance and contempt. If little Lieutenant Rostkov’s empty promises led to their unopposed surrender, the capture of the imam, and the recuperation of the booty, perfect.

And if not, no matter. The piece of paper was worth nothing.

Nonetheless, there remained one last detail to settle, one about which Lieutenant Rostkov remained intransigent. The villagers must come to his territory, outside the village, and lay down their weapons. All their arms, without exception, must be handed over to the officers. Then they would proceed with signing the treaty.