“We must destroy them in their homes, in their fields, by force and by ruse, so that they will cease to proliferate and disappear from the face of the earth.”

“You know how to listen,” Shamil said with approval.

“And to remember. I haven’t forgotten how those traitors took your nephew.”

“It’s worth it to try to make peace with Klugenau.”

Yunus was taken aback. Mystified, he turned to his friend and looked him in the eyes.

“You want peace?”

Shamil’s gray eyes were glassy, impenetrable. He blinked twice, as he did when he sought inner solitude to listen to the voice of Allah. He said nothing.

This time Yunus needed an answer. “You want peace?” he repeated, incredulous.

“I want the word of God to reign everywhere in these mountains.”

“But you said there’s no peace possible with Satan. You said that the devil speaks through all those who settle with evil and promote sacrilegious compromise. You said we must behead the hydra of submission.”

“I said I want the infidels out of here, forever. Yes, we could crush them today, give them a lesson here and there. But exterminate them?”

Shamil looked sadly at the jumble of dilapidated hovels that clung to one side of the valley.

“If they could raze Ghimri and Ashilta with a mere three cannons,” he sighed, “then, Chirquata! We’re not ready, Yunus. Not yet. We have to build a city in the heart of these mountains, an unassailable fortress where our murids from across the region can gather. A capital.”

“Dealing with these jackals will bring you nothing,” Yunus said stonily.

“Yes it will. Time.”

The call of the muezzin, coming from the little mosque below, interrupted their conversation. In a very short while, their thoughts and words had strayed far from the voice of the Lord. They dismounted.

“Allah will decide.”

Looping their reins around the pommels, they took the prayer rugs that were rolled up behind their saddles and let the horses go. They couldn’t stray far, for the promontory was too narrow. They would stay there, drinking at the fountain behind them.

As the sun set between the chasms of the Caucasus, they performed their ablutions at the fountain and knelt on their rugs, touching the ground with their foreheads. The shadow of the cliff behind them grew longer. The silence was broken only by the clink of the bridles, the murmur of the stream, and the rush of the damp wind from the gorge of Ghimri, which struck them head-on and made them sway. Miniscule figures in the heart of this immensity, they prayed fervently.

When Yunus got up, he was certain of one thing.

“Even Klugenau is a hypocrite. Especially Klugenau!”

“Therefore tell him to meet me here on this ledge. Two days from now, here at the fountain of Chirquata.”

Stunned at this conclusion, Yunus could not help protesting, “It’s a trap!”

“Insha’allah.”


“The knowledge of ‘All’ is what allows you to tell the difference between what is only passing and the eternal. Jamal Eddin, are you listening to me?”

No, the child had heard nothing. In the two days since his father had come home, he had been in a constant state of excitement. He was determined to accompany Shamil to the fountain; it was a desire that had become an obsession. He wanted to see the Russians.

On the terrace of the humble mosque, a cube of beaten mud like all the others, Sheik Jamaluddin al-Ghumuqi was distracted from his instruction of the imam’s heir. See the Russians? Should he give in to Jamal Eddin? The sheik, who had not always known the infidels to be as cruel as they had become today, could fully understand the boy’s desire. The repulsion of those close to him for these beasts who lurked in the shadows, the look of horror on his mother’s face at the very mention of their name had turned his curiosity into fascination. And with good reason. Even Shamil’s voice trembled with disgust when he spoke of the giaours.

See the Russians? Why not? But certain precautions were necessary. The presence of Shamil’s son should not give them any ideas. But there was little risk of this tomorrow, since the entire army would be there, and the one-on-one meeting would be transformed into field maneuvers. No one would notice the child among all the other horsemen.

Of all Shamil’s advisors, the sheik was the only one who had not totally disapproved of Shamil’s decision to meet with Klugenau. He shared the conviction of the naïbs that a holy war was inevitable, a necessity to which he must devote his intelligence and knowledge. But he did not like the idea. If the infidels, finally enlightened, could allow the Montagnards to govern themselves freely in their own territory and worship their God as they chose, Jamaluddin al-Ghumuqi would be favorable to negotiation. Peace for the Muslims of the Caucasus was his deepest desire. And his greatest hope.

The others, like Yunus, were wary of an ambush. Shaken by their conviction, Shamil prepared for that eventuality. The Russians could only reach the fountain by the narrow gorge of Ghimri; in the event of a problem, Shamil’s men could cut off their retreat. The naïbs could retreat to Akulgo, which was naturally defended by its location at the summit of the peak. The plan was to move in there for the winter. Whatever happened, the army would evacuate Chirquata, which was too accessible to reprisal, and the population would follow. See the Russians? Well, Jamal Eddin would see them soon enough.

The teacher was touched by the small boy, with his dark eyes and long lashes, his alert, mischievous expression, and a child’s body that he tried hard to control. The scratches on his cherkeska, whose sleeves only reached his elbows, and his scraped-up arms and legs were proof that the child was growing up too fast, trying too hard to emulate his father.

Jamal Eddin was by nature less sensitive, less somber and tormented, than Shamil, but he shared his father’s thirst for the absolute and his strong will. When he decided to do something, he would go on trying until he had overcome his fears and obtained his objective. Or been proven right. At seven, he could be as tenacious as he could be tiring.

Squatting oriental-style on the terrace, the old teacher tried to pick up the thread of the lesson.

“Sit down here in front of me, and answer. What is Islam made of?”

The boy tried to escape his quizzing by asking another question, but the mullah persisted.

“What are the three distinct, interrelated elements that make up the chain of the Naqshbandi order? I’m listening!”

His teacher’s tone was adamant. Jamal Eddin settled down, crossing his legs obediently. It was in his interest to be patient. Apart from the fact that he liked the old man, he needed his support. It would be no easy task to obtain it, since he rarely had occasion to be alone with him. Usually he studied at the madrassa, the Islamic school, with his little brother and the other boys of the village. Shamil intended to interrogate his son about al-Fatiha, the first surat, or chapter, of the Koran, and the sheik was going over the lesson with him.

Jamal Eddin knew that despite his long white beard the sheik was scarcely a decade older than his father, and that he also had several wives, who were said to be very attractive. But Shamil worshipped the wisdom so evident in his words. His voice could be patient and kind, but it could also cut to the quick, like Bahou-Messadou’s. Jamal Eddin wiggled with discomfort thinking of his grandmother. She had forbidden him to go to the fountain to see the Russians. Usually Bahou was kind and good to him, acceding to all he asked. But she was a woman, and she was frightened.

If the sheik was in favor, his father would take him to the fountain.

He recited docilely, “The three elements are the Sharia, the law; the Tariqa, the way; and the Hakika, the truth.”

“And what is the Tariqa?”

“The direct relation between the source of the river and its tributaries.”

“That is to say?”

“The relation between the teachings of the prophet and the teachings of his followers, the Sufi masters who enrich the river.”

“And the Hakika?”

The child was a bit less sure about this element. He fidgeted again, searching for the answer.

“Be still! What is the Hakika?”

“The truth. Union with the divine spirit.”

“And?”

Jamal Eddin hesitated. “The capacity to know the infinite.”

“And what is the name for this state of meditation that liberates the mind?”

This time Jamal Eddin could no longer resist. Abruptly changing the subject, he returned to the problem that preoccupied him.

“Why did Hamzat disappear with the Russians?”

Jamal Eddin had only a vague memory of his sole encounter with the Russians, of white caps, golden objects, and rocks sticky with blood. But now that he was big, he no longer rode pillion like Mohammed Ghazi. He rode his own pony and he carried a kinjal. What should he think of his cousin being held captive by the infidels?

“My aunt Patimat says that even if they give Hamzat back, she doesn’t want him anymore.”

“Your aunt doesn’t really believe what she says.”

“Yes, she does! She says that since the Russians have touched him, Hamzat is impure. He stinks.”

“Allah is much more merciful than your aunt Patimat.”

“She says it’s the same thing as for the birds. When an eaglet falls from the nest, you mustn’t touch him or his mother won’t recognize his smell any more. She says Hamzat has been sullied by contact with them. That he should accept nothing from their hands, not a raisin, not a scrap of bread, not pilaf, no food. She says he should let himself starve to death.”