The Winter Thief

86

Kamil tried to organize a united defense in case the tribesmen returned, but to his frustration the villagers answered only to Levon. Kamil wasn’t surprised they were suspicious of him. After all, he was an envoy from the same sultan who had sent the Kurdish troops.

The women and the wounded were inside the monastery, while the men had organized a watch and were taking turns sleeping. Of Kamil’s thirty men, sixteen were dead, three others severely wounded. Victor had sutured Omar’s wound and told him to remain still so it wouldn’t reopen, but the police chief fashioned a cane from a branch and used it to climb the stairs to the top of the wall. Levon’s men spread out across the battlements. Kamil had been impressed by their ferocity during battle.

Kamil invited Levon to sit with him by a small fire in the courtyard and, to gain the man’s trust, tried to explain why he was there, that he had been sent to discover whether the commune was the center of an armed rebellion or an experiment in communal living.

“Does it matter?” Levon responded, breaking a stick of firewood in his hands and feeding it bit by bit to the flames. “White dogs, black dogs, they’re all the same. These people”-he spit out the word-“have brought disaster to our valley. If you represent the sultan as you claim, why don’t you stop these bastards?” His voice was hostile.

“They ignored the regimental standard. Did you expect me to walk out there with a letter of invitation?”

“Talk to their commander.”

“It was impossible to tell who was in command. Have you learned anything about their leader?” Kamil asked.

“He’s a coward, stays at the back. But he wears a uniform.”

“Describe it.” Kamil was prepared for the answer.

“Black greatcoat, black uniform, imperial army issue. A kalpak with some kind of gold insignia on the front.” Levon’s eyes fastened onto Kamil’s. “Maybe we should just kill him and blame it on you. Or kill you and blame it on him. Black dog, white dog.” He chuckled, then got up and went back to his men.

That night the Kurds returned. One of the first casualties was Taniel, shot in the head as he looked out from behind the wall to take aim. Levon rushed over. He carried his son’s body down the stairs and laid it on the ground beside the fountain. Kamil watched, sick with pity, as Levon scooped up a handful of water and let it flow across the young man’s shattered forehead, unrolled his turban, and draped it across his son’s face. He then returned to his post.

Kamil aimed his field glasses out into the night but saw only the occasional flash of a face as a torch was lit. As the night wore on, the Kurds shot many defenders on the wall but, hampered by darkness, proved unable to reenter the monastery. Omar had propped himself in a corner, his weight on his good leg, and shot one tribesman after another. Noting Omar’s skill, Levon sent a young farmer over with a second rifle that he reloaded while Omar fired.

By the time this battle was over and the Kurds retreated in the early hours of the morning, Kamil had lost three more soldiers. Levon’s daughter also lay dead. Stroking her hair, Vera told Kamil that she had been among the best shots. Their mother threw herself wailing across the bodies of her children, but Levon seemed preternaturally calm, speaking to his men and seeing to those who were wounded. Yet he shouted at Victor to hurry up-the first time Kamil had seen Levon lose control.

Kamil took the loss of his soldiers hard, but found an odd comfort in Omar’s steady stream of curses as they prepared the bodies of the fresh-faced young men for burial at the back of the courtyard. Kamil added their identity documents to the twelve that were already neatly folded in a leather envelope he kept in an inside pocket of his coat against his heart.

The hall echoed with the sound of weeping. He looked for Elif and found her asleep in a dark corner of the monastery. The desire to lie down beside her was overpowering. Instead he let his hand rest on her shoulder. It came away sticky with blood. He lit a flare and in its light examined her. Although covered in blood, he saw no obvious wounds, and she seemed not to be in distress. He extinguished the light and kissed her cheek. “Sleep,” he whispered. “I’ll come back later.” It had been enough just to see her. He saddled his horse and, opening the gate, slipped out.

The path was slick with mud, but the stars bright enough that he could follow the churned tracks left by the attackers’ horses. He heard hoofbeats behind him and pulled up, gun drawn, until Omar’s familiar bulk materialized beside him.

“Running away, Magistrate?” Omar asked.

“Levon saw a man in uniform giving orders. I’m going to find him.”

“And do what. Make him apologize? It’s too late.”

“I have my own plans.”

“I’m coming with you.” As Omar spurred his horse forward, his face turned white and he almost slipped from the saddle.

“Go back, Omar,” Kamil pleaded. “You can’t ride with that leg. You’ll just be in my way.”

Omar sat hunched over, panting with pain. “You’ll get in trouble.”

“I’m only going to observe. I want to know what this commander plans to do next.”

“We gave those bastards a good beating today,” Omar commented.

“Yes, we did. Now go back.” Kamil waited for Omar to turn his horse before riding into the darkness.