He didn’t get to sit for long, though.

On the road that was below the ambush there was heard the clop of many hoots, cries of drivers. A horse neighed, then another one.

“Hey!” Vuk the terrible stood up to his full height, pulling his sabre out of its sheath. “Halt, we’re here!”

They are going to rob it, thought Peter indifferently, trying hard not to fall into the dust of unconsciousness. This is not a goat and millet, this is a caravan. I must look, at least from the corner of my eye!.. In the evening they’ll demand to praise it... To raise himself proved to be harder than to move a mountain. Restraining the cough, the vagrant leaned forward, risking falling from the rock on the heads of the caravaneers. Blinked away the tears. Below, on the road, there were lazing about twenty pack horses and mules, stretched in a long line. The guardians (or simply drivers?) looked despondently at the junaks who were armed with bows and slings – the junaks, shouting enthusiastically so as to scare them, scattered over the slope. Judging from the dull expression on their faces, a battle was not to be expected. The guardians had little wish for “the head upon the pavement.”

Vuk was wheezing proudly nearby, waving his sabre.

“Is it you, Mrnyavchevitch?” the voice was thick like tar. You would stick in it immediately and pray to God for fire not to be lit. Peter peered, not understanding who he was looking for there below.

“Well, it’s me...” Vuk’s answer sounded uncertain, not to the point, as if the chieftain was about to answer something different but suddenly changed his mind.

“Wait there, I’ll come up to you in a moment!”

Soon near Peter there appeared a head in a shaggy hat. The face was wrinkled, swarthy, the beard was off-white. Yet the man was climbing fast, not like an old man. Vuk stepped aside, giving him a place on the path. And kept silent for a while so that the man would have time to recover his breath. For all that, climbing mountains in his age...

The sinewy undersized man shook the dust off his caftan; put off his hat, wiping his face. Under the hat there was found a shabby turban that had once been green. Before he began talking, he cast a sidelong glance over his left shoulder as if looking for an invisible companion. Found him, nodded – either to the phantom’s advice or to his own thoughts.

Frowned severely. “Aren’t you ashamed, Vuk?”

Peter was expecting anything. The most probable thing would be the stroke of Vuk’s sabre. But his fever apparently became stronger, for there began delirium. Vuk the terrible shrank, looked sullen like a wet chicken. He put his blade into the sheath, stepped closer.

The wind that came from Jastrebatz dishevelled the chieftain’s curls, fluffed up the beard of the aged caravan leader.

“I didn’t know it’s you who lead them, Kerim-aga[3] . I thought it’s some other caravan-bashi[4] . Radonya came running, shouting...”

“Are you hungry?”

“A bit. The junaks have sworn enemies in Brda, it’s dangerous for them to go down.”

“So you say you didn’t know I lead? And if it were someone else? Would you rob him?”

“I would, Kerim-aga. That’s life, you know...”

“Do you remember – last time I’ve asked you: ‘Have you conscience?!’ ”

“I do. You asked, and I answered then and I answer now: yes, I have conscience! Just that it’s different, the conscience – everyone has his own one...”

Radonya ran up to them, angry. “Vuk! What are you – with this! This!..” He didn’t finish. Having stepped towards his blood brother, the chieftain smashed his huge fist into Radonya’s teeth. Blood spurted, Radonya swayed, fell down. Crawled aside on all fours, cursing in a low voice, began wiping himself with a wisp of withered grass.

“Forgive him, Kerim-aga. He doesn’t know you.”

“Allah forgives. All right, Vuk. You must not rob us, by no means. There are fledglings in my caravan, merchants’ sons. They’re just boys. Their fathers have sent them for the first time. If you scare them to death – they’ll never have luck in trade afterwards. Then again, we have no profit, we’re just going from Vlera to Dragash... Let’s make it honestly: you let us go, and I’ll leave for you in Dragash a ‘mountain share’ after we sell out. Just tell me whom to give it to...”

“Vuk! He’s lying! He’ll leave the share for himself, Vuk!...” beaten Radonya halted when he caught the promising glance of the chieftain. Spat rusty saliva. The junaks on the slope waited, shifting from one leg to the other; the caravaneers wavered dejectedly on the road. Peter saw – indeed, most of them were young, not older than Peter himself, and maybe even younger.

“Deal. Leave it to Nasty Khalil. I’ll take it afterwards.”

“And who’s this?” the moist, very dark eyes of the caravan-bashi rested on Peter.

“A vagrant. He’s good in singing. We keep him for fame.”

Before he continued, Kerim-aga glanced once again over his left shoulder. Waited, pondered a bit. Peered at Vuk disapprovingly: “You have been a boaster, Mrnyavchevitch, and remained a boaster. Who can pull a song out of a soul by force?! He’ll die in your mountains, in the rain and the cold, that’s all your fame. Look, he’s ill, barely sits. Let him go with us – I’ll take him to Vrzhik, and maybe even to Dragash. Maybe he’ll recover...”

The last thing that Peter remembered – he was tied to the saddle of a pack horse.

Very tight.

In the faces of the young caravaneers there was no joy about the excess burden, yet the lucky rescue from the Mrnyavchevitch’ junaks surpassed everything. The silent Kerim-aga stood nearby. Peter Sliadek wanted to thank the caravan-bashi for his mercy, but then from behind the shoulder of Kerim-aga peeped out a black guy resembling a Moor, dressed only in a loincloth, pressing with his palm his neck out of which there streamed thick smoke – and the vagrant understood he was sinking into delirium.

Because naked Moors excreting fire and smoke are not to be found in Jastrebatz.

“We won’t have enough money...”

“I don’t care! After we sell our goods we’ll be fine... Have you seen those slave girls? Virgins, so juicy! And they’re not some wenches from Montenegro that would be glad to cut your throat at night – these are Walachians, plump, modest, hard-working ones!”

“Still we won’t have enough money. Even if we sell the goods...”

“Harping on the same string! We’ll take a loan. There are lots of usurers here – Lombards, Avraamites... Anyone will loan to Hussein Borjalia!”

“You’ve visited usurers already. Secretly from Kerim-aga.”

“So what? Once they’ve rejected, the next time they’ll agree. They’re just showing off, to increase the interest. I’ve sent Ali to them today once again.”

“Have they agreed?!”

“They will, what choice have they got? They ordered him to tell me they’d come to the inn, they want to discuss it in person. You know me, I’ll persuade even the dead!”

“The dead don’t loan. You shouldn’t have kept this in secret from Kerim-aga...”

“Like hell I shouldn’t! He’s never satisfied: shame, not shame! Am I, the son of Mustafa Borjalia, to seek advice from some worthless caravan-bashi?!”

Peter was lying, his eyes closed, listening to the argument of the young merchants with half an ear. They talked Arnavitika[5] , interspersing their speech amply with both Walachian and Turkish words. He could make out only part of it, but then again, what was there to make out? One wants to buy slave girls, the other complains about the lack of money... His head didn’t hurt at all, the throat smarted slightly, but on the whole life evidently was getting right. It was warm and dry. Having stirred, he felt with interest that he was dressed in someone else’s clothes. And he was covered up to his chin with a prickly blanket made of camel’s hair.