“I think it’s a criminal way to treat human beings,” Drake said grimly. “A knife through the back would be more merciful.”
“Possibly,” Ali Baba shrugged, “but a dead man is of no use to anyone, not even to himself. This way these creatures are able to perform some service.”
“Yes,” Drake said, “but you could put them to work making an automatic leverage system that would open your gate just as effectively.”
Ali Baba shrugged again.
“Maybe there is something in what you say. But let us not worry about it now. For the present this system is satisfactory. Now you must rest.” Drake followed Ali Baba back to the main sections of the cavern, and was taken to a small room with a soft, skin-covered floor. He was tired and aching in every muscle but it was a long time before sleep came. He couldn’t rid his mind of the picture of the helpless, broken figures on the wheel that operated the main gate of the bandit’s cave.
Three days passed in the caverns of Ali Baba, the thief, and Drake grew increasingly impatient as hour followed hour and there was no news from Tana. He slept and ate and talked interminably with Ali Baba, but his anxiety for Sharon prevented him from relaxing. The problem of how he was to effect their escape from this time to the twentieth century with the news of the German invasion of South America was another nagging worry that never completely left him.
But on the fourth day a messenger arrived, and soon after Ali Baba sought Drake out, his sharp brown eyes snapping with excitement.
“The period of waiting is over,” he announced. “Tana has sent us word that everything is prepared for us. We will leave within the hour for Bagdad. Tonight we make our entrance into the palace of the Caliph.”
“It’s about time,” Drake said.
“The wise man is patient,” Ali Baba said quietly. “We have waited long but our time to strike has come.”
“I hope Tana has everything set,” Drake said. “Supposing the guards of the Caliph are more powerful than we expect? What then?”
“The future is in the hands of Allah,” Ali Baba said philosophically. “If we fail, we shall have no more worries at all after a while. The Caliph, Zinidad, will see to that. But enough of this talk. The time is here for action. Prepare yourself to ride, my comrade. The wealth of Bagdad awaits us.”
Chapter VII
The moon was a pale thin crescent hanging against the velvet blackness of the night sky when the long line of tired, laden camels reached the great gates of the Caliph’s palace.
The custodian of the gale signalled the wall guards and then advanced to meet the leader of the caravan.
“Who is it disturbs the sleep of the Caliph’s palace in the middle of the night?” he challenged.
“It is Raschid, the merchant,” the leader of the caravan, a gnarled, stooped little man, answered sullenly. “Open the gate, uncivil dog! I have forty barrels of oil for the Caliph’s storehouses.”
“Who told you to bring them at this hour?” the custodian demanded. “The palace is asleep. Come back with the honest sun tomorrow and I will open the gate for you.”
“The Mistress Tana directed me to bring them at this hour,” Raschid said stubbornly. “If I leave now you will be answering her questions on the rack tomorrow.”
The custodian fumbled with his beard for a moment and then angrily ordered the gate-keeper to open the barrier.
“Let this be on your head,” he bellowed to Raschid.
“Stop your braying, brother of the swine,” Raschid shouted. “Stand aside and let honest men work.”
He turned and shouted an order to his camel drivers and soon the long caravan of lumbering beasts was filing into the dark courtyard of the Caliph’s palace.
Drake had heard the entire conversation, and when he felt the camels begin to move he breathed a sigh of relief. Everything was working according to plan.
He was crouched in one of the huge leather oil barrels that swung from the sides of the camels. And in each of the remaining barrels was one of Ali Baba’s men, thoroughly armed and ready to spring into action at an instant’s notice.
The camel train moved slowly across the court and the only sound in the blackness of the night was the solid scraping slump of the camels’ hoofs on the hard-packed dirt floor of the court yard.
Finally the camels came to a sluggish stop and the caravan attendants began unloading the oil barrels and carrying them into the Caliph’s store house.
Drake felt the barrels in which he was concealed being lifted and carried into the dark storeroom. The attendants grunted with every step and sighed relievedly when they set the barrel down on the floor.
The half dozen attendants repeated this procedure until all the barrels were delivered, then they mounted their camels and left the palace.
The doors of the storeroom were closed by the Caliph’s men, and Drake felt the darkness and silence close over him with an almost physical weight.
For several moments he heard nothing and then Ali Baba’s voice — a soft whisper from the adjoining barrel — reached his ears.
“Drake?”
“Yes?”
“All is going well. We must wait here until Tana sends her messenger for us.”
“How long will that be?”
“Allah knows, my friend. We can but wait.”
Minutes passed slowly. The air was close and stifling. Suddenly he heard the sound of a door opening slowly. An instant later, the whisper of stealthy movements came to his ears. And he heard the ominous clink of arms.
Puzzled and alarmed, he raised himself until he could peer over the top of the barrel. Through the murky darkness he saw a group of men moving toward the line of oil barrels. He could vaguely make out the huge shapes of Nubian guards; and he saw the gleam of their scimitars as they advanced with cat-like tread.
Drake felt a beaded rim of sweat break on his forehead. This certainly wasn’t according to plan. These advancing Nubians hardly looked like messengers from Tana.
“Ali Baba!” he hissed.
“What is it?” Ali Baba whispered.
“Take a peek over the top. I think we’re in for trouble.”
Dimly he saw Ali Baba’s head emerge from the top of the barrel and he heard the sudden, sharp intake of his breath.
“Allah aid us! We have been betrayed!”
Ali Baba’s hoarse whisper sent a chill racing down Drake’s spine.
The next instant Ali Baba sprang from the barrel, gleaming sword in hand.
“Arise, my men!” he shouted. “We have been tricked. The Caliph’s guards are here. Slay the great brutes. Arise, men, and fight!”
There were astounded shouts from Ali Baba’s men and a great roar from the Nubians as they rushed forward, swinging their great scimitars with vicious, destructive strokes.
Drake leaped from his barrel and was almost decapitated on the spot by the swishing stroke of a gleaming blade. He ducked low and the knife cut air with a vicious screech, not an inch above his head.
He drove his knee into the groin of the huge black and heard the man gasp in pain. Still crouched, he smashed two hard blows into the black’s stomach that were backed with every atom of his weight and strength.
The giant fell backward, crying out in a stricken voice and sobbing for breath. His great blade dropped to the floor with a clatter.
A hand grasped his arm and Ali Baba’s voice was in his ear.
“Come with me. It is useless to stay and fight. We have not a chance.”
Drake glanced quickly down the line of fighting, struggling men and he saw that what Ali Baba said was true. Most of his men had been caught without a chance. Before they could climb from the barrels and free their arms, the giant blacks were upon them, slaying them mercilessly with their slashing scimitars. Those who had managed to get out of the barrels were being helplessly forced backward by the superior weight and numbers of their giant adversaries.