T WAS high noon before the fate of Rusudan was known. The castellan who lay, as the peasant had said, in the courtyard with his head split open by a sword, could tell nothing, and those within the castle were certain of only one thing: The princess had come to the ramp in Choaspes' sleigh, and had walked through the barbican gate with the strategos and his followers. In the courtyard there had been talk, and suddenly the clatter of steel. In that hour before dawn the place had been in darkness, and the frightened servants had seen lanthorns moving about swiftly, and the horses led from the stables. Some one had shouted for the western gate to be opened.
But Rupen of Kag, who had been listening at his window, knew the truth. Choaspes had insisted that Rusudan go with him beyond Tphilis and seek sanctuary in Trebizond, and she had refused. Then the Greeks had overpowered her few attendants and had led out every good horse from the stables. At the western gate they had met Grigol of Thor, the castellan, who had mustered a few men-at-arms when he heard the clash of weapons. Evidently the Greeks, who were in full mail, had ridden down the Georgians and had escaped from the hill of Tphilis before dawn. They had carried off Rusudan.
The wearied men who mustered around John the Constable took up pursuit, finding horses where they could. Shotha Kupri went off to rouse other bands in the forest.
They came back late that night with sagging shoulders and scowling brows. They had not gained even a sight of the Greeks. Whether he had planned this move beforehand, or had taken measures for his own safety, the strategos had collected relays of fresh horses twenty miles from Tphilis, and would be nearing the gates of Trebizond within the lines of the empire before the hillmen could overtake him. Nevertheless, Shotha Kupri had pushed on with some Gipsies.
The constable and the few surviving chieftains could not leave the castle, because the Mongols might move against him any hour. Scouts from the forest reported that the Horde had gone into camp in the very hamlet where the Georgians had been quartered before the battle. And the remnants of the clans were drifting into Tphilis with their families and what cattle and sheep they were able to drive off.
On the following day Mongol patrols advanced as far as the chapel in the firs and scanned the walls of Tphilis. The constable labored ceaselessly and without sleep, and the Georgians doggedly set to work carrying sheaves of arrows to the walls and making ready the cressets for lighting—if the attack should come at night. Not a man from the Kur to the castle keep who would not have given his life to have Rusudan safe among the clans. They knew that if she could be brought back, Shotha Kupri would manage it.
“Nay,” said the mkhendruli now and again, “the emperor has pledged aid. It can not be that he will permit harm to come to the daughter of the Karthlos.”
“And yet,” some responded, “the Greeks went against Grigol of Thor with edged steel.”
They shook their heads and hastened to new labors. It was the first time that a ruler, or the child of a ruler, of the Khaukesh had left the mountains. The noblewomen of Tphilis prayed hourly in the Malaki, and the chieftains sat with weapons in their hands.
At the end of the week the Mongols had not come, but Shotha Kupri appeared in the hall of the keep where the thawads sat at meat.
One glance at him, and some groaned, others took their heads in their hands.
“The Roumis are beyond the hills,” said Shotha Kupri.
“The Princess?” demanded John the Constable.
“With them, bound to a sleigh. From the strategos, a letter.” Shotha Kupri held out a roll of parchment that the lord of Tphilis opened eagerly. It was in Greek, written on the back of a leaf torn from some priest's manuscript, and he gave it to the old metropolitan to read.
Paul—he of the white hair and the gold-embroidered cope, who was head of the church in Armenia—read the missive through swiftly, because it was Greek written by a skilled hand. But for a moment he fingered his beard, saying nothing.
“'Tis addressed to Ivan,” he explained, “and the message is—secret.”
The constable, who had been striding back and forth behind the patriarch's chair, halted as if pricked by steel.
“Read! I have no secrets.”
Paul inclined his head.
“In God's name,” cried the constable, “what means this?”
The patriarch sighed and mused a while.
“My son, the message was to thee.”
“A hundred devils! Little skilled am I in statecraft or the writing of missives. To my mind, Choaspes tries to draw a bough over his tracks.”