Sinbad and The Eye of the Tiger Read online

  Columbia Pictures Presents

  A Charles H. Schneer Production

  Starring

  PATRICK WAYNE and TARYN POWER

  Co-Starring

  Margaret Whiting

  Jane Seymor

  Patrick Troughton

  Screenplay by Beverly Cross

  Creator of Special Visual Effects Ray Harryhausen

  Produced by Charles H. Schneer and Ray Harryhausen

  Directed by Sam Wanamaker

  Filmed in Dynarama

  Production services by Devon Company/Persky Bright

  SINBAD AND THE EYE OF THE TIGER

  POCKET BOOK edition published May, 1977

  POCKET BOOK editions are published by

  POCKET BOOKS,

  a Simon & Schuster Division of

  GULF & WESTERN CORPORATION

  1230 Avenue of the Americas,

  New York, N.Y. 10020.

  Trademarks registered in the United States

  and other countries.

  ISBN: 0-671-80933-4.

  Copyright, ©, 1977, by Columbia Pictures Industries, Inc.

  All rights reserved. Published by POCKET BOOKS,

  New York, and on the same day in Canada by

  Simon & Schuster of Canada, Ltd., Markham, Ontario.

  Printed in the U.S.A.

  CONTENTS

  SINBAD AND THE EYE OF THE TIGER

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6

  CHAPTER 7

  CHAPTER 8

  CHAPTER 9

  CHAPTER 10

  CHAPTER 11

  CHAPTER 12

  CHAPTER 13

  CHAPTER 14

  CHAPTER 15

  CHAPTER 16

  CHAPTER 17

  CHAPTER 18

  CHAPTER 19

  CHAPTER 20

  CHAPTER 21

  CHAPTER 22

  CHAPTER 23

  To the hero in everyone:

  you, me, and the one you least suspect

  CHAPTER 1

  The ornate chamber was humming with the talk of nobles and the rustling of their richly embroidered clothing. Dignitaries from far lands, in their distinctive clothing, stood about showing off their finery while ceremonial music was being played in a hidden alcove. From time to time their eyes strayed to the imposing figure of a woman, heavily veiled, dressed in the manner of the court, whose heavily made-up eyes swept the room in an imperious and somewhat disdainful manner.

  Few of the men dared to ask about this haughty woman, obviously a noble and just as obviously one of power. Near the richly decorated throne, at the foot of the dais, a bearded ambassador from Europe whispered to an Islamic noble. “Who is that woman? The one whose eyes are . . . are . . .”

  The son of Islam’s thin smile split his heavy beard. He turned toward the ambassador so that his lips would not reveal his words to the aristocratic woman across the great hall. “That is Zenobia . . . Queen Zenobia. Some think her a witch and . . .”

  A gong sent golden waves thrumming in the incense-laden air. A silence fell over the throng and they turned toward the entrance to the throne room. The music blended discreetly into a more dignified tone. The European ambassador gave Zenobia another look and saw her dark eyes sweep over him, pause but briefly on his face, then move on. But it was enough to give the blond and bearded man a moment of quite irrational fear. He stepped slightly to one side, to place a huge ornamental incense brazier between him and the veiled woman, then turned to watch the procession enter.

  Musicians entered first, playing their pipes and strings, their golden trumpets and small gourdlike drums, and shaking their silver and ebony tambourines. The European ambassador saw the High Priest enter, haughty and self-important, carrying a bejeweled coronation crown on a pillow of purple silk. The ambassador followed the great crown with his eyes, then looked through the haze of incense at Queen Zenobia. He saw her lean to the side and whisper to a handsome young prince. The young man, thin-faced and lean, looked around, his eyes slitting with cunning alertness. Then he slipped back into the crowd of magnificently robed nobles and disappeared.

  The ambassador felt a wave of apprehension. The atmosphere was heavy with intrigue, a far cry from the honest, straightforward intrigues of power in his native country. He sighed to himself, his face a practiced mask of imperturbability and bland interest. He had been posted to this far kingdom because of his supposed knowledge of the Byzantine labyrinths of power-seeking and diplomatic maneuvering in this Islamic country, but the more he saw of these turbaned courts, the less he understood them. There were layers upon layers of meaning and motivation, some going back for generations. Blood feuds and vendettas, regicides and assassinations were used as tools of diplomacy and power. There were even rumors of magic and strange apparitions, but the ambassador chose to ignore them until he had better proof. Not that he doubted these non-Christian devils would use such satanic power if they had it, but he was a pragmatic man who believed only what he saw, and not always that.

  He bowed ever so slightly at the passage of the High Priest, as did the other nobles and ambassadors, then straightened to watch the astrologers pass in their odd robes, mixed with the lesser priests and court functionaries. His eyes betrayed the slightest amount of interest as he saw Prince Kassim appear in the arch. His automatic, practiced assessment of the young prince occupied the next few moments. About to be crowned Caliph, Kassim would be the man the ambassador would be dealing with. In the absolute autocracy of this country, it would be the whim of the new Caliph that granted certain trade considerations to the ambassador’s country. It was the ambassador’s stock in trade to correctly assess the leaders and men of wealth and power in the countries outside his own.

  As Caliph, Kassim’s immense power could aid the ambassador’s country, and even line his own pockets with gold. But disfavor might bring disgrace, even death.

  Just as automatically, the ambassador picked out the older, bearded figure just behind Prince Kassim. It was Balsora, the Vizier, the wise and powerful adviser to the throne, who had been vizier to Kassim’s father. He carried the mace of state, a heavy and bejeweled symbol of power. Balsora was no fool, the ambassador knew, and wise in the ways of the court. His reputation was great, an honest man with ambitions for his country, but little for himself, it was said. Some said it in derision, disdaining the efforts of any honest man in the courts of Arabia, but there were many who openly admired the old and bearded Vizier.

  A light flickered briefly in the ambassador’s eyes as he saw the next in the procession. It was Princess Farah, the beautiful, dark-haired sister of Kassim. Even through her veil and expensive jeweled gown it was seen that she was a great beauty, although the ambassador personally knew little of the highly protected princess. In Islamic nations it was best not to appear too curious about the women, and most especially those of royal blood. The ambassador glanced at the two ladies-in-waiting that followed her, a pair of veiled beauties whose eyes—unlike those of their mistress—sometimes strayed and swept across the throng.

  Then the ambasador blinked and his eyes flickered through the incense smoke to where the veiled Zenobia had stood. She was gone, and now walked haughtily at the rear of the procession, with the handsome young prince at her side. Two soldiers, armed and obviously loyal veterans, brought up the rear.

  The ambassador leaned forward and whispered to his companion, “Who is that with Queen Zenobia?”

  “Her son Rafi,” the noble answered. He seemed disinclined to add any more and the European ambassador stepped back. He watched as the procession came to the throne
dais and went to their stations. He saw Rafi glance to the side, near him, and the curious ambassador followed the look, which seemed to have some significance. He saw a man, dressed in rich clothing, but somehow not looking at home in the silks and brocades. His hands were scarred and callused, as few nobles’ were, and the ambassador grew very interested.

  Commoners were sometimes elevated to the purple for unusually meritorious service in every country, and indeed, the ambassador thought, many kings had been generals before ascending to the throne. Or there were kings whose fathers or great-grandfathers had been ambitious commoners who amassed the loyalty of an army or the gold of trading and connived or murdered their way to the throne. That a prince had a friend whose hands told more of him than his clothing was no surprise to the ambassador. Such men had their uses, and the ambassador had often employed them himself, though not against his own liege lord. His curiosity aroused, the ambassador edged his way past the incense burner, ducked under a cluster of hanging oil lamps, and moved closer to the throne, stopping behind a carved pillar.

  The musicians had joined the others in the alcove, sitting cross-legged on the thick rugs. The courtiers prostrated themselves on the floor before Kassim as he walked the last few steps to the throne dais. They kissed the carpet and tile under them, their voices murmuring, “Peace be upon you,” in a ragged chorus.

  The ambassador lost the hard-handed noble in the crowd as they moved to prostrate themselves, but his attention was caught by a one-eyed officer, a lean, dark man with the air of command about him. A patch covered one eye, but the other eye was as alert as a hawk’s. As the ambassador prostrated himself between a turbaned baron and a bejeweled general, he saw the one-eyed officer’s hand touch his dagger, as if to verify it was ready to hand. The ambassador’s heart began to pound. Something was up!

  The High Priest, attended by others, ascended the dais and stood by the throne, holding the crown upon a purple pillow. The incense smoke hung in the air like-drifting light as the young prince turned from the homage and mounted the steps to the ornate and ancient throne. Two courtiers behind the prince arranged his long train skillfully, spreading it artistically down the low steps as he sat upon the throne.

  The prince, smiling slightly, inclined his head toward his sister Farah, at the foot of the dais. She acknowledged his look with pride and encouragement and the light that shone from her eyes was that of love. The prince then bent his head toward Balsora, the Vizier, in the faintest of bows, the proper sort of recognition given by a king.

  Then the prince looked out oyer the heads of the people and the High Priest began the coronation. If he saw Balsora lean over to whisper to the one-eyed officer he gave no sign. The two astrologers moved to the brazier. One lifted the lid and placed it nearby while the other, saying a prayer in the sing-song of priests everywhere, gestured with his ringed hands over the glowing coals.

  The coals began to glow more hotly, their light building, reflecting off the bearded faces of the brightly robed astrologers. The incense began to intensify, spreading still more streamers of pungent aroma throughout the great throne room.

  The High Priest lifted the crown from the silken pillow, which was taken by the aides. He held it high and a roll of drums filled the high-ceilinged throne room. The High Priest held the crown over Kassim’s head and began intoning an ancient oath.

  Something made the European ambassador turn his head. At the edge of the dais, partially hidden in shadow, stood the veiled Zenobia. Her eyes burned with such a hatred that the ambassador gasped to himself. He saw her look at the brazier between the two astrologers and his own eyes went to the burning coals.

  Smoke curled from it, boiled in gray clouds, wafting over the turbaned and helmeted heads of the throng that stood watching the coronation. The ambassador saw Rafi look from the brazier to his mother, then to Kassim, an expression on his face that the bearded European found difficult to analyze.

  The High Priest was intoning a prayer as he placed the crown upon the head of the prince, anointing him Caliph. As the crown touched Kassim’s head a sheet of flame shot from the brazier, startling everyone. They recoiled in fear. The ambassador staggered as the men about him cursed and moved back.

  Then a woman’s scream sliced through the air.

  Balsora gasped. The one-eyed officer drew his dagger and took a step toward the throne, a curse upon his lips. Farah screamed again, a scream that became a throttled cry of incredible fear and loathing. The ambassador was buffeted by the throng, but through a split he saw Rafi, a slight smile upon his face. He looked toward his mother and the ambassador twisted around, then himself gasped in fear.

  In the shadows and flickering light Zenobia’s eyes seemed like those of a great tiger. The European was certain it was but a trick of the swirling smoke, flickering oil lamps, and the reflections from the gold-encrusted walls of the throne room. But the effect was still startling. He staggered, once again struck by the struggling bodies pulling back from the throne. Through the incense he caught a glimpse of what was upon the throne.

  CHAPTER 2

  It was night, but the men scrambling over the side of the ship had not been given leave for many weeks. The waters of the bay lapped against the side of the ship and made the small boat bob. One of the last men into the boat carried a small monkey on his shoulder, a present for a woman ashore who he hoped would remember him. His mates had jeered good-naturedly at him for weeks, saying that Aboo-seer’s woman would have forgotten all about him, or would more readily take the monkey as her lover than the burly sailor.

  They all looked toward the city eagerly. It was an ancient city, its origins lost in time and legend. A crescent moon silvered the bulbous domes and slender towers of Charak and glittered in a long path across the still, dark sea that all but surrounded the high-walled town. The thick stone walls were dark and silent, the mossy edges unseen in the darkness.

  A flutter of black night birds passed across the moon as the long boat came toward the jetty. A harsh and sinister cawing cleft the night and echoed off the smooth stones of the main gate. But the tough, good-natured sailors ignored the high dark walls, their eyes on the tent city before the walls. There was a bustle of activity around the cooking fires before the tents. Men were drinking and eating in the company of boldly unveiled native girls. There was the buzz of conversation heard by the sailors as they tied off their long boat and scrambled onto the worn stone jetty. They strode toward the land, grinning in anticipation, hearing the music that came in sinuous waves from the tents.

  One man strode ahead of the others, followed by his mates, and from a group of musicians at the head of the jetty came a cry.

  “Sinbad!” They waved and the leader of the sailors grinned back at them.

  One of the bearded sailors called to Sinbad, “Why the haste, Captain? The city will not vanish!”

  The man with the monkey, Aboo-seer, turned to the speaker. “It is not the city of Charak he is anxious to see, Hassan—but someone who resides within!”

  Maroof, a muscled black sailor, grinned. “The poet has said, ‘Love makes the heart fly!’ ”

  Sinbad looked back at his men. “After a long voyage—” he grinned—“it is good to stretch one’s legs.”

  Hassan snorted as they climbed the shore and went into the cluster of low, dark Bedouin tents. “The only good thing in this port is the Inn of Jamil-the-Squint.” He licked his lips. “For six months I have dreamt of his roasted sheep’s eyes . . .”

  “. . . and I of the eye of his daughter!” Aboo-seer exclaimed happily. The men laughed and Sinbad looked over his shoulder.

  “You dreamt of more than that when you bought her a monkey in Calcutta!” Aboo-seer laughed as Hassan clapped him on the back.

  The sailors exchanged greetings with the Bedouins, who called out “Welcome to Charak!” and hailed Sinbad by name. Sinbad strode on, his eyes glancing up toward the dark walls as he left the tents, with some of his men following. One by one the sailors were diverte
d by the bold blandishments of the women, by merchants and others who offered food and drink. Dancing girls were caught up in the sudden flurry of activity and swirled their way onto carpets spread over the sand of the shore, their hips swaying seductively and the bodies moving in increasingly more erotic movements. The musicians who were sleeping came back to their drums and flutes and soon the entire encampment was a flurry of music and laughter.

  Aboo-seer stopped Sinbad as they started up the embankment toward the city walls. “Captain, wait! My mouth is dry—”

  “Mine, too!” Hassan added. He gestured back toward the tents. “Let us stop and sample the wines of Charak—”

  “My thirst is the thirst of a thousand men!” the black-skinned Maroof said in his deep voice.

  Sinbad laughed. “Stop and drink here and I promise you will go no further.” He grinned at them. “Remember the last time?”

  He turned away and started up the path again. The others reluctantly followed, casting glances back at the tents where their mates were already caressing the muscled bellies of dancing girls and swilling wine. Hassan laughed at Aboo-seer. “They stripped you of all your possessions!”

  Aboo-seer grunted. “Because of that I added four more eunuchs to the population . . . and subtracted another!”

  They all shared the joke, often told in the weeks at sea, as they followed Sinbad. But then Maroof stopped. The others glanced back at him.

  The black sailor gestured toward the tents and campfires. Over the jingle of dancers’ costumes and the beat of drums he said, “All the paradise I seek is here!” He gestured them on. “Allah go with you. I shall stay behind.”

  The other sailors laughed and waved as Maroof turned back. They were approaching the heavy timbers and ornate bronze knobs of the big gate when they heard a rumble of laughter as Maroof joined the others below.

  Here, at the base of the dark city walls, there were a few tents, quiet and dark, where Bedouins slept. A few dusty camels sat with imperious heads, looking at the night intruders with lofty and unfathomable expressions. Some mules grazed morosely nearby, disturbed by the night birds’ cries and the entry of the sailors into their dark encampment