Imperial Fire (18 page)

Vallon might have left it at that, but Hero could read the map better than anyone else and had spent a considerable time consulting with the Logothete’s geographers. ‘Excuse me,’ he said, easing Vallon aside. His hand traced a tentative course across the Caspian. ‘Whatever route we take, we have to reach Turkestan and join the Silk Road in the lands across the Oxus. Even allowing for errors on its maker’s part, the map shows that Transoxiana lies due east of the Caspian.’ He glanced at Otia. ‘How long would a sea voyage take?’

‘I’m not sure,’ said Otia. ‘About a week.’

‘Only a week? Even if the voyage was twice that length, it would be considerably shorter than a march across Persia.’

‘There must be a good reason for avoiding the sea,’ said Josselin. ‘Otherwise the Logothete would have sent us that way.’

‘Not with Georgia hostile to Byzantium and infested by Seljuks.’

‘Some of our Turkmen troopers are from Transoxiana,’ said Vallon. ‘Fetch Yeke.’

The Turk entered the tent with his face shiny from the rain. He appeared a most affable fellow, but Vallon had seen him in battle engaging the enemy while holding between his teeth, suspended by its hair, the severed head of an opponent he’d slain moments earlier. His grasp of Greek only extended to military commands, and Vallon left the intelligence gathering to Wayland. The exchanges lasted a long time, with much hesitation and head-scratching on Yeke’s part.

At last Wayland made his report. ‘Yeke says there are no ports on the Caspian’s eastern coast. The hinterland is virtually uninhabited, nothing but desert for hundreds of miles – one desert called the Red Sands, the other the Black Sands. We’d never find our way through without guides who know where the wells lie, and we’d have to move fast to cross the deserts before the heat of summer makes them impassable.’

‘But it’s possible,’ Vallon said.

Wayland glanced at Yeke. ‘If we don’t perish of thirst, a month’s hard travelling should bring us to the city of Khiva on the River Oxus. It’s called the Amu Darya in Turkic and lies on the caravan trails to Bukhara and Samarkand.’

Vallon pondered. ‘Say three weeks to reach the Caspian, a week to sail across it and a month to reach Khiva.’ He frowned. ‘Hero, we calculated that it would take three months to reach Bukhara by way of Armenia and Persia.’

‘At least.’

‘Plus another month just to make our way through Armenia. Four months in total, compared to only two if we take the Caspian route.’

‘The sea-road’s the road for me,’ said Wulfstan.

‘Forgive me, sir,’ Josselin said. ‘It seems to me that you’re placing too much reliance on this map and our ability to conjure up several ships.’

‘I trust Hero’s interpretation and Yeke’s first-hand knowledge. There’s another consideration. During the journey through Persia, our lives will be dependent on the safe conduct negotiated with the Seljuks. Flimsy protection to be sure. I’d put more faith in a clipping of our Lord’s toenails purchased for four solidi from a tout in the Neorian Market.’ Vallon placed both hands on the table. ‘Gentlemen, I believe the duke has done us a favour by forcing us to diverge from our original course. Otia, I’m putting you in command of the advance party. You’ll be our pathfinder and negotiator. Take three squads.’ Vallon switched to French. ‘Wayland, I’d be obliged if you accompany Otia’s squad.’

The rain had increased in intensity, drubbing on the tent with a force that discouraged speech. Vallon didn’t need his officers to tell him what they thought. Their expressions made it plain that he was taking an appalling gamble on the flimsiest of intelligence, the wildest of hopes.

Wayland sprinted through the downpour and dived into his tent, the dog plunging in after him. He lit a lamp, mopped himself dry and lay down on his pallet. Water ran in streams across the ground and the dog heaved up and flopped onto his chest with a groan. Somehow he managed to make room for it and lay half on, half off his bed, listening to the rain on the roof. Water dripped onto his head. Mosquitoes bit.

He’d told Vallon that he hadn’t joined the expedition out of a sense of obligation, but that was untrue. After sharing the trials and triumphs of the northern voyage, he’d felt duty-bound to hazard this new venture. And he couldn’t deny that the prospect of exploring new lands had made his blood tingle.

The duke’s treachery changed everything, relegating the expedition to a madcap quest manned by soldiers who had no idea what they were up against. Wayland knew the risks better than most. During his long sojourn among the Seljuks, he’d learned something about the territory they’d be passing through – tracts of scorching desert where every oasis lay under the control of a warlord. A hundred men were but a mite in that wilderness, infidel prey sent by Allah to be plucked and bled by the faithful.

Also – he was reluctant to admit it – his relationship with Vallon had changed. On their northern adventures, they’d been a close-knit band who shared everything – food, shelter, decisions. On this journey he was just an individual attached to a small army with its established hierarchy, its own way of doing things. Since leaving Constantinople, he’d had only a dozen conversations with Vallon. Wayland didn’t resent that. The general’s main responsibilities were to his men, some of whom had served under him for almost a decade. Even so…

Wayland grunted as the dog sat up, planting a bony paw in his stomach. Hero stuck his dripping head through the tent flap. ‘What a foul night. Can I come in?’

Wayland shoved the dog off. ‘If you can find somewhere to sit.’

Hero managed to take perch on the edge of the bed and screwed rain from his eyes with both hands. The dog licked his face. Hero laughed and pushed it away. ‘Your hound is certainly kinder than the brute that accompanied us on our first journey. I never dared approach within ten feet of it.’

‘That dog’s temper was framed by years of living in the wild.’

‘So was yours,’ said Hero. ‘You were such a fierce youth when we first met.’

‘Man or dog, we all mellow with time.’

‘I expected you to say more at the meeting.’

‘I don’t speak much Greek. A lot of the discussion went over my head, but I didn’t want to waste Vallon’s time by asking for a translation.’

‘It isn’t just that. You’re not happy with his decision.’

‘It’s not my place to tell him what he should do.’

‘Vallon values your opinion and you know the Turkmen better than anybody. What would you have advised?’

Wayland hesitated. ‘Go back. Vallon wouldn’t be punished for failure. It wasn’t him who chose the duke as ambassador. The Logothete or the emperor is responsible for this mess.’

‘You don’t understand Byzantine politics. The powerful don’t punish themselves for their failures.’

‘What’s the worst they could have done to Vallon? Strip him of his general’s rank. At least he’d be back with his family.’

‘Where you’d rather be.’

Wayland didn’t answer. Hero absentmindedly stroked the dog’s head. ‘Vallon feels the same way, though he has to hide it. He resisted this command with all his will. He even considered fleeing with his family and taking service with the Normans. But now he’s accepted the mission, his sense of honour won’t allow him to abandon it at the first setback.’

‘Being forced onto a hostile shore with no clear way ahead and enemies behind us isn’t a setback. It’s a disaster.’

Hero smiled. ‘The night we first met at that castle in Northumbria, Vallon told Count Olbec that the leader of our quest would have to be a man brave enough to cut through the known hazards and resourceful enough to navigate perils as yet unseen. A man who, if he couldn’t find a path, would make his own. Vallon’s still that man.’

‘I know. It’s me who’s changed.’ Wayland sat up. ‘Don’t misunderstand me. I’ll serve Vallon to the best of my abilities. Just don’t expect me to be at the centre of his councils.’

After a moment’s pause, a question framed but left unspoken, Hero crawled towards the entrance. ‘Sleep well, dear friend.’

Fat chance of that. The dog took advantage of Hero’s departure to stretch out on the bed. Wayland shoved up against it, the rain leaking on him in fat drops. ‘Ah, Syth,’ he sighed.

At the sound of her name, the dog sprang up in an ecstasy of expectation that threatened to collapse the flimsy shelter. Wayland grabbed its scruff. ‘Lie down, you soft fool.’

The dog subsided with a whimper and fixed a mournful gaze on Wayland’s face. He quenched the lamp, but darkness couldn’t extinguish his imaginings. A dread echo from the past lodged in his soul – a voice sounding across a fog-bound sea.

You’re all bound for hell.
 

‘Wake up, Master Wayland. It’s not like you to play the slug-a-bed.’

Wayland heaved himself round and shielded his eyes from the sunlight dazzling behind Wulfstan’s grinning face.

‘What are you so cheerful about?’

‘Rain’s stopped, sun’s shining, and we’re off on an adventure worthy of the heroes of old. What else could you ask for except breakfast? I saved you some pancakes. Stir yourself while they’re still warm.’

Wayland dragged himself out and stood swaying slightly, dizzied by the steamy heat and stunning landscape. A bank of pearlescent mist girdled the foothills to the north. Above it, peaks soared in flutes and folds, fresh snow trailing down the lower slopes. So far as Wayland could gauge, the mountain barrier was no more than three days distant.

He ate the pancakes spread with honey and eavesdropped on the troopers. No grumbles this morning, only the bustle and banter of a well-disciplined army striking camp. But Wayland was sensitive to mood and knew that the men’s joshing disguised apprehension.

He washed his face and brushed his teeth with a twig bashed into a fuzz at one end.

‘Lord?’

Wayland lowered his gaze to bring the speaker’s face into sight. A delicate-featured boy looked up in an agony of shyness. Wayland smiled. ‘Hello, who might you be?’

The boy’s voice quavered between treble and alto. ‘Atam, your Lordship. Master Hero said you needed an interpreter. I speak Greek, Georgian and Turkic. I was born in Armenia and captured by the Seljuks when I was five.’

Wayland had encountered a hundred Atams during his employment with the Seljuks – children taken in war, sometimes wrenched from their dead mothers’ arms, usually treated kindly by their captors, but scarred forever by cruel separation from their families.

‘I’m not a lord, so call me Wayland. How old are you?’

‘Fifteen?’ Atam said after a moment.

Thirteen at most, Wayland decided. ‘Where did you spring from? I haven’t seen you before.’

‘I was a cook’s assistant, Lord.’

‘Have you got a horse?’

‘Master Hero found me a mule.’

‘You’ll need a swifter mount if you’re to keep up with me. I’ll arrange it.’ The lad made Wayland feel protective. ‘I’m sure you’ll do very well and I’m obliged to Hero for his thoughtfulness. You can start proving your worth right away. The column will soon depart and I must discuss my duties with Otia.’

His little squire approached the centurion with such timidity that the officer didn’t notice him.

‘Speak up,’ said Wayland. ‘Tell the centurion that Wayland the Englishman is reporting for duty.’

After listening to Atam’s piping announcement, Otia shook Wayland’s hand.

‘He’s pleased to have you in his unit,’ said Atam. ‘General Vallon told him that nobody can scout a trail or sniff out danger as well as you.’ Atam pointed at the mountains. ‘Lord Otia says you’ll need all your cunning to spot the snares and pitfalls waiting for us up there.’

Menials had stirred themselves well before dawn to prepare the baggage train. It was a long process and the squadron didn’t move out until the sun stood halfway up the sky, the troopers riding with short reins to match the supply column’s pace. Atam at his side, Wayland trotted in company with the reconnaissance squad, the dog loping with lolling tongue in the shadow cast by his horse.

Wayland allowed the hound to make the occasional foray for game. There was much to excite its hunting instincts, including long-tailed fowl with bronze and green plumage and enamelled red heads that stalked the thickets with autocratic tread. Wayland hadn’t seen such birds before. Otia told him they were called pheasants and took their name from the river Phasis and its province.

There rode in the scouting party three Turkmen who snapped shots at the pheasants as the dog flushed them. One of the bowmen – a Cuman from the steppes north of the Black Sea – brought down a bird as it burst into flight and invited Wayland to bend his bow in friendly competition, saying that he’d heard the Englishman was a match for the finest Turkish archers. Wayland kept his bow slung and his challenger whirled away with a disparaging laugh. Watching him, Wayland remembered the Cuman youth he’d slain in an archery duel by the Dnieper nine years before. Since that expedition he’d never shed another man’s blood.

They left the marshlands and struck north on a road leading through pastures and orchards drenched in blossom. They passed wattle-and-daub hamlets thatched with reed, and Otia called out reassurance to the inhabitants clustered at a safe distance. The women wore colourful smocks, pantaloons and head scarves. Some of them half-raised their hands in response to Otia’s greetings. Most crossed themselves or made signs to ward off the evil eye. Their menfolk just peered in hard-eyed suspicion until the invaders passed from sight.

Wayland kneed his horse alongside the Georgian. ‘A handsome race. Proud, too.’

‘Wait until we get into the mountains. Then you’ll see pride.’

With the sun dissolving into the horizon, they made camp by a river called the Inguri and on the day following they reached the highlands. As the road steepened and began to twist, the scouts ceased their idle pursuits and watched the rolling hills and forest margins for signs of ambush. Nor was it long before their caution was justified. On a rise commanding the road, the river hard to the left, a line of armed horsemen reared up. Otia ordered his men to keep their swords sheathed and stood in his stirrups to announce who they were and where they were going, stressing that a larger force was following and that they were just passing through with no hostile designs on this place.

It was like that all day, potential belligerents ghosting out of trees or staring down with bristling hostility from the heights, Otia shouting assurances until his voice had been abraded to a husky croak.

At one pinch point in a sunken way, a sling-stone thrummed past Wayland and struck one of the troopers’ horses on the rump, stinging it into a wild gavotte. The men drew their bows and scattered, searching for their attacker.

‘Leave it,’ Otia ordered. ‘Probably a boy acting on a dare.’

Wayland passed the sweating centurion a leather water bottle. ‘If we didn’t have you to smooth our passage, I think we’d have had a sharp encounter today.’

Otia tilted the bottle and drank deep before handing it back. He wiped his mouth. ‘When I told the general I couldn’t guarantee safe passage, I spoke the truth. I’m a lowlander and the Svans despise lowlanders. For my part, I hate the highland tribes. Every winter they descend from their mountain keeps to steal cattle. The folk hereabouts would love to hang me and burn me hanging, and given the chance, I’d mete out the same fate to them.’

Next day Vallon ordered the scouts to stay close to the main party, the whole force and its supply train climbing at a mule’s plod. The tumbling river carved a path through a beech forest with trees so massive that it took five men with linked hands to encircle one mighty bole. Leaving the wood, the column advanced up a green glen and entered a highland basin that might have been the park and pleasure ground of a wilderness prince. Stands of walnut and oak curved up to grassy ridges overlooked by fanged peaks. On the other side of the river, pines showed as dark cones in a dense deciduous forest. Wayland spotted bears browsing high up in a clearing. Two eagles soared on splayed wings, tuning their pinions to the air currents, the sun striking gold from their heads. One of them gave a yelping cry and locked talons with its mate, the pair pinwheeling through the air.

Otia pointed to the north-east. ‘Over there stands Elbruz, the loftiest mountain in the world. Where Prometheus endured his torment.’

Hero explained the myth, recounting how Prometheus, a Titan, had enraged Zeus by first creating man out of clay and breathing life into him, and then stealing the gift of fire from the gods and giving it to man. For his crime, Zeus had chained him to the icy slopes of Elbruz and condemned him to have his liver pecked out by an eagle in perpetuity.

Warming to his tale-telling, Hero added that it was in the Caucasus kingdom of Colchis that Jason had fulfilled his quest for the Golden Fleece belonging to a magical ram sent by Zeus to rescue Phrixus and Helle.

Otia leaned to touch Hero’s wrist. ‘I’m sorry to spoil your story, my learned friend, but the Golden Fleece has nothing to do with gods. In these mountains the people use fleeces to trap gold in the rivers, weighting them down underwater. Sometimes, after a landslide or flood, the prospectors retrieve the fleece with so much precious dust caught in the wool that the skin appears to be made of solid gold.

At that point the squad cantered over a rise and Wayland reined in, taken aback by the sight of a distant fortified settlement that looked like something from fairyland. Lofty square stone towers capped with turrets clustered around the houses, the limewashed keeps brilliant against the intense green slopes. In a valley to the north, a glacier descended from the mountain chain like a silver staircase.