The Towers of Samarcand (19 page)

There were men approaching them through the crowd. Armed men in mail. ‘Are we surrounded?’

‘It looks like it. What do we do?’

They had formed a little triangle by now, with Shulen inside it. Matthew had drawn his sword. It was the only one they had between them. The soldiers were getting closer, pushing aside men and women as they came. Nikolas spoke.

‘Well, we’re not going to win. We’ve got one sword and they’ve got two each.’

Matthew didn’t agree. ‘We can get past them. If we all rush in the same direction, we can break through. Shulen, take my hand. The rest of you, on my count.’

The Varangians readied themselves to charge. They were unarmed but they were strong and they were light. And there were many people about.

‘One …’

The soldier in front lifted a bow. There was an arrow on its string.

‘
Now!
’

They charged, Matthew in front. The soldier with the bow went down as his head drove into his midriff. A woman in front of him screamed.

‘Follow me!’ he yelled, lifting his sword.

People were falling over each other to get out of the way. A stall selling bolts of cotton collapsed and a Persian merchant screamed abuse. A money changer was hit on the head by an awning as it fell. It was chaos.

They’d reached the opening to a street too narrow for stalls. It was blocked by a donkey whose cargo of raw silk was being unloaded. Matthew smacked his blade against the animal’s rump and it shrieked and started down the alley. A fat merchant came to his door and tried to hold on to Shulen as she passed. She kicked him in the shins and he sank, howling, to his knees.

‘Run!’ Matthew yelled.

But Shulen had tripped. Her hand slipped from his and he looked back to see her on the ground with Nikolas trying to help her up. Now there was a soldier at the head of the street and he was calling for others to join him.

Matthew turned to see the other end of the alley blocked by men with swords. Shulen had risen to her feet but was clearly in pain. They were trapped.

‘Great idea,’ said Nikolas. ‘The charge. That worked.’

*

The night they spent in the pit was a night spent in hell.

Marched from the street of their arrest, the three Varangians were disarmed and thrown into a place of darkness: a darkness so complete that they could only find each other by sound or touch. They wondered what other creatures shared the cell with them. There was breathing and scratching all around them that could have been rats or a chained lunatic. The smell was overwhelming. The stench of centuries of excrement and dead vermin had entered the ancient stone and now filled their noses, their mouths, their minds. It was a path into madness. Matthew hoped that Shulen was being held somewhere better than this.

They’d already guessed that their captor was Qara Yusuf, Lord of the Qara Qoyunlu. But why he should want to imprison them they had no idea. Nor did they know who had betrayed them or whether Luke and the others had managed to escape.

Answers came at dawn. Just when Matthew had managed to subside into sleep, a shaft of light from above awoke him. A ladder was handed down, and in their blindness it took some time for the Varangians to climb it. When they had, they were led down a narrow street towards a large blue-domed building, which they took to be the palace. Then they were searched twice, bound by the wrists and taken into an anteroom on the far side of which were two tall doors through which came muffled conversation.

‘What do we say?’ hissed Nikolas, turning to Matthew.

‘We tell them that we’re Greeks trying to find a better life out east. We tell them that we were at Nicopolis and can see that the days of the Empire are numbered.’

‘But why were we in disguise?’

Matthew’s hands were bound tightly behind his back and his shoulders had begun to hurt. ‘We’re in disguise because otherwise the caravan wouldn’t have taken us,’ he answered. It sounded feeble. ‘Just leave it to me. I’ll think of something.’

Then the doors were pushed open to reveal an ornate hall of some size. It was a throne room and it contained six people, four of whom were the Venetian merchants from the caravan. The throne, raised on a dais, held the only person seated. He was sallow of complexion and had the nomad’s flat face while his groomed beard spoke of the court. His robe was a rich red and spread from the base of the throne like a bloodstain. On his fingers were many rings of different coloured stones that seemed too heavy for his hands to lift. He looked nervous. Beside him stood an old man with a long beard.

‘Are these the men?’ he asked. His voice was cracked and high, almost the pitch of a eunuch.

The old man beside him, who might have been the vizier, said, ‘These are the Greeks, lord.’

‘I thought there were four of them.’

‘One is still missing, lord. He will be found.’

Qara Yusuf studied them for some time. He seemed restless, as if wanting to be somewhere else. Matthew judged him to be twenty years his senior.

‘Are you Greek?’

The Varangians were kneeling on the floor, their faces flat to the marble. Matthew raised his head. ‘We are Varangians, lord.’

‘Varangians? From Constantinople?’

‘From Mistra, lord.’

Qara Yusuf’s chin was propped on his fist; a finger uncurled to stand sentinel to his lips. His eyes never ceased to move, as if ungathered thoughts lurked everywhere around him like enemies. At last they settled on Matthew.

‘Mistra? Where in Mistra?’

‘Monemvasia, lord.’

‘Guards to the Archon Mamonas?’ The Prince’s eyes had darted to the Venetians, one eyebrow raised.

‘Our fathers, lord,’ Matthew said. ‘We decided to go to Nicopolis.’

‘That was foolish.’

There was an uncomfortable silence.

‘We are here to find work, lord,’ continued Matthew. ‘We’re on our way to find service in the east. There is much fighting to be done there.’

Qara Yusuf nodded. ‘Indeed. But why not the west? Didn’t you Varangians first come from some island in the west? Is it not said so?’ He paused and leant forward. ‘Why not go home?’

Matthew lifted his hands, his palms open. ‘The answer is all around you, lord. Fortunes are to be made in the east, not the west.’

‘So you would fight for me?’

‘For you or any that would pay us well, lord. We are Varangians. It is our craft.’

The youngest Venetian coughed and stepped forward, bowing from the waist. The Emir looked at him. ‘Speak.’

‘If I may be permitted, highness.’ Di Vetriano straightened up. ‘The Serenissima is friend to the Sultan Bayezid and, like you, fears the intentions of Temur. The Greeks, on the other hand, see Temur as a saviour. These men are on their way from
the Emperor in Constantinople to treat with the Mongol lord. Otherwise why the disguise?’

Qara Yusuf turned back to Matthew. ‘Why the disguise, Greek? And why the lie about this “Lady Fatimah”?’

Matthew swallowed. His neck was hurting from the strain of keeping his head up and the marble was hard on his knees.

‘And you may rise to answer. I can’t see you properly down there.’

Matthew rose, as did his friends. He smoothed the front of his thoub, and dared to rub his knee. ‘We asked the merchant Abdul-Hafiz if we might be permitted to dress as the other travellers in the caravan. We did not want to draw attention to ourselves, highness.’

Qara Yusuf’s eyes continued to wander. Frowning, he turned to the vizier. ‘Bring the girl.’

The vizier clapped his hands, the big doors opened and two guards entered with Shulen. She walked with her head held high and a look of impatience on her face. Her caftan was creased and she was barefoot, her feet silent against the veined marble. She stopped in front of the dais and neither bowed nor knelt. Unlike the Varangians, towards whom she did not glance, her hands were free.

‘Why am I here?’ she asked quietly, her eyes as steady as Yusuf’s were restless. ‘Why are my friends bound, highness? Are we criminals?’

Qara Yusuf answered her question with another. ‘Where is the fifth member of your party, the other Varangian?’

‘I don’t know where he is but I hope he is safe.’

‘Why are you all in disguise? Why do you claim to be what you are not?’

She did not hesitate. ‘I am married to the Varangian who is
not here, lord.’ She paused. ‘But he is Christian and I Muslim and you will know that assassins still exist east of this city, ready to attack caravans. They are Shi’ite and do not look favourably on marriages between the faiths. It seemed prudent to be mistress and servant while we passed through their lands.’

Di Vetriano spoke. ‘It is this man that leads them, lord,’ he said smoothly. ‘He must be found or he will go to Temur’s son Miran Shah in Sultaniya.’

Qara Yusuf turned to the Varangians. He yawned. The proceedings were becoming tedious. ‘I don’t believe you,’ he said, rising, ‘and I don’t want to hear any more of your lies. You will die. The girl too.’ He studied Shulen for a while. ‘Or you may come to my harem. It’s up to you.’

Di Vetriano stepped forward. He looked agitated. ‘Lord, we agreed that we were to take these prisoners back with us.’

Qara Yusuf yawned again. ‘I’ve changed my mind. You may have their goods.’

*

The following morning, Matthew awoke to sunshine in his eyes and sand on his lips. There was a narrow grille at head height that ran the full length of the cell he and his friends had spent the night in. Sand was blowing through it.

‘What’s outside?’ he asked.

‘Our place of execution,’ answered Arcadius, getting up from the floor. ‘Come and have a look.’

Matthew rose and walked over to join him at the window. He pressed his face against the grille and felt the warmth of the sun on his skin. His last morning alive and how sweet the sunshine felt.

Outside, the world rose above them. The window was at the bottom of a wall that encircled a sanded arena, a circus of some
kind. Above were tiers of stone benches that ran around until they met a pavilion where two thrones had been set beneath a purple canopy.

‘Perhaps we’re to face lions. I wonder where Shulen is?’

Arcadius shrugged. ‘Her best hope is the harem,’ he said flatly. ‘I’d rather know where Luke is.’

They were all quiet after that and the only sound came from rakes smoothing the sand outside. Then the drum began. Qara Yusuf had entered the royal pavilion and behind him walked Shulen with the four Venetians. There was nobody else in the arena. Yusuf and Shulen were both dressed in robes of brilliant white, as if they were to be married.

‘Looks like she agreed to the harem,’ said Nikolas.

There was another beat of the drum and four men were led out, their necks joined by chains. They were old and in rags, their long hair matted with filth, and flies followed them as they shuffled. They were lined up in front of the pavilion and made to kneel. Then, as Qara Yusuf examined one of his ringed fingers, each man was seized by a soldier and his head forced back to face the sky. A man entered the arena. He was bald and muscular and had the long moustaches of the executioner. He was carrying a short dagger in his hand and he bowed low in front of the pavilion. Qara Yusuf looked up and nodded.

The man walked over to the prisoners. He tested the blade on his thumb and then, one by one, gouged the eyes from the old men’s sockets. After each excision, he grabbed the victim’s hair, wiped his blade on their beard and tossed their eyeball into the sand. Pinned down by the guards, the men screamed and writhed in their pain. Then they were released and stumbled around on their knees, wailing and calling out
to one another while Qara Yusuf laughed his high laugh and clapped his jewelled hands.

The Varangians were too shocked to speak. Matthew looked up at Shulen. She was sitting rigidly upright, her hands folded in her lap. She looked calm, almost bored, her eyes unseeing.

‘Now us, I suppose,’ muttered Arcadius.

Not yet. As the blinded men were led away, a door opened in the wall and a tall man in chains entered between files of guards, each with a bow slung at the waist. He was dressed in silks of gold and he carried the Koran in his left hand. His head was held high and on it he wore an extravagant turban, from which an osprey plume rose like a geyser. Nikolas whistled.

‘Who is
that
?’

The prisoner seemed indifferent to his surroundings and, arriving before the pavilion, waited a while before bowing stiffly to the man within it. Qara Yusuf leant forward over the balcony. He said something and was answered.

‘The vizier,’ said Matthew. ‘Or he was.’

The tall man was talking now, making small gestures with his hands. But Qara Yusuf interrupted him and raised his hand. One of the soldiers stepped forward, unslinging his bow.

‘Ah, the bowstring,’ murmured Arcadius. ‘At least it’ll be quick.’

The vizier knelt on the ground and removed his turban, placing it carefully on the ground before him. Then he lifted his long white hair and held it with one hand to his head. The soldier moved to stand behind him, the bow held horizontal.

Qara Yusuf looked for a long time at the man, his face expressionless. Then he nodded. The soldier lowered the bow over the vizier’s head so that its string was against his neck. Then he began to turn it, slowly at first and then more quickly.
The vizier remained upright for the first turn and the second. By the third, both hands were clawing at the bowstring, the blood running down his neck and into the folds of his gown. His white hair was no longer white and his hands were washed red to his wrists.

At last it was over. With one jerking convulsion, the tall man lifted his hands. He stayed like that for a moment, then fell forward into the sand, dead. His body was dragged from the arena.

‘Now it must be us,’ said Matthew.

He was right. A heavy bolt was slid back and the door pushed open. Two guards were standing there with drawn swords. The Varangians walked from the cell, up some steps and out into the arena. The first thing they saw were the circling birds. Bloodied eyeballs lay in the sand and the birds were awaiting their chance.