The Towers of Samarcand (20 page)

‘Courage,’ Matthew murmured. ‘We are Varangians.’

He looked towards the pavilion. Qara Yusuf was watching them, an uncertain smile on his lips. A boy had entered who sat to one side waving a fan. Behind him stood the Venetians. The one called di Vetriano was frowning.

‘Varangians!’ shouted Qara Yusuf. ‘Approach us, please.’

The guards pushed them forward until they stood directly beneath the pavilion.

‘You Varangians are famous throughout the world for your skill at fighting. I would like to see it.’ He raised a hand and a door opened into the arena and four men entered carrying weapons and armour. The men stopped in front of them and each laid his cargo at their feet. Then they left.

‘I wonder whom we are to fight?’ But Matthew knew the answer.

‘Varangians!’ shouted the Emir. ‘You will put on the armour and fight.’ He paused and his smile broadened. ‘You will fight each other. One will survive and go free.’

Matthew was shaking his head before the statement was out. ‘We’ll not do that, lord,’ he said. ‘You’ll have to find another way to make us die. We’ll not hurt each other.’

Qara Yusuf looked surprised. He held out his hand and a man stepped from the curtain behind him and placed a dagger in it.

‘No?’ he asked, pointing with the dagger towards Shulen. ‘Not even if I remove a finger or an ear or a nose with every blow you strike which I deem not to be genuine?’ He paused and allowed the point of the knife to stroke Shulen’s cheek. ‘I think you’ll fight.’

Matthew turned to his friends. ‘It doesn’t seem we have a choice.’

He began to put on the armour. He looked up at Qara Yusuf. But the emir was looking beyond him, his eyes wide.

Behind them the vast doors to the arena were slowly parting, pushed from outside. The soldiers pushing them came into view and they were not Qara Yusuf’s men. They were dressed in the green of the Prophet’s flag and the swirling mark of the Caliphate of Egypt was emblazoned on their fronts. There were dozens of them.

Qara Yusuf was standing now and the boy had ceased to fan him. A man appeared from the curtain behind and pushed aside the Venetians. He whispered something into the Emir’s ear. Yusuf frowned, squinting into the distance, and nodded once. Then he sat down.

A horse walked into the arena.

Eskalon
.

Beneath the gaudy magnificence, it was Eskalon. Beneath the
trappings, bardings and caparisons, it was Luke’s magnificent horse. But it wasn’t Luke on his back. Riding him was the historian Ibn Khaldun, once the Kadi of the Sultan of Egypt. And in case there was any doubt as to his status, he wore a coat of golden mail on which was emblazoned the prancing lion of Baybars. His helmet was tall, pointed and carried the long horsehair of jihad. It was an impressive sight.

On one side of him rode Yakub. He wore the furred deel of a gazi chief and had a coiled whip within his belt. On his other, rode Luke, dressed as a Varangian. His dragon sword hung at his side and Torguk’s bow was on his shoulder.

The guards fanned out into the arena and now stood to attention in two lines between which the three riders slowly advanced. They arrived at the pavilion, stopped, dismounted without hurry and prostrated themselves in the sand. There was silence.

Qara Yusuf was sitting very upright, gripping the arms of his chair. ‘Please arise,’ he said, his eyes darting from one to the other. ‘I know who you are.’

The three rose to their feet. Ibn Khaldun spoke. ‘Then, highness, you will know that we are emissaries sent by two Sultans. We have letters from our masters.’

Qara Yusuf was frowning now and had lifted his wine. ‘Letters that couldn’t wait?’ he asked, his voice higher than ever. ‘Weren’t you told I was busy?’

Ibn Khaldun now bowed and pressed his hands together. ‘The interruption was unforgivable,’ he said, ‘but the men who stand charged before you are part of our retinue, as is the girl by your side.’ The historian was apologetic. ‘I’m afraid, highness, that you have been misinformed as to their intentions.’

Ibn Khaldun’s voice was as silk drawn on silk and it caressed
the air like a zephyr. He continued: ‘We judged it right to force an entrance after being refused by your officials. We were keen that no embarrassment befall your person by the harming of your friends’ emissaries.’

Qara Yusuf looked round at the Venetians. ‘But these men said they were spies. They said they were on their way to meet Miran Shah in Sultaniya. To bring Temur to fight Bayezid.’

Ibn Khaldun’s voice was a wash of silver. ‘These Greeks are Varangian soldiers who have rebelled against their Byzantine masters. They are enemies to the Mamonas clan, which is a friend of Venice. The men behind you may have omitted to tell you that.’

Qara Yusuf’s eyebrows were arched in surprise. He turned again to the Venetians. ‘Do any of you work for the Mamonas family?’ he asked.

Di Vetriano stepped forward. ‘I am carrying their wine, highness, and some glass from their factory on Murano.’ He paused. ‘Lord, I find myself wondering why, if these men are as described, they should feel the need for disguise?’

There was a cough from the arena. Yakub had stepped forward. ‘I’m not like my Arab friend here,’ he said gruffly, indicating Ibn Khaldun. ‘I am Yakub of the Germiyan, a blunt gazi with little education. But I speak for Bayezid and I know the Venetians.’

Qara Yusuf’s eyes were everywhere.

Yakub continued: ‘They build ships for my sultan because they want to add to their empire yet they try to stop an alliance between our three kingdoms because they wish to befriend Temur.’ He paused. ‘Only this time, their planning has been clumsy.’

The oldest Venetian had stepped to the front of the pavilion.
He was shaking when he turned to the Emir. ‘That is not true, majesty. We are merchants, not politicians. We have come here to trade.’

Another official stepped forward to whisper long into the Emir’s ear. Qara Yusuf listened and then nodded slowly. He rose and walked over to di Vetriano.

‘You and your friends will leave my city of Tabriz this very day and will be handed over to my cousin Bayezid. And if you ever get back to Venice, you should tell your doge this: Qara Yusuf of the Black Sheep honours his friends and looks sourly upon any man who seeks to come between them.’

The oldest Venetian opened his mouth to speak but the Emir raised his hand. ‘One thing more. You may leave your merchandise. It will be given to these men you have so dishonoured. Now go.’

Qara Yusuf turned back to the arena. ‘Now, please, let us talk of this alliance.’

*

It was not until evening that Yakub emerged from his talk with Ibn Khaldun and Qara Yusuf. There was a big fire in the palace square around which three Varangians and Shulen sat and talked. He found Luke in the palace stables, grooming Eskalon.

All day Eskalon had waited patiently, tethered in the meagre shade of a juniper tree next to the palace well. Luke could only guess at the stallion’s discomfort under the heavy brocades of his caparison. Meanwhile Yakub’s mare had sensibly stood in his shadow. Luke had spent the day with his friends, explaining what had happened: there’d been Mamluk soldiers following the caravan all the time. Ibn Khaldun had had to wait for them to reach Tabriz before mounting the rescue.

Luke looked up as Yakub entered. He was standing by Eskalon’s side and had a brush in each hand.

‘How did it go?’

Yakub sat heavily on a bale of straw. He scratched the back of his head and spat into a water bucket. ‘As expected. We agreed a three-way alliance against Tamerlane. Then Ibn Khaldun left and it turned into two.’

‘Which means that if Tamerlane defeats the Mamluks, Qara Yusuf and you will side with him against Bayezid?’

Yakub nodded. ‘If we’re able to, but it’ll be difficult.’ He rubbed his eyes. ‘My argument is with Bayezid, not Tamerlane.’

Luke knew this. Yakub had spent eight years imprisoned in Ipsala Castle after Bayezid had taken his kingdom. His beloved sister, Devlet Hatun, had been forced to marry the Sultan. He hated Bayezid with every nerve of his being.

‘And if Bayezid joins forces with the Mamluks?’

Yakub grunted. It was not what he wanted to imagine. He looked up and his eye travelled along Eskalon’s back. ‘Your horse did well today.’

Luke smiled. He looked at Eskalon. ‘Mount to the Kadi of Cairo. It’ll go to his head.’

Yakub rose and went over to Eskalon, taking his mane and patting the broad plain of his neck. He turned. ‘You did well too. In fact you’ve done well all along. You were kind to Shulen. That was good.’

Luke narrowed his eyes. ‘Why?’

Yakub shrugged. ‘Because she will be important. She will help you.’

‘Not so far,’ said Luke. ‘If she hadn’t hurt her ankle, my friends would have got away.’ He began to brush Eskalon’s withers. ‘How will she help us?’

Yakub took the other brush from Luke and began on Eskalon’s flank. ‘Whatever you’ve learnt from us, you’re no nomad, Luke. Nor are your friends. She is. She will understand Tamerlane better than you. And she will take you to someone.’

‘Who?’ Luke had stopped brushing. ‘I have already told you, Yakub. I will do things
my
way from now on. Who will Shulen take me to? Is it Tamerlane’s son, Miran Shah? Is that why we go to Sultaniya?’

Yakub was silent. He continued grooming the horse. Luke was watching him, his head to one side.

‘Who is she, Yakub?’ he asked softly. ‘Who
is
Shulen?‘

‘Shulen is Yakub’s daughter.’

They both looked up to see her standing in the doorway. The firelight was behind her and they couldn’t see her face, only the silhouette of her grace and the long hair that covered it like a gossamer shawl. She was standing quite still. Luke shook his head.

Of course
.

‘That is why I must come with you,’ she continued. ‘I can speak for the gazi tribes.’

There were so many questions suddenly. She came to his aid. ‘I don’t know who my mother is. He won’t tell me. I was put with the tribe when I was a baby, put into the care of a shaman and his wife. She taught me healing. I was given education by Omar, secretly, when he visited.’ Her head moved towards Yakub. ‘My father visited seldom.’

Yakub was now looking at the floor. ‘It was difficult.’

Shulen’s voice had dropped. ‘Perhaps. Anyway, I became a woman within the tribe and the target of unwelcome attention.’

Yakub was shaking his head. ‘I didn’t know,’ he whispered. ‘Nor did Omar.’

‘Because I chose not to tell him.’ Shulen stepped forward into the light of the torch. She looked ethereal. ‘Anyway, that is the past. My father wishes me to accompany you east.’ She turned to Luke. ‘I wish it too.’

Yakub had straightened. He placed the brush on a table below the saddle-rack and picked up his whip. ‘I must go,’ he said.

His eyes flickered between the two of them, then he turned and left. They heard his tread on the stone outside grow fainter. They were silent for a long while, standing there in the torchlight. They heard laughter from the fire. Shulen walked over to Eskalon and put her mouth to his ear. The horse moved its head fractionally to acknowledge her presence.

‘Eskalon, you are more blessed than you will ever know,’ she murmured. ‘How have you managed to capture this elusive love? What have you done to earn it?’

Luke saw the dark beauty of this mysterious girl who’d changed from witch to companion in half a year. He looked at her thin, angled body, so different from Anna’s, and at the long, long veil of hair that half covered her face and swept down to those healing hands. The only sound in the stable was the soft sweep of Eskalon’s tail against his flanks.

There was a shout from outside. Abdul-Hafiz was calling for them. They left Eskalon and walked across the stable yard to where their friends sat round the fire. There was light coming from a large building with camels tethered outside it. Big bundles of merchandise, roped within leather carriers, were scattered across the ground. Luke saw Ablah looking into the distance with contempt.

‘Varangians! Come out here and help with these baskets. Why must an old man do all the work?’

Luke walked over to him with Shulen. ‘Where’s the Venetians’ cargo?’ he asked.

Abdul-Hafiz pointed. ‘Over there, on those camels. We haven’t touched it yet. We thought there might be snakes.’

Luke said, ‘We’ll do it then.’

The two walked over to where a dozen camels were sitting placidly on the ground, their bundles next to them. One of them turned its head as they approached.

‘I’ll start at this end,’ said Luke, ‘and you can start at the other. We don’t need a full inventory, just some idea of what they have. Most of it can go on with Abdul-Hafiz to Samarcand where he can sell it for us.’

They began their search, untying the thick ropes and laying the merchandise out on a rug. It was an hour later when they next spoke.

‘Luke!’ Shulen called. ‘Come over here. There’s something strange.’

Luke rose stiffly and went over. The ground around Shulen had piles of glassware on it. In Shulen’s hand was a small rectangular box. ‘Look at this.’

Luke knelt beside her and saw that the box was lined with velvet. Cradled inside it were small prisms, stacked vertically and almost flat, and some thin pieces of wood.

‘What are they?’ asked Luke.

Shulen was staring hard at the contents of the box and didn’t answer for a while. Then she smiled and turned to Luke. There was a light in her eye. ‘I don’t know,’ she said softly. ‘But I think we’ll take them with us.’

The Varangians, Shulen, Yakub and Ibn Khaldun left Tabriz in a fine calvacade of plumes and pennants and high-stepping Mamluk stallions. Qara Yusuf, accompanying them as far as the city gate, had the grace to apologise. He bowed to them from the saddle, placed his hand above his heart and wished on them the blessing of Allah. Then they took the road west into gazi lands.

The next morning, after a night in a caravanserai, Ibn Khaldun and Yakub departed as the first rays of sun caught the breastplates of their Egyptian bodyguard. Ibn Khaldun would return to his master in Cairo with an alliance he didn’t entirely believe. Yakub would return to Bayezid in Edirne with one he didn’t believe in at all.