The Towers of Samarcand

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

BOKHARA, SUMMER 1399

Bokhara the Holy, with a mosque for every day of the year; Bokhara the Magnificent, second city in Temur’s empire; Bokhara the giver of life, where the Prophet Job had struck his rod into the dusty ground and brought forth water.

Bokhara: the giver of life.

The Kalyan Minaret, taller than any building in the world, had, over the centuries, rescued many travellers from the desert to its west. By day, it looked down on a bulbous seascape tiled in azure and majolica and from its giddy heights muezzins fanned the flame of the city’s faith. By night, it was a lighthouse.

And, like those it brought in from the desert, it was a survivor. Even Genghis Khan had spared it before trampling the pages of the Koran into the sand of the mosque beside it. Now Luke stared up at it in wonder.

It was the morning after they’d reached the city and the time in between had been spent in the deepest sleep that he could remember. They had almost crawled through the city gates and only Khan-zada, her head held high, was able to give the command that they should be taken to the Ark citadel immediately and given rooms, food and water.

Arcadius had been lifted gently from his camel and carried before them through the streets to the citadel. It was the hour after dawn and they were full of people who’d parted to let pass a man either dead or near to it. Behind him strode a woman, unveiled, recognised by some who nudged their friends to make their reverences. On one side of her was a tall, fair man with a paizi around his neck, on the other a thin beauty dressed as a man. Behind staggered two giants. It was a curious party.

The Ark citadel was a town within a city. It was a jumble of palaces, offices and mosques behind thick, sloping walls which stood like vast ochre teeth in the centre of a sanded registan where executions took place to drumbeats, markets rang with merchants’ prices and teeth were pulled for two dirhams a tooth, or one if people could watch. Within the Ark was a hospital and it was there that Arcadius had been taken, his face ashen and his limbs without movement. He was little changed when Luke visited him the next morning. If anything, he was greyer. Luke lifted his feeble hand from the sheets.

‘I failed you,’ Arcadius breathed, turning to him. ‘You relied on me.’

‘You didn’t fail me,’ said Luke. ‘You lived.’

Arcadius tried to smile but he was full of anger at himself. He’d not be with them when they got to Tamerlane. ‘This will be the biggest game we’ve played yet,’ he said, frowning, ‘and I won’t be there to play it with you.’

Luke smiled. ‘There’ll be plenty still to do when you join us.’ He took the paizi from around his neck. ‘Here, have this. You’ll need it to get to us.’

*

Later, the rest of them prayed in a mosque built at the place where Job had stamped his rod and which Tamerlane had venerated with a new dome. They were praying to the same God in different ways and their prayers were of entreaty. They were safe for now, but their friend was not. Afterwards they sat in a square with a fountain next to a fig tree and Luke asked the question again.

‘Will he live?’

There were men in white caftans who’d come with them from the hospital to pray and who sat across from them, quietly talking. Khan-zada gestured to them.

‘Luke, Bokhara was the home of Ibn Sina, the greatest healer the world has ever seen. He lived here when the Samanids ruled this city four centuries ago but the doctors still practise what he taught. Arcadius will be in good hands.’

Luke looked from Khan-zada to Shulen. The women were curiously alike. Both were healers, intrigued by the alchemy of plants and oils, who’d themselves performed a curious alchemy over the past weeks. He stood. ‘I’ll see to the camels,’ he said. ‘Highness, can we send someone with a paizi back to fetch Eskalon?’

But Eskalon was already on his way.

*

Three Varangians, Shulen and Princess Khan-zada left Bokhara at dawn the next day, taking the road east to Samarcand. The country they rode through was Mawarannahr, the land beyond the river, a rich and fertile place full of beauty, human and otherwise. It was here that another Greek had come long ago to choose Roxanna for his wife. They rode on horses that Khan-zada had commandeered from the imperial stables, just as she’d taken clothes for herself and Shulen from the imperial wardrobes. She was, after all, Temur’s daughter-in-law.

They rode down the valley of the Zarafshan, a route lined with silver poplars beyond which stretched citrus orchards and vineyards and fields where row upon row of cotton fleece hung like iced breath amidst women bent beneath bales. It was land that drank water fed by channels, and wheels pulled by camels; a land of mixed bounty, where cattle meandered next to goats and Karakul sheep, whose infant lambs had the best wool in the world. It was a land of roadside stalls selling gigantic melons, striped like a Venetian’s hose; a land of mud-baked villages and grape-juice sellers and boys with sticks; a land of turbaned men atop donkeys, legs spread out like oars. It was a land of vigour.

The road was a good one, their horses fast, and it was early evening when they came to Samarcand. Ibn Khaldun had called it the ‘Mirror of the World’. But when Khan-zada reined in her mare to gaze at its beauty afloat in a distant wash of gold and blue, she murmured: ‘Behold, the Garden of the Soul.’

Luke, his two friends and Shulen reined in their horses next to her and stood silent in wonder. Enormous domes, towers and minarets soared above a distant mantle of green like a magician’s crown.

‘Where’s the army?’ asked Nikolas.

Luke exchanged glances with Matthew. ‘If it’s not here, then it’s somewhere else. My guess would be on the road to China.’

They rode on, marvelling at the scale of the city they were approaching, bigger than anything they’d ever seen. As they drew closer, they saw that it was ringed by immense gardens.

‘They say he rarely goes into the city these days,’ said Khan-zada as she rode up beside Luke. ‘And when he does it’s to throw meat and money to the masons building his wife Bibi Khanum’s mosque.’

‘The one without foundations?’

‘Indeed,’ smiled the Princess, turning to him. ‘Temur belongs to the steppe. He prowls around the city, moving from garden to garden as if not trusting to touch the monuments he’s creating. I’m told he’s currently holding court in the Garden of Heart’s Delight, which is just outside Cairo.’

‘Cairo?’

‘He’s given all the new suburbs the names of the greatest cities on earth to prove that Samarcand is the greatest of them all. So we have Cairo, Baghdad, Damascus, Sultaniya and Delhi.’

‘And is it the greatest?’

‘When it’s finally finished, perhaps. It’s certainly had the finest artists brought in to work on it. Here you’ll find the world’s best architects, masons, glaziers, scientists, astronomers, calligraphers, silk-weavers …’ She ticked them off on her fingers, one by one.

They had come to the top of a rise and beyond it was an immense walled garden with a small city of tents within it. Around the tents were meadows and trees and water with animals in between. The scent of flowers wafted up to meet them. They were looking into the Garden of Eden.

Khan-zada was pointing. ‘That’s Temur’s tent,’ she said, indicating a pavilion in the centre that was built as a castle, with turrets and battlements of silk. To either side of its entrance stood caparisoned and painted elephants with towers on their backs. ‘They say he has three obsessions these days: China, Samarcand and those elephants. He got them from Delhi. He loves each and every one of them.’

Luke looked at her, remembering something. ‘Tell us about Delhi.’

‘Delhi?’ said Khan-zada quietly. ‘It was very terrible. More than a million slaughtered.’

The shock took his breath away. It was an unimaginable number. ‘A million?’

‘So I’m told,’ she replied. ‘Temur marched an army of a hundred thousand over the mountains and up to the gates of Delhi. Nasir ud-din brought out his elephants, ninety of them with poisoned scimitars on their tusks and flame-throwers on their backs. Do you know what Temur did? He had his men dig trenches and tethered camels to the front of them with dried grass on their backs. When the elephants charged, Temur’s men set light to the camels’ backs and the animals rushed forward in their panic. The elephants were terrified. They turned and charged back into the Indian troops, trampling them. The battle was won.’

‘What happened then?’ asked Matthew.

‘He entered the city in triumph and the elephants were made to kneel before him and he chose thirty for his army. Then he stayed in the city to celebrate his victory with an enormous banquet, leaving orders that his army be left out on the plain.’ She paused. ‘But there was an incident. His wives wished to see the city and had left the gates open. Some of Temur’s army entered and began to loot. Then the whole Mongol army rushed in and so began three days of murder, rape and destruction.’

The Varangians looked down on a paradise that held, within it, a man more terrifying than any they’d heard of. None of them could find anything to say. So Khan-zada continued, nodding towards the crowds of people moving between the elephant sentinels: ‘He’s holding audience. We should go down and make ourselves known.’

The Varangians rode behind Khan-zada and Shulen. They were dressed as gazis and held pennanted spears aloft as would a bodyguard. Khan-zada wore a tunic of dazzling silver and had a gold band around her head while Shulen was dressed in blood-red. They looked a magnificent pair.

When they reached the gate of the garden, Khan-zada called out to the men guarding it: ‘I am the Princess Khan-zada and I wish to see my father-in-law immediately.’ She removed a ring from her finger and gave it to their captain. The man took it, bowed and disappeared. Luke wondered if his friends’ hearts were tapping out the same frenzied tempo as his own. He wiped the palms of his hands on his deel.

Nikolas, who was by his side, whispered: ‘I’ve just remembered something: the omen.’

‘What omen?’ whispered Matthew, who was on Luke’s other side.

‘That Temur was born with blood in his hands. Did you know that?’

Luke, looking directly ahead, whispered: ‘How exactly does it help us to mention that now, Nikki?’

The Varangian shrugged. ‘I just thought of it, that’s all.’

Khan-zada and Shulen were looking up at the elephants. Their faces were painted in stripes of green and henna and their eyes had crude eyelashes etched like sunrises into their foreheads. They looked like elephant courtesans. The towers on their backs were of intricately carved wood and had velvet draped from their sides. Inside them musicians played.

After some time, the captain returned. He was a handsome man, now out of breath. ‘The Emir is seeing the ambassadors from China and Castile, highness. He asks that you enter and await his pleasure. Your guard and the woman will remain here.’

‘No, they will accompany me,’ Khan-zada said in a voice that did not expect the conversation to continue. She dismounted and handed her reins to a guard. ‘My guard will deliver their weapons to you and they will enter the garden behind me.’

The captain glanced at the three Varangians, seeing their long, fair hair above gazi clothes. His eyes travelled down to Luke’s sword and then back to Khan-zada. ‘Of course, highness.’

They walked through the gate and into the garden and soon were within the maze of lesser tents that surrounded Tamerlane’s. Khan-zada walked fast, her head erect, ignoring the stares and bows of the men they passed. Then they entered Tamerlane’s tent.

Inside was a universe of silk which stretched around them in imitation of the world outside. Above, it was a summer’s day with feathered clouds spread across an acre of blue silk. Holding it up were tent poles the size of trees and painted as such, with green foliage spreading at their tops to support the weight of the ceiling. The tent was filled with Mongols and they parted to let Khan-zada and Shulen pass, bowing deeply as they did so. The men were short and broad and their narrow eyes narrowed further to study the tall, fair strangers that came behind.

Khan-zada led them through to the other side where the tent opened on to a garden of fruit trees and shade amidst which walked deer, peacocks and pheasants. There was a pool at its centre where lotus leaves stroked the water’s surface. Carpets were spread out by its banks on which women lay against cushions. A gentle slope rose on the other side and at its top stood a wooden dais surrounded by richly dressed men and a group of boys of various ages. The dais was of carved mulberry wood and had a low rail around its sides. It was empty save for some cushions and a folding lectern bearing an open Koran. Above it was a canopy of white silk, held up by tasselled poles, on which inscriptions had been painted in the shape of birds around a ship in sail. In front of it, on a low table, was a chessboard.

Khan-zada led them to the shade of a tree where they could see without being seen. ‘He has yet to arrive,’ she whispered. ‘But his family is here. The women on the carpets are his wives and sisters. The man next to the throne is Shahrukh, his third son who was born during a game of chess. His name means “king-knight”.’

Luke looked at the chessboard. Its pieces were made of jade and exquisitely carved but there were too many of them. ‘What sort of chess does he play?’

‘His own kind. He’s invented a new version which he calls “the Great Game”. It’s played with more pieces over a hundred squares. He plays it with my sons.’

‘Which are your sons?’

‘Next to Shahrukh.’ She was pointing. ‘That is Mohammed Sultan and that Pir Mohammed. Are they not handsome?’

Luke looked at the brothers. They were certainly handsome. They wore richly embroidered deels that ended above boots of red leather. Jewelled swords hung low by their sides, their scabbard tips resting on the ground. Both were bearded and had long ponytails. Mohammed Sultan was the taller and had the bearing of one who expected to rule. He held his head high like his mother.

Luke saw several younger versions beside them looking up with reverence. ‘And the boys beside them, who are they?’

‘His great-grandsons. The younger ones he lets read the messages from the ambassadors. You will see.’

‘Who are the other men?’ he asked. ‘The men around the throne?’

Khan-zada raised herself on tiptoe to take them all in. Then she spoke: ‘The one in the green turban is Mir Sayid Barakah, Temur’s spiritual adviser; on his right is his greatest general Burunduk and beside him the genius Omar Aqta. He is the court calligrapher and five years ago he set all of the Koran on to a signet ring and gave it to Temur. Is that not wonderful? The others are astronomers, scholars, generals and viziers. I forget their names.’

Luke touched the ring on his own finger, feeling the tiny indentation of script beneath his thumb. He wondered again why Plethon had given it to him.

A silence fell upon the garden broken only by the peacocks. Heads had turned towards the other side of the garden where another tent opened on to it. Then there were two drumbeats and everyone fell to their knees.

Eight men of identical height appeared carrying between them a carpet. On it sat an old man and, beside him, a monumental turban. The garden had gone very still and the carpet seemed to float the distance to the throne. Then, on a nod, the old man was lowered on to the dais and the cushions, lectern and turban set beside him.

Temur, Sword of Islam, Lord of the Celestial Conjunction, Conqueror of the World, was among them.

Tamerlane.

At last.

Luke stared at the man. He stared at a face that was scarred by time and battle and burnt by countless seasons. He looked into cold, milky eyes, half-closed beneath eyebrows thickened with paint, which stared straight ahead of him. He looked at a beard that was cut short and streaked with grey and stood proud from a neck knotted with ancient muscle. He looked at shoulders that were broad, at immense forearms, spotted with age, that bulged forth from his tunic. Here, before him, was the terror of the world and he was old and nearly blind.

Tamerlane lay back against the cushions, his hands folded at his groin. On his fingers were rings, one larger than the rest.

‘Is he blind?’ whispered Luke.

Khan-zada nodded. ‘Almost. But you’ll see him look often at that ring. When it clouds, he believes that the man before him is telling lies.’

Luke looked at the ring, a colossal amethyst that rested in Tamerlane’s lap like a giant tear.

Tamerlane was dressed in a long belted tunic with short sleeves and peacock fans traced in silk across its red surface. He wore a cloak swept over his shoulders that was clasped at the neck with the three circles of his earthly kingdoms worked in gold. On his head was a domed crown from which sprang a horsetail fashioned out of strands of silk.

Nikolas let out a low whistle. ‘Look at the size of that ruby.’ He was looking at the jewel set into the turban beside Tamerlane.

Khan-zada whispered: ‘It’s from the King of Ceylon, the one his ancestor wouldn’t sell to Kublai Khan. The turban is also his shroud. It is sixty feet long and goes everywhere with him in case he dies while travelling.’

One of the grandchildren, a boy of perhaps twelve, had walked to the front of the dais and knelt down on one knee. He opened a scroll and read. ‘The ambassadors from the Sultan in Cairo and the King of Castile bring you gifts, lord.’

Temur beckoned the boy to come closer. ‘And the Chinese? What does the Ming Emperor bring me?’ he asked, peering at his grandson. He was smelling him too, his lips working as his nostrils dilated, an old animal testing his senses. His voice was like raked gravel, deep and dry and cracked with use.

The boy glanced at the older men beside the throne. When he spoke again, his voice was clear. ‘They bring you a demand. The Ming Emperor demands that you acknowledge vassalage to him.’

For a time, no one spoke and even the peacocks seemed to wait.

Then Tamerlane laughed, a terrible sound rising from deep inside him. ‘Bring all the ambassadors in.’

The gifts arrived first. A jornufa from the Sultan of Cairo, perhaps brother to Bayezid’s, and an ostrich from the court of Castile, both led by grooms carrying chests. Behind them came the ambassadors in the finery of their nations, each man carried at his armpits by two guards as was the custom for all foreigners approaching the throne. The watching Mongols laughed.

‘Why do they laugh?’ whispered Shulen.

‘Do you see that man there amongst the Spanish envoys, that one of our race who is dressed in the fashion of Castile?’

Shulen nodded.

‘His name is Mohammed al-Cazi and he was sent back to Spain to learn their ways three years past. It seems he has learnt too well. He looks ridiculous.’

The ambassadors were set down in front of the throne and had begun to arrange themselves. The envoy al-Cazi was looking at the ground, his face crimson. Tamerlane was shaking his head. He grunted: ‘You are all the wrong way round.’ He lifted a hand, its back a mosaic of veins. ‘Where are the knights Clavijo and Sotomayor from Castile?’

One of the Spaniards stepped forward and sank to his knees. He was dressed in a pourpoint of black double-cut velvet and around his neck hung a chain of gold with a unicorn at its end.

‘Welcome back, Clavijo. How is my brother King Henry?’

Luke saw Tamerlane wince as he levered himself forward from his cushions to look more closely at the ambassador. He was in pain.

The Spaniard lifted his head. ‘His Majesty is well and rejoices in the continued health of his brother Temur,’ he replied in Turkic.

Tamerlane looked down at his ring. Then he pointed at the Spaniards. ‘But you are in the wrong place, Clavijo.’ He looked over to where the Chinese ambassadors stood. ‘You men from the Ming? You should be behind the Spaniards. Move there.’

Before the Chinese could give each other a glance of surprise, they had been lifted again and taken to the rear of the Spaniards. One of them rose to speak.

‘Down!’ roared Temur, thumping the side of the dais so hard that the wood shook.

The Chinese sank to their knees and five pig-tailed heads went to the ground. The only sound was the heavy tide of Tamerlane’s breathing.

‘Tell your master Hongwu this,’ he said through clenched teeth. ‘Tell him that Temur Gurgan sets the King of little Castile above him in his estimation. Tell your Ming emperor that he is but a pawn to me, a slug. Tell him that China ceased to deserve tribute when the last of Kublai’s line left the earth. Tell him that the only reason he has not been crushed yet is because I leave the easiest task to last. Tell him that my only wish is that he should live to see the shame heaped upon him by my army.’

He lowered his voice to one of hissed menace. ‘And, last of all, tell your master that the only reason his ambassadors return to him with their heads on their shoulders is because Temur Gurgan wishes them to give this message to him in person. Have you seen my army?’

A translator was working desperately to keep up with this speech and there was some delay before the Ming ambassadors were able to nod.

‘Good. Now go.’

When the Chinese had been lifted from Tamerlane’s presence, he turned again to Clavijo. His voice was calm. ‘The ostrich pleases me better than the gyrfalcon sent by the King of Portugal. How fast does it run?’

‘As fast as a horse, majesty.’

Tamerlane nodded. ‘Then it can chase the Chinese army as it flees. How is my sister Catherine?’

Clavijo again lifted his head. ‘Both of Their Majesties excel, lord. They wish me to convey a message with these gifts, a message which is personal to you.’

Tamerlane nodded. ‘My grandson will read it to me later.’

Clavijo motioned to his colleagues and they began the process of backing away from the imperial presence without looking behind them.

‘Where is my daughter Khan-zada?’ asked Tamerlane.

The Princess stepped forward. She was royal, unafraid and beautiful. All the heads in the garden turned to look at her — all except one. ‘I am here, lord.’

Tamerlane looked up. ‘And where is your husband, the Prince Miran Shah?’

‘He is in Sultaniya, majesty.’

‘Does he know you are here?’

‘Yes, lord.’

‘And does he approve of it?’

‘No, lord.’

‘So why are you here?’

There was no reply.

All of this exchange had taken place in the most civil of tones. Now there was menace in the question repeated. ‘Why are you here, daughter?’

Khan-zada began to walk forward, stepping past the wives on the carpets and the deer drinking from the pool, until she stood directly in front of her father-in-law, less than three feet from his dais. She spoke quietly. ‘What I have to say to you, Father, is for your ears only.’ She paused. ‘It is not seemly that it be heard by others here.’

Tamerlane looked at her for a long time, his pupils moving around the whites of his eyes, trying to focus on her. ‘If you have anything to say against my son, then all should hear it,’ he said evenly. ‘Let us see how my ring likes your tale.’

The Princess breathed in deeply. She lifted her head and spoke loudly and clearly. ‘Your son, the Prince Miran Shah, plots against you, lord.’

Luke glanced at her two sons beside the throne. They were staring at their mother in disbelief. There was complete silence in every part of the garden.

Tamerlane’s big head shook slowly from side to side and he leant back against his cushions. His voice was calm. ‘My son is wayward, nothing more.’ He looked down at his ring. ‘It is true that he has ruled sometimes unwisely, that he has not won every battle. But revolt against his father? Against me?’ He paused. ‘Never.’

Khan-zada glanced at her sons. ‘Will you allow me to read something to you, lord?’ she asked. ‘It is a letter he would have sent you had I not stopped it. May I read it?’

Tamerlane signalled for wine. He gestured to her to begin. The Princess took a scroll from the sleeve of her tunic. It had a broken seal. She unrolled the paper, glanced once more at her sons and then read:

‘“Certainly through your advanced age and weak constitution and infirmity you are now unequal to raising the standards of empire and sustaining the burdens of leadership and government, and above all things it would befit your condition to sit as a devotee in a corner of the mosque and worship your Lord, until death came to you. There are now men among your sons and grandsons who would suffice to you for ruling your subjects and armies and undertake to guard your kingdoms and territory …”’

‘Enough!’ Tamerlane had wrenched himself to his feet, one hand on the rail. He was shaking with rage. ‘Give me the letter.’ He thrust out his hand for it. ‘He has warned me of this.’ He turned to a grandson. ‘Bring your uncle.’

Pir Mohammed went over to the tent from which Tamerlane had been carried. He pulled back the flap and a man appeared, walking with a stick. As he came closer, Luke could see that he was a younger version of Tamerlane but the face was etched with madness. His long hair and beard were unkempt and still streaked with dust from his ride. He had the blotched cheeks of the drunkard and blooded eyes that roved the room as if seeking a means of escape. They came to rest on Khan-zada and stayed there.

Khan-zada had started to back away. Her face was white. She hadn’t imagined that her husband would beat her to Temur. She glanced at Miran Shah, then at Mohammed Sultan.

Tamerlane asked: ‘Where are the Greeks?’

Khan-zada’s voice was less certain now. ‘The Greeks have nothing to do with this, lord.’

By now, Miran Shah was leaning on the dais, pushing hair away from his eyes in frenzied movements and staring at Khan-zada in fascination as if he’d never seen her before.

Luke stepped forward. He felt Shulen’s hand on his arm. ‘We are here, lord.’

Tamerlane looked up. ‘Approach.’

Luke walked forward as Khan-zada had done, followed by Matthew and Nikolas. He walked past the gaze of Tamerlane’s eight wives and their children, past the courtiers and grandsons and peacocks. As they approached the dais, the three Varangians stopped and men lifted them the rest of the way.

When they were on their knees, their noses sunk into the soft grass, Tamerlane spoke to them. ‘Greeks, you have corrupted the ears of my daughter.’

Khan-zada was standing next to them. She said: ‘Lord, look to your ring. Ask them to answer this charge and then look to your ring.’

Tamerlane turned his milky eyes to his daughter-in-law. ‘They are Byzantines, daughter,’ he said simply. ‘I do not have to look at my ring to know that Byzantines lie. They forged this letter and they lie.’

Miran Shah laughed and hit the ground with his stick. ‘All Byzantines lie. Ha!’ His voice was shrill. ‘They must die!’

Now Luke dared to speak. ‘We are Varangians, lord,’ he said, looking up. ‘We’ve come from Kutahya. I have lived among the gazis of the Germiyan tribe and think as they do, not as a Byzantine.’ He could hardly breathe for the beating of his heart. But he had nothing to lose: he was about to die. ‘There is someone who can prove it, someone of the Germiyan tribe. May she speak?’

Tamerlane growled, his head sunk deep within his shoulders. The letter was still in his hand, unread because he couldn’t read and was almost blind. Mohammed Sultan approached the dais and whispered in his grandfather’s ear. There was silence, another growl, and Tamerlane nodded.

Luke turned to Shulen. She had already begun to walk towards the dais. Her red dress had long flared sleeves that swept the grass as she came. Her hair shone like brushed velvet. She swept through the peacocks and pheasants to stand next to Luke. She looked down at him and then, after arranging her skirts, knelt carefully on the ground.

Tamerlane had seen only in the final stages of Shulen’s approach but had heard the whisper around him. Something interesting was happening. ‘Who are you?’ he asked.

‘Can you not see me, lord?’

There were gasps of astonishment from around the throne. No one, ever, had asked that. Tamerlane shook his head in disbelief. ‘You dare to question my eyesight, girl?’

Shulen said nothing. She sat back on her haunches and stayed perfectly still.

Tamerlane spoke again. ‘The Varangian says you will speak for him.’

Shulen seemed to consider this. Then she said: ‘I would rather help you see.’

The silence was deafening. A thousand breaths were suspended. The world paused. Tamerlane frowned and scratched his head. ‘Why do you dare to speak thus?’ he asked quietly.

Shulen took a deep breath. ‘Because if you could see, lord, you would know that the letter you hold was written in the hand of your son.’

Tamerlane was shaking his head in bewilderment. Shulen leant back. ‘I have the means to let you see it.’

She had pulled a casket from her sleeve. It was the one found in the Venetians’ baggage. She opened it and brought out something that caught the light as it turned. She waited.

‘What is it?’ asked Tamerlane, his beard jutting forward in the effort to see.

Shulen did not answer but instead rose and walked up to the dais. She held the object out to the man sitting there. ‘Put them on, lord.’

Tamerlane leant forward to her and examined the two bits of glass joined by metal that were in his hands. Shulen had rested her knee on the front edge of the dais. ‘Here, let me help you.’ She took them from him in both hands and, very gently, put them on his nose.

Two enormous eyes blinked from behind the pieces of glass. Tamerlane’s hands rose to adjust the metal that bridged them across his nose and fed back to behind his ears. His head was moving from side to side, his mouth agape. He was breathing deeply and quickly.

‘What magic is this?’ he whispered. ‘What have you done?’

Shulen smiled. ‘I have made you see, lord.’

Tamerlane looked down at his ring. He spread out his hand and examined his fingers, one by one.

‘Are you a witch?’

Miran Shah had sprung forward. ‘They send a witch to you, Father!’ he cried. ‘She is a witch and her potions will kill you if that thing you wear doesn’t. Give her to me!’

But Tamerlane was smiling now and the huge eyes were turned to Shulen, seeing her for the first time. ‘These are for me?’

She bowed. ‘For you, lord.’

Luke had watched this with relief. It had all gone to plan. He saw Mohammed Sultan, Tamerlane’s heir, shaking his head in disbelief, a strange smile on his lips. He was staring at Shulen.

In front of them, Miran Shah was now pleading. ‘Father, give her to me. I will punish her for her sorcery.’

Tamerlane stayed looking at Shulen for a long time, turning his head from side to side to take in details of her face, her dress and of the garden around. The smile remained on his face throughout. Then he turned back to his son and his voice was low. ‘You will do nothing. You will place a rope around your neck and go to my tent to await my pleasure.’ He lifted the letter and thrust it towards his son. ‘This is your handwriting.’

Luke let out a long sigh. He looked at Mohammed Sultan. Tamerlane’s heir had not taken his eyes from Shulen.