The Towers of Samarcand

CHAPTER TWENTY

SAMARCAND, WINTER 1399

The eagles were three feet in height and made of wood. Their heads were turned to one side so that their hooked beaks were in profile. On their chests were circled targets of padded straw that would be hard to hit in perfect light. By the time Tamerlane had risen from his bed, it was nearly evening.

Shulen had tried to wake him sooner but he’d given orders that he was not to be disturbed. They’d arrived back from the mountains at midday and Tamerlane, weak with blood-loss and with his arm splinted across his chest, had gone straight to his tent.

So it was in half-light that Luke and Mohammed Sultan rode out on to the ground side by side from a tent where they’d been given their horses. Luke’s was a pony of the kind he’d ridden with the Germiyans: swarthy, intelligent and agile. He’d been denied Eskalon but at least had been given Torguk’s bow.

Mohammed Sultan turned to him as they rode. ‘Can you hit those targets at the gallop?’

Luke looked at the long stretch of beaten earth, planted with two poles with eagles at their tops, perhaps fifty paces apart, and further along Matthew, Nikolas and Arcadius, all with targets strapped to their fronts. On both sides were ropes, which the riders could not cross, at least a hundred paces wide of the targets. The range was more difficult than anything Luke had yet attempted and the light was fading fast.

‘If I had my horse, yes. But I’ve not been allowed my horse.’

Mohammed nodded. They were getting closer to the dais and he spoke out of the corner of his mouth. ‘My mother told me this: that you speak with horses and that they do your bidding. How much time do you need with this one?’

Luke looked at the man by his side. He could see Khan-zada in him: the pointed nose, the high cheekbones and sweeping forehead, the head set back upon the shoulders. ‘A few minutes, no more.’

‘You shall have them. I will ask to ride first.’

‘And you will hit them all?’

‘Of course, at the first pass. To miss any would raise suspicion. I will miss on the second pass. You will have to hit them all every time. Wait here.’

Luke watched the Prince trot away towards the dais. He looked down at the horse beneath him. He jumped down and walked round to its front and took the head between his hands, allowing his fingers to stroke the loose flesh between the animal’s jawbones. He looked into eyes full of bewilderment and suspicion and he began to talk: gently, softly.

We don’t have much time. I need you to help me.

The horse was good; they’d given him one with intelligence. It was listening.

This is what I want you to do.

There was a shout from behind him. Luke ignored it and continued to talk. There was another shout, this time from more than one person; what he was doing hadn’t happened before.

That’s it.

Luke had done all he could. He remounted. Mohammed Sultan was sitting on his horse across from him, no more than ten paces away, his head slightly tilted. Two men with arrows were walking towards them.

‘Varangian,’ called the Prince, ‘I am to ride first. Five arrows, one for each target, and your horse must never slow to a trot. Is that agreed?’

Luke nodded.

Mohammed Sultan took his bow and the quiver of arrows and rode his horse to the end of the course and out beyond the rope. He was in no hurry and Luke spent the time talking to the creature below him: talking with his tongue, his hands, his knees.

Trust me as I trust you. Do not fail me.

A man with a flag had walked into the centre of the course. He turned and looked towards the dais where Tamerlane sat. There was the murmur and shuffle of many people and, looking around him, Luke saw that the ground was now ringed with Tartars in their deels and high hats. Row upon row of Tamerlane’s inscrutable army had come to see the foreigner humbled by their prince. Then Tamerlane raised his hand and the flag came down. The contest had begun.

Mohammed Sultan pressed his knees to his pony’s flanks and it broke into an easy lope. In one hand he held the bow, an arrow already on its string; in the other his reins. A cheer rose from the men watching and there was the clatter of swords against shields.

The horse accelerated as it approached the first target and Mohammed Sultan let go of the reins and, in one graceful movement, turned in his saddle and shot. By the time the arrow had embedded itself in the eagle, there was another arrow on the string and seconds later it had hit its target too. Luke glanced at his three friends further down the course. It was too far to see if their eyes were open.

He closed his.

He heard cheers and opened them to see Mohammed wheeling his horse round at the other end of the course. His friends were still standing, arrows in the eagles before them.

It was Luke’s turn.

He trotted his horse to the end of the course, talking to it all the way. He had Torguk’s bow in one hand and a quiver of arrows slung across his back and he tested the bowstring with his finger and found the tension as it should be. Everything would depend on the animal beneath him.

Have you understood?

At the rope, he turned his horse to face the line of targets and waited for the flag to fall. There was quiet in the ranks of the Mongols and on the dais where Tamerlane sat, a grandchild at each ear to describe the scene. The sun was low in the sky and the colours of the landscape were beginning to merge with the lengthening shadows. Minute by minute, a little more detail disappeared. Luke kissed Plethon’s ring.

For luck.

The flag fell and he used first his heels, then his knees, to set the horse in motion and calibrate its speed. He knew that his only chance of hitting every target, and of getting another arrow to the string in between, lay in controlling his horse in its canter. Mohammed had deliberately ridden fast. He would ride as slow as it was possible to do.

The first eagle was approaching. He took aim and released his first arrow and heard the thud of its impact as he reached for his second. That too hit its target and now his friends were in front of him, standing with their eagles strapped to their chests and their heads turned away. Luke used his knees in the way that he’d been taught by Garkil.

That’s it. Slow down but not to a trot. And keep it even.

There was a moment of panic as he focused on his target.

It’s not Matthew. It’s an eagle.

Then he shot and renocked and shot again and again and he heard the cheer around him and looked back and saw three arrows sunk deep inside straw and three faces grinning above them. He felt sick with relief.

His hands went back to his reins and he pulled up his horse, patting its rough neck and talking, talking. He looked at his hands and saw that they were still.

I can do this.

Mohammed Sultan had kicked his horse to begin his second pass. He looked relaxed, as if he did this every morning, as if he’d never missed a target in his life. He glanced at Luke and he nodded.

The Prince rode back down the line of targets as fast as he had before, his horse picking up speed all the time. His arrows thudded into the three eagles held by the Varangians and the fourth found its target.

Then the horse reared.

Afterwards, no one could explain how it had happened. Some had seen a shrew dart out in front of him, others the sun reflected from a shield into the horse’s eyes. What all agreed was how remarkably the Prince had controlled his horse, keeping to his saddle despite having no hand on the reins. Of course the last arrow went wide.

Luke sat on his horse and wetted his lips with his tongue. The shadows around him were getting longer by the minute.

One more pass. Five targets.

He kicked his pony and started back down the line of targets.

Arcadius first, then Nikolas, then Matthew, but his horse was going too fast; it wanted to end this game. Luke’s hand went to the reins but he was too close to Matthew to pull them. He aimed the bow and fired and knew he’d hit the target and reached for the next arrow. But he was not where he wanted to be. Nikolas was level with him before the next arrow had been fitted. But it was too late and the arrow that should have hit his eagle flew instead into Matthew’s.

Then he was at the end of the course. He’d not had time to hit the two last targets and Mohammed had hit four.

He kicked his horse towards the dais, seeing Mohammed do the same from the other end. They arrived together to find Tamerlane with Shulen by his side. She was still wearing the clothes from the hunt, Tamerlane’s dried blood on her tunic.

The riders dismounted and prostrated themselves on the ground. Mohammed Sultan lifted his head and spoke. ‘He did well, lord. The light was bad. The Varangian did well.’

Tamerlane grunted. ‘Well? He lost. Why is that well?’

‘He rode well, lord. Like a gazi.’

By now, the three Varangians had been untied and brought over to stand before the dais. Their hair was dishevelled and their tunics filthy from the targets. Arcadius was rubbing his wrists.

Tamerlane grunted again. He pointed to Luke. ‘Give him his sword.’

A man came forward with the sword. The dragon head was dull in the narrowing light and Luke took it and looked into the ruby eyes.

Tamerlane gestured towards the Varangians beside him. ‘Give one of them a target and send him away twenty paces.’

Arcadius was hauled forward. The target he thought he’d escaped was strapped again to his front and he was led away.

Tamerlane watched it all. ‘Put the sword in it,’ he said, turning to Luke. ‘From here. Put the sword in it and you can stay.’

Luke looked at the target, twenty paces away, already in shadow, his friend behind it. It was impossible and, if he missed, Arcadius would die. But this moment had been long coming and he couldn’t fail. It was his only chance and he’d have to take it. He turned to Tamerlane. ‘Lord, you know the throw is impossible. It can only succeed by the will of Allah. If I succeed, could it be because Allah has heard what I say and wishes the Sword of Islam to go west and lead the gazi tribes against Bayezid?’

He heard Mohammed Sultan draw breath beside him. He’d gone too far. They were all dead. But Tamerlane merely grunted.

‘Perhaps.’ He was growing impatient. ‘Throw the sword.’

Luke held the sword by its perfect blade, finding its point of balance on the flat of his palm. He positioned himself to throw it, legs apart, head up. He glanced down. The dragon eyes looked up at him, suddenly alive. Then Luke stared at Arcadius; judging, judging.

He threw the sword.

The sound was the right one. Not the hard sound of sword on stone or the softer one of severed flesh; it was the solid thud of blade entering straw and never had a sound been so good. He heard Arcadius whoop with relief.

Tamerlane was staring at the target. Then he nodded slowly. He turned to Luke. ‘It is Allah’s will that you stay. You will make your Varangian oath to me. You will pledge yourselves to me, all of you.’ He rose. ‘And I will consider further what is the will of Allah.’