The Towers of Samarcand

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

QARABAGH, WINTER 1401

King Giorgi’s balas ruby was of a size that fitted neatly between the talons of Tamerlane’s eagle.

Riding the mountain currents, the bird could see, refracted through the stone, a world in hibernation below, a world measuring out the slow heartbeat of its winter months under a carapace of infinite pink.

Around it was hard blue sky, empty of anything except a smudge that hovered over the horizon. The eagle flew towards it and, swooping down close, found it to be the mixture of smoke and scavenger birds that stood guard above the snow-bound Mongol camp. Tamerlane had decided to rest his army in the Qarabagh rather than Lebanon and no one but he knew the reason why.

The sound from the camp was more animal than human: the scrape of horses digging deep for grass within huge pens that bordered the camp. It was mid-morning and most of the men were still abed, sleeping off the rigours of last night’s feast while their women were outside, silently airing bedding, scouring cauldrons and hanging washing up to dry. One or two, summoned from within, might be stirring the concoction of mare’s blood and egg-yolk that was said to cure even the worst airag hangover. None would dare to disturb the sleep of this Mongol army. For rest and feasting was what it had been promised.

The feasting had been prodigious. Enriched with booty, the army had summoned more wine from the Lebanon than its vineyards could offer and drunk it night after night until the airag took over. And afterwards, Syrian slaves had warmed their beds through the long winter nights. There was, of course, much to celebrate. Never had the army taken so much from so many cities and the new year would bring more plunder.

The eagle swooped lower, swinging around the pall of smoke, scattering other birds of prey. It glided over the pony pens, diving down to race above the upturned heads of camels and pack-mules. Ahead of it were a wall and a garden with pools and waterfalls and pavilions and a solid perch standing next to an old man who would give it meat. Now the bird was above the wall and its angry eyes blinked twice at the glitter of all that was within.

‘Ah,’ said the old man, looking up and squinting, ‘he returns. And with him the jewel.’ He spoke to the girl who was kneeling before him, massaging his knee. The eagle landed on its perch and Tamerlane took the ruby from its talons. He held it up to the sun, turning it between his fingers. ‘I win the bet and you do your massage higher.’

The girl laughed. ‘You know very well that that was not the bet, lord.’

Shulen waved away a fly that was trying to settle on the leg. Tamerlane lifted her chin with a finger. ‘Your glasses help me to read, Shulen,’ he whispered, leaning forward so that his rancid breath was all about her, ‘but I cannot see what is brought before me. Describe it to me.’

All around him were piled the treasures that had been pillaged from Aleppo, Homs, Hama, Beirut, Damascus and Baghdad. It was a selection of what his generals thought would most amuse their leader. There were bowls of gold dust, helmets full of precious stones, bolts of raw silk, an ingenious clock that also made music and an incense burner, shaped as an elephant, to remind him of his adored beasts sent to winter in warmer climes. And beside his chair reclined a snow leopard with a necklace of pearls around its neck.

Shulen began to list them, occasionally rising to bring something of interest for him to inspect. After a while she brought him a book, its leather covers finely wrought in gold and tiny jewels.

‘What’s this?’ he asked, adjusting his glasses.

‘I don’t know, highness,’ she answered, looking down at it from his shoulder. ‘It says it’s the work of the Indian sage Vatsya. It seems very old.’

Tamerlane was leafing through the pages, humming to himself. Then he stopped at an illustration and looked at it for a long time, bringing his head so close to the page that only he could see it. He’d stopped humming. Eventually he looked back up at Shulen. ‘Can I read to you from it?’

Shulen nodded, smiling. Her student wanted to impress her.

‘Well,’ said Tamerlane, ‘Vasya writes as follows:

‘Just as a horse in full gallop, blinded by the energy of his own speed, pays no attention to any post or hole or ditch in the path, so two lovers blinded by passion are caught up by their fierce energy and pay no attention to danger.’

He looked up at Shulen, who had gone the colour of the ruby. ‘Is that not true, teacher? Here, look at this illustration!’

Tamerlane was so bent with laughter that he didn’t witness the arrival of his heir amongst the throng of courtiers who parted to let him pass. Mohammed Sultan, with Luke next to him and the other Varangians behind, was approaching. They all knelt and Mohammed Sultan spoke: ‘Grandfather, I bring you news.’

Temur looked down at him, pushing the glasses to the top of his nose. ‘The pig-Khan? I know it. For weeks I have known. For what do you think I keep the yams stocked with horses? They bring fresh fruit up from Hormuz and fresher news down from my spies in Chang’an.’

The Emperor of China was dead. Aged sixty-nine, the peasant that had founded the Ming Dynasty was at last floating his way down the sacred river to meet his ancestors and all was chaos in his wake. Mohammed Sultan had been in Sultaniya when the news had come in with a caravan. He had immediately taken horse for the Qarabagh.

‘What will you do, Grandfather?’ he asked now.

‘What will I do?’ Temur looked up, surprised. ‘Attack them, of course. What would you do?’

Mohammed Sultan glanced at Shulen. ‘Is it wise to turn our backs on Bayezid? They say that he’s on the point of taking Constantinople. Why not strike while Constantinople is still in friendly hands? And what of the Mamluks? Will they not join with Bayezid if we go north?’

‘I have never lost a battle, Grandson. You would do well to remember that.’

‘No, lord. But the Ming army is over a million strong. It is a formidable force.’

Tamerlane’s frown deepened. He drank wine from a goblet and wiped his beard with his sleeve. ‘China will be my jihad,’ he said quietly. ‘I am old and not long for this world. I need to think of my soul.’

‘Jihad, lord? There are better jihads than China.’

Temur looked at him darkly. ‘She has told you to say this?’ He nodded towards Shulen.

Mohammed Sultan shook his head, his eyes on the carpet beneath him. It was patterned as a garden with intertwining trees’ branches. A solitary pear adjoined his toe.

‘Anyway, it’s too late,’ said Tamerlane, putting the empty goblet back on to a tray. ‘I’ve been planning it for years. The spies have done their work. Barley has been sown on the route of march and castles built on the border.’ He smiled and looked straight at his grandson. ‘And the elephants have been trained.’

Mohammed Sultan was amazed. ‘All this has happened?’

Tamerlane nodded, stretching out his oiled leg. ‘General Allahdad was sent north two years ago to make maps and develop the land.’

Mohammed Sultan sat back on his heels, his head very still. ‘So you never intended to attack Bayezid?’ He paused. ‘What if Bayezid now comes for you?’

‘I don’t think he’ll do that. I’ve scared him enough with Sivas.’ Tamerlane scratched his knee and examined the oil beneath his fingernails. ‘And the letters have stopped.’

‘But, Grandfather, he is on the point of taking Constantinople, and when it falls …’

‘… he will go further into Europe,’ finished Tamerlane testily. ‘Why do you think I have my Jerusalem oil from Pope Boniface and those pretty stallions from King Charles of France? They know where he’ll go next.’ Tamerlane sank back into his cushions. ‘Don’t be angry with me, Grandson. We cannot have the Greeks deciding what we do.’

Mohammed Sultan stared at his grandfather. That he, Temur’s heir, should be so publicly humiliated. He got to his feet and bowed stiffly. ‘Lord, if you will excuse me.’

‘No,’ said Tamerlane, ‘not yet, at least.’ He signalled for more wine and leant forward from his cushions. ‘I want you to go to Samarcand.’

Mohammed Sultan stared at his grandfather.

‘I want you to go and see how Allahdad fares. He’s there now. I want you to tell him that we will march in forty days’ time. Can you leave now?’

Mohammed said nothing for a while. Then he nodded. ‘Of course, Grandfather.’

Tamerlane’s heir bowed, turned and walked back through the treasure, looking at the ground. Three of the Varangians had got to their feet, ready to follow him. Luke stayed on his knees.

‘You wish to stay?’ Tamerlane was peering at him. ‘Very well.’ He waved his hand. ‘The rest of you go.’

When his friends had left, Luke found himself the focus of Tamerlane’s full attention. He forced himself to stay calm, to smother the fury he felt that it had all been in vain, that this old man would fight his last battle in China rather than Anatolia. The horror of the past year, denied for so long, engulfed him, revulsion filling every part of his being. He clenched his fists.

It’s all been pointless. All the slaughter, everything.

Tamerlane was smiling, his leather cheeks pushing up his glasses. Whatever he could see in Luke seemed to be pleasing him. ‘I wish you to go with my grandson to Samarcand,’ he said. ‘You are good for him.’

Luke didn’t reply. He felt numb.

Tamerlane was looking at him with curiosity. ‘You have done him service. Me as well.’ He paused. ‘Perhaps he’ll need your baskets again.’

Luke steadied himself, his fingernails dug deep into his palms. Suddenly, waves of fatigue rolled over him and he could think of only one thing he must do: leave this madness and go to Anna.

Keeping his voice steady, he said: ‘If I and the other Varangians have done you service, lord, then we ask to be released from our oaths. We ask to go home.’

Tamerlane’s smile wavered, then turned to a frown. He shook his head. ‘By no means can you be released, Greek. I want you on the campaign. I still favour you.’

‘Then let me go home,’ said Luke quietly. ‘I have nothing more to give you.’

Tamerlane’s voice sank to a growl. ‘Nothing more to give, Greek? You’ve just begun. You’ll go where I tell you to go: with my grandson to Samarcand.’

Luke opened his mouth to speak. He didn’t care any more; he was so tired. He glanced at Shulen. She was staring at him, minutely shaking her head. It was a message, but what? She rose and, placing her hand on Temur’s forearm, bent to whisper in his ear. ‘Lord, my friend is tired. Let me speak to him.’

The old man turned and blinked at her. Then he grunted, nodding. ‘Speak sense to him. Go.’

Shulen swept from the dais and took Luke’s arm and half pulled him from the tent. She walked him to where they could be alone. She let go of his arm. ‘That was foolish. You nearly lost your head.’

Luke was standing with his eyes closed. He said: ‘Shulen, it’s over.’

‘No, Luke. It’s not over. We can still do this.’ She paused and took his shoulders in her hands, forcing him to look at her. ‘You must do it — for Byzantium.’

‘But do what? You heard him: he’s going to China.’

‘Not yet,’ she replied softly. ‘Go with Mohammed Sultan and I will join you later. This is far from over.’

*

Important news travelled fast, not just for Tamerlane. The Ottoman Empire, only a century old, was as alert to Tamerlane’s every movement as a lion guarding its prey. Its spies watched the flurry of activity in the Mongol camp, and its direction east, and carried their interpretation back to Bayezid. Only a month later, the Sultan had had it confirmed.

‘The Mongol goes to China.’ He was sitting in the throne room at Edirne and before him stood his three sons: Suleyman, Mehmed and Musa. He could barely conceal his glee. ‘A million Chinese will destroy his army and he will die of rage and shame.’

Suleyman nodded. It was six months since Anna had left Edirne and gone into Constantinople. She hadn’t come out with the other hostages who’d been released at the end of the truce with Manuel’s answer that Constantinople would not surrender. After his fury and grief had subsided, Suleyman had set his mind on being the one to take the city. After all, Mehmed’s attempts had all failed and his brother’s fears about a Mongol attack seemed now to be unfounded.

He said: ‘And the news has gone further. Venice wants to give us cannon again.’

Bayezid wrinkled his nose. ‘Those dogs point with the wind but this one will blow them away. You talk to them?’

The news of Tamerlane’s move on China had reached not only the Doge in Venice but also Pavlos Mamonas, as had Suleyman’s visit to Constantinople. The plan had all the hallmarks of his daughter’s genius. He’d deduced that Suleyman was on his way back into favour and had immediately reopened negotiations with Venice. The cannon would arrive at the siege by the summer. Suleyman glanced at his brothers and said: ‘Yes, I talk to them as I talked to Manuel in Constantinople.’

Suleyman smiled at his father. ‘Give me back the siege, Father, and I will take this city one month from the cannons’ arrival.’

Bayezid frowned. ‘What of Sigismund? He’s raising another crusade.’

Suleyman had heard this. The news had reached them a month after Anna had entered Constantinople. ‘But how long will it take to come, if at all? What appetite will the Christian Kings have to fight us after Nicopolis? All it will do is give the Byzantines new heart. But it’s too late.’

Bayezid looked hard at the man who was still his heir. Then he nodded. ‘It is your last chance, Prince Suleyman.’