The Towers of Samarcand

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

THE ROAD TO SAMARCAND, SPRING 1402

The ride to Samarcand took three weeks and would have been shorter if Luke hadn’t insisted on keeping Eskalon. To begin with, they’d ridden with an escort of gautchin but Mohammed Sultan had dismissed them on the Persian border and they’d ridden on alone. For the first time in his life, Luke was glad not to be with his friends.

The two men rode south down the shoreline of the Khazar Sea until they came to the trade road and then turned towards Tabriz. The way was busy with wagons of plunder going east and soldiers west to join the Conqueror of the World. But for Luke, no distance was great enough to separate him from Tamerlane. The bustle around him belonged to another world; his was scorched by fire and drowned in blood: red road, red dust, red sun spilling blood across the evening sky because the earth had soaked up all it could manage. In his dreams, the sun was masked by the endless smoke of burning and the only sound was one long scream of agony. He dreamt of destruction and awoke with its smell still with him: the smell of fire, of horse, of fear, of blood. The smell of Tamerlane.

Luke hardly spoke throughout the ride, finding no words to describe the scale of his torment. He wanted to shout out to those they passed that their world was inverting, that the creatures of hell were coming up to the surface while all that was good was being buried for ever. He wanted to tell them to tear down their churches because neither their God nor the angels could see them through their tears. Perhaps he did shout out, for the people backed away as they passed. They were used to armies and wagons of plunder but not a fair-haired giant with madness in his eyes.

For the most part, Mohammed Sultan let him be. He saw the endless washing of the hands when they stopped to rest and understood. He knew that only time would wash away the blood. Only time or something else.

They reached Samarcand and rode through a city embraced by scaffolding. Blocks of stone and marble, sheets of copper and brass were piled everywhere and between them were vast pits dense with workers of every nation. The streets were full of masons dressing stone and the air was choked with the smoke of furnaces working at full blast. Even from afar, Tamerlane’s all-seeing eye watched everything and the fear that hung over his enemies was above Samarcand too.

They spent a week in Samarcand and, while Mohammed Sultan talked with Allahdad, Luke slept. Then the three of them rode east towards China, through the rich Fergana Valley where the water of the Syr Darya sparkled in the sunlight and the fields were full of women sowing wheat and barley for the army to come. The road was the main trade route into China and Allahdad had filled in its holes, built new yams and created whole villages full of warehouses, barracks, bakeries and pens for thousands of horses. They spent two weeks riding east and during that time Luke remained silent. It was only when they’d arrived back in Samarcand that Mohammed Sultan finally confronted him.

‘Get up,’ he said. He’d entered Luke’s bedroom in Tamerlane’s palace to find his friend awake, staring at the ceiling. ‘We are going somewhere where we can talk and you can mend.’

*

The forty days were up and the Mongol army still had not marched. The first flowers were knotting themselves into a carpet that would unroll across the valleys to welcome the coming of spring, and still Tamerlane’s gers remained in the fields of the Qarabagh.

Tamerlane was ill.

It was night and inside the imperial ger it was stifling. Four Damascene braziers stood at each corner of an enormous bed raised high on a dais, throwing up snakes of flame to add to the heat cast out by the iron stove. On the bed, naked save for a loincloth sodden with sweat, lay Tamerlane, his eyes closed and his grey hair matted to his skull. His body was criss-crossed with scars, some old and puckered, others still livid. Every battlefield was there, every sword stroke of an enemy that had got too close. His bed resembled a pyre.

The ger was simple considering its occupant’s wealth and power. On its walls were hung the pelts of different animals, all claws and teeth. On the floor were plain carpets of coarse weave, piled one on top of the other. The furniture was sparse: a table of mother-of-pearl that was also a chessboard, the pair of elephant incense burners, two sitting lecterns, one holding the Kama Sutra that had made Shulen blush so, and a tall perch on which stood Temur’s eagle, its head sunk deep into its neck and its eye fixed malevolently upon the snow leopard lying at the foot of the bed. Next to the animal knelt Khan-zada and in her hand was a bowl and sponge.

The light played its uncertain fingers over this scene, summoning from the dark one tableau after another to tell the story of this sickness. The man on the bed was covered in boils, seeping yellow fluid that gave off a putrid stench until wiped clean by the hand of the Princess. There was the sound of the ger door opening and Khan-zada turned. ‘Close it quick!’ she whispered. ‘We must keep the heat in.’

Her second son had entered and with him was Tamerlane’s greatest general, Burunduk. They stood for a while looking at the emir and then began to untie their deels. Pir Mohammed spoke: ‘Is this heat right, Mother?’

She put down the bowl and soaked the sponge in the water, wringing it between her hands. ‘I don’t know what is right,’ she said. ‘I don’t know what afflicts him. That’s why we need her.’ She pressed the sponge to Temur’s forehead. ‘Are they here?’

The general nodded and stepped forward to the other side of the bed so that he was facing the Princess. ‘They are waiting outside with the horses, highness.’

‘And no one knows how Temur is?’

‘No one except those in this room.’

Khan-zada looked over to her second son. He was quieter than his brother and inclined to melancholy but he was good and strong and would do what was right. He had Jahangir’s kind eyes, eyes that had always been wise beyond their years. He was Temur’s second heir and she prayed every day that he would never have to become his first.

‘And Miran Shah? How long can we keep him from this tent, do you think?’

Pir Mohammed knelt down by the side of his mother. He took her hand in his. ‘We’ll find a way, Mother,’ he said gently, ‘until she returns. Now we must go to the Varangians. There’s not much time.’

They rose and walked outside the tent, Burunduk behind them. In the darkness were Matthew, Nikolas and Arcadius, each holding a horse, each dressed for riding. Khan-zada went up and kissed them in turn. She looked from one to the other, seeing how young they were, younger than her sons. ‘Go, and ride harder than you have ever ridden. Use your paizis to change horses wherever you can. Go like the wind.’ She turned to Matthew, taking his hand. ‘And bring her back to us,’ she whispered. ‘Only she can save him now.’

*

It was evening when Luke and Mohammed Sultan reached the church of the rock. They had followed the road west from Samarcand, then turned south into the hills. As the sun was setting, they came to a giant fist of sandstone on top of a hill into which hundreds of caves had been dug. A rough path led up to it.

‘Tombs,’ said Mohammed Sultan. It was the first time he’d spoken since waking Luke. ‘Thousands of years old. And a Christian church on top of them.’ The Prince had turned his horse on to the path and spoke over his shoulder. ‘My mother used to bring us here when we were young. To worship.’

With the sun gone, it was suddenly dark and cold. Luke unstrapped his deel from the back of his saddle and put it on. He saw his breath rise before him. ‘To worship?’ he asked.

‘My mother is a Nestorian. It was a sect of your church that came east many centuries ago. Many Mongols are Nestorian.’

‘You?’

‘No longer. I’m to be the Sword of Islam, after all.’

Luke fell silent. In another mood, he’d have been more surprised at this revelation. Now he merely nodded and looked above him at the beehive necropolis — honeycomb and catacomb — and the cave at its top, which had pillars and steps framing its mouth. When they reached the church, they dismounted and lit torches that they’d brought with them. Luke entered first and raised the flame to see pictures of saints on the rock walls, their colours faded with age. He swung the torch around. The church was empty and had an earthen floor, raised at one end with a niche in the wall behind. Luke walked over to it.

‘What was here?’

Mohammed Sultan joined him. ‘When I used to come here, a statue of your Virgin Mary. Before that? Who knows? Cybele, Matar — they’re all the same.’

Luke turned. ‘This was a place of pagan worship?’

‘Of course.’ Mohammed Sultan gestured towards the niche. ‘Before your Virgin was installed, Cybele would’ve sat there on a throne with two lions at her feet. She would’ve been fat and many-breasted, giving eternal birth while her worshippers danced to two-piped aulos.’

Luke looked around the church again, half-rock, half-building. It was a place of whispers and the tremulous echo of ancient prayer. He suddenly felt very cold. He said: ‘We should build a fire.’

Mohammed Sultan rose and led them out of the church and along a path that followed the contour of the hill. The evening was cold but clear, with a million stars emerging in patterns of winking light. Luke turned to look out over the landscape below. He could see a patchwork of grey sewn together with black: the tapestry of old, old fields and broken walls. In between, the road wound its way down the valley, silver and sinuous. They walked to the bottom of the hill where there were trees and gathered wood.

An hour later they were sitting on the floor of the church, a fire between them, their rolled bedding and saddlebags set behind them as cushions. In silence they ate food they’d brought with them, each finding some comfort in the fire. Eventually Mohammed Sultan looked up at Luke, seeing only his face through the flames. He said: ‘Luke, the slaughter had nothing to do with what happened in Georgia. What we did there was right and will be remembered.’

Luke made no reply. His eyes were alight, but dull.

‘And you did what you could at Damascus with Ibn Khaldun. If the fools hadn’t attacked us, they’d still be alive.’

Still no answer. Mohammed Sultan leant forward and picked up Luke’s sword, which was lying between them. He raised it into the firelight, turning it, examining the blade, then the hilt. The dragon scales were rapids of silver in the flickering firelight. ‘You told me that something was written on the blade. What is it?’

Luke turned to him, as if seeing him for the first time. ‘Mistra,’ he replied.

‘Tell me about Mistra and then tell me about Anna. They are joined, I think.’ He paused. ‘But first tell me about this sword. It is different.’

Luke looked back into the fire, frowning. He allowed the images to form slowly in his mind, side by side.

Mistra, Anna, the sword. They are joined.

‘The sword was made for a Varangian prince called Siward, my ancestor. His descendant brought a treasure out of Constantinople two hundred years ago when it fell to the Franks. Mistra is where it was buried. Now the treasure’s been found, by Anna. It is said it will save Byzantium.’ Luke lifted his hand and raised his finger. ‘This ring’, he said, ‘is part of it. It’s old and it’s Hebrew. That’s all I know.’

Mohammed Sultan looked up at the ring and whistled softly. He laid the sword down in his lap. The firelight had risen with new wood and the walls around them seemed to close in, the worn saints looming over them, listening. Luke felt something rising within him, an urge to fill the space with words.

‘Anna was born in Mistra, I in Monemvasia. She was married to the son of the Archon who employed me to care for his horses. That’s how I found Eskalon. Anna’s husband was cruel and I tried to take her away from Monemvasia but we were betrayed and my father died as I got away, without Anna. I went to Chios where I fathered a son who doesn’t know that I’m his father. Bayezid’s heir, Suleyman, fell in love with Anna and took her to his harem. She is there now and I must get to her once I have done what I must do.’

Mohammed Sultan sat very still, absorbing this procession of facts. He said: ‘Tell me about you Varangians.’

Luke pushed his fingers through his hair and leant forward towards the fire, one arm hugging his knees. ‘We came from an island far to the west called England. They say that it’s a place of woods and mists and people who love to fight. Siward left when the Franks invaded and put an arrow in his king’s eye. He sailed to Byzantium with five thousand followers to offer their service to the Emperor. A hundred and fifty years later, the Franks took Constantinople and Siward’s descendant came to Mistra with the treasure. That’s why I was born there.’

‘So you’re the descendant of a prince, Luke. And this sword’ — he picked it up — ‘was made for a prince. I begin to understand.’

Luke looked at him. ‘Understand?’

‘Why you were sent to us,’ Mohammed Sultan said quietly. ‘It was your destiny.’ He picked up a branch and fed it to the fire. The flames rose up and the saints rose with them. A light wind entered the church and Luke pulled his deel tighter to his body. It was the first time they’d talked of destiny. He closed his eyes.

My destiny is to save an empire. And I have failed.

Mohammed Sultan continued, as if reading his thoughts: ‘You have not failed in your destiny yet, Luke. That is why we must persuade my grandfather to turn west again. We want the same thing: Tamerlane to fight Bayezid. I want it because I don’t want to see my nation perish in the snows of China; you, because you want to save your empire.’

Luke shook his head. ‘It’s too late. And who’s to say that he’ll stop with Bayezid? What if he takes Constantinople? Or Mistra? What then?’

Mohammed Sultan stared deep into the fire. He didn’t speak for a while and Luke wondered if he’d even heard him. Then he picked up a stick and examined it. ‘You’ve told me some of what’s happening in the west,’ he said. ‘When we rode together in Samarcand, you told me that there’s a rebirth of ancient wisdom happening in Italy, that this rebirth is important for the future of the world, of mankind. I believe you.’ He turned the stick over in his hand. ‘The last time that our armies came into Europe, they were stopped by the death of the Khan. Everyone went home to find a new one. It might happen again. Tamerlane is old.’

They sat there, very still, each considering what had been said and what hadn’t. Luke felt the presence of countless worshippers all around him in the dark: pagan and Christian, formless yet watching. They were two young men from different ends of the world united by warmth and an understanding that could not speak its name. For the first time in months, Luke felt the warm flow of blood inside his body rather than without.

Mohammed Sultan changed the subject. ‘Tell me more about Anna.’

Anna.

What could he say about Anna? That she had beauty and courage and understanding that meant that he could have no life without her? That his yearning for her was such that he’d almost broken oath to go to her? That he loved her beyond any measurement the world had yet devised? Instead, he said: ‘She was the daughter of the Protostrator of Mistra. She found the treasure.’

‘So she is part of the plan. And Shulen?’ Mohammed Sultan had leant forward. ‘Is Shulen part of the plan, Luke?’

There was something new in his voice, as if his words were the reconnaissance for more later, as if they were scouting new ground.

‘Shulen is part of the plan to bring Temur to fight Bayezid. Anna will be part of what happens next.’

‘And which plan is more important to you?’

Luke sighed. ‘Now? I’ve not liked what I’ve seen of the Tamerlane plan but if it will save my empire then there may be no need of the other.’

‘And which woman is more important to you, Shulen or Anna?’

Luke said simply: ‘I love Anna.’

Mohammed Sultan leant back against the roll of his bedding. He was nodding very slowly as if this simple statement had revealed much more. ‘And Shulen? You have loved her as well, perhaps?’

Luke considered this. Had he? Had he been more than tempted by her feral beauty? Could fascination ever be mistaken for love?

‘No,’ he said. ‘I have not loved Shulen.’

The Prince turned and brought his saddlebag on to his lap. He opened it and brought out a small phial, which he opened. He proffered it to Luke. ‘Drink this.’

Luke took the phial and studied it. It was made of glass, but opaque. ‘What is it?’

‘Medicine,’ said Mohammed Sultan. ‘From Shulen. It will cure you.’

Somehow Luke knew it was blood.

Blood to wash away blood.

He sat there looking at the phial for a long time. Then he brought it to his lips and drank. It was warm and thick and Luke didn’t care who or what it had come from. He heard a sound from the raised part of the church. He looked towards it and the fire played tricks for there was Cybele, dressed in white, standing in her niche. But she had no lions, or naked breasts. And she wasn’t giving birth. She was Shulen.

Luke shook his head, trying to clear it. He closed his eyes.

Shulen. Here.

He heard a voice far away that he knew. Shulen’s. She said: ‘You will dream of blood and you will be cured.’

He forced his eyes open and looked at the place from where the voice had come, trying to focus. She was with someone else now, holding their hand. It was Mohammed Sultan. He fell back against his bedding and closed his eyes and sleep broke over him like a warm surf and he dreamt.

He was in a pit with bars above. He saw a bull pulled by men with a rope and its throat cut. He felt the rich blood cascade over him, filling the space around, rising, rising, until just his nose and mouth could breathe above it. He was drowning because he couldn’t move to keep above the blood. Then he was rising out of it and was standing on a rock in the middle of a river with fish in it and he was spearing them. One flashed past, then another: fat silver-grey trout darting among the rocks and tumbling down the eddies between. He raised his spear slowly while fixing his eye on the little defile through which they’d come. Then he struck and felt the joy of skin pierced. The water turned red.

He awoke to the smell of cooking fish. It was daylight and Mohammed Sultan and Shulen were side by side by the fire, turning fish on a spit and watching bubbling fat break through their curling scales. The fish hissed and spat and Luke felt his mouth fill with the juice of hunger. Mohammed Sultan lifted a fish off its spit by both ends, blowing on its surface and resting it on a stone to cool. He turned.

‘You’ve slept for two days. How do you feel?’

Luke felt unlike he’d ever felt before. He felt lighter than goose-down and his body tingled with sensation. He felt joy and hunger in equal measure. He felt alive. He propped himself up on his arm. ‘I feel different.’ He turned to Shulen. ‘You came.’

‘As I said I would.’ She laughed. ‘You’ve done more talking in the past two days than you have for a month. It was a torrent.’

‘What did I talk about?’

Shulen and Mohammed Sultan exchanged glances. The Prince lifted the stone and brought it over to Luke. He sat down beside him. ‘Eat.’

Luke took the fish and ate. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. ‘What did I talk about?’

‘Anna, Luke. You talked about Anna.’

Shulen came over to them with more fish and sat as well. ‘You’re cured, I think, Luke. No more blood. It’s time to return.’

‘To Tamerlane?’

‘To Tamerlane. We’ll be leaving soon.’

‘How soon?’

Shulen shrugged. She gave one of the fish to Mohammed Sultan and her hand stayed on the Prince’s arm. ‘When they come.’