The Lost Prophecies

by The Medieval Murderers

  When Eldegai arrived, he came like a demon out of the wilderness. We were still playing at dice. The leader of our band, the wizen-faced old man Kyrill had named Sartakh, suddenly pricked up his ears.

  ‘Wait.’

  Our game stopped abruptly. I mimed an enquiry to one of the Tartars, who explained. Now I am a quick study when it comes to tongues, but at first I thought I had misunderstood what he had said. But he repeated it more slowly for me.

  ‘Sartakh was born in a distant country where the females are of human shape and the men of a dog’s. He can hear the slightest sound before anyone else.’

  His companions sniggered, but the object of their humour stopped them with an abruptly upraised hand. He grunted in his guttural tongue.

  ‘Someone approaches.’

  His companions tensed, reaching for their swords. I belched and grinned inanely at the old man. A harmless fool lives longer than a curious meddler, and I didn’t yet know what was afoot. Soon enough, though, we all could hear the sound of a horse being ridden hard, muffled though the hooves were by the snow. It was coming towards our encampment. The youngest of our escort – Ulan by name – muttered fearfully. My understanding of what they said was now being stretched, and I moved to sit beside Father Kyrill, who interpreted for me.

  ‘Ulan said that it’s a demon.’

  Sartakh rose and stood by the door of the stove-house, opening it to let the firelight spill briefly into the darkness. It risked a loss of heat but, that way, whoever it was would know we were aware of him, and he would be aware of us. This way there would be no surprise reaction on either side. A surprise that might result in a fatal misunderstanding. The sound of hooves ceased, and there was a heart-stopping moment while whoever it was stabled his horse. Then a bundled-up figure appeared in the outer circle of light. Ulan hissed and stood towards the back of the hut. The figure spoke.

  ‘I am Eldegai, a traveller.’

  ‘Still on the road at night?’

  The question was Ulan’s.

  ‘I saw the traces of your horses in the snow, and I decided to catch you up rather than camp alone. It’s too cold to camp out anyway.’

  ‘You followed our tracks in drifting snow? Don’t take me for a fool, demon,’ muttered the young Tartar.

  The stranger gave him a puzzled look but did not question what the boy meant. The moment passed, but from that time Ulan continued to keep the closest eye on him, apparently unsure if the stranger were man or beast. Sartakh broke the impasse.

  ‘Quick. Come in, or we will all freeze.’

  The newest arrival to the stove-house stepped inside the room and naturally moved over to the left. That is where male visitors go in a Tartar tent, I later learned, the right side being reserved for the women. I recalled that Father Kyrill was sprawled on the floor on the right of the room. Which might have explained something of the disdain in which the Tartars currently held him. They saw him as no better than a woman. Our visitor, being of their breed, knew better how to behave.

  Sartakh moved to the back of the room as if the stove-house were his home, and he the host. He invited the new arrival to approach the fire. The bundled figure hunkered down, loosening his outer fur coat for comfort. By the light of the flames I could now examine his features. He was very ordinary-looking for a demon. He pulled the heavy cap off his head, revealing a head shaved in the traditional way of the Tartar with long braids at the sides. His face was that of a middle-aged man, rounded and red-cheeked in the way of the race. But trackways of lines ran from the corners of his eyes, giving him a severe mien. His mouth was a thin gash, lined on top with a curving moustache. The mouth opened, and he spoke his name again.

  ‘Eldegai. A poor traveller.’

  At least, that is what I believed he said. His accent was somewhat different from those I had got to know while taking their money. It was harder to understand. Maybe it was because he came from some other remote region of the Tartar Empire. I opined that it made him a sort of provincial hick, in a way, and gleefully invited him to play at dice with us. I liked a dead cert and relished parting a fool from his possessions. Eldegai suddenly grinned and moved into the circle of gamblers.

  It was soon afterwards that Karakuchuk introduced us to Sic Bo. I had been aware of this quiet old man sitting at the periphery of the group, and careful with his bets. He had been examining my dexterous hand movements, and his face had been more screwed up than usual. As if he was trying to work something out. I knew the look – all con artists know it – the look of a mark who was aware there was a fix on but couldn’t figure out what or how. I knew I would have to deal very carefully with him.

  Now, as Eldegai sat down with us, Karakuchuk uncharacteristically took centre stage.

  ‘There is a game I learned on campaign in Cathay. It is called Sic Bo. Unfortunately, it requires three dice, not two. And a cup.’

  He gave me a hard stare through his narrowed eyes. He thought by suggesting a game I didn’t know, he would nullify any cheating that might be going on. And prevent me from using my hands by having the dice rolled in a cup. Smiling, I dug into the pocket of my fleecy jacket and produced a new set of dice. The other dice I ferreted away in the same pocket. They were tappers anyway, and would be no good in a cup. At their core was a hollow partially filled with wax and a stone. By warming the wax in my hands, and tapping them on the ground as I had done after playing honestly for a while, the stone shifted and weighted the dice on whatever side was at the bottom. Karakuchuk’s game would require a different sort of dice if they were to be thrown from a cup. Dice such as I had now produced, some of which were shaved down one side. These I would palm in at the right moment. Sleight of hand was a particular skill that had stood me in good stead for some time. Remind me to tell you about the little matter of the purloined ruby some time.

  I had played dice games with a cup before. But Sic Bo was unusual in that the dice were not thrown out of it. Karakuchuk explained slowly for me.

  ‘After shaking, the cup is upended, hiding the dice. Bets are laid on what might lie below the cup. The simplest bet is with straight odds on the total being high or low – more than ten or less than ten. Understand?’

  Now they do say that great gamblers can hear the side that the dice fall on. But I didn’t need to worry about having ears as sharp as Sartakh’s. I knew how they would fall, once I palmed in the shaved dice. I nodded.

  ‘I understand. It is a risky game.’

  Someone produced a simple wooden drinking cup, and we began. I let the unaltered dice roll as they wished to start with. And, of course, I won some bets and lost others. I could see the look of triumph in Karakuchuk’s eyes. But more important, I saw the greed in our new companion’s – Eldegai was suckered. Out of a sense of malice, I then arranged it so that he won several times from Karakuchuk, who was not best pleased. But it gave me a particular delight.

  Soon, though, with the shaved dice, I was winning hand over fist from the newcomer. I won a rather nice dagger with a jewel embedded in the hilt, that fine fur hat he had worn on arrival, and some other trinkets he drew from inside his coat as he ran through his losing streak. I suppose I should have stopped, but I got carried away with his desperate eagerness to lose everything he had. And I had spotted a small gold tablet tucked in the folds of his coat. I wanted it, but it seemed he was not far enough gone to wager it. He did lose a spare pair of boots, though. But then, suddenly, he rose from the floor, where the little circle of gamers squatted, and stomped angrily to the darker corner of the room. Sartakh shook his head slowly.

  ‘Enemy. You have made an enemy.’

  I shrugged. Soon, I would be gone and never see this man again. Eldegai was just showing himself to be a stiff and ornery man, good at taking offence. Or, I soon saw, giving it.

  It all blew up a little later, when Karakuchuk started delving in one of the large saddlebags the Tartars had brought into the stove-house with them. The ripening smell had told me already that the pack contained meat th
at was not responding too well to the warmth of the room. Now it appeared the old Tartar was proposing to prepare some of the stinking contents of his bag for everyone. I wondered if I would be able to stomach the food he prepared. Kyrill noticed my horrified look upon seeing the greyish slab that Karakuchuk produced, and guffawed. He pointed at the mysterious pot he had earlier placed on the stove. The one I thought contained something alive.

  ‘Perhaps you would rather eat my leeches, though I would prefer you not to, as they are most excellent for bleeding the sickly.’

  He had put the pot on the stove to prevent the contents from freezing to death. Leeches. I shuddered at the very idea of even touching the slimy beasts that lurked inside. I hated them, and would rather die of excess bad blood than have one attached to me. Kyrill smirked and pointed at the slab of meat that was being carved up.

  ‘It’s probably an old horse that no longer had the legs to run as fast as the devils required of it. I have watched Tartars like this Karakuchuk slice open the chest of some still-living beast, butcher it and then turn it into a well-stewed pottage. Mind you, it still looked grey and unappetizing even after cooking. So I have found that a good swig of kumiss helps me tackle it.’

  He proffered the kumiss skin, and I drank deep – several times – while the old man stewed down the fatty slabs in water over the fire. So I was ready, if a little tipsy, when the boiled-down mess was grudgingly offered me. It had even begun to look appetizing to my growling gut. It wasn’t so appealing to the more fastidious Eldegai, who I could now tell was rather more refined than the others. He wasn’t the raw provincial I had first had him down as. Nor the poor traveller he professed himself to be. He fussily disdained to touch the stew and rose from the fire to turn his back on the fare. I could see that his superior attitude drove one of the others, in particular, mad. This was a short, stocky Tartar whose name I had also picked up while playing at dice. He was called Taulubeg. And when Eldegai turned his nose up at the food, his face grew red. He rose from his corner, stomped on his bowed legs over to Eldegai, and spat some Tartar comment into his face. The import of the words was obvious to me even without understanding the language fully.

  Something like:

  ‘Too well bred to dig in along with the rest of us, then?’

  Eldegai’s reply was clear too from the haughty way he responded to his shorter protagonist.

  ‘Well, yes, actually. This trash is not what I am used to. Besides, I can’t afford to get ill with food poisoning. I have important things to do. Things you couldn’t dream of.’

  He turned his back on Taulubeg, as though the other man was beneath his consideration. If our leader, Sartakh, had not stepped in at that moment, pushing Taulubeg away, matters might have got nasty. Ulan, perhaps sensing Eldegai might at last give away something of his true, demonic nature, sidled closer to the well-dressed Tartar. So only he and I heard what Eldegai then muttered.

  ‘The Il-Khan’s envoy to Sarai doesn’t soil his hands on such provender,’ Eldegai said under his breath.

  Ulan’s face paled, and he backed away from this man he had reckoned to be a demon in disguise. And what he had said, it looked as though it was something to confirm Ulan’s opinion of him. I kept well clear, not caring what it was that upset Ulan so. But I did register that the man was on some sort of important mission. An envoy to Sarai, eh? I might be able to use that, but for the time being I would keep it quiet. I didn’t want to give Eldegai cause to dislike me any more than he did. I reckoned his annoyance at being cleaned out at Sic Bo would soon dissipate. And he would be wanting to get back what he had lost. So I was not surprised when, a short time later, he shuffled over to me as I lay back licking my lips over the fatty feast. For a while he said nothing, then he tried me out with a few words of Turkish. He had guessed that, as a merchant from the West, I might be more familiar with that tongue than with Tartar. It was likely he had met other traders too, and found this common language useful. But it was another common language – profit – that I wanted to share with him. For now I said nothing. A good gambler knows when to shut up and let a mark do all the running. So I let him run off at the mouth for a while, until he came to the point.

  ‘You will give me another chance to beat you at the dice.’

  His tone was peremptory, but I knew it would soon be wheedling. I turned the grip of the vice.

  ‘No. I am weary of gaming, and happy with my winnings.’

  ‘But it is only fair!’

  I shrugged my shoulders and lay back, closing my eyes as though dozing. But, of course, my brain was working at full speed, looking to the far horizon, and Sarai. Who said a gambler had to play fair, anyway? That rule was not in the vocabulary of a Venetian. Playing fair is for losers. And Genoans – which is tantamount to the same thing. Though I digress. Eldegai was nonplussed by my refusal to play, but I soon heard the scrabble of his feet as he hunkered down close by. We resumed our silent discourse, with Eldegai no doubt puzzling out how to tempt me into another game. I could almost hear his pompous brain churning ineffectually. I finally realized I would have to lead him by the nose or wait all night. I opened my eyes and cast a glance sideways at him.

  ‘Maybe there is another way you can regain your riches. A way we can both benefit from. At Sarai.’

  When I mentioned Sarai he bristled a little, but I wasn’t worried. Like all the Tartars, he had a natural swagger, but a certain bulge around his waist betrayed him as someone who spent too much time lounging around a court. I had him down as more of a talker than a doer. And for an envoy, he was not very quick on the uptake either. His eyes showed he had no idea what I was angling for. I realized I would have to spell it out for him.

  ‘If you could use your influence at court, in the matter of trade, then perhaps we could both profit?’

  I had in mind a sort of long trade such as I told you of earlier. But this time I would make it work. Eldegai would supply the reputable front to the business. And be the gullible fool who would be left behind to face the creditors after I had skipped with all the profits. A hard lesson, but I was willing to teach it him. Eldegai pursed his lips and stared off at an imaginary horizon. I could see the greed in his eyes, though. Impassive he wasn’t. In fact, he was worse at doing a deal than he had been at dice. But I knew he could see the opportunity I was offering.

  ‘I would just have to recommend you?’

  He was imagining clear profit for no effort; for just being a figurehead. He thought I needed him more than he needed me, and that it was he using me, not the other way around. And so he was eager. I even toyed momentarily with the idea of doing an honest deal with him. It might have worked, after all. But I didn’t consider it for very long. Why work hard to gain a fraction of the amount you can grab with just a little subterfuge? As a token of my false honesty, I gave him back the dagger I had won from him. It was more ornamental than practical, anyway. He grinned widely, showing yellowed teeth, and accepted the gift. But then he grimaced.

  ‘There’s only one problem.’

  ‘A problem?’

  ‘Yes. I am not going to Sarai with good news, so I will not be the best of partners. Besides, I would advise you to seek your fortune in Cathay. There is a far greater prize to be had there. Ask the old man. He’s been, and knows the score.’

  Eldegai jerked his thumb over his shoulder, and I looked over to where Sartakh stood. I could see he was talking to the other old Tartar.

  ‘He knows. I have spoken to him of the riches that await anyone in Cathay. Once my message is received in Sarai.’

  The wind takes on a different character. Instead of gusting, it now becomes a persistent howl that tugs at the whole structure of the stove-house. We all instinctively huddle closer together despite the uneasiness surrounding the Tartar’s death. Someone in the room has murdered him. And I am no nearer to working out who. For the time being I remain the chief suspect, and at least one of these Tartars will be happy to see me dead. The real murderer, that is. The logs that
make up the framework of the stove-house creak in protest at the battering from outside. Out of the corner of my eye I see a Tartar reach up and dab some kumiss on the felt doll on the shelf over his head. It’s the one called Tetuak. The doll is an image of the Tartars’ god, Tengri. Making an offering to Tengri betrays the fact that Tetuak is obviously very nervous. He sees me looking at him and masks the fear that shines from his eyes. He grabs the skin from me and takes a slug of the kumiss with a show of bravado that only serves to amuse me. It reminds me of how his boasting also amused Eldegai.

  The stew had been eaten by all but the fastidious Eldegai, and once again the kumiss sack was circulating. We were in for a long night, and the Tartars fell back on what all warriors do to pass the time. Bragging of past deeds.

  ‘I have crossed the Great Desert of Lop,’ averred the boastful Tetuak, seeking in others’ eyes the awe that feat should occasion. ‘They say there are sirens there, which can lure you from your path, leading you astray to a place from which you will never return alive.’

  ‘All the more reason to pay attention to your companions and stick together,’ observed Eldegai with a smile. ‘If you believe such nonsense.’

  Another man would not have risen to the bait. Tetuak, however, could not leave it there, and retorted with what would turn out to be an ominous comment.

  ‘Lucky that you found us, Eldegai, or you certainly would have perished in this blizzard. Death was at your heels.’