The Lost Prophecies

by The Medieval Murderers

  As Sartakh translates the story, I am aware of a communal shudder that runs through the little group. The very idea of headless men is horrific to them. They shake their heads in denial of ever having seen such monsters. But I can see it has stirred their fears and fevered imagination, which is my intention. It is Karakuchuk who now responds to my uneasy story of headless monsters. I don’t fully understand what he says, but I will tell it to you as best I can with only a little of my own embroidery.

  ‘I have seen monsters,’ he says.

  Karakuchuk is as old as Sartakh but a little more reserved. He has hovered on the edge of the group most of the time. That he should speak up so readily is a surprise. Maybe the eerie quality of the setting – all of us trapped by the storm with a body bundled up in the darkness outside, and talking of demons – maybe it has sparked off his recollection. Whatever it is, his face, normally squashed and wrinkled due to his lack of teeth, becomes animated and alive.

  ‘It was a long time ago, when these things were more common than now. After the campaign in India, in the time of Chinghis’s son. As we returned through the wastelands, we came across a tribe of women whose men were in dog’s form.’

  The other Tartars cast sidelong glances at Sartakh – he of the reputedly canine hearing – and grin. But this is no snide joke at Sartakh’s expense. Karakuchuk is in earnest.

  ‘I saw them. Dark-skinned, hairy women, they were, in the village that we occupied. And no sign of ordinary men. The men-dogs ran in packs, and I saw them attack one of our men and kill him. We tried to shoot them with our arrows, but they had rolled in freezing water, and their pelts were coated with ice. It rendered our arrows harmless. We ran after them, but they were too swift, and ran off into the night.’ He shudders. ‘We left there pretty soon afterwards.’

  I would not have taken old Karakuchuk for a coward. Nor for someone who could not see that the menfolk of the village had merely disappeared into the wastelands for safety when they heard that the Tartars were coming. Still, I had not been there when the pack of dogs attacked. Maybe I would have believed the stories too, in the circumstances. He shuffles to the back of the group once more, brooding. There is an awkward silence.

  Suddenly, Kyrill groans and stretches his limbs. He is still unused to squatting on the floor and expresses a longing for a good chair. While the Tartars are distracted by the thought of Karakuchuk’s tale, I quietly speak to the priest. I tell him I need his assistance in determining the identity of the murderer.

  ‘I have no idea who it could have been,’ he hisses anxiously, casting a fearful glance around the tent.

  When his eyes turn back on me, I wonder for a moment if he also thinks I am the killer. I return his look with a confident gaze that I have no right to display.

  ‘Leave that to me. Just follow my lead, when I come to the crux of the matter. Oh, and have one of those leeches ready that you carry around with you in the water jar.’

  ‘The leeches? What for?’

  He listens hard while I whisper in his ear what I need him to do. As he then settles down to sleep in the dark outer edge of the stove-house, I see that one Tartar in particular has not taken his eyes off me. Young Tetuak is a moody individual, given much to drinking and boasting of his prowess with the powerful Tartar bow. Until, I suddenly recall, Eldegai poured scorn on his more fanciful claim of killing three men with one arrow. His face had been red with stored resentment for the rest of the night. Nor had he been so loudmouthed again, when his comrades spoke of battle honours. The rest of the band were obviously veterans, apart from Ulan, who had nothing much to boast of, being no more than a boy himself. But Tetuak was still old enough to have campaigned somewhere in the growing Tartar Empire. I now wonder why he hasn’t talked of any battle deeds. Is he less bold than he suggests, and did Eldegai hit a sore spot in his armoury? And hurt his pride hard enough to cause him to retaliate in the dark?

  Suddenly, there is a gust of wind down the flue that causes the fire to flare. Tetuak squeals.

  ‘There is a devil on the roof, and it won’t come in because there are Christians present.’ He stares at me, then gestures also at the somnolent Kyrill. ‘We should get rid of them, and the devil will enter.’

  I am curious. ‘Why would you want the devil to come in?’

  ‘Because it could tell us who murdered Eldegai.’ He turned to his comrades. ‘You have all seen a kham evoke a good devil before.’

  ‘A kham?’ I mutter an enquiry of Sartakh.

  The old man shrugs. ‘A diviner. A shaman. Anyone who wishes to seek answers of a devil has a kham place cooked meat in their tent. Then the kham invokes a devil and beats on a drum to call it. The kham enters into a fury and is bound. Then the devil comes in the darkness, eats the meat and speaks. I suppose a kham is like to that priest there.’

  I grin to myself at the thought of Father Kyrill being compared to some wild maniac calling on the devil for answers. It is lucky he has fallen asleep, and so misses Sartakh’s unflattering comparison. But then, bearing in mind his propensity for prophecy, maybe Sartakh is not far from the mark. I think fleetingly of the Black Book of Brân tucked in my jacket, and the copyist’s own effort at prophecy. Has it not served up to me a clue to the murderer’s identity? Tetuak, meanwhile, is still muttering about my unhelpful presence. Apparently, the devil sitting on the roof would enter if I leave along with Kyrill. And freeze to death outside as a consequence. I also have no doubt that such a result would then rapidly confirm my guilt in the matter of the murder. If Tetuak is the killer, it would be a good diversion tactic for him. But I don’t propose to give him, killer or not, such an easy way out.

  For a moment the roar outside the shack ceases, and everyone draws breath. The abyss of silence is more frightening than the constant battering of sound has been before it. Taulubeg licks his lips and looks shiftily around at his companions. The little man has a nondescript face, but one that is prone to revealing more of what is inside the man than any of his comrades’ visages. Where such as Sartakh hides behind an impassive face, Taulubeg signposts his moods as soon as they come on him.

  ‘Devils, demons,’ he grumbles. Poking a short, calloused finger at Tetuak, he jibes at the younger man. ‘You know nothing. South beyond Armenia there are real monsters who have only one arm and one hand in the middle of their chest. To shoot a bow, two of them stand together. And they have only one leg and foot, but still can run faster than a horse.’

  Tetuak gives a short barking laugh at the absurdity of such a tale. Devils he is prepared to accept, but obviously not strange monsters.

  ‘Run faster than a horse. With only one leg!’

  Taulubeg’s already ruddy features darken even more, as his face reveals his anger once again. He is not going to be derided in such a way. And especially not by someone who runs off at the mouth like Tetuak.

  ‘Yes. They run by jumping on their one foot. And when they tire of this, they revolve in a circle on hand and foot. They are called the Ciclopedes.’

  At this further elaboration on Taulubeg’s story, Tetuak’s amusement turns into a helpless guffaw of mirth. It is only stifled when Sartakh nudges him in the ribs to remind him to be respectful to his elders. The laughter is cut off, but the damage is done. Taulubeg continues to glare at his derider with pure hatred in his eyes. The message is clear – the boy will pay for his mockery later. And I am suddenly reminded of the incident between Taulubeg and Eldegai over the nauseous stew. Can Taulubeg have harboured a grudge, only to take his opportunity for revenge in the teeth of the storm that now rages around our shack? I feel the urge to look him squarely in the eye.

  With the walls creaking and groaning around us, I rise as if to stretch my stiff legs. Several sets of eyes shift suspiciously, following me as I step around the edge of the flickering fire. Taulubeg leans conspicuously away from me as I bend down to retrieve the kumiss bag at his side. He actually avoids my scrutiny, and I wonder again if he could be the murderer. Shoving a hand into the small of m
y back, and bending to get some feeling into it, I move to drop down closer beside Sartakh. I murmur a question to him in English.

  The Tartar’s pronunciation is execrable, but using English gives us a secret, common language. To use it now means no one knows what I am saying. And I particularly don’t want Taulubeg to overhear. Even so, I studiously avoid the use of names.

  ‘Sartakh, my friend, remember earlier, when you had to come between the dead man and our quicktempered friend over there?’

  The old Tartar screws his eyes up and gazes at me hard. For a moment I think he has not understood my words. Or to whom I refer. Then he speaks in his garbled way.

  ‘Think you that . . . the one you talk of . . . mayhap killed in revenge for such a slight?’

  I shrug my shoulders, wanting his opinion. Valuing his knowledge of the man. Taulubeg, of whom we speak, is sitting hunched over with his head bowed, ignoring the desultory chatter that flows from his other companions. The storm continues to rip around the stove-house, pinning us all together in its confines. Sartakh understands my gesture.

  ‘Perhaps right you are. But . . . he . . . is more likely to have harmed him at the time. Not later, when his mood has flown.’

  I sigh, and acknowledge his reading of Taulubeg’s hot and cold temperament. Quick to act when provoked, but quick to cool off also. Sartakh takes the kumiss bag from my grasp and tips it to his lips.

  ‘Still . . . who can tell how troubles fester in a man’s brain?’

  He leaves this reservation hanging in the air and gulps down the heady drink, his eyes twinkling. I won’t strike Taulubeg entirely from my list, then. Glancing over to the door, outside of which is the bundle that is the dead body of Eldegai, I wonder who else amongst the Tartars has reason to have killed him. Tetuak has been mortified by Eldegai, who showed up the emptiness of his boasting concerning his skill with a bow. I next consider Ulan, who has certainly had the opportunity, as it was he who first discovered me standing over the body. Had he already been awake, waiting to shift the blame for his own actions on to another?

  I glance across at where he is now engaged deep in conversation with the erratic Tetuak. The confining nature of the storm outside seems to have animated the young Tartar. The enforced proximity has driven him to engage in more intercourse than I have seen before. Perhaps the feeling of being confined with a dead man – and his murderer – is unsettling. Or maybe it is the kumiss we have all drunk. In any case, Ulan is getting red-faced over something, prodding a finger at Tetuak. Who in return is shaking his head vigorously.

  I again go over in my mind the aftermath of the argument that had blown up between Taulubeg and Eldegai. The occasion when Taulubeg accused him of being too snooty. Ulan had been there too, and had been angry over what Eldegai said about being the Il-Khan’s envoy. I had heard the words too, and now need the importance confirmed. I lean backwards on one elbow across the rough skins that insulate the ground inside the stove-house. Sartakh is sitting with his back against the bundles that are piled around the edge of the room. His eyes are closed, but I am sure the canny old man is as alert as usual. I speak to him in English again.

  ‘Why would Ulan be angry to learn that Eldegai was an envoy going to the ruler in Sarai?’

  Sartakh’s face does not betray anything, but I can see his shoulders tense at the import of my question. He slowly raises an eyelid and glances my way. He speaks, hardly moving his lips.

  ‘So, know you that he was more than a mere traveller? How clever of you. I suppose you saw the paizah.’

  Through his half-closed eyes he observes my puzzled look. Paizah?

  ‘The gold tablet you coveted when you were cheating Eldegai out of his possessions.’

  ‘Cheating . . . ?’

  I refrain from any feigned outrage, when I see the smile playing gently on Sartakh’s lips. After the start of the gambling, when I allowed Lady Luck to dictate who won and build the confidence of my marks, he took no further part in the proceedings. I thought then that he was just maintaining a distance as the leader of the band. Now I understand that he had seen through my tricks immediately. But then he clearly doesn’t care if I have duped his comrades. That is their business. I change tack and go on the offensive. After all, I suspect Sartakh of stealing this paizah himself.

  ‘Paizah, yes. The tablet that now appears to be in your possession, Sartakh.’

  His eyes open wide now and bore into me like gimlets in the hands of a Venetian shipwright. He gives a little barking laugh.

  ‘I see. You are not sure whether or not I killed Eldegai for the paizah.’ He shifts forward so his mouth is close to my ear. He whispers in it. ‘Let me explain what it represents.’ He slides his hand inside his coat, and though he doesn’t bring out the gold tablet I know he is holding it firmly. ‘This tablet is the authority of the khan given to him who carries it. Anyone who sees it must aid the bearer of the paizah. It is more than a piece of gold. It is the word of the khan himself. No Tartar would attempt to steal it, for to do so would mean certain death. The tablet told me that Eldegai was the envoy of the Il-Khan of Persia. Subordinate to the Great Khan, but an important khan nevertheless. No, I didn’t steal the paizah. I took it from his coat after his death, when I checked the dagger for blood. Now I keep it safe.’

  I ponder for a while, taking in this new information. It still doesn’t provide the answer to why Ulan reacted so badly to Eldegai’s revelation. I tell Sartakh what I heard Ulan say, calling Eldegai a demon in human form for going to Sarai. The old man sighs and throws another dung brick on the fire. The flames die for a moment, then flare up brighter than before, lighting everyone’s face in an eerie glow.

  ‘Devils, demons. I wish you hadn’t mentioned monsters in the first place,’ he grumbles. ‘Anyway, mayhap you heard wrong. You are still inexpert in our tongue.’

  I shake my head, gazing across the flames at the figure of Ulan, who has now slumped back and appears to be dozing. His altercation with Tetuak is apparently finished.

  ‘No. I heard the words well. He said what he said.’ I hesitate for a moment, watching Sartakh frown in annoyance. My gambler’s instinct tells me that Sartakh’s interest is piqued. Now all I have to do is make him believe he is cleverer than me. I don a look of total perplexity.

  ‘I just don’t understand what it all means.’

  Sartakh’s eyes gleam.

  ‘Then you should have listened just now to what he was saying to Tetuak. You see, it’s all to do with who is really the Great Khan. When the last khan died, there remained his three brothers to succeed him, though you can forget the middle one. Hulegu is the Il-Khan of Persia, of whom we speak, and has no ambitions to be the Great Khan. Though it matters who he will support out of the other two. Arigh-Boke is the youngest brother, but he sits at the seat of power in Karakorum. And despite being the youngest, he is . . . how would you say it in your dog tongue? He carries on in the old ways.’

  I know the sort from my trading days – holding everybody in their enterprise back, while those with new ideas want to forge ahead. I can think of a choice word or two to describe them – prehistoric, stick-in-the-mud, fogey – but I choose to be polite.

  ‘A traditionalist.’

  ‘A trad . . .’ Sartakh can’t quite get his tongue around the word, waves his hand to acknowledge the expression, and presses on. ‘Now, two years ago, the older brother, while still on campaign in Cathay, mind you, breaks all the rules. Without returning to our heartland, he goes and proclaims himself Great Khan. There’s a big—’

  I feed him the word he seeks. ‘Rift.’

  He nods. ‘Big rift. All the lesser rulers – like Alghu, the Chaghadai khan – are scrabbling around trying to decide whom to ally themselves with. I suppose the fact that Eldegai was on his way to Sarai would suggest Hulegu has decided which way to jump. And that is along with the traditionalists. Young Ulan, however, favours the older brother.’

  There is the sound of a rasping throat over my shoulder, and Karak
uchuk leans forward out of the dark. He spits a yellowish gob into the fire, where it sizzles briefly and is gone. I am reminded of the time he interfered in my gambling to suggest a game of Sic Bo. He is once again poking his nose in where it’s not wanted. He growls at Sartakh in their own tongue.

  ‘Speak a proper language, Sartakh. Not the devil’s tongue, so we know where you stand.’

  I can see the fire in Sartakh’s eyes, but he keeps calm.

  ‘I was merely telling the traveller about Arigh-Boke and his brother.’

  Karakuchuk growls again, wiping the remains of the saliva from his whiskery chin.

  ‘The brother you speak of is no more than an impostor. How can he be Great Khan, when he doesn’t even come to Karakorum for the kuriltai – the great gathering?’

  It sounds to me as if this brother has taken a big gamble to win the crown. Not being at the traditional place to stake his claim, he breaks with the old rules and does it anyway. I am beginning to like him. Karakuchuk continues grumbling, however. ‘The boy’s gone native away there in Cathay; he’s in love with all the effete ways of the Chins. I wouldn’t be surprised if he doesn’t move the capital there next.’

  Ulan hears what the old man has said, and suddenly there is tension boiling in the stove-house. ‘What’s wrong with him? Arigh-Boke is a fossil, always hanging on to the old ways. And there’s much to marvel at in Cathay.’

  ‘Well, as none of us here’s been there, how can you comment?’ sneers the old man.

  Ulan rocks back on his haunches.

  ‘Well, no. But I’ve heard lots of stories.’

  ‘Stories,’ laughs Karakuchuk. ‘I’ve heard stories about enchanted mountains, unicorns, and ants that dig for gold. It doesn’t mean they’re true.’

  Ulan butts in again.

  ‘I’ll tell you a story I was told by a Chin. He told me of a province to the west which, at whatever age a man enters it, then that is the age he keeps. But you have to stay there to remain alive.’