Samarkand the Omnibus: Books 1-2

by Graham Diamond

  The onlookers oohed and ahhed at his expertise, holding their breath as the razor-honed blade whistled through the air like a lightning strike, cleaving off the target’s head, sending it tumbling down the track. The crowd went wild; Gamal sat up straighter, laughed, waved the victory sign. His thoroughbred steed reared back on her hind legs, whinnied with her magnificent mane freely flowing. Against the backdrop of blue sky and gentle grass both rider and horse posed statue-like before the teeming throngs lifting their voices in excitement.

  Then suddenly, without explanation, the horse began to snort and kick. Gamal pressed forward, tried to soothe her, wondering if perhaps she’d been stung by a hornet or caught a sharp pebble in her hoof. The Arabian mare shook to break free of its rider, then bolted. Kabul jumped out of his seat, hands clutching at the thin beam railing. The crowd hushed as the horse raced off the track, watching in confusion, unsure whether this was part of the exhibition or not.

  Gamal tossed his sword to the ground, took firm control of the reins with both hands, drawing them in. The mare screeched, scattered mounds of dust as she fought against him, legs wildly lashing. The hero son of Kabul was a master of horses, everyone knew; yet somehow he had lost control. The balking beast ran out onto the flat while Gamal leaned forward, giving free play to the horse’s hind legs, knowingly creating less wind resistance.

  Again the animal reared, and from the pavilion Kabul could see the crazed look in its eyes. Gamal tried to rein in again; something gave, no one seemed certain what. The saddle’s cinch snapped, straps broke free and flapped. The crowd gasped as mighty Gamal helplessly slid from the saddle, his hand lurching for the pommel. His bulky frame dipped from sight, the mare staggered with the weight, then bolted again. Gamal’s hands and arms flailed in the air, his torso tumbling to the earth. But his foot caught in the stirrup and he was unable to free himself. Women screamed in horror, men jumped up and gaped. The mare lurched ahead; Gamal was thrown back and dragged.

  The back of his head hit the hardened soil like a leaden weight, bouncing three times against rock. He was savagely pummeled while the mailed vest tore from his back and his flesh ripped over the gravelly track. There was a growing tumult among the citizens. Their hero was being pulled like a plow, roughly and savagely. The mare was now frothing at the mouth and dashing madly in circles in an uncontrollable rage. Pages came running, vainly trying to stop the insane horse, to run her down or kill her before she killed Gamal. In a frenzy the mare saw them and only picked up more speed.

  Gamal was shrieking, his cries piercing the still air horribly. His face was bloodied, his skull cracked open at the top, oozing a colorless humor. Teeth flew from his mouth; his jaw snapped like a walnut. His eyelids were torn from his face and his blood spilled onto the dirt.

  Riders were now closing in on the Arabian steed — loyal troops who had served their beloved general faithfully during his long and difficult campaigns. They hurled lariats at the wheezing mare, blocked her advance, circled back and cut her off. Yet still the crazed animal remained free, dragging Gamal as though he were a saddlebag.

  “Shoot the beast!” cried outraged and anguished Kabul, running from his shaded place and reaching the edge of the target field. Guests and dignitaries watched lines of expert horsemen scatter the frightened throngs as they headed for the field. Everywhere was pandemonium; the mare still ran feverishly.

  Arrows came tearing across the sky; the mare dodged, jumped a hurdle, bared her teeth and snorted demoniacally. Other horses reared up in fear of her, their riders at a loss to steady them and press them forward. Closer and closer she came to the stands, Lucienus and those around him looking on in abject terrors Gamal was pulled roughly through muck and grass, his body smashing against boulders and stumps, his bones cracking. Archers aimed, shot, hit the demented animal time and time again, shafts by the score piercing her belly and throat. The mare lifted from the ground in pain, screaming awful screams, trying to rear, to bolt. Then in front of the shaded stand her legs gave way; she fell shudderingly in a heap and gasped her last breaths.

  Amid the surge of pages and aides women and children ran crying across the field, past the pressing phalanx of palace guards trying to restore order. From behind the barriers came the throngs, grouping around the slain horse and its rider, recoiling at what they saw. Even the stoutest soldiers among them were sickened and turned away, pale and ill. Someone rolled Gamal onto his back. Black, gaping holes were where once his eyes had been. His features were unrecognizable. Purpled and flattened flesh was where his nose had jutted. His crushed skull still bled profusely, and his crimson cavern of a mouth continued to ooze dark bile. It was hideous, monstrous, vile. Kabul winced at the sight, frozen in his tracks, his head spinning with horror. Before his people, before the invited guests and foreign dignitaries, he’d been shamed, made a fool of.

  Tupol took charge of the situation. He called for a litter, ordered the crowds dispersed. Strong-stomached aides came hurrying; they threw a blanket over the limp corpse, quickly carried him from the scene.

  Gamal’s brothers gathered, speechless, shocked. The Khan put his hands to his face and growled like an animal. When he took them away, his good eye glared malevolently at his offspring. All the faces remained blank.

  “Which of you,” he hissed, “has done this thing?” He was close to ordering all their deaths at once, right here. “Well? Who?” Spittle flew from the side of his mouth. Then he sneered, smiled cruelly at them all. “Or were you in this together, eh? Planning behind my back for this opportune moment.” He spat in their faces. “Scum!” Steel glinted as his blade rose halfway from its scabbard.

  “Sire, no!” It was Tupol who stopped him.

  The Khan heaved a sigh, peered murderously at them one at a time. “You think you’ve won, don’t you? You think that with Gamal out of the way, your ascension shall be easy...”

  Not a single one of the six sons met his gaze; they shifted their eyes toward the ground, the bloodstained, damp ground where their eldest brother had lain in death. There was no sorrow for Gamal; but had Kabul been as observant as Tupol, he would have seen the fear. For now each, although not willing to protest innocence, began to wonder just who among them had been bold enough to remove Gamal. All they did know for certain was that the hour of murder among them had begun — and once unleashed, it could not be stopped.

  Kabul let a small smile work at the edges of his mouth, and with the Chinaman and Tupol flanking him, started to walk away, following the litter with Gamal’s remains. Tonight the funeral pyre would burn brightly over Samarkand. Tomorrow the intrigues would begin anew.

  Lucienus, still in a daze from the occurrence, wandered listlessly from his honored place among the stands, unable to give comfort to any of the wailing women being led away from the pavilion. From the corner of his vision he caught sight of Kabul, the Khan seeming now far older and more wearied than he had an hour before. All around, equally disturbed and perplexed, the other invited guests milled listlessly. Like him, they had come to witness the spectacle of this glorious occasion — and like him they had seen far more of a spectacle than they ever dreamed.

  So, he muttered to himself as he surveyed the scene, it seems there are more cracks in this Hun empire than we realized. But which of the Khan’s sons had felt powerful enough to so openly destroy his brother, he was at a loss to guess. Perhaps, as Kabul charged, they had done it together. Or maybe not. Far off the sides of the pavilion he caught sight of a few desert-garbed figures moving away from the crowd. Two men, one woman. The woman had glanced his way, Lucienus was positive. Their eyes had briefly met as she turned to her companions and fled among the throng.

  Strange, mused the ambassador from Persia, running a finger gently at the side of his jowls. Could it be that Gamal’s death was not the doing of his brothers at all?

  Chapter Thirteen

  Temugin sat with his head bowed, his hands nervously tapping together between his folded legs. The room was brightly lit, charco
al gaily burning in every brazier, candles gleaming pale-yellow flames atop the table and mantle. The curtains were drawn tightly, the windows shuttered and double bolted. A trusted sentry stood solitary duty outside the spacious apartment, immobile as a statue, one white-knuckled, hirsute hand firmly clutched about the hilt of his sword.

  The son of Kabul fidgeted, and although the evening was chilly, Temugin was sweating. He refilled his chalice, cursing beneath his breath. Trust no one. No one. That had been the advice of the aged seer, Hezekiah, the man who had so correctly predicted Gamal’s return — as well as the imminent danger. Temugin was now taking that advice. After today, after what he had witnessed, he could rely only upon himself. Upon his own wits. And rightly so, for even Kabul had realized that once the murders began, there was no stopping them.

  The crusted, mangled old man had proven his weight in gold, as able in his predictions as he was demented. Was it not Hezekiah who had accurately forecast Gamal’s return to Samarkand? And had he not also warned Temugin of the personal danger lurking? Hezekiah was a treasure to him now, guarded and carefully kept away from the treacheries of the palace for Temugin’s private use.

  Trust no one...Trust no one...

  Wise advice. Trust no one at all, Temugin had decided. Except for the grizzled soothsayer himself, of course. His need for the old man was greater than ever: to read his stars, keep him safe, help him secure the throne against his siblings. When at last the empire was his, the old fool would be greatly rewarded for his deeds. There would be hell in Samarkand. Yes, living hell upon the earth — once Temugin was named King of the Huns.

  *

  In an opposite wing of the palace, in chambers set above the famous hanging gardens, Mufiqua sat with his water pipe, sucking opium, dreaming of days to come, days of grandeur and majesty. The drug-inspired visions opened new worlds for him, new vistas. He saw himself as ruler of the whole world, the stunning, elusive dancing girl Sharon beside him. He could see her, almost touch her, smell her perfume, hear her laugh and the jangling of her bracelets as she twirled. The memory of what had happened that night in Karim’s house had been blurred by Zadek. Mufiqua now only recalled the softness of her flesh, the sensual taunting of her swaying. All the rest was forgotten.

  Mufiqua lay back, head propped on silk pillows. His misted eyes followed the dancing flame of the brazier, and once again he saw Sharon, vividly hearing her calling to him, beckoning him to join her forever in a world of purple clouds and glittering stars. Somewhere, somewhere it existed. Not just in his brain, but in reality. Mufiqua smiled in his semi-conscious state. The opium Amar had brought him this day had been far superior to any he had ever sampled before. It sent him soaring like a falcon across the sky, into the sun itself. He was a winged angel; no, more than that — he was a god. Nothing could harm him; he was invulnerable, protected by his stars and his birthright.

  He thought of Gamal, now a heap of ashes. He could still make out the rising smoke from the ebbing flames of the pyre as his eyes focused past the verandah and across the city. He chuckled to himself. Gamal was a fool. They’re all fools, all of them. Let them play their games, let them maim and kill each other. All the better for me. I am invincible! Mufiqua, the god! Let any who denied this fact dare to tell him openly. He would choke the life out of them, yes, even that ox, Krishna. With the opium for support, even the dreaded chancellor of the dungeons would be no match. Mufiqua would have him spread-eagle before all his brothers, watch him squirm and beg while a hundred boys buggered him. Enjoy his pain and anguish as the executioner’s stake impaled him — slowly. It was going to be a glorious reign when Mufiqua became Khan. Everything he’d ever lusted would at last be his. Yes, even the girl, the mysterious dancing girl, whose smell and feel had never left him. He and she would spend their nights together in this very chamber overlooking the gardens, supplied endlessly by thoughtful Amar, lost in their dreams and visions and fantasies. Let someone else lead the armies to victory. Yes, there would be others to do such dirty work during the glorious reign of Mufiqua. Whom would he keep alive? Who would lead his hordes against Persia and the Turks? He giggled when he thought of Niko. Niko, of course! Let the lover of life and ten thousand women win his battles for him! Or better yet, Tupol! His laughter became a demented howl; he pictured the deformed, limping youth being fitted for battle armor and helped onto his horse. He broke into hysterics at the very notion of Tupol holding a sword and charging wildly among the endless legions of the dung-eating sanshah.

  Mufiqua pulled the pipe from his mouth, burped, watched the hazy blue-tinted smoke rise to the stone ceiling. There were images in the mist as well, vague images of terrible battles won under his name, new glories and empires, slaves by the hundreds of thousands, an endless multitude to grovel at his feet, die for him, fornicate with their own mothers for him. It was going to be good, his reign. It was going to be wonderful. History would never forget...never forget...never forget...

  He fell over in a stupor, the hazy smoke wisping from the window. He could not hear the sudden and raucous laughter that seeped inside his rooms from the apartments opposite the courtyard.

  *

  Niko stretched back luxuriously across the feathered mattress, agreeably allowing the whore to wipe clean his gleaming, naked body with a handcloth dampened with honeyed wine. The ebony-skinned girl giggled girlishly; Niko roared, his flaccid penis beginning to swell again only minutes after his climax. At the foot of the bed a second whore widened her eyes at the sight.

  Niko glared at her straight-faced for a moment, then laughed so hard he had to hold his sides. The prostitutes shared his mirth, reaching out and tickling him, probing their fingers up and along his sensitive parts. Niko sat up, held the arms of the black-skinned whore, stared with growing lust at the other. The girl, although well trained in pleasing and pleasure, was unable to stop her flush. Niko noted her firm exposed breasts, like ripe melons, nipples dark and hard. Her tousled hair fell loosely across soft shoulders, rustling slightly with every breath. “Come here,” commanded Niko, voice thick and husky. The girl smiled a knowing smile, crawled onto the bed as her companion blew out the candle. And there, in the dark, the high-living son of Kabul took his pleasure, urgency heightened to fevered pitch as the flesh of both surrounded him, kissing, making love to him slowly.

  The low and lonely wail of a horn broke through the night. “What was that?” rasped the dark-skinned beauty.

  The second and younger whore lifted her face from Niko’s belly and stared to the window. A strong breeze was pushing aside the flimsy curtains, and as they swayed, she glimpsed the black night sky, moonless and starless, a dull-orange glow spreading across the horizon.

  The horn sounded again, this time even more dismal and forlorn. Niko stared at the funeral pyre, for the first time thinking of the day’s events, which had culminated so abruptly and strangely. “It’s nothing,” he whispered in the still, running his fingers through the hair on his chest and feeling the sticky sweat. “Just the dying flames of my brother’s funeral.”

  “And the trumpet?” questioned the ebony woman, naked save for the necklace and bracelets made of seashells she wore.

  Niko listened hard, perplexed. In truth he did not know what the trumpet signified. Sloughing it off, he said, “My father must have ordered his cornet to sound the demise of the pyre,” he told them, guessing. The shrill sound had unnerved him, and he gruffly pushed both women aside, stepped through the shadows and filled to the brim his golden goblet. Studded jade and turquoise stones encrusted at the base glittered in the pale-orange glow. Niko walked boldly to the verandah, slid open the door and stepped out into the night. The lights of the city burned around him, a thousand lightless windows suddenly grew bright both across the solemn palace and below in the quiet, dusty streets of the old quarters of Samarkand. Niko grew uneasy.

  A hand on his shoulder made him jump; he turned to see the melon-breasted girl hanging onto him, concern in her eyes. “Please, my lord,” she stammere
d, “come back inside.”

  He nodded, tossing the chalice to the tiles, sliding the door shut, and then the curtains as well. He got back on the bed and grinned, slapping the ebony whore on the rump with an open hand. “Never mind those fools,” he said, arms opened wide to enfold them both. “Whatever it is, it’s unimportant.”

  One of the women lowered her gaze. “The city mourns, my lord. The Lord Gamal was, a great man, they say. A true hero of the Huns and all peoples who serve them.” Unspoken was the phrase: And he was your brother.

  Niko scratched his belly, rolled over on his back, sighing while the women massaged his flesh, worked their fingers in and out of the knotted muscles. It was strange, he mused, that while he gained so much pleasure among females, his other brothers would at this very moment be worry-filled and sullen, peeking nervously to see what lurked behind shadows, afraid of unfamiliar footsteps. Jamuga would brood, Krishna would take out his frustrations on some poor hapless soul festering in the labyrinth of dungeons.

  Halfwits, Niko thought. Spending their time in gloom when there were the soft arms of women to hold them, sweet wetness to cleanse themselves in. Let them, then. Let them wallow in their miseries, plot their plots and scheme their schemes. Let them while away their time in futile and stupid dreams, dreams that are never going to come true.

  Then Niko turned over again, reached for the ebony-skinned lovely and moaned softly as his body blended with hers.

  *

  There was a constant drip drip flowing from the cold, damp walls. Khalkali felt a shiver and tightened his flowing cape around him. He walked unarmed down the steps, returning the salute of the officer on duty at the low-ceilinged black gate, then stood aside while the man fumbled with his keys, unlocked the lock, and swung the iron wide for the lord to pass. A single lantern hung from davits, swaying gently, casting shadows along the length of the corridor. The putrid smell of old urine and feces swept unwelcomely into — Khalkali’s nostrils. He hated these dungeons. Loathed them about as much as he loathed the chancellor who governed over them. Still, this little sojourn was not for pleasure.