Silk Road

by Falconer, Colin

  The gathering shouted and cheered him. The leopard sat up, pricking its ears.

  ‘Khubilai went to Cathay as a lion and they have made him a lamb. My brother has forgotten how to ride!’ he shouted, the worst insult a Tatar could say of another. ‘We shall march on Shang-tu with an army of our best horsemen and we will reduce his city to rubble!’

  Uproar.

  The firestorm had to come, Khutelun thought, as the courtiers around her bayed for Khubilai’s blood.

  And it seems Joss-ran is the lightning that will set the spark.

  LXIX

  FOR KHUTELUN, QARAQORUM was both a wonder and a disappointment. She wondered if Chinggis Khan would have approved of his ancestors building themselves palaces such as the ones he had spent a lifetime tearing down.

  A canal had been dug across the plain from the Orkhon River, to power a waterwheel for the city’s blacksmiths. But these foundries were not only forging arrowheads and swords and wheels for siege engines, but picks and ploughs, mattocks and sickles also.

  They were cultivating the plain, she realized with a sickening lurch. The Tatars were becoming farmers, that which they had always despised.

  Ariq Böke might revile his brother Khubilai, but it was clear he himself was no Chinggis Khan either. The comforts at his palace both astonished and dismayed her. In the cellar was a brick furnace that carried heated air throughout the building in stone flues. In this way every room of the palace was kept warm at night. It was an impressive accomplishment, but was this the way for a Tatar horseman to live?

  And then there was the silver tree.

  Chinggis and the Khaghans that had succeeded him had taken captive craftsmen and artisans from the cities they had conquered in Persia, Cathay and even Europe. Among them was a master goldsmith, who had been brought back from a raid on a distant land called Hungary two decades before. He had been commissioned to design and build a tree of silver for use at the Great Khan’s feasts. It had been artfully designed, with four silver serpents entwined around the branches. From each of the serpents’ mouths came a different beverage; from one, rice wine; from another, black koumiss; from another, honey mead; the last spouted red wine made from grapes.

  Underneath this tree was a crypt in which a man was hidden; a pipe led from the crypt to a silver angel, holding a trumpet, perched at the very top of the tree. When one of the beverages ran low the man blew on the pipe, and the angel’s trumpet gave a blast that alerted the servants in the kitchen. They then hurried to pour more beverages into the vats hidden below the tree.

  In this way there was never an excuse for any man to be sober at one of the Khan of Khan’s feasts.

  In itself it was assuredly a wonder and Khutelun had no objection to a man getting good and drunk. Men had always intoxicated themselves; they probably always would. But drinking from silver trees? Was this the way they had been taught to live? A Tatar’s strength came from the steppe, from the cold wind and the wide valleys and living day by day on milk curd and snow. On the Roof of the World there were no palaces heated with furnaces and no silver trees to feed their gluttony.

  This Ariq Böke might have the blood of Chinggis in his veins, but he did not have his heart. She was, at least, relieved to find that the Great Khan’s soldiers shunned the palace and disdainfully pitched their yurts on the plain. But this practice also meant that there was now a divide between the Great Khan and his people. She wondered what Chinggis Khan would have thought of that.

  Ariq Böke sat on his ebony throne. At his feet, fish-eyed and bloody, was the corpse of a prisoner. He had recently been disembowelled and steam still rose from his body cavity. The Great Khan had his left foot inside the gaping wound.

  The day after their arrival Khutelun was escorted back into the palace by a chamberlain for private audience with Ariq Böke. She knelt down at the foot of the dais.

  ‘So, Khutelun.’

  She waited, her eyes fixed on the corpse.

  ‘We have heard much about you.’ He grunted and shifted his weight. ‘And how is my cousin, Qaidu?’

  ‘Great Khan, my father rides like a youth and wrestles men half his age.’

  ‘We hear many reports of his strength and wisdom.’ She wondered what it was he wanted with her. Surely their business was concluded. ‘He did you great honour to entrust the barbarian ambassadors to your care.’

  But I failed in my duty, Khutelun thought. Is that why I am here? Am I to be punished?

  ‘Tell me about them.’

  ‘The barbarians, Great Khan? One was a holy man, sickly looking and with no magic. The other was a warrior, a giant with hair like fire. He was clever as well as strong. He had even learned to talk like a Person.’ She nodded to the khan’s chamberlain, who stepped forward with the gifts she had salvaged from Joss-ran’s horse after the ambush.

  Ariq Böke studied them carefully in turn; first the mailed helmet, the leather gauntlets, the ebony inkstand and then the rubies, which he discarded on the marble floor as casually as a man might toss aside a few grains of rice.

  Finally he examined the damascened sword she had found lying on the grass after the fight. She still felt a sickening lurch in her stomach as she looked at it now. She prayed they had not harmed him when they took it from him.

  ‘They were Christians?’

  She understood the nature of the question. She had heard that Ariq Böke favoured the Nestorians. ‘They prayed to Jesus and the Christian saints. They held Mary in great esteem. But they spoke also of someone they called the Pope, whom they said was their God’s chosen upon the Earth and to whom they gave their obeisance.’

  ‘This Pope is their Khaghan?’

  ‘I do not think so. From what I understood, this Pope is not a warrior. It seemed he was more like a priest.’

  Ariq Böke grunted, no doubt remembering how even Chinggis himself had to execute a holy man in order to gain supremacy over his own tribe. Perhaps the barbarian princes had not been as wise and had lost control of their clans to the shamans.

  ‘I would have liked to talk with these barbarians. There is doubtless much to learn from them. It is no doubt why my brother thought to snatch them from you.’ He shifted again. It was evident now that he was in pain. ‘You know that I am to ride against Khubilai?’

  ‘Yes, Great Khan.’

  ‘When I move against my brother, can I count on your father’s support to protect my flank?’

  Khutelun’s heart beat faster. Qaidu had instructed her to give Ariq Böke his support at the khuriltai, but he had not empowered her to make military treaties, least of all with the Khan of Khans. ‘I am sure he will protect his right to live as a Tatar by whatever means he can.’

  The Khan gave a low laugh. ‘A careful response. But it does not answer my question.’

  ‘I cannot know the mind of my father, Great Khan.’

  ‘I think you know it well enough. Tell me then how you think a Tatar should live.’

  Khutelun felt her heart beating hard, almost painfully, in her chest. ‘In the saddle of a horse and by the yassaq of Chinggis Khan.’

  ‘And my brother Khubilai? Does your father think he lives like a true Tatar?’

  ‘As I have said, Great Khan, I do not know my father’s mind. But I know he is pledged to obey the true Khan of Khans here in Qaraqorum.’ Well, up to a point.

  Ariq Böke sighed. He stared at the body at his feet. ‘It is for the gout,’ he said, though she had not remarked upon his present situation, nor would she have imagined doing so. ‘My shamans say I have to leave my foot there until the body cools.’

  Since she had not been invited to speak, she did not do so.

  ‘I had to wait for the full moon. They have said their prayers over me and they tell me it will cure it.’ When she still said nothing he said: ‘They say you are a healer and soothsayer.’

  ‘Yes, Great Khan. They say I have the gift.’

  ‘And what do you think of my shamans’ remedies?’

  There is danger here
, Khutelun thought. If I denigrate them, they have the Khan’s ear and I will surely lose one of mine for criticizing them. ‘If a remedy proves effective, then it is a good one.’

  Ariq Böke gave another laugh, as compliment to her shrewdness. ‘Indeed. And should it not work, can you think of a better way?’

  ‘Should it fail to provide you with relief, Great Khan, I may perhaps try. But I fear my poor shaman’s tricks may not be as spectacular.’

  ‘And what poor shaman’s tricks do you employ?’

  ‘Some say that they feel better after I have made sacrifice to Tengri and laid my hand on them. For myself I profess no qualities of healing. I only repeat what others tell me.’

  He stood up, gasping with pain as he did so, and kicked the corpse over the edge of the dais. It rolled down the steps and finally came to rest, sprawled horribly on the carpets at the foot of the throne. ‘Then may you place your hand on my left foot here! Because for the last three moons I have had my foot inside men’s guts and the only relief I have had is knowing they were my brother’s soldiers!’

  She noticed the shamans creep from the room like shadows.

  ‘I must rid myself of this gout if I am to ride against my brother.’

  ‘Great Khan, I will do what I can,’ she said. ‘But first I must meet the spirits.’

  ‘And what do you need for that?’

  ‘My drums and my flail. And then hemp smoke or strong mare’s milk.’

  The Khan slumped down on his throne. ‘Do what you will. But take this Devil from my toes!’

  LXX

  AN IMPRESSIVE GATHERING, Khutelun thought. She recognized many members of the Golden Clan, as well as the previous Khan’s most powerful generals, fearsome in their lamellar armour and winged helmets. Ranged behind them were khans from all the great clans north of the Gobi, their silk pavilions spread across the plain, a riot of colour against a lowering sky.

  Ariq Böke was carried out of the city on a litter, resplendent in a gown of pure white, decorated with gold. He was surrounded by an honour guard of his best soldiers. Drummers, mounted on camels, followed the procession, beating the dirge. Silken flags of red and gold and white snapped in the wind.

  As he passed her Ariq Böke saw Khutelun and held up his hand to order the procession to halt.

  ‘Khutelun!’ he barked.

  She dismounted and bent the knee three times, as was demanded by custom.

  ‘You are returning to the Fergana steppe?’

  ‘Yes, Great Khan.’

  ‘We are sorry to see you go.’ He stamped his left foot hard on the wooden floor of the litter. ‘You took the fire from our foot. We can ride again! We would have you as our own shaman if you will stay in Qaraqorum.’

  Khutelun gave another slight bow of her head. ‘You honour me, Great Khan. But my father awaits my return.’ And your shamans would have me poisoned in a week should I decide otherwise.

  ‘We are sorry to lose you.’ He leaned on the rail of the litter. ‘When you return to Fergana tell your father that I ride to find Khubilai and that the Golden Clan rides at my back!’

  ‘I will, Great Khan.’

  ‘I shall return with my brother in chains!’ he shouted and gave the order to move on.

  She watched the procession make its way across the plain, the army of the Great Khan of the Mongols on its way east once more, to again make war on the eternal enemy, the Chin.

  But now, for the first time, the Tatars would be fighting one of their own.

  Shang-tu

  from the time of the third summer moon to the

  first autumn moon in the Year of the Monkey

  LXXI

  ‘THERE,’ SARTAQ MURMURED.

  Shang-tu, capital of the Son of Heaven, Celestial Ruler of the Whole Earth, lay spread before them, beside a lake the colour of rippled steel. It was surrounded on all sides by truncated mountains that reminded Josseran of the humps of camels. The skyline was, to a Christian eye, an impossible collision of faiths inside a single city wall; the stupas of the idolaters and the minarets of the Mohammedans needled into the sky above the dun-coloured lamaseries of the Tanguts and the painted pavilions of the Cathays.

  Beyond the walls mud-brick houses crowded together along twisted and muddy lanes, except to the north where the tiered roofs of the imperial palace glistened in the sun, among the green and shaded pathways of the royal parks.

  William shouted a prayer of thanks to God, startling their Tatar escort. ‘The Lord has guided and protected us through our long journey! May He be praised and thanked!’ Angry Man stared at him as if he had gone mad.

  ‘You are being a little premature,’ Josseran grunted.

  ‘Have we not reached our destination, ingrate?’

  ‘It is true we have journeyed this six months, and endured hardships such as I did not believe I could bear. But it is well not to forget that we are still only halfway there.’ He turned back to gaze on the spectacular vista before him. ‘We still have to go back. Remember that.’

  An earth embankment formed a defensive perimeter around the city. The city lay beyond, green banners fluttering from the stone walls, armoured sentries gazing down at them from the watch-towers.

  They entered through an arch in the South Gate and were immediately assailed by the stench. In this at least, Josseran thought, Shang-tu was little different from Saint-Denis or Rome. They made their way through the press of crowds and cramped wooden houses. Josseran noticed how the noise subsided the closer they came to the palace. When they reached the palace walls themselves no one in the street raised their voice above a whisper.

  They stopped in front of two huge, iron-studded gates.

  The guards in the tower recognized the uniform of the imperial guard and the gates swung open.

  Inside, the silence was complete. After the squalor of the streets this was a sanctuary; there were flagged courts and soaring pagodas with upturned eaves and tiles of lacquered bamboo of peacock blue and jade green, all glazed so that they shone like glass in the sun. Sentries with the same golden helmets and leopard-skin cloaks as their escort presided over the silence. The Pavilion of Great Harmony loomed before them on a vast earthen platform, perhaps ten rods wide and as much as thirty rods long. It was stupefying in its symmetry and its size. Lacquered vermilion pillars supported the triple roof. Golden dragons and serpents coiled up the pillars and writhed along the eaves high above; the scudding white clouds made it appear that the dragons themselves were in motion, their golden-scaled wings bearing them aloft.

  The palace was surrounded by a huge terrace, skirted with balustrades, all made of pure white marble. There were bronze cauldrons each holding hundreds of incense candles, so that the air was sickly sweet with their fragrance. Below them was a tiled court, silent and empty, shaded by ancient pines and cypresses.

  At Sartaq’s command they left their horses and climbed the marble steps to its summit.

  Two enormous stone lions, each the size of a Tatar pony, guarded the entrance. There was a brass-studded door and two smaller doors on either side.

  Their arrival had been anticipated. A chamberlain, dressed in a pillbox hat and robe of crimson silk, was on hand to escort them through the portals to the Hall of Audience.

  Josseran and William were ordered to remove their boots. The chamberlain held out the white leather buskins they were to put on their feet so that they did not soil the silk and golden carpets within.

  ‘Remember, do not step on the threshold,’ Sartaq whispered. It was in fact to the height of his knees so he would have to clamber over it. ‘It is considered the most terrible omen and anyone who does so is subject to the harshest penalty.’

  ‘Even the ambassador of the Christians?’ Josseran asked him.

  The expression on Sartaq’s face was answer to that. William prepared himself for this momentous occasion. He opened his leather satchel, put on the white surplice and purple stole that he had carried with him all the way from Rome. In one hand he held the il
luminated Bible and Psalter, in the other he had a missal and silver censer. He slipped a silver crucifix around his neck.

  Josseran thought of the gifts he had brought from Acre: the damascened sword, the rubies, the leather gauntlets, all lost in Sartaq’s raid. He thought, too, of the white mantle with the red cross pattée of the Order of the Temple. He had intended to wear it for his audience with the Great Khan but instead he would appear dressed like any other Tatar. He felt like a beggar.

  ‘Are you ready, Templar?’ William sniffed.

  ‘As ready as I shall ever be.’

  ‘Let us confront the heathen, then.’

  Josseran drew a deep breath. William went ahead of him; he entered the great court of Khubilai Khan singing Salve Regina.

  LXXII

  A RIOT OF COLOUR, a scene of impossible splendour to stir the soul and dazzle the eyes.

  Everywhere there was silk and brocade, furs and gold; Josseran saw Cathays in iron pot helmets and crimson gowns; Tangut lamas with shaven heads and saffron robes; courtiers with thin and drooping moustaches in the garb of the Uighurs wearing orange robes with high silk hats, tied with a bow. There were scribes in the flowing robes of Mohammedans alongside Tatar holy men, almost naked, with tangled beards and wild hair.

  Above their heads the green and white triangular flags of the Emperor hung from the walls, among pillars of vermilion and gilt. This entire fresco was captured again in the mirror sheen of the marble floors.

  Khubilai, the Power of God upon the Earth, Master of Thrones, Ruler of Rulers, sat on a high throne of gold and ivory, with gilt dragons coiling along its arms. He wore a robe of golden brocade and a bowl-shaped helmet with a neck-piece of leopard skin. There was a buckle of pure gold on his sash belt.

  He was a short, stocky man, Josseran noted, well into his middle years. His hair was looped in two braids at the back of his head in the manner of a Tatar. He had gold-hooped rings in his ears and a thin, drooping moustache. His face was unusually pale, though his cheeks were rose-pink. Josseran realized with shock that this effect had been achieved with the aid of powdered rouge.