Silk Road

by Falconer, Colin

  ‘It is all right, I will deal with him,’ Josseran said. ‘Leave us.’

  ‘He has a bad-luck demon,’ Sartaq insisted, and then he and his fellows withdrew. He heard them outside, preparing the caravan, saddling the horses and camels for the day’s journey.

  Josseran crouched down. ‘William?’

  ‘I dreamed of the Devil,’ he mumbled.

  ‘It was a roach. That is all.’

  ‘Beelzebub knows how sinful I am. He knows I have failed.’

  Perhaps the sun has turned his mind, Josseran thought, just as Sartaq said. ‘William, it is morning. We must continue with our journey.’

  ‘I have put my fingers in the wounds of Christ and still I do not believe! I do not have the faith. I am filled with lust and envy. It is why God did not vouchsafe me the souls of the barbarians.’

  ‘The sun will soon be up. We have to leave.’

  ‘I have failed. All my life I have wanted to bring God to men but I have failed.’

  Josseran helped him to his feet and led him outside. They were back to travelling by day again. The horses stamped in the dawn chill, and the camels hawed and complained as Sartaq tied them to the string.

  He helped William astride his camel, leading him as he might a blind beggar. As a mauve dawn spread along the horizon they set off again, through the gates of the han. William kept his eyes fixed on the horizon and the private fancies of his nightmares. He did not speak all that day. The Tatars muttered among themselves and kept their distance.

  Another endless day of furnace heat. Midway through the morning the dust haze cleared suddenly and the Celestial Mountains loomed before them. The necklace of snow seemed unbearably close. Far to the west, they could even make out the white ridges at the Roof of the World.

  The haze descended again as quickly as it had lifted and the mountains vanished once more behind the yellow mists of the Taklimakan.

  They rested that night in the ruins of an abandoned caravanserai.

  It was as desolate a place as Josseran had ever seen. The dome of the mosque had collapsed many years ago, and moonlight filtered in through the vault, dappling on the flagged stones of the floor and the broken black beams. There were scorch marks on the walls where it had been fired, perhaps by the soldiers of Chinggis Khan half a century before.

  Josseran and William sat apart from the others. The Tatars huddled around their fire, muttering darkly among themselves and casting hostile glances in William’s direction. But Josseran was not afraid of them. The Tatars had learned cast-iron discipline in Khubilai’s army and they would see them safe to their destination, even though he knew Angry Man for one would have gladly cut both their throats.

  Josseran gazed upwards. Through the ruin of the roof he saw a single star appear in the northern sky. That is the Golden Nail. It is where the gods tie their horses.

  Perhaps it was William’s fall from grace that had unnerved him, or that day’s first glimpse of the Roof of the World, but tonight the burdens of his life weighed heavier on him than they had ever done. For all his rhetoric, he was yet a Christian, and in his heart he lived in terror of his fearsome God. He regretted his blasphemies tonight, or, rather, he feared their consequence.

  William sat hunched against the wall, his face hidden by the hood of his robe. Josseran measured the distance between them; just a few strides, and yet as great a journey for him as their odyssey from Acre to Shang-tu. But it was not God that brought him to his feet and made him kneel in front of the priest. It was rather that he was simply exhausted. He could not carry his father one more step.

  ‘William, hear my confession,’ he whispered, and fell to his knees.

  William looked up at him, startled. When he spoke, his voice was gentle as a woman’s. ‘I shall fetch my vestments from the camels,’ he said and went to gather the trappings of his vocation and save at least one soul for God.

  CV

  ‘MY MOTHER DIED when I was nine years old and my father, the Baron of Montgisors, married the daughter of a nobleman from Troyes. Her name was Catherine. She was much younger than my father, and perhaps only five years older than I. She had eyes as black as sin and when she looked at me it filled me with heat. I was just a boy, seventeen years old, and my loins were as raw and inflamed as an open wound.’

  ‘Go on,’ William murmured. He was aware of the Tatars watching them: the mad Christian shaman, the purple stole around his neck; the giant barbarian on his knees before him.

  ‘I sought constantly to catch her eye but she ignored me, and left me in a frenzy of despair. Whenever she walked past me I caught the scent of her. I could not sleep at night; I woke in lathers of sweat and spilled my seed in my hand whenever I thought of her. I even prayed in the chapel that he would die so that I could have her. I was lost in my unholy devotion to her.’

  He stopped, ran a hand across his face. Just thinking of her again made him sweat. ‘My father was a knight of some renown in Burgundy. Every day he trained me in the use of sword and lance, and how to fight from the back of a horse. And all the time we practised I wanted him to kill me, I was so ashamed.

  ‘One day I took her, when we were out riding together. It was over quickly, before I even realized what I had done. That of itself should have been sin enough for my young bones. I had sated my youthful lust, was it not enough? But no, I hungered for more.’

  He took a deep breath, his voice hoarse.

  ‘What happened next was no accident. My father was away in Paris. I went to her chamber, all the while wanting the door to be locked, even hoping she would scream to the servants, shame me in front of the household. Instead, she received me into the heat of her embrace and that night we became lovers.’

  He stopped, remembering.

  ‘You cannot know how painful it is to say these things to someone who has forsworn himself from women. Because you see, all the while I loved her, I hated her too, for what she had done to my father and what she had made of me. She had given him the horns, and she had made me despise myself to my very core.

  ‘My father had been called to the court by the King together with a number of other nobles. Louis had hoped to persuade them to join him on holy armed pilgrimage to the Holy Land. But my father was getting old and when he returned from the court he told me that he had begged leave not to go. But a few days later, without explanation, he changed his mind, and made preparations to embark on crusade. I can only imagine that he divined what had taken place in his absence and this had turned his mind.’

  He stopped and cleared his throat, for it was becoming more difficult to speak.

  ‘He armed a dozen of the peasants, who were to accompany him on the great pilgrimage, and sold ten hectares of land to finance this venture. Catherine herself sewed the scarlet cross on the shoulder of his surcoat.

  ‘After he had departed I stayed behind in Montgisors as master of the manor and the lands. Now Catherine became brazen. She came to my room every night. But because she feared getting with child she made me take her only in the forbidden way.

  ‘But with my father gone I found that I could not do that which I had so often dreamed of doing. Her response was to laugh at me. She said I was my father’s son, mocking him and me in the same breath. Soon she stopped coming to my room and I was left with the memory of my sins and no more.’

  He took a deep breath.

  ‘Within a year I had news of my father’s death at Damietta.’

  He was silent for a long time.

  ‘Despite Catherine’s precautions she found she was, after all, with child. I sent her to a convent to bear the infant and when she returned the child was given to the wife of one of my grooms, who lived on the estate. The woman was barren and loved the child like her own. But when he was four years old the girl died of the croup and so my mortal punishments were complete.

  ‘So you see, I have slept with my own stepmother and driven my father to his death. I have lived with this sin for these many years. I continued to manage my father�
�s estates but never again went to his widow. Then some six years ago I took myself to the Holy Land hoping that I would die in battle and that would atone for my sins. I secured a loan from the Templars to finance my crusade, and in return pledged myself to their service for five years. But I did not die, and I have not been redeemed.’

  William was silent for a long time. Finally he raised his right hand. ‘With this hand I absolve thee of sin,’ he said. ‘As penance I command you to remain chaste for the rest of your days and give up the remainder of your wealth and all your lands to the Holy Mother Church.’

  Josseran felt his breath catch in his throat. He had not anticipated such a penance when he had embarked on his confession. He had deluded himself that William had discovered his humanity in the desert and instead the friar had used the moment’s advantage to crush him, as he had with Mar Salah.

  Josseran got back to his feet. ‘I hold you beneath contempt, as I do all priests of your Order. I shall not fulfil your penance nor shall I expect God’s forgiveness. Enough that I shall forgive myself from this moment on. My penance shall be that I will live a better life.’ He went back to his corner of the han and fell almost directly into a deep and dreamless sleep.

  The Roof of the World

  autumn, in the year of the Incarnation

  of Our Lord 1260

  CVI

  THE DESERT WAS behind them now, the great crossing made for a second time. At Kashgar they stopped at the fort, manned by soldiers loyal to Khubilai, and exchanged the camels for fast Tatar mounts. They rode out towards the western passes.

  Above them, the first snows had dusted the foothills at the Roof of the World.

  They followed a steep valley up through the mountains, past rushing streams and massive boulders that had been washed down in the spring floodwaters, between red cliffs that disappeared into the clouds. They emerged from the valley on to a plateau and paused for rest beside a salt lake.

  Josseran shifted in the saddle of his Tatar stallion. The green spruce of the forest appeared dismal against the white broiling of clouds. The wind brought with it a mist of chill rain and in moments it had washed the valley clean, leaving it verdant in the yellow sunlight. A rainbow arced across the valley.

  They would have to hurry before the ice closed in on the Roof of the World and left them trapped, Sartaq said. Once across those mountains they would be but a few months’ ride from Aleppo, and safe returned to their home.

  ‘Home,’ he murmured.

  What home was there now for Josseran Sarrazini? Perhaps it was the nearness of winter in this wild place, but he felt suddenly the fading of his years. He was over thirty years old, and there was little time left for grand designs. Perhaps fifteen years, if he returned to Provence, less if he chose to stay in Outremer, with its disease and assassins and endless skirmishes and wars.

  A man’s fate was certain, for we all owe God a death, but now all he wanted was to find either strength enough to die, or reason enough to live.

  CVII

  SARTAQ ORDERED THEIR tiny column to a halt by a fast-flowing stream. The horses had been hobbled and were foraging for pasture while the Tatars refilled their water bags. Further downstream a family of cranes eyed them with startled suspicion.

  The glacier-fed stream was already rimmed with ice and the sedge at the bank crackled with frost. They had climbed high into the mountains and winter was racing them to the passes.

  A kite wheeled high overhead, shrieking. It sounded like the cry of an infant. Josseran looked up, startled. They received no other warning.

  The man at Josseran’s shoulder reeled back suddenly, clutching his throat. An arrow had passed straight through. He fell on to his back in the river, his legs jerking spasmodically, a terrible gurgling sound coming from his mouth as he died. His blood quickly stained the shallows.

  Sartaq was first to react, splashing through the stream to his horse and instantly releasing the hobble. Josseran did the same.

  He looked over his shoulder, saw a line of horsemen racing towards them from a dry gully just a quarter of a league distant. More arrows rained into them, and Josseran’s horse screamed as two found their mark, sinking almost to the flight into its shoulder and flank. Sartaq was screaming orders to his men from the saddle, trying to organize a defence.

  Their attackers were close enough now that Josseran could see their faces. They were Tatars like his escort, but not regular soldiers, they were bandits with little armour, light horsemen dressed in furs and armed with bows and crude lances. There were perhaps no more than a score of them but they had the advantage of surprise.

  There was another singing of arrows and then they were on them, stabbing with their hooked lances, felling those not quick enough to their horses. Josseran rode into the line, swung wildly with his sword and brought one crashing from his horse, then charged at another, unseating him.

  He heard a scream and when he turned around he saw William splashing through the shallows of the river, trying to escape on foot. One of the Tatar bowmen was no more than ten paces behind, following him. He was grinning, enjoying the game. He slowed his horse to a trot, lowered his bow and leisurely drew his sword from his belt. He leaned from the saddle for the killing stroke.

  Josseran spurred his horse to a gallop and rode straight at him. The Tatar saw him too late. He looked around in horror, knowing what was about to happen and knowing, too, that he could not stop it. His sword arm was raised, exposing his ribs, and it was there that Josseran plunged his own sword, straight-armed, to the hilt. The man screamed and slipped from the saddle. As he fell the weight of his body wrenched the sword from Josseran’s hand.

  Josseran wheeled around, looking for William. Another of the Tatar horsemen rode in, grabbed William under the arms and dragged him across his saddle.

  ‘William!’

  Already, the skirmish was over. There were perhaps half a dozen bodies lying in the stream, pierced with arrows. More fur-wrapped bodies lay on the grass. The raiders were galloping away.

  Sartaq had mustered his men and formed a defence on the other side of the stream. ‘Let them go,’ Sartaq shouted. ‘Let them go!’

  ‘They have William!’ Josseran shouted. He jumped from the saddle and retrieved a lance from one of the fallen Tatars. Then he remounted and spurred after the retreating horsemen.

  He started his horse up the slope in pursuit, but they had already disappeared beyond the brow of a hill. He reached the crest and started down. William had somehow got free of his captor and was scrambling back up the hill, clutching the hem of his robes like a woman as he ran. Josseran heard hoofbeats behind him and wheeled around. Two of Sartaq’s men had followed him down the valley. He recognized one of them, Drunken Man.

  ‘Barbarian! Sartaq orders you to return!’ he shouted.

  But the warning came too late.

  As Josseran turned his pony he realized he had been lured into a trap. As many as a dozen of the Tatar horsemen had circled behind them. They loosed a volley of arrows and Drunken Man and his companion screamed and slid from their horses. Josseran felt an excruciating pain in his left shoulder.

  William had almost reached the crest of the hill. Josseran spurred his mount after him. He heard another singing of arrows and his horse staggered and fell. Josseran landed on his back on the wet grass and felt the breath go out of him. The arrow shaft that was embedded in his shoulder snapped as he rolled.

  He pulled himself up on to his knees. The pain was sickening. The Tatars were milling around him, shouting to each other, deciding who would have the honour of the kill. One of them dismounted and rushed over, pulling a rusted sword from his belt.

  Josseran had dropped his lance when he was thrown from his horse. He fumbled in the grass, and his fingers closed around the shaft. As the swordsman brought down the killing blow he brought up the lance in defence, felt the shaft snap, deflecting the stroke, delaying the coup for a moment.

  The Tatar raised his sword a second time.

&n
bsp; Josseran rolled to the side, bringing his leg around and kicking the Tatar’s legs from under him. The man went down, dropping the sword. Josseran was first to it, rolled on to his feet and jumped back, bringing the sword around in an arc, driving the other Tatars back.

  He knew there was no chance, not one against this many. So this is how it will end, he thought. I had always imagined I would die wearing the cross of a crusader, not in some inconsequential skirmish in the mountains, against an enemy I do not even know, dressed in furs and a ragged coat. But I will not die cheap. I will take some of you devils with me to heaven or hell or the Blue Sky, whatever lies beyond. There were black spots in front of his eyes, and he staggered backwards. His vision blurred. There was a roaring in his ears. He heard the Tatars laughing, they knew he was gone.

  CVIII

  ‘STOP!’

  He knew that voice.

  He blinked, saw a pair of black eyes below a purple scarf. ‘Khutelun,’ he said. The world began to spin faster. He put his hand to his shoulder. It came away sodden with blood. His knees collapsed under him.

  And that was the last thing he remembered.

  They laid him on his back on the floor of the yurt and stripped off his robe. His skin was chalk-white, his silk undershirt sodden with blood from the shoulder wound. There was another wound above his eye, where he had struck his head after he fell from his horse.

  Khutelun stared at him. She had thought never to see him again. How could this have happened? Was this what the spirits had tried to show her? She pushed the others aside. Then she took out her knife and cut away his shirt from around the wound. She felt her breath catch in her throat. Memories came to her unbidden; how she had taken him to the Buddha caves in the Flaming Mountains; that night by the crescent lake when they listened to the Singing Sands and he had said he thought her beautiful; the feel of his hard body pressed against hers during the karaburan, how terrified she had been and how his presence had reassured her.