*
Some time later, in Bayezid’s capital of Edirne, when the harem was awakening from its afternoon rest and applying mastic to its many mouths and the fires were being lit in the palace kitchens, Zoe was sitting beneath an orange tree in a little courtyard outside the harem walls. Fruit hung above her head like planets. She was thinking about Luke.
She’d not seen him since before Nicopolis, almost a year ago. She knew that he was somewhere in Yakub’s beylik and had a plan for discovering where. But was she bringing him back for Suleyman or for herself? She frowned.
For Suleyman, of course.
Surely, whatever attachment had come from growing up with Luke in Monemvasia had disappeared, if it could ever be said to have existed. He’d been her servant, after all. And it had surely vanished, at least on his part, when she’d lied about Damian’s accident all those years back. Did she mind? Why was she bringing him back?
For me?
She heard someone clear their throat behind her and turned. Pavlos Mamonas was standing there, more supplicant than father. He was dressed, as always, in Venetian black, and wore long riding boots turned down at the top. His hair was darker than she’d remembered it and she wondered, fleetingly, if he’d resorted to dye. He held his hat in his hands.
‘I’m not disturbing you?’
Zoe would have preferred some warning. ‘Of course not, Father. Come and sit.’
Pavlos Mamonas sat. He put his hat on his knees and looked at his daughter. ‘You look well. Mistra suited you?’
Zoe turned to him, irritated. ‘I was imprisoned. It was tolerable.’
‘Why were you there at all?’
This was why she’d have liked some notice. She thought hard. ‘To accompany Anna to her father’s funeral. Someone from our family had to go and it was hardly going to be Damian.’
Father and daughter were silent, both contemplating the feebleness of the lie. Pavlos said: ‘You have some influence over Prince Suleyman.’
Zoe remained silent.
‘He is not in favour.’
‘Which is why you now prefer to run errands for his father?’
Zoe looked back at the tree. Pavlos Mamonas put his hand on his daughter’s. ‘The family is in a difficult situation, Zoe. Venice still wants Chios. Bayezid has forbidden any further attacks on the island because its mastic stops his toothache. Suleyman’s last attempt was repulsed. He’s unlikely to try again. Difficult.’
‘So Venice gives Suleyman the cannon to take Constantinople. Byzantium falls and Suleyman gives Chios to Venice. It seems simple.’
Mamonas sighed. ‘The Doge is disinclined to supply the cannon just now.’
‘And Suleyman is disinclined to go back to Chios.’ She paused. ‘Again, difficult.’
Zoe looked down at her father’s hand still covering hers and removed it. Then she stood and walked over to a column as if a message had appeared on its fluted sides. She looked up at it. ‘Father, why should I help you?’
Pavlos Mamonas shook his head slowly. ‘Zoe, your brother …’
‘My brother is more competent drunk than sober.’
Her father remained silent. Zoe was stroking a ridge in the pillar with her fingertips. She said, ‘If Suleyman gets Chios for Venice against his father’s wishes, it will be risky for him … for me. I’ll want a reward appropriate to the risk.’
Pavlos waited. He was watching her carefully. He wondered, as he often did, about what might have occurred between her and the Varangian, the one he’d punished for letting the horse trample Damian. He wondered whether it was the bitter residue of loss that had created such ambition within his daughter.
Then she turned and smiled. ‘Your empire. I want your empire when you die.’
CHAPTER FIVE
ANATOLIA, SPRING 1398
Luke’s second spring with the tribe came in a rush. The thaw was sudden and the air crackled with storms that arrived with no warning. Feet sank to the ankle in plushy ground and the frozen river bubbled off its ice, then rose to a torrent.
The grass on the valley sides grew at a speed that astonished him. First came a brown stubble which overnight became green. Then a carpet of flowers rose from the ground, turning shy, insect-hazed heads towards the sun. At night the valley sang a strange, whispered song, lulling the tribe into sleep beneath a giant moon, poised on its rim before beginning its journey through the stars.
Every day, birds flew over in ever-larger formations: geese and duck and ptarmigan homing back to the warm lakes of the south where the carp and perch were already beginning to spawn. The air was full of the shrill cries of their travel, and the shriller cries of animal birthing. On all sides was the sound of forest awakening, of trees released from their blanket of snow, of the creak and crack of stretching limbs, the hiss of sap rising.
It was a time of birth but also a time of burial. Many of the tribe’s old had died in the winter, their bodies placed out in the freezing snow. Now the dead men’s horses were slain and their bodies put next to them in their graves. Their saddles, bows and bridles straddled them both, bonding man to rider in their journey into an easier world. A few of the horses had succumbed to the cold and their flesh lay drying in the sun and the wind. What couldn’t be ridden or honoured would be eaten.
The tribe wouldn’t move to its summer pastures out on the steppe until the birthing and the first shearing were done. Until then, the shepherds out on the hills would be midwives as well as watchmen. Luke’s daily task was to carry great bales of fleece to the women, who laid them out on the felting mats, beating them hard while the children ran back and forth from the river to fetch water to sprinkle over them. Then the fleece would be layered and tied on to skins stretched between poles and thrashed until a single mat of perfectly smooth felt had been created.
It was tedious work and Luke longed to ride but Gomil had prevented his every attempt to get on a horse. Now there was an expedition gathered to hunt Chukar partridge with hawks around the southern lakes. They would bring back fish glue for the bows and goose feathers for the arrows. Gomil was to lead it. But first he had to bid farewell to his father in his ger.
Luke was helping Arkal tie her younger brother to a pony. The boy had recovered from his burns and it was time for him to learn to ride He’d be tied to the saddle until he became part of the horse; until he became a centaur.
‘Lug!’ shouted one of the expedition. ‘Does he have a name yet?’
Luke looked around, shielding his eyes from the glare of the morning sun. The dew was still on the ground and a low mist rose around the horses as they stamped. The man was grinning.
‘His name is Tsaurig,’ said Luke, glancing at Arkal, ‘And today’s his first ride.’
‘Will you teach him?’
‘I will teach him. With Arkal.’
There was laughter amongst the men on horseback. ‘But, Lug,’ one called out, ‘you cannot ride!’
Luke looked away. ‘I will teach him on the rein,’ he said, yanking the string too hard.
The sound of argument came from the chief’s tent. The riders fell silent and Luke leant into the boy’s saddle, pulling the girth tight. ‘There, Tsaurig, you’ll ride like your father now. And soon’ – he nodded in the direction of the hunting party – ‘you’ll be bringing fat partridge back from the plains.’
The door of the ger flew open and Gomil strode out, his deel flying behind. He wrenched the reins of his horse from a rider and vaulted into the saddle. ‘What are we waiting for?’ he barked, swinging round. ‘We go to Karamanid territory. So keep your bows strung.’
Luke looked across the saddle at Arkal. She shrugged. ‘I heard my parents speak of it,’ she whispered. ‘He’s been told to marry a girl from the Karamanids.’
‘The Karamanids?’ said Luke. ‘But they’re your enemies!’
‘It’s come from Yakub,’ she said. ‘He wants an alliance.’
‘With Allaedin ali-Bey? They hate each other!’
Arkal shrugged agai
n. ‘Who can tell these things? But Gomil must go and inspect the girl and not give offence. They say she is ugly.’
Luke looked at the riders, a mass of furred flank muscle in dust shot through with sunlight. The smell of horse rose all around him. He felt bereft.
I want to ride.
Arkal was watching him. So was someone else. Luke felt it. He turned towards the shaman’s tent. The girl was standing in the shade of a horsehide, her body quite still. She was watching him without expression.
Arkal spat on to the ground. ‘She is no good.’
‘She saved Tsaurig’s life.’
The girl grimaced, shaking her head. ‘The spirits saved my brother!’ she whispered. ‘She had nothing to do with it.’
*
Three weeks later, Gomil had still not returned and his father stood in daily vigil on the escarpment above the camp. The chief’s son had taken twenty of the best warriors with him and the tribe should have left for summer pastures by now.
Luke was polishing the dragon pommel of his sword, sitting cross-legged before his ger. It was mid-afternoon but the sky was dark and bruised with storm. The animals in the pens were tense, their ears pricked and their noses lifted to the scent of danger; they sensed something coming in on the wind. Luke saw them stamp and move together, searching for the comfort of touch, the fear sweeping over them, stiffening the hair on their coats. A fleck of rain stabbed the side of his cheek. He looked up to the rolling tide of cloud and saw the the first stab of lightning break.
He glanced around. Women were gathering looms and pushing children before them into the tents. Men were checking ropes and driving pegs further into the ground.
‘Lug!’ Arkal shouted. Tsaurig was holding her hand, dragging her towards the safety of the ger. ‘Come inside! This one will be fierce.’
Luke looked at the sky. It was almost black now and darts of rain were hitting the ground around him. He looked towards the shaman’s tent and saw Shulen standing halfway up the hill behind it, staring up at a tree, arms outstretched as if in greeting. A flock of crows exploded from the tree.
Lightning struck again and the tree burst into flames, sending sparks high into the sky. She was still looking up at it, her caftan clinging to her body.
‘Shulen!’
She was too close to the tree. Flaming debris was falling all around her.
‘Shulen!’
She turned and stared at him.
He looked up at the tree. Bigger branches were beginning to come apart from the trunk, each a blazing torch that crashed to the ground in fountains of fire. At any moment, she would be struck. Luke ran through the gers, vaulting the ropes in his way. Then he was running up the hill. There was a crack and a branch landed next to her. The tree was going to fall. Luke reached her, and threw himself forward. They rolled together down the slope as the tree fell above them, sparks flying over the camp to land on the roofs of the tents. A dog howled and ran in circles.
Suddenly Luke was angry. ‘You can speak, damn you!’ he yelled at her through the rain.
She was still in his arms but her body was limp. She looked at him, a slight frown breaking the dirt on her brow. Luke saw that her skin was scorched from the heat. He turned her face to the rain and the water ran down her cheeks and through her hair. He picked her up and began to make his way down the slope, her head against his chest, her long hair heavy on his forearm. He felt the tide of her breath hot upon his skin. Lightning struck again.
Inside her tent, it was the same as before: rows and rows of herbs laid out on the ground to dry and the fire burning something scented which gave off a light smoke. The old man lay on his bed and didn’t stir as they entered. Tallow candles were lit.
Luke set Shulen down on her pallet and turned to stoke the fire. He looked back. She was watching him, her head thrown to one side, hair spilt across the lynx fur like ink. Steam rose from the folds of her tunic. He studied the face that was not like other women’s in the camp. It was longer, softer, more subtle, not of the steppe. He put down the iron and went over to her. He sat down and felt the fur beneath his palm. The smell of herbs and other essences seemed stronger where she lay.
‘Shulen,’ he said softly, ‘I know that you’re not the shaman’s daughter. You’re not his daughter and you’re not of this tribe. You choose not to speak. Who are you?’
She reached out a thin hand and placed it on his forearm. The fair hair was still wet and she raked her fingers through it. She looked beyond him and smiled as if at some memory. Then her eyes came back to his.
‘I am what I am,’ she said. ‘I am yours.’
Luke frowned. ‘You’re not mine and you’re not theirs. Are you here to help me?’
‘As you have helped me.’ The hand on his forearm travelled to his shoulder. It was a caress. She traced her fingers round to the nape of his neck and, bringing his head down to hers, kissed him on the brow. It was more a breath than a kiss. ‘I am yours.’
Luke closed his eyes. The smell of the herbs was overpowering, reaching into his brain. There was a humming in his ears and his skin seemed to lift from the bones beneath to be nearer to her. He was overwhelmed with longing for this thin, strange girl. He remembered another time, another place.
You can, Luke. And you must.
Fiorenza. He had been drugged then. Part of someone else’s plan. Was he drugged now? He opened his eyes and pulled away. She was frowning at him, a question in her eyes.
‘Is this Omar’s doing?’ he asked. ‘Is that why I am here in this tent? Didn’t he tell you about Anna? I am not yours, I’m hers.’
It was said more roughly than he meant it. But he’d so nearly succumbed, so nearly betrayed Anna a second time. He rose and shook his head to clear it. He walked to the door and heard the rain on the other side, drumming its rhythm on the wood. He glanced back. The inside of the ger was lit by lightning and it caught her eyes, illuminating them like a cat’s. She wasn’t just not of this tribe; she was not of this earth.
He pulled the door open and stepped outside. Rain hit his head and shoulders and he looked up at it, welcoming its force. Then he was running.
*
In Konya, Allaedin ali-Bey, chief of the Karamanid tribe, lay sprawled across an extravagance of cushions.
It was night and the same storm that had afflicted the Germiyans had moved south and was now poised over the city of Konya where Omar lived. Lightning strikes lit up the domes and minarets of this holiest of cities and the thunder echoed through its streets like a warning.
But no sound could distract the eight men who swirled before their ruler. Like dizzy crows, the dervishes turned and turned, their eyes closed, their long black skirts rising and falling with the motion. Their bare feet wove patterns on the patterned floor and the tall black hats on their heads remained perfectly still.
Allaedin yawned. He was a man of professed devotion but this nightly performance by Rumi’s disciples was trying. It was the anniversary of the saint’s death and Konya was full of earnest men making pilgrimage to his tomb. That night, Allaedin’s only entertainment was in counting how many of them were asleep when lightning lit the room.
The hall itself was large and vaulted and part of the great palace built by his father. Its pillars were lit by sconced torches whose flames moved in a light draught that was all they felt of the storm outside. Between the pillars were row upon row of turbans, their colours muted in the uneven light. Beneath the turbans were men from every corner of the prophet’s lands, sitting transfixed or otherwise, while the dervishes turned ecstatically for their god.
From his dais, Allaedin was watching the only man not wearing a turban. And, insolently, the man was staring back at him. He was slight of build and something told Allaedin that he was from Venice.
Venice.
The dance was reaching its climax and the viol and tambour had quickened their tempo. Another lightning strike lit up the room and Allaedin forced himself to pay attention. He was, after all, guardian of this
holiest of shrines. At last it was finished and the Emir leant across to his vizier and whispered. The vizier looked towards the Venetian and rose.
*
Some little time later, the Venetian found himself in private audience with the ruler of the Karamanids. The room they occupied was small, pillared and richly decorated with stone arabesques. A low table of cedar inlaid with mother-of-pearl stood at its centre and on either side of it were cushioned divans. The Venetian was invited to sit.
Allaedin studied him. He was very young, barely more than a boy. He hadn’t removed his hat, which was pulled low over his head. The Emir said: ‘A Venetian in Konya. Are you a follower of the saint?’
The young man inclined his head. ‘The saint Rumi is revered by all men of discernment.’ His voice was high.
Allaedin sat back against the cushions, putting his head to one side. He took in the black doublet, expensively made and loose at the front. He took in the curve of thigh above the riding boots. ‘Why do you not remove your hat in my presence?’
The Venetian brought his hands together in the sign of prayer. He dipped his forehead to his fingers. ‘Forgive me, majesty. It is cold.’
‘Remove it.’
The Venetian didn’t move for a while. Then he slowly raised his hands and lifted the hat from his head. A cascade of black hair fell past his shoulders. Allaedin ali-Bey smiled. ‘It is as I thought. You are a girl.’
Zoe tucked a stray strand of hair behind her ear and raised her head to look the Emir straight in the eye.
‘You present yourself for my harem?’ he asked.
Zoe thought for a moment before replying. Allaedin was middle-aged, fat and many-chinned, but she would do whatever was required. She wondered whether his tastes inclined in her direction. ‘Your harem is filled with better creatures than I, lord,’ she said. ‘I come to you from one who would befriend you. I am a messenger.’
Allaedin ali-Bey raised his eyebrows. ‘Who is this that would befriend me? The Doge?’
The Towers of Samarcand (The Mistra Chronicles) Page 5
