‘But why were we in disguise?’
Matthew’s hands were bound tightly behind his back and his shoulders had begun to hurt. ‘We’re in disguise because otherwise the caravan wouldn’t have taken us,’ he answered. It sounded feeble. ‘Just leave it to me. I’ll think of something.’
Then the doors were pushed open to reveal an ornate hall of some size. It was a throne room and it contained six people, four of whom were the Venetian merchants from the caravan. The throne, raised on a dais, held the only person seated. He was sallow of complexion and had the nomad’s flat face while his groomed beard spoke of the court. His robe was a rich red and spread from the base of the throne like a bloodstain. On his fingers were many rings of different coloured stones that seemed too heavy for his hands to lift. He looked nervous. Beside him stood an old man with a long beard.
‘Are these the men?’ he asked. His voice was cracked and high, almost the pitch of a eunuch.
The old man beside him, who might have been the vizier, said, ‘These are the Greeks, lord.’
‘I thought there were four of them.’
‘One is still missing, lord. He will be found.’
Qara Yusuf studied them for some time. He seemed restless, as if wanting to be somewhere else. Matthew judged him to be twenty years his senior.
‘Are you Greek?’
The Varangians were kneeling on the floor, their faces flat to the marble. Matthew raised his head. ‘We are Varangians, lord.’
‘Varangians? From Constantinople?’
‘From Mistra, lord.’
Qara Yusuf’s chin was propped on his fist; a finger uncurled to stand sentinel to his lips. His eyes never ceased to move, as if ungathered thoughts lurked everywhere around him like enemies. At last they settled on Matthew.
‘Mistra? Where in Mistra?’
‘Monemvasia, lord.’
‘Guards to the Archon Mamonas?’ The Prince’s eyes had darted to the Venetians, one eyebrow raised.
‘Our fathers, lord,’ Matthew said. ‘We decided to go to Nicopolis.’
‘That was foolish.’
There was an uncomfortable silence.
‘We are here to find work, lord,’ continued Matthew. ‘We’re on our way to find service in the east. There is much fighting to be done there.’
Qara Yusuf nodded. ‘Indeed. But why not the west? Didn’t you Varangians first come from some island in the west? Is it not said so?’ He paused and leant forward. ‘Why not go home?’
Matthew lifted his hands, his palms open. ‘The answer is all around you, lord. Fortunes are to be made in the east, not the west.’
‘So you would fight for me?’
‘For you or any that would pay us well, lord. We are Varangians. It is our craft.’
The youngest Venetian coughed and stepped forward, bowing from the waist. The Emir looked at him. ‘Speak.’
‘If I may be permitted, highness.’ Di Vetriano straightened up. ‘The Serenissima is friend to the Sultan Bayezid and, like you, fears the intentions of Temur. The Greeks, on the other hand, see Temur as a saviour. These men are on their way from the Emperor in Constantinople to treat with the Mongol lord. Otherwise why the disguise?’
Qara Yusuf turned back to Matthew. ‘Why the disguise, Greek? And why the lie about this “Lady Fatimah”?’
Matthew swallowed. His neck was hurting from the strain of keeping his head up and the marble was hard on his knees.
‘And you may rise to answer. I can’t see you properly down there.’
Matthew rose, as did his friends. He smoothed the front of his thoub, and dared to rub his knee. ‘We asked the merchant Abdul-Hafiz if we might be permitted to dress as the other travellers in the caravan. We did not want to draw attention to ourselves, highness.’
Qara Yusuf’s eyes continued to wander. Frowning, he turned to the vizier. ‘Bring the girl.’
The vizier clapped his hands, the big doors opened and two guards entered with Shulen. She walked with her head held high and a look of impatience on her face. Her caftan was creased and she was barefoot, her feet silent against the veined marble. She stopped in front of the dais and neither bowed nor knelt. Unlike the Varangians, towards whom she did not glance, her hands were free.
‘Why am I here?’ she asked quietly, her eyes as steady as Yusuf’s were restless. ‘Why are my friends bound, highness? Are we criminals?’
Qara Yusuf answered her question with another. ‘Where is the fifth member of your party, the other Varangian?’
‘I don’t know where he is but I hope he is safe.’
‘Why are you all in disguise? Why do you claim to be what you are not?’
She did not hesitate. ‘I am married to the Varangian who is not here, lord.’ She paused. ‘But he is Christian and I Muslim and you will know that assassins still exist east of this city, ready to attack caravans. They are Shi’ite and do not look favourably on marriages between the faiths. It seemed prudent to be mistress and servant while we passed through their lands.’
Di Vetriano spoke. ‘It is this man that leads them, lord,’ he said smoothly. ‘He must be found or he will go to Temur’s son Miran Shah in Sultaniya.’
Qara Yusuf turned to the Varangians. He yawned. The proceedings were becoming tedious. ‘I don’t believe you,’ he said, rising, ‘and I don’t want to hear any more of your lies. You will die. The girl too.’ He studied Shulen for a while. ‘Or you may come to my harem. It’s up to you.’
Di Vetriano stepped forward. He looked agitated. ‘Lord, we agreed that we were to take these prisoners back with us.’
Qara Yusuf yawned again. ‘I’ve changed my mind. You may have their goods.’
*
The following morning, Matthew awoke to sunshine in his eyes and sand on his lips. There was a narrow grille at head height that ran the full length of the cell he and his friends had spent the night in. Sand was blowing through it.
‘What’s outside?’ he asked.
‘Our place of execution,’ answered Arcadius, getting up from the floor. ‘Come and have a look.’
Matthew rose and walked over to join him at the window. He pressed his face against the grille and felt the warmth of the sun on his skin. His last morning alive and how sweet the sunshine felt.
Outside, the world rose above them. The window was at the bottom of a wall that encircled a sanded arena, a circus of some kind. Above were tiers of stone benches that ran around until they met a pavilion where two thrones had been set beneath a purple canopy.
‘Perhaps we’re to face lions. I wonder where Shulen is?’
Arcadius shrugged. ‘Her best hope is the harem,’ he said flatly. ‘I’d rather know where Luke is.’
They were all quiet after that and the only sound came from rakes smoothing the sand outside. Then the drum began. Qara Yusuf had entered the royal pavilion and behind him walked Shulen with the four Venetians. There was nobody else in the arena. Yusuf and Shulen were both dressed in robes of brilliant white, as if they were to be married.
‘Looks like she agreed to the harem,’ said Nikolas.
There was another beat of the drum and four men were led out, their necks joined by chains. They were old and in rags, their long hair matted with filth, and flies followed them as they shuffled. They were lined up in front of the pavilion and made to kneel. Then, as Qara Yusuf examined one of his ringed fingers, each man was seized by a soldier and his head forced back to face the sky. A man entered the arena. He was bald and muscular and had the long moustaches of the executioner. He was carrying a short dagger in his hand and he bowed low in front of the pavilion. Qara Yusuf looked up and nodded.
The man walked over to the prisoners. He tested the blade on his thumb and then, one by one, gouged the eyes from the old men’s sockets. After each excision, he grabbed the victim’s hair, wiped his blade on their beard and tossed their eyeball into the sand. Pinned down by the guards, the men screamed and writhed in their pain. Then they were released and stumbled around
on their knees, wailing and calling out to one another while Qara Yusuf laughed his high laugh and clapped his jewelled hands.
The Varangians were too shocked to speak. Matthew looked up at Shulen. She was sitting rigidly upright, her hands folded in her lap. She looked calm, almost bored, her eyes unseeing.
‘Now us, I suppose,’ muttered Arcadius.
Not yet. As the blinded men were led away, a door opened in the wall and a tall man in chains entered between files of guards, each with a bow slung at the waist. He was dressed in silks of gold and he carried the Koran in his left hand. His head was held high and on it he wore an extravagant turban, from which an osprey plume rose like a geyser. Nikolas whistled.
‘Who is that?’
The prisoner seemed indifferent to his surroundings and, arriving before the pavilion, waited a while before bowing stiffly to the man within it. Qara Yusuf leant forward over the balcony. He said something and was answered.
‘The vizier,’ said Matthew. ‘Or he was.’
The tall man was talking now, making small gestures with his hands. But Qara Yusuf interrupted him and raised his hand. One of the soldiers stepped forward, unslinging his bow.
‘Ah, the bowstring,’ murmured Arcadius. ‘At least it’ll be quick.’
The vizier knelt on the ground and removed his turban, placing it carefully on the ground before him. Then he lifted his long white hair and held it with one hand to his head. The soldier moved to stand behind him, the bow held horizontal.
Qara Yusuf looked for a long time at the man, his face expressionless. Then he nodded. The soldier lowered the bow over the vizier’s head so that its string was against his neck. Then he began to turn it, slowly at first and then more quickly. The vizier remained upright for the first turn and the second. By the third, both hands were clawing at the bowstring, the blood running down his neck and into the folds of his gown. His white hair was no longer white and his hands were washed red to his wrists.
At last it was over. With one jerking convulsion, the tall man lifted his hands. He stayed like that for a moment, then fell forward into the sand, dead. His body was dragged from the arena.
‘Now it must be us,’ said Matthew.
He was right. A heavy bolt was slid back and the door pushed open. Two guards were standing there with drawn swords. The Varangians walked from the cell, up some steps and out into the arena. The first thing they saw were the circling birds. Bloodied eyeballs lay in the sand and the birds were awaiting their chance.
‘Courage,’ Matthew murmured. ‘We are Varangians.’
He looked towards the pavilion. Qara Yusuf was watching them, an uncertain smile on his lips. A boy had entered who sat to one side waving a fan. Behind him stood the Venetians. The one called di Vetriano was frowning.
‘Varangians!’ shouted Qara Yusuf. ‘Approach us, please.’
The guards pushed them forward until they stood directly beneath the pavilion.
‘You Varangians are famous throughout the world for your skill at fighting. I would like to see it.’ He raised a hand and a door opened into the arena and four men entered carrying weapons and armour. The men stopped in front of them and each laid his cargo at their feet. Then they left.
‘I wonder whom we are to fight?’ But Matthew knew the answer.
‘Varangians!’ shouted the Emir. ‘You will put on the armour and fight.’ He paused and his smile broadened. ‘You will fight each other. One will survive and go free.’
Matthew was shaking his head before the statement was out. ‘We’ll not do that, lord,’ he said. ‘You’ll have to find another way to make us die. We’ll not hurt each other.’
Qara Yusuf looked surprised. He held out his hand and a man stepped from the curtain behind him and placed a dagger in it.
‘No?’ he asked, pointing with the dagger towards Shulen. ‘Not even if I remove a finger or an ear or a nose with every blow you strike which I deem not to be genuine?’ He paused and allowed the point of the knife to stroke Shulen’s cheek. ‘I think you’ll fight.’
Matthew turned to his friends. ‘It doesn’t seem we have a choice.’
He began to put on the armour. He looked up at Qara Yusuf. But the emir was looking beyond him, his eyes wide.
Behind them the vast doors to the arena were slowly parting, pushed from outside. The soldiers pushing them came into view and they were not Qara Yusuf’s men. They were dressed in the green of the Prophet’s flag and the swirling mark of the Caliphate of Egypt was emblazoned on their fronts. There were dozens of them.
Qara Yusuf was standing now and the boy had ceased to fan him. A man appeared from the curtain behind and pushed aside the Venetians. He whispered something into the Emir’s ear. Yusuf frowned, squinting into the distance, and nodded once. Then he sat down.
A horse walked into the arena.
Eskalon.
Beneath the gaudy magnificence, it was Eskalon. Beneath the trappings, bardings and caparisons, it was Luke’s magnificent horse. But it wasn’t Luke on his back. Riding him was the historian Ibn Khaldun, once the Kadi of the Sultan of Egypt. And in case there was any doubt as to his status, he wore a coat of golden mail on which was emblazoned the prancing lion of Baybars. His helmet was tall, pointed and carried the long horsehair of jihad. It was an impressive sight.
On one side of him rode Yakub. He wore the furred deel of a gazi chief and had a coiled whip within his belt. On his other, rode Luke, dressed as a Varangian. His dragon sword hung at his side and Torguk’s bow was on his shoulder.
The guards fanned out into the arena and now stood to attention in two lines between which the three riders slowly advanced. They arrived at the pavilion, stopped, dismounted without hurry and prostrated themselves in the sand. There was silence.
Qara Yusuf was sitting very upright, gripping the arms of his chair. ‘Please arise,’ he said, his eyes darting from one to the other. ‘I know who you are.’
The three rose to their feet. Ibn Khaldun spoke. ‘Then, highness, you will know that we are emissaries sent by two Sultans. We have letters from our masters.’
Qara Yusuf was frowning now and had lifted his wine. ‘Letters that couldn’t wait?’ he asked, his voice higher than ever. ‘Weren’t you told I was busy?’
Ibn Khaldun now bowed and pressed his hands together. ‘The interruption was unforgivable,’ he said, ‘but the men who stand charged before you are part of our retinue, as is the girl by your side.’ The historian was apologetic. ‘I’m afraid, highness, that you have been misinformed as to their intentions.’
Ibn Khaldun’s voice was as silk drawn on silk and it caressed the air like a zephyr. He continued: ‘We judged it right to force an entrance after being refused by your officials. We were keen that no embarrassment befall your person by the harming of your friends’ emissaries.’
Qara Yusuf looked round at the Venetians. ‘But these men said they were spies. They said they were on their way to meet Miran Shah in Sultaniya. To bring Temur to fight Bayezid.’
Ibn Khaldun’s voice was a wash of silver. ‘These Greeks are Varangian soldiers who have rebelled against their Byzantine masters. They are enemies to the Mamonas clan, which is a friend of Venice. The men behind you may have omitted to tell you that.’
Qara Yusuf’s eyebrows were arched in surprise. He turned again to the Venetians. ‘Do any of you work for the Mamonas family?’ he asked.
Di Vetriano stepped forward. ‘I am carrying their wine, highness, and some glass from their factory on Murano.’ He paused. ‘Lord, I find myself wondering why, if these men are as described, they should feel the need for disguise?’
There was a cough from the arena. Yakub had stepped forward. ‘I’m not like my Arab friend here,’ he said gruffly, indicating Ibn Khaldun. ‘I am Yakub of the Germiyan, a blunt gazi with little education. But I speak for Bayezid and I know the Venetians.’
Qara Yusuf’s eyes were everywhere.
Yakub continued: ‘They build ships for my sultan because they want
to add to their empire yet they try to stop an alliance between our three kingdoms because they wish to befriend Temur.’ He paused. ‘Only this time, their planning has been clumsy.’
The oldest Venetian had stepped to the front of the pavilion. He was shaking when he turned to the Emir. ‘That is not true, majesty. We are merchants, not politicians. We have come here to trade.’
Another official stepped forward to whisper long into the Emir’s ear. Qara Yusuf listened and then nodded slowly. He rose and walked over to di Vetriano.
‘You and your friends will leave my city of Tabriz this very day and will be handed over to my cousin Bayezid. And if you ever get back to Venice, you should tell your doge this: Qara Yusuf of the Black Sheep honours his friends and looks sourly upon any man who seeks to come between them.’
The oldest Venetian opened his mouth to speak but the Emir raised his hand. ‘One thing more. You may leave your merchandise. It will be given to these men you have so dishonoured. Now go.’
Qara Yusuf turned back to the arena. ‘Now, please, let us talk of this alliance.’
*
It was not until evening that Yakub emerged from his talk with Ibn Khaldun and Qara Yusuf. There was a big fire in the palace square around which three Varangians and Shulen sat and talked. He found Luke in the palace stables, grooming Eskalon.
All day Eskalon had waited patiently, tethered in the meagre shade of a juniper tree next to the palace well. Luke could only guess at the stallion’s discomfort under the heavy brocades of his caparison. Meanwhile Yakub’s mare had sensibly stood in his shadow. Luke had spent the day with his friends, explaining what had happened: there’d been Mamluk soldiers following the caravan all the time. Ibn Khaldun had had to wait for them to reach Tabriz before mounting the rescue.
Luke looked up as Yakub entered. He was standing by Eskalon’s side and had a brush in each hand.
‘How did it go?’
Yakub sat heavily on a bale of straw. He scratched the back of his head and spat into a water bucket. ‘As expected. We agreed a three-way alliance against Tamerlane. Then Ibn Khaldun left and it turned into two.’
The Towers of Samarcand (The Mistra Chronicles) Page 15
