‘The gates of Bursa,’ said Mohammed Sultan as they rode through. ‘Probably made by you Greeks when you had the city. Now they’re ours.’
It was hardly a boast. This was an empire that had sprung from nothing to the greatest in the world in twenty years, an accumulation of riches beyond anything yet seen in history. Luke stared at the helpless saints, strung up on their gilded hinges for heathen scrutiny, and remembered Plethon’s loathing for them, alongside relics and all the other paraphernalia of superstition. They arrived at a tent outside which two men were examining coats threaded with gold. When they saw Mohammed Sultan, they swept their hats from their heads and sank to their knees.
‘Please, Ruy González, Sotomayor,’ murmured the Prince as he dismounted, lifting the men to their feet. ‘I bring you friends.’
The Spaniards rose and bowed to Luke, who had also come down from his horse. They were small, dark men whose gathered hair was streaked with grey. They wore Spanish black and their demeanour was grave. The taller of the two turned to Mohammed Sultan. ‘Your grandfather has given us these robes. And horses too. We are indebted.’
Mohammed Sultan laughed. ‘But you must start drinking, Clavijo!’ He patted him on the shoulder. ‘Temur has noticed you never touch your wine at banquets. He wonders if Spain is full of monks.’
The man from Castile bowed again. He turned to Luke. ‘You will find it difficult’, he said, quite serious, ‘to keep up with them. They drink until they cannot stand.’
Mohammed Sultan had turned towards his horse. ‘Look after the Greeks, Clavijo,’ he said over his shoulder. ‘Temur has decreed the suspension of every rule and law for sixty days. There will be more abandonment on this plain than you can possibly imagine. I suggest you put on Temur’s robes and let your own cloak your statue of the Virgin. Hide her from view. And from seeing.’ Then he mounted and rode away.
*
For sixty days, the Mongol horde feasted and drank and copulated on the plain of Kani-gil. There were no rules so anything was possible. Widows straddled teenagers, men went with men and the bath-houses were busy with the washing of exhausted bodies. It was a time of entire and absolute excess where the Chagatai counted themselves ill used if they were not drunk by noon. By day, there were acrobats and jugglers and tightrope walkers. There were games of daring where men jumped hurdles while others strung bows to fire at them. By night, there was endless feasting and enough wine and koumis to drown Samarcand and all its suburbs. This was the mirror image of conquest: immersion in wine instead of blood.
Luke, Matthew and Nikolas tried to keep up with it all. They spent their evenings eating and drinking their way through horse, mutton and wine, and afterwards did their best to avoid staying the night. Hardest of all was the need to keep sober enough to make their way home to their tent.
By day, and free of any guard, they could wander where they wished. But despite their deels and squirrel hats, they were never invisible. At least a head taller than the biggest Mongol, they attracted attention of the worst kind. Drunken Chagatai tried to provoke them into fights so in the end Luke decided that they should themselves become part of the entertainment.
One morning, they rose, put on their Varangian armour and picked a spot to engage in Varangian weapon practice. They fought with the sword, the axe and the lance and drew crowds of sore-headed Mongols to the spectacle. When they stopped, no one picked a fight with them again.
They saw little of the Spaniards. The envoys from Castile were serious men who wore their religion like armour. They had travelled six thousand miles for fifteen months, been shipwrecked and robbed, arriving at the court of Tamerlane unprepared for its scale and decadence. Clavijo and Sotomayor, the two ambassadors, spent their days trying to find ways to meet Tamerlane again, shocked to realise that their king, Henry III, was counted of lesser importance than the Mamluk Sultan of Egypt or even the King of Badakhshan.
At last the day of Tamerlane’s grandsons’ weddings arrived and the Varangians and Spaniards were woken early to be told that they would attend the feast to follow the ceremony. It was to be held in Tamerlane’s great tent with the Lord of the Celestial Conjunction present. They were given new robes of exquisite design and escorted to the banquet by giggling girls who offered to return to them later.
Inside the tent was more space than Luke had thought possible to embrace within silk. It was filled with long tables on which whole sides of horse and mutton steamed on plates ringed with coloured rice. To either side sat the captains of Temur’s army dressed in their finest deels. Behind them were tapestries, shag velvet screens and furs of ermine. Luke strained his eyes through the smoke to see to the end of the tent where raised daises, each at a different level, had been placed beneath an enormous dome. Upon them were empty thrones with low tables in front of each.
‘Where do we sit?’
Nikolas was looking down the long line of Mongols. There seemed to be no empty seats. Sotomayor gestured.
‘We sit at the end. In front of the daises. There will be seats for us.’
He began to walk forward. They had reached perhaps halfway down the tent when they heard a blast of horn behind them.
‘Kneel!’ hissed Clavijo, his hand pressing down on Luke’s shoulder. Three Varangians and two Spaniards fell to their knees. Luke glanced towards the end of the tent. Mongols had entered and lined up in front of the tables, their heads bowed, their hands pressed, palm to palm, in front of them. At a command, they fell to the ground. The tent had fallen silent.
There were more blasts and Tamerlane entered. He was dressed in a long robe of red and gold, lined with fox and open to a tunic of simple white cambric beneath. On his head was a crown girded with gems and against the white of his chest rested an enormous ruby. He shuffled past the tables, dragging his lameness behind him. As he approached, Luke dared to glance up. Tamerlane was frowning and his eyes, unencumbered by Shulen’s glasses, were bloodshot.
Behind Tamerlane came his eight wives, led by Saray Mulk Khanum, Bibi Khanum, oldest, largest and most senior of them all. It was for her that the biggest mosque in the world was being built, for her that its architects had been hanged on the plain of Kani-gil for not making its portal equal to her magnificence. She made an impressive sight. She was dressed in a tent-robe of blue Zaytuni silk, embroidered with gold circles, whose train was carried by fifteen ladies-in-waiting. By her side walked twenty more ladies supporting a headdress of a size that took Luke’s breath away. It was a mountain of pearls and balas rubies and turquoises at whose summit sprang a riot of coloured feathers, some bent to fall to her shoulders. Her face was a mask of white lead through which two tiny eyes blinked to right and left behind a veil of finest gauze.
After the Great Khanum came Tamerlane’s other seven wives, who were of varying size and age but all dressed in glittering attire. At their back was Shulen. As she passed Luke, she caught his eye and smiled. It was weak, but it was a smile.
Tamerlane settled himself into his throne on the dais, Bibi Khanum on his right, Shulen on his left. The other wives took their places on lower daises to either side. As Luke hurried to his seat, he saw Mohammed Sultan and Pir Mohammed sit amongst the other grandsons and their new wives further down.
There was another blast of horn and a gorgeously attired man, not of Mongol origin, strode down the length of the tent until he reached Tamerlane. Behind him came a trolley with something tall and cloaked upon it. Luke turned to Sotomayor for explanation.
‘The King of Badakhshan, ten days’ march from here,’ whispered the man from Castile. ‘Very rich. They mine precious stones there.’
The King had dropped to his knees and was gesturing to the covered shape behind. He stopped talking, there was a drumbeat, the cloak was removed and Luke’s breath left his body.
‘My God,’ whispered Nikolas.
It was a tree, about the height of a man, made entirely out of gold. Its trunk was as thick as a man’s leg and the fruit that hung from its many branches, bene
ath leaves delicate as paper, was emeralds and rubies and sapphires and every other gem imaginable. Dozens of little birds of gold and painted enamel crowded the tree’s branches, some with their wings spread ready for flight, some feeding on the fruit, some with their beaks open for song. It was extraordinary.
Tamerlane thought so. He’d risen to his feet and lifted a chalice in toast to the King of Badakhshan. Luke saw him drain the wine in a single gulp and then watched as Bibi Khanum lifted her veil and did the same. She let out a burp that carried to the other end of the tent. She patted her stomach and Tamerlane roared his approval and sat down.
Then the Conqueror of the World turned to his left and leant towards Shulen. He was whispering something into her ear and Shulen was shaking her head. At last she pointed at Luke and his heart missed a beat. Tamerlane was looking at him.
‘Come forward, Greek!’ Now he was beckoning him. Luke took a deep breath and got to his feet. The dome above him seemed to rise into eternity, the space around him stretch beyond horizons. He was among ten thousand Mongols and their master had called for him. He walked forward, past the King and his golden tree, past staring generals and emirs and shaykhs, until he stood at the bottom of the dais from which Tamerlane, Bibi Khanum and Shulen looked down. He felt light-headed.
Tamerlane gestured to Shulen. ‘I have named her Jawhar-agha,’ he said, ‘which in your language means “Queen of Hearts”.’ He frowned then. ‘But you know this, Greek. You already have her heart.’
Luke glanced at Shulen, who was staring straight ahead with no expression on her face. She was simply dressed in purest white silk, high-collared, her jet-black hair falling unadorned to her shoulders. She seemed of a different species to Bibi Khanum.
Tamerlane continued: ‘She says she is married to you, which is unfortunate since I wish her to be my wife.’
Luke was too surprised to reply. He glanced at Shulen and then further down to where he saw that Mohammed Sultan had risen from the table.
‘You will divorce her,’ said the Lord of the Celestial Conjunction. ‘And I will take her to my bed. She has given me sight, read to me and salved my joints. Now I would bed her.’ He paused and turned his bloodshot eyes to Shulen, who continued to look into the distance, her lips set. Tamerlane’s knotted hand covered hers, one animal mounting another. ‘She has my favour.’
By now Mohammed Sultan was standing behind Tamerlane’s chair, stooping to speak into his ear. He spoke loud enough for Luke to hear. ‘Grandfather, the Holy Book forbids taking another man’s wife against their wishes. Is it wise to offend God?’
Tamerlane frowned. He drank and wiped the wine from his beard with the hand not covering Shulen’s. He wrinkled his nose as if a noxious smell had crept beneath it. He leant forward. ‘Do you have any objection, Greek?’ he growled. ‘I want Jawhar-agha to be my wife. Will you divorce her?’
‘No.’
Had he spoken? He had spoken. He had said no. He had denied Tamerlane.
‘No, lord,’ he amended, his heart pounding. ‘She is my wife before God. I will not divorce her.’
Tamerlane’s frown deepened. He shook his head suddenly as if trying to escape an unwanted thought. He opened his mouth but his grandson spoke first.
‘You will need God’s favour to conquer China,’ he continued quietly, his ear close to Tamerlane’s. ‘You will need his blessing to finally unite the kingdoms. Why risk it, Grandfather?’
Tamerlane blinked twice, his head slightly tilted to listen. He drank more wine.
Mohammed Sultan went on, speaking faster. ‘Think of it, Grandfather. The Chagatai here feasting with you. Persia. The Golden Horde. You have one more khanate to conquer to create an empire bigger than Genghis’s: China, the kingdom of Kublai Khan.’ He paused. ‘You are so close.’
Tamerlane was fidgeting with the sleeves of his robe. He was breathing hard, his breath escaping in short spasms. His great brow was ever more furrowed, sweat within its folds. He was thinking. At last his hand moved away from Shulen’s. He grunted and lifted his chalice only to find it empty. ‘Wine!’ he roared. A eunuch appeared with a pitcher. He gestured to Bibi Khanum’s cup. ‘And for her!’
Mohammed Sultan had taken a step backwards. He looked at Shulen who continued to stare ahead. He glanced at Luke and nodded. Then he turned to walk back to his seat.
Tamerlane leant forward again. ‘Why are you here, Greek?’ he growled. ‘Why are you at my court?’
Luke straightened. He’d not practised what he would say were Tamerlane to speak to him. His mind raced. He thought of all that Ibn Khaldun had told him. ‘Before you go to China,’ he said, summoning the words, ‘there is the Khanate of Persia’s conquest still to complete. Genghis’s grandson, Hulagu, went as far as the land of the Turks. You have to reconquer those lands, lord.’
Tamerlane squinted at him. ‘You are telling me where I should go, Greek?’
‘I say no such thing, majesty. But you should know that the tribes there are weary of Bayezid’s rule. You would be welcomed.’ He paused and glanced at Shulen, who was now staring at him. ‘You would be welcomed as the Sword of Islam.’
Luke’s heart was now beating faster than Eskalon’s at full stretch. He knew that his life was balanced as precariously as the tightrope walkers he’d watched this past month. He felt giddy with adrenalin, almost drunk.
Tamerlane said: ‘Bayezid is a tick that I’ll flick from my body when I remember to do so. Until then I will send him letters to anger him. It pleases me.’ He turned to Shulen. ‘Your husband is brave but foolish. Take him from my presence before I remove him from you.’
Shulen rose and came down from the dais, took Luke’s hand as a wife should, and led him through the silent tent, past the ambassadors and shaykhs and generals of Tamerlane’s army. And as they walked, the silence was broken as men dared once more to revel. Shulen turned to Luke, speaking from the corner of her mouth.
‘That was frightening. From now onwards, I am your wife. If Temur finds out the truth, we’re both dead.’
CHAPTER NINETEEN
SAMARCAND, WINTER 1399
As summer turned to autumn and then winter, the leaves on the trees in the Garden of Heart’s Delight turned first red, then gold, then as brown as the grass to which they fell. The poles in Tamerlane’s tents were seasonally repainted but the roof above stayed blue, for such was the sky outside: day after day of brittle blue dusted with clouds of cotton fleece.
After the qurultay had run its riotous course, Luke and his friends had been given their own tent in the garden with everything they desired and some they didn’t. For Luke at least, the slave girls were a temptation but nothing more. His greatest pleasure had been to have Eskalon, then Arcadius, delivered to him repaired and well; his constant pain, to know that day by day the marriage of Anna to Suleyman was drawing closer.
Shulen’s tent was placed next to Tamerlane’s. She might be married to another man, but the Lord of the Celestial Conjunction wanted her near to him. She spent most days in his tent, often with Mohammed Sultan. Tamerlane was sixty-three and the pain of his knee worsened as the days got colder. While Mohammed Sultan read to them both, Shulen would spend hours at a time mixing lotions and applying them to the tired joints of the man who terrorised the world. And when she wasn’t doing this, she was, very secretly, teaching him to read.
The Spaniard Clavijo left Tamerlane’s court to go home, leaving Sotomayor behind. He would travel by way of Edirne to deliver another letter to Bayezid and, it was assumed, awe the Sultan with tales of Tamerlane’s splendour.
Luke spent much of his time hunting with Mohammed Sultan in the parks around Samarcand, whenever the Prince could be plucked from the company of Shulen. Tamerlane’s heir seemed keen to learn as much as Luke could tell him of the West. Matthew and the other Varangians got used to riding by themselves, but while Nikolas and Arcadius joked about Luke’s new friendship, Matthew remained silent. He’d grown up with Luke in Monemvasia, spent barely a day apart from him si
nce birth; they were as two brothers. Now there was another.
One morning, Luke found himself riding through the Zarafshan Valley towards the mountains in the south, passing channels that carried snow-melt to the cotton fields. Against Shulen’s advice, Tamerlane had decided to hunt and desired her company and that of Mohammed Sultan. The Prince had asked that Luke join them too.
The next day found them high up on a plateau, riding between groves of mulberry trees, the winter sun a liquid mess that spilt across the sky. Luke was riding Eskalon beside Mohammed Sultan. He was wearing a thick deel of padded fur and had Torguk’s bow beside him on the saddle. Far behind were guards wrapped in fur, who tickled the hooded necks of eagles and gyrfalcons sitting on their padded arms. Shulen was up ahead with Tamerlane.
Tamerlane’s favourite eagle had been released and had already snatched a hare from the snow. Mohammed Sultan had been inspecting the mulberry trees and looked up. ‘What must the silkworms think when they see that fly above them?’
‘The silkworms, lord? Can they even see?’
The Prince laughed. ‘No, I don’t believe they can. They only have a month on this earth, all of it spent eating.’ He reined in his horse, happy to separate them further from his grandfather and Shulen. He looked up at the eagle again, his hand shielding his eyes. ‘They can eat, grow, fornicate, and give us the most precious thing on earth, but they can’t fly.’ He paused and glanced at Luke. ‘Imagine having everything in the world except the one thing you want. Can you imagine that?’
Luke remained silent, guessing the point of it all. Over the weeks, he’d seen how Mohammed Sultan’s admiration for Shulen had grown, day by day, into something else. He changed the subject. ‘Do you know where Temur plans to go next?’
The Towers of Samarcand (The Mistra Chronicles) Page 22
