Mohammed Sultan laughed. ‘Probably not where you’d like him to go.’
‘The army hasn’t moved yet.’
‘Which shows Shulen’s having some success, perhaps. But I wouldn’t count on it. My grandfather does what he wants to do.’
Luke pondered this.
‘You think him mad,’ Mohammed Sultan continued, ‘and you think him cruel. You’ll see terrible things next year if you’re still with us, but his cruelty has its purpose. Cities open their gates to him.’
‘And he slaughters their inhabitants anyway,’ said Luke.
‘You speak of Delhi. But the inhabitants rose up after the city had fallen. It was the same in Herat and Isfahan. They were lessons.’
‘But lessons not heeded by all,’ said Luke. ‘Tell me of Toktamish, highness.’
Mohammed Sultan smiled and patted his horse’s neck. ‘It was eight years past, Pir Mohammed’s and my first campaign,’ he said. ‘It was a glorious thing.’
The Prince kicked his horse into a walk.
‘It was winter and Toktamish of the Golden Horde, who’d been given his throne by my grandfather and was treated as a son, chose to invade Mawarannahr from the north. The generals advised waiting until spring to confront him, saying that the snow would be too deep. But Temur Gurgan wouldn’t listen. He gathered the tribes and led an army up into the lands of the Rus, snow up to the withers. We moved by forced marches and the army of Toktamish fell back before us, always staying one march ahead. When the food ran out, Temur arranged a great hunt across the steppe, with the whole army sweeping game towards archers waiting in the hills. We marched further north into the wilds of Siberia, the Land of Shadows, and still Toktamish refused battle. We came to the Samara River, a land of mists and marshes, with no food for the army for Toktamish had destroyed everything behind him. The air was so dark and the rain so heavy that we could barely see three paces. Then the sky suddenly cleared and there was the Golden Horde, stretched out on the other bank. Their army was immense, twice the size of ours, and at its centre stood the standard of Toktamish, crowned with a human skull. Temur chose that moment to erect his tent and call for food as if the enemy wasn’t there.’ The Prince laughed. ‘I thought it the most wonderful thing.’
He sat back on his saddle. ‘The Kipchaks had guarded the ford and it would be suicide to cross. So for three days we marched along that riverbank, their army shadowing ours. Then one night, when we were in camp, Temur had all the women don the men’s helmets and sit around the fires while the army moved silently away, its horses’ hoofs muffled by hessian. He force-marched us back to the ford. Then we crossed and came up on the Kipchaks from behind.’
Luke was astonished. The discipline that would have made such a thing possible was beyond belief.
‘But it was close. At one stage Temur was dismounted, fighting hand to hand with a half-pike shattered in his hand. Then I rallied the right wing and pushed the Kipchaks back to the river and the day was ours. A hundred thousand dead, mainly theirs.’
Luke suddenly understood why Mohammed Sultan was the favourite grandson of Tamerlane, why his name was read out at Friday prayers and was minted on the coinage. They rode on in silence. Then the Prince spoke. ‘My mother is fond of you. Perhaps you understand her better than I do.’
Luke was bewildered. ‘Highness?’
‘She has told me that you’re not married to Shulen yet she forbids me to pay court to her.’
Luke frowned. He’d not realised that Mohammed Sultan knew. ‘Perhaps she fears Temur learning the truth.’
‘No, she knows me better than that. It’s because Shulen is not exalted enough in rank to marry the heir to Temur. But it makes no sense. Few of Temur Gurgan’s wives are royal.’
Luke said nothing.
‘I don’t understand it,’ said the Prince. ‘Her love for my father Jahangir was beyond passion. Why will she not allow it for her son?’
Luke glanced at him. ‘You love Shulen that much, lord?’
Now the Prince was silent and seemed intent on the mane he was pulling through his fingers. ‘Yes, I love her. But you, Luke. Do you love her too?’
Before Luke could answer, there was a shout from behind them and both men turned in their saddles.
‘A wolf!’ cried the Prince, kicking his horse. ‘If they’ve released the second eagle it must be a wolf!’
Tamerlane and Shulen were too far ahead to be seen. Mohammed Sultan and Luke cantered through the mulberry groves and into the wood at the bottom of the rise, the falconers hard on their heels. Then they were up and out amidst the silver birch and the eagles were circling above them, giant black crosses with their jesses trailing in the air behind. They couldn’t see the wolf but the birds could and they began their dives, one behind the other, until they were only feet above the ground.
Then Luke saw it. It was a cub and it was running for its life across the frozen ground, stirring up a blizzard as it went. The first eagle crashed into its neck, rolling the animal head first into the snow. The second sank its talons into the wolf’s rear as it landed and a spray of blood arced into the air and pitted the white ground with red. There was a flash of fur and teeth and the wolf lay still.
From below them came a shout. Tamerlane had called for his eagle.
‘Allah,’ whispered Mohammed Sultan, already turning his horse, kicking hard. ‘He promised he wouldn’t hunt. His knees are too weak to hold the horse when the eagle lands.’
Already, the piece of meat would be on Tamerlane’s arm and he’d be stretching it out for the bird to land on. The Emperor had forgotten his age.
‘What will the horse do?’ shouted the Prince over his shoulder, lashing the flanks of his own mount.
‘God knows! Why don’t the falconers recall it?’ shouted Luke.
Mohammed Sultan was riding hard. ‘It’s Temur’s eagle!’
They were in the trees now, ducking branches and urging their horses through the snow-covered debris. Above the canopy they could see snatches of the giant wingspan as the bird circled, tighter each time as its eyes fixed on to the man on the horse below. Every second the eagle was nearing the moment when it would begin its fall, when it would land on Tamerlane’s arm.
There was a cry. Not of human but of beast. Mohammed Sultan kicked his horse on through the trees. Beyond was the sound of a whip striking again and again and the scream of an animal and then they were out of the trees and before them, at the bottom of the valley, was the Emperor, still on top of his horse, the eagle clutching a gloved arm that was dripping with blood. The bird’s wings were spread and it jerked its head left and right with each screech of alarm. The horse was wheeling and at any moment Tamerlane must fall.
Shulen was doing her best. She was trying to catch hold of the reins to stop the horse, but she couldn’t get past the flailing hooves and Tamerlane’s whip.
Luke pulled Eskalon up and shouted something. Tamerlane’s horse looked and saw Luke and came to a standstill, breathing hard and blowing through nostrils wide with fear. Tamerlane jumped from its back but stumbled as he hit the gound. Then he was on one knee and his arm was above his head with the eagle still on it, shrieking with alarm. With every cry, the bird drove its talons further into Temur’s arm. Luke turned to Mohammed Sultan.
‘Tell the falconers to call back the eagle,’ he said. ‘Do it now.’
‘But …’
‘Do it!’
The order was given and the call made and the eagle released its grip. Tamerlane roared with pain as the bird rose into the air, its jesses trailing. Luke dismounted and ran to Tamerlane, who was kneeling in a pool of blood, one arm cradling the other. He tore off his deel and then the sleeve of the shirt he was wearing. ‘Lord, let me bind you.’
But the face that turned to Luke was twisted with rage. Tamerlane lifted his whip with his good sleeve and hurled it at Luke.
‘You dared to call my eagle?’
Luke stood. ‘Lord, you were about to fall.’
‘
Temur Gurgan fall from his horse? You dare to say this?’
‘Luke …’ Shulen had dismounted and had taken his hand. He felt something warm and looked down to see her blood seeping through his fingers. ‘I tried to calm the horse by taking the reins,’ she whispered, squeezing his hand, pulling him down to kneel. ‘That was the mistake. Don’t make it worse.’
Tamerlane was drawing his sword.
‘Wait, Grandfather!’ Mohammed Sultan was now in front of Tamerlane. ‘What would you do, Grandfather?’
‘I would kill him,’ the Emperor growled. ‘Does he deserve less? He recalled my eagle.’
The Prince lowered his voice. ‘You would kill the man who has just saved your life?’
Tamerlane looked at his grandson in astonishment. Some of the colour was beginning to leave his face. ‘You take his part against mine? Against your grandfather?’ he said more in wonder than anger. ‘You would do this? You, my heir?’
Mohammed Sultan remained silent and looked at his grandfather, his head held high. Tamerlane stared back. Then he laughed.
‘I know what it is!’ He slapped his thigh. ‘You want the girl! Ha! I have seen how you look at her! Well, she is mine.’ He paused. ‘What do you say to that, heir?’
Still the Prince said nothing. Then he unhooked his sword. ‘The girl is married, Grandfather,’ he said evenly. ‘If you take her to your harem, I cannot be your heir.’ He laid his sword on the ground and knelt.
There was no sound except the rasp of Tamerlane’s breathing. At long last he let out a long sigh. He said: ‘Get up.’ There was no trace of anger left. ‘You speak well, Grandson, and you’re brave. That is why I favour you above all others. That is why you are my heir.’
Mohammed Sultan rose. He gestured to Luke and Shulen, still kneeling. ‘And these, lord?’
Tamerlane was trying to take off his glove. The leather was sticking to the holes in his forearm and he winced with the pain. ‘The Greeks can go home, all four of them. There is nothing for them here. The girl stays. She can mend my arm.’
Then Luke spoke. ‘We are Varangians, lord, not Greeks. I have lived among the gazis of the Germiyan tribe and I am as much a man of the steppe as any who serves you.’
Tamerlane looked puzzled. ‘A man of the steppe?’ he asked. ‘You?’ He wiped his beard with his hand. ‘I don’t think so.’
‘Then let me prove it, lord,’ Luke said. ‘Let me prove that I am as good with a horse and a bow as any you lead. If I am what I say, then perhaps you’ll allow me to stay.’
Tamerlane had managed to remove his glove. His arm was a mangled piece of meat, dripping gore. He spat on it and winced again. He looked at Luke, his face expressionless. Then he spoke. ‘You are brave but you are a fool.’ He turned to his heir. ‘Mohammed Sultan, do you take up this challenge?’
Mohammed Sultan had been watching Luke carefully, curiosity in his eyes. ‘As you wish, lord. What is it to be?’
Tamerlane thought awhile, his fingers stroking his beard. ‘The eagle. No, five eagles. Two on poles, three held by your friends. If you miss, they die. Then you.’
CHAPTER TWENTY
SAMARCAND, WINTER 1399
The eagles were three feet in height and made of wood. Their heads were turned to one side so that their hooked beaks were in profile. On their chests were circled targets of padded straw that would be hard to hit in perfect light. By the time Tamerlane had risen from his bed, it was nearly evening.
Shulen had tried to wake him sooner but he’d given orders that he was not to be disturbed. They’d arrived back from the mountains at midday and Tamerlane, weak with blood-loss and with his arm splinted across his chest, had gone straight to his tent.
So it was in half-light that Luke and Mohammed Sultan rode out on to the ground side by side from a tent where they’d been given their horses. Luke’s was a pony of the kind he’d ridden with the Germiyans: swarthy, intelligent and agile. He’d been denied Eskalon but at least had been given Torguk’s bow.
Mohammed Sultan turned to him as they rode. ‘Can you hit those targets at the gallop?’
Luke looked at the long stretch of beaten earth, planted with two poles with eagles at their tops, perhaps fifty paces apart, and further along Matthew, Nikolas and Arcadius, all with targets strapped to their fronts. On both sides were ropes, which the riders could not cross, at least a hundred paces wide of the targets. The range was more difficult than anything Luke had yet attempted and the light was fading fast.
‘If I had my horse, yes. But I’ve not been allowed my horse.’
Mohammed nodded. They were getting closer to the dais and he spoke out of the corner of his mouth. ‘My mother told me this: that you speak with horses and that they do your bidding. How much time do you need with this one?’
Luke looked at the man by his side. He could see Khan-zada in him: the pointed nose, the high cheekbones and sweeping forehead, the head set back upon the shoulders. ‘A few minutes, no more.’
‘You shall have them. I will ask to ride first.’
‘And you will hit them all?’
‘Of course, at the first pass. To miss any would raise suspicion. I will miss on the second pass. You will have to hit them all every time. Wait here.’
Luke watched the Prince trot away towards the dais. He looked down at the horse beneath him. He jumped down and walked round to its front and took the head between his hands, allowing his fingers to stroke the loose flesh between the animal’s jawbones. He looked into eyes full of bewilderment and suspicion and he began to talk: gently, softly.
We don’t have much time. I need you to help me.
The horse was good; they’d given him one with intelligence. It was listening.
This is what I want you to do.
There was a shout from behind him. Luke ignored it and continued to talk. There was another shout, this time from more than one person; what he was doing hadn’t happened before.
That’s it.
Luke had done all he could. He remounted. Mohammed Sultan was sitting on his horse across from him, no more than ten paces away, his head slightly tilted. Two men with arrows were walking towards them.
‘Varangian,’ called the Prince, ‘I am to ride first. Five arrows, one for each target, and your horse must never slow to a trot. Is that agreed?’
Luke nodded.
Mohammed Sultan took his bow and the quiver of arrows and rode his horse to the end of the course and out beyond the rope. He was in no hurry and Luke spent the time talking to the creature below him: talking with his tongue, his hands, his knees.
Trust me as I trust you. Do not fail me.
A man with a flag had walked into the centre of the course. He turned and looked towards the dais where Tamerlane sat. There was the murmur and shuffle of many people and, looking around him, Luke saw that the ground was now ringed with Tartars in their deels and high hats. Row upon row of Tamerlane’s inscrutable army had come to see the foreigner humbled by their prince. Then Tamerlane raised his hand and the flag came down. The contest had begun.
Mohammed Sultan pressed his knees to his pony’s flanks and it broke into an easy lope. In one hand he held the bow, an arrow already on its string; in the other his reins. A cheer rose from the men watching and there was the clatter of swords against shields.
The horse accelerated as it approached the first target and Mohammed Sultan let go of the reins and, in one graceful movement, turned in his saddle and shot. By the time the arrow had embedded itself in the eagle, there was another arrow on the string and seconds later it had hit its target too. Luke glanced at his three friends further down the course. It was too far to see if their eyes were open.
He closed his.
He heard cheers and opened them to see Mohammed wheeling his horse round at the other end of the course. His friends were still standing, arrows in the eagles before them.
It was Luke’s turn.
He trotted his horse to the end of the course, talking to it all the way. He had
Torguk’s bow in one hand and a quiver of arrows slung across his back and he tested the bowstring with his finger and found the tension as it should be. Everything would depend on the animal beneath him.
Have you understood?
At the rope, he turned his horse to face the line of targets and waited for the flag to fall. There was quiet in the ranks of the Mongols and on the dais where Tamerlane sat, a grandchild at each ear to describe the scene. The sun was low in the sky and the colours of the landscape were beginning to merge with the lengthening shadows. Minute by minute, a little more detail disappeared. Luke kissed Plethon’s ring.
For luck.
The flag fell and he used first his heels, then his knees, to set the horse in motion and calibrate its speed. He knew that his only chance of hitting every target, and of getting another arrow to the string in between, lay in controlling his horse in its canter. Mohammed had deliberately ridden fast. He would ride as slow as it was possible to do.
The first eagle was approaching. He took aim and released his first arrow and heard the thud of its impact as he reached for his second. That too hit its target and now his friends were in front of him, standing with their eagles strapped to their chests and their heads turned away. Luke used his knees in the way that he’d been taught by Garkil.
That’s it. Slow down but not to a trot. And keep it even.
There was a moment of panic as he focused on his target.
It’s not Matthew. It’s an eagle.
Then he shot and renocked and shot again and again and he heard the cheer around him and looked back and saw three arrows sunk deep inside straw and three faces grinning above them. He felt sick with relief.
His hands went back to his reins and he pulled up his horse, patting its rough neck and talking, talking. He looked at his hands and saw that they were still.
I can do this.
Mohammed Sultan had kicked his horse to begin his second pass. He looked relaxed, as if he did this every morning, as if he’d never missed a target in his life. He glanced at Luke and he nodded.
The Towers of Samarcand (The Mistra Chronicles) Page 23
