To one side stood Luke, his helmet thrown to the ground and his face streaked with blood. He was sick from his wound and sick with relief. He heard footsteps approach him and managed to look up. Before him stood the chief of the Germiyans in a deel that still bore the imprint of the armour he’d cast to one side. Its sleeves and neck were spattered with filth and above them the battered face was grinning.
Luke was the first to speak. ‘Have we won?’
Yakub nodded. ‘I did as I said I would. We followed Suleyman’s Kapikulu, then rode across to come up behind the Serbians.’ He stepped forward and took Luke’s shoulders in his hands. He was frowning. ‘But you’re hurt.’
Luke shook his head. The pain was unbearable. He said, ‘Bayezid?’
‘On a hill with his janissaries. Temur has surrounded it.’
‘And Suleyman?’
‘Fled the field.’
Luke nodded. There was a sound behind him and he remembered something. He turned to find Shulen standing in front of the tent. ‘Is he alive?’ he asked, dreading the answer. She was wiping her hands on a towel and Luke saw that the blood reached far up her arms.
She nodded. ‘But it’s bad. We had to remove the stone that was fired into him.’ She glanced past him and he knew who she was looking for.
He turned to see Tamerlane approaching on a horse, a cloth held to his face. Next to him rode Pir Mohammed, his head crudely bandaged and his mail slashed in a dozen places. Carried behind them were the Horsehairs of two armies. Tamerlane dismounted stiffly and looked around him, his face devoid of expression. He looked twenty years older. He walked up to Shulen and took her hands. ‘Is he inside?’ he asked quietly.
‘Yes,’ she said and turned to open the tent door.
Before he entered, Tamerlane paused and turned about, his old milky eyes settling on Luke. He motioned for him to come forward. When Luke was kneeling in front of him, he placed two hands on his shoulders, bending forward so that their faces were very close.
‘Tarkhan,’ he said. ‘You know what that is, Greek?’
Luke nodded.
‘It means’, said Tamerlane, ‘that you can commit the same crime nine times before I kill you for it.’ He paused. ‘You are tarkhan now, Greek, and you will sit at my right hand tonight.’
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
ANKARA, 27 JULY 1402
On the evening after the great battle, Luke awoke from the deepest of sleeps to find that he couldn’t see. Nor could he move his limbs. In the darkness, every part of him seemed cut or bruised or too painful to lift and, at first, he wondered whether he’d survived the day.
Worst of all was his head, which throbbed with an intensity beyond enduring. Slowly he raised his hands to the bandage around his temples and lowered his fingers to his eyes. Gently, gently he prised them apart.
He was in a tent he knew: Khan-zada’s. A woman he didn’t know was kneeling next to the bed and behind her stood a steaming copper bath. ‘Who are you?’ he asked in Turkic.
There was no answer. He repeated the question in Greek.
The woman rose with grace. ‘I have been sent by your emperor,’ she replied, inclining her head lightly. ‘I was part of the Sultan’s harem and now it would seem I am part of his.’
Luke looked at her. She was dressed in a long, richly embroidered tunic of the kind worn by the Byzantine nobility. She reminded him of Fiorenza.
Slowly, he raised himself to his elbow. ‘What were you sent to do?’ he asked, rubbing his eyes. His throat was dry and his mouth felt lined with dirt and dried blood. His head was breaking apart.
‘To wash you, to anoint you with healing oils and to prepare you for the banquet.’ There was no emotion in her voice.
‘Well, thank you but I can wash myself. Do you have any water to drink?’
The girl turned and came back with a beaker of water and a cup. ‘You might as well let me put the oils on you. I’m good at it and you’ll feel much better afterwards. Drink.’
In the end, she did it all. Too tired for modesty, Luke allowed himself to be led to the bath and lowered into the hot water and, what with the heat, the oils and the healing caresses, he soon fell asleep again. When he awoke, his head no longer hurt. He moved it cautiously from side to side, his fingers pressed to the bandage. There was a smell all around him, on him. Healing oils. He’d dreamt of Anna. Somehow he felt she was near.
He was lying on the bed dressed in clean linen, his long hair spread either side of him, shining with a colour it hadn’t seen in years. The girl was at the other side of the tent, kneeling beside a gorgeous deel suspended from a wooden frame. She was running the embroidered silk through her fingers, admiring it in silence.
She turned. ‘Ah, you’re awake. That’s good because the banquet has already started.’
Luke saw that it was dark outside the tent and that the light came from lanterns with coloured glass. He pointed at the deel. ‘Am I to dress in that?’
‘Apparently,’ she answered. ‘I’m told it is the dress given to one who has performed great things: a tarkhan.’ She paused and looked at him. ‘Did you kill many today?’
Luke began to reply but then remembered something. ‘You were in the Sultan’s harem?’
She dipped her head.
He propped himself up on his arm. ‘Then you must know Anna. Anna Laskaris?’ He paused, thinking of something. ‘She was with Prince Suleyman.’
‘You’re Luke?’
Luke nodded. Then he asked: ‘Is she here?’
The woman rose, carefully replacing the sleeve she was holding. She came over to the bed and sat beside him. She was smiling and reminded him more and more of Fiorenza. ‘She was sent into Constantinople to persuade them to surrender. Which they haven’t.’
Luke felt relief flood over him. If Anna was inside Constantinople’s walls she was safe for now. ‘What is your name?’ he asked.
The girl rose. ‘My name is Maria. I am from Trebizond.’
Fiorenza. Of course.
‘There were three of us,’ she continued, ‘Anna, me and Angelina, daughter of Sigismund of Hungary. We were friends.’
‘What does Anna know of me, Maria?’ he asked.
‘That you are married to another.’
Luke lay back against the pillows. If Anna had gone into the city, then she’d be there when Luke arrived, released from his oath. He wanted to leave now. Maria went over to the deel and lifted it from its frame. ‘Now I will dress you, tarkhan.’
*
The last thing Maria had done before he left her was to warn Luke not to mix drink with the concoctions he’d been given. But the tent he now entered was thick with the smell of airag.
The tent was, in fact, Bayezid’s. It had been pillaged from the two hundred camels that had carried it from Bursa and erected by the Sultan’s eunuch tent-pitchers under the whips of Mongol guards. It was the tent in which Bayezid had planned to toast his greatest victory and was longer than ten galleys parked bow to stern. Inside were monstrous pillars holding up a series of rectangular panels, each with exquisite images of flowers embroidered in gold and silver thread that caught the light of the lanterns hanging along its length. A walkway ran down the centre between two long tables and on it were low braziers burning scented wood. Between them stood pitchers of wine and airag, with lines of jugs by their sides. On the tables were copper basins filled with water, baskets of naan and lavash and bowls of torshi-pickled fruits and vegetables mixed with vinegar and spices.
The Mongol nobility and those that had fought most bravely in the battle sat on either side of the low tables, some using their saddles as back rests. Apart from those serving, there was not a woman among them; Khan-zada and Shulen were elsewhere, celebrating the victory in their own quieter way.
Apart from airag, the smell was of several cooking meats. Great cauldrons of qorma, the glutinous stew of horsemeat, mutton, goat and chicken, were placed beside the tables, dumplings bobbing on their surfaces. By their sides sat plates of colo
ured rice topped with fried raisins and cherries.
At the end of the tent was the high table. It was raised on a dais and had horsetails piled before it, a small mountain of Ottoman and Serbian arms and standards. On the dais sat Tamerlane, with Benedo Barbi on his left. There was an empty space on his right.
You will sit at my right hand tonight.
Luke took a deep breath and began the long journey to the dais. As he walked, men came and went on either side, some speaking to him, some cheering and some leaning over to slap his back. He was given a cup of wine, then another. His steps became unsteady and he began to stumble. Could he be drunk already? Then someone was speaking his name, someone who was reaching out a hand to help him on to the dais. He looked up and saw the Castilian Sotomayor above him with concern in his eyes.
‘Luke?’ The voice was far away, then very close. ‘You are seated at Tamerlane’s right.’
Luke mounted the stage, in wonder that the Spaniard could lift a weight such as his. Then he was clownishly kneeling with his eyes level with the table and saucers of pine nuts, apricots, plums and cherries all around him. A big man across from him was laughing, banging the table with his fist, his head thrown back.
‘My jester!’ he was roaring, now inside Luke’s ear. ‘The Greek wants to be jester tonight! Give him bells!’
Instead, the Spaniard raised him and led him around the table to his place beside Tamerlane and set him down upon the cushions.
‘Already drunk?’ asked the Lord of the Seven Climes, leaning over to him and spilling wine as he did so. His speech was slurred and there was wine running across the table in front of him. ‘You should see my cup-bearer.’ He stamped his foot. ‘Wine!’
A woman appeared before them, naked to the waist. She was tall and fair and her tunic hung about her sides from where it had been ripped from her shoulders. Her face was impassive as she righted Tamerlane’s cup and filled it with wine.
‘And give him some, you Serbian whore,’ growled Tamerlane as he reached up to fondle her breasts. For a moment, her eyes met Luke’s. She moved away.
Tamerlane belched. ‘Despina, sister of Lazarević the Serb,’ he whispered, wiping his mouth, his fetid breath filling the space between them. ‘She’ll give me comfort tonight.’
Luke looked after her, seeing the straight, naked back and shoulders of a proud woman walking through hell. He wanted to say something but his voice wouldn’t obey him.
‘Perhaps I should fuck the bitch on Lazarević’s standard,’ Tamerlane whispered, pointing to the piled weapons before him. ‘Down there, in front of the men.’ He tossed back his head to drain the cup and belched again. ‘Trouble is, I am old, Greek. Once I would have done it, but now …’ His forefinger curled before Luke’s eye. ‘… the oak won’t stay upright. Especially when I drink.’
Sotomayor, seated beside Luke, leant over. He was a clever man, a diplomat, adept at changing subjects. ‘Where will you go for your next conquest, lord?’ he asked as he poured more wine from the jug he’d taken from Despina. It was the question the whole world wanted an answer to.
‘Where will I go?’ Tamerlane asked, a malicious grin spreading through his beard. ‘Why, Constantinople, of course. Then Castile perhaps. Where would you suggest, Sotomayor?’
The Castilian laughed. ‘Constantinople is an empty jewel box and my home beneath your imperial dignity.’
Benedo Barbi spoke from the other side. ‘Why not go back to Samarcand, lord? To see to the building.’
Tamerlane roared, throwing his arm around the engineer and pulling him to his breast: ‘You could come and help! Ha! What about today, eh, Genoese? My cunning and your science!’ He drank more wine, still clutching the Italian. ‘Anyway, you’re all wrong. I go on a jihad. I need to atone for my sins.’
Suddenly he released Barbi. He looked at the scene around him, then leant very close to him. ‘Never hope, Genoese, never hope. I go where I please.’ Tamerlane straightened and drained his cup, hammering it on the table for more. ‘But Smyrna first. Bayezid couldn’t take it. So I will.’
By this time, Luke was feeling strange. The scene before him was unstable. Had he just heard that Tamerlane was planning to march further west? He realised that he was being talked to.
‘Tarkhan, I’m asking you. What should I do now?’
Luke took a deep breath, trying to focus. What should he say? What would a tarkhan say? He thought of where Smyrna lay, of where he might be released from his oath, of where Anna might meet him. ‘Chios,’ he said.
‘Chios?’ Tamerlane turned to Benedo Barbi. ‘He wants me to destroy your island? He’s drunker than I thought.’
Luke struggled to bring together a half-formed thought. He turned to Tamerlane and tried to focus. ‘No, lord, not destroy. Meet.’
The men around him fell silent, staring at the man on Tamerlane’s right.
‘Meet,’ repeated Luke. ‘Meet my emperor there and other Christian kings. Make peace with them.’ He paused. ‘And release us Varangians from our oath.’
‘Why must I make peace with them?’
‘To secure your back before you go to China,’ said Luke. It was an effort but it was out.
Tamerlane was silent for a while, his big head swaying and an uncertain hand on his beard. ‘Well, it’s possible,’ he said at last. ‘Chios is across the sea from Smyrna. I’ll need to talk to my heir when he recovers.’
Luke sank back on the cushions. Someone had refilled his cup and he found himself reaching for it. Tamerlane was nodding slowly. Then he looked around him. ‘Enough plans!’ he shouted, slamming his cup to the table. ‘We need entertainment. Bring him in.’
There was so much noise in the tent that it took some time for the instruction to reach the other end. When it had, there were three drumbeats and the conversation stuttered to a halt. Then the drum began again and eight enormous Mongols emerged through the smoke, their muscled bodies straining beneath the weight of a giant cage.
Luke strained his eyes to see what was in it but it was too far away and the wine had made dancers of the people in front of him. He thought of elephants and jornufas and snow leopards and eagles and all the animals that Tamerlane kept to amuse him and tried to imagine what beast was being brought forward to entertain him tonight.
But it wasn’t a beast, it was a man. And as the cage came closer, he saw what man it was.
Bayezid.
Lying chained inside the cage was the Sultan Bayezid and he still wore the blood-stained armour in which, on that hill at Ankara, he’d fought to the last beside his janissaries. As the cage approached the dais, the men at the tables on either side began to jeer and laugh and throw bones as if something from the circus was being paraded before them.
When the cage had been set down in front of the piled armour, Tamerlane rose slowly and raised his hand. The tumult stopped. He took his glasses from the table, put them on and peered across the pile of booty at the man before him. Bayezid was lying, face down, the length of the cage, his arms over his head. He might have been asleep were it not for the rise and fall of his shoulders.
‘Have you eaten, Bayezid?’ It was a growl. Tamerlane reached behind him and came back with a sheaf of papers. He looked at them for a moment and then turned to the cage. ‘May I feed you?’
He walked behind Luke and Sotomayor and those seated to their right until he reached the end of the dais. Men came forward to help him climb down from it and once on the ground, he shook them off and limped round to stand next to the cage. He bent over it, speaking down to the back of the Sultan’s head. He raised the papers above his head, waving them.
‘These are your letters, Bayezid!’ he shouted to the hall. ‘These are your letters that said you were a ravening beast which would tear the skin from my bones!’ He paused and looked down the tent. ‘Which beast is now chained inside its cage?’
The tent echoed with the sound of men cheering, banging their knives against their plates and stamping their feet. Tamerlane lifted his other
hand for quiet. When it came, he knelt down slowly beside the cage. He began feeding the papers through the bars one by one. ‘Eat, you filthy son of a she-pig. Eat your words.’
Bayezid turned inside the cage, his arm pressing down on his head to shut out the shame, his body shaking.
‘Eat!’ roared Tamerlane, pushing fistfuls of the paper through the bars. ‘Where is your pride now, you excrement? Eat!’
Luke saw it all through a prism of merging colour. He saw an old man shaking the bars of a cage in drunken triumph, saw him raise his head and howl something throughout the tent and saw the men at the tables rise as one to lift their cups to the Lord of the Celestial Conjunction, the Conqueror of the World.
Tamerlane.
But there was more than just the cage in front of the dais. There were two women standing behind it. Luke strained to recognise them. Then he did. Zoe and Maria.
Tamerlane saw them too. He staggered back from the cage and called for wine and Despina came forward with the jug, not looking at the man in the cage. Tamerlane lunged at her, taking her by the waist and forcing her round to face Bayezid. He took the jug from her hands and up-ended it into his mouth, throwing it to one side when the last trickles dripped through his beard to the ground.
‘I have your whore!’ he shouted. ‘Look up, Bayezid. See the Serbian Princess naked before me! She’ll suck me dry tonight!’
But the Sultan would not look.
For a while, Tamerlane rattled and kicked the cage, hurling abuse through its bars, then he threw Despina to one side, her head hitting the table, and called for more wine. He drank with his legs apart, swaying, then staggered to where the two women stood. He stared at them, his eyes raking their bodies, before grabbing Maria by the arm and dragging her to the front of the cage. He turned to the men at the tables. ‘Who will be first?’ he yelled, lifting her arm like a prizefighter’s. ‘I have here a princess from Trebizond. What price to be first, here in this tent?’
The Towers of Samarcand (The Mistra Chronicles) Page 38
