McLennan closed his eyes suddenly. Throat-cutting was a horror very fresh in his memory. But he set his teeth and opened his eyes again, speaking more sharply than he had meant. ‘How can I get to the Turk city you named?’
‘Plenty of ships going there, it’s one of the great ports for the spice and gem trade,’ said the sailor. ‘See that captain over there? His ship’s bound for the Mediterranean on tomorrow’s tide. If you’ve money enough, go ask him if you can be his passenger.’
McLennan was canny. He didn’t want to pay too much. He waited till the captain of the ship bound for Constantinople was reeling drunk to approach him and strike his bargain.
The voyage was long and dangerous, but McLennan didn’t mind danger. He liked it. He’d lived with danger all his life, and he never felt fully alive if he was completely safe. Besides, the thrill of fear drove out thoughts.
What he didn’t like was rough seas. In the Bay of Biscay, off the coast of Portugal, there were violent storms that threw the ship about like a cork; its crew had to struggle against wind and waves, holding on to lifelines on deck, and lashing themselves to the yards, and even so, two were swept overboard. Passengers were ordered to keep below decks.
At first this infuriated McLennan, but he was soon forced to remember he was a bad sailor. It humiliated him to be brought low with seasickness. After bouts of vomiting he would lie groaning on his hard bunk, cursing this half-forgotten weakness.
But when the sea wasn’t rough, he spent a lot of time standing at the ship’s rail, dreaming of the foreign land which was the goal of his journey.
How, in his distant Scottish home, had he heard of this exotic place? Some time ago a wandering pedlar had called on McLennan. He had but one arm, and the smell on him of foreign parts, and while he showed his wares, he hinted he’d been to sea as a pirate, and dropped more hints of fabulous tales he could tell.
McLennan, not usually welcoming to strangers, paid the man to spend a few days with him, so that he could listen to his traveller’s tales, and his imagination had been inflamed by the sheer strangeness of what the pedlar described. Venturing to a place so outlandish would be like escaping his own world into another: a country on the other side of the world that was said to be more advanced than any nation in Europe, where lords – the equivalent in rank of McLennan – lived in incredible splendour, with scores of wives and servants, surrounded by priceless objects of unearthly beauty; where they spoke an indecipherable language, and wrote it in pictures; where the men had hair to their waists, and the women tiny feet no longer than a man’s finger, and where food never sampled in the west was eaten from dishes so fine you could see the light through them.
Of course everything the pedlar told him might be lies… But McLennan was determined not to die without seeing this place of wonders, if it truly existed.
The ship docked at last in Constantinople and McLennan disembarked, glad to feel the solid ground under his feet. Had he been less obsessed with the faraway country of his dreams, he would have lingered longer to explore the great Mohammedan mosques and magnificent palaces, roofed in gold and walled with beautiful painted tiles, and the crowded markets full of strange smells and stranger goods. But he’d heard the journey would take a year and cover ten thousand miles – and so there was no time to delay.
He soon learned there were inns called caravanserai where the traders gathered with their trade-goods so that they might travel together in greater safety. No one took this route alone. Here McLennan for the first time encountered the weird beast of burden called a gamal, bearing no more resemblance to a horse than that it had four legs and hair on its misshapen body. It was immensely tall with a hillock of flesh on its back, and its legs ended in big flat pads. It had foul breath and a temper worse than McLennan’s own, but it seemed that without these creatures no one could travel or transport goods over the terrain they had to cross.
So McLennan hired one, and took the advice of its owner – given during a visit to the market, in sign language – as to his likely needs on the journey ahead. He secretly hoped he would never be called upon to mount a gamal, as its height above ground, and its inhospitable hump, would surely make him as seasick as clinging to the poop deck of a ship on high seas.
Once again McLennan’s patience was tested. It took weeks for the caravan to assemble. But at last the party, consisting of about thirty men and as many gamal (or camels, as McLennan came to call them since he couldn’t pronounce the guttural language of his servant-guide) set off, the camels heavily loaded, the men on foot.
McLennan was lucky. There was a Portuguese trader among the men, a seasoned traveller called Afonso, who had made this journey once before and who spoke a little English. At first they could hardly understand each other, but Afonso was a talkative man; before a month of the journey had passed, they could converse, and better and better as the long days and longer nights passed.
The Portuguese spoke a great deal about his wife and children and to this McLennan deafened himself. He would sit by the campfire at night and stare into it and say nothing, trying not to listen, not to remember.
‘You have wife? Childs?’ Afonso kept asking.
McLennan clenched his teeth and made no answer.
‘You no find wife in Chi-na! No see womans there. Mans hide womans.’
‘Tell me about Chi-na, never mind the “womans”,’ McLennan growled.
He learned much about their destination, which the Chi-na men called the Middle Kingdom, thinking it the centre of the world. From this translation of its name came the nickname some travellers gave to its inhabitants – ‘Mi-Ki’.
‘Those Mi-Ki no like stranger,’ Afonso said. ‘Trader not all time behave well. Some cheat, some steal. Get drunk. Very bad. Now Mi-Ki think all mans from west bad. They call us devils from far—’
‘Foreign devils?’
‘Si. So best is, keep quiet, no drink, do trade, go home.’
‘I intend to stay,’ said McLennan. But Afonso didn’t believe him.
‘No one stay,’ he said.
‘Marco Polo did,’ thought McLennan. But he didn’t say it aloud. It might be just a rumour that the Venetian had become a member of some kingly court and stayed many years.
Another time, when McLennan had been regaling Afonso, as they trudged along the weary miles, with tales of his prowess in battle back in Scotland, the Portuguese gave him a sideways grin. ‘You like to fight?’
‘I like it well enough when I choose,’ McLennan answered.
‘Mi-Ki rule now by Mongol king call Kublai Khan. Most great ruler in all world.’
‘Aye, so I’ve heard.’
‘You like to fight Mongol? Then you show you great warrior!’
But McLennan knew when he was being mocked. He already understood that no one could beat the Mongols.
Nevertheless, through the hard journey across the wild desert regions of central Asia, McLennan began to dream of war and battle. Action. Action was what he had always needed and craved, ever since a night when he was held immobile, bound to a door that he had all but torn from its hinges in his frenzy.
Chapter Two
The journey took many months. And if it wasn’t ten thousand miles, often during the long months of travel it seemed like it. By the time they at last crossed the western borders of Chi-na, the Scotsman had to admit that his strength and endurance had been tested to their limits.
As they travelled on through the endless scattered farmlands of the north, McLennan saw little wealth and splendour, but much poverty and hard struggle for survival. The peasants of this vast land tilled it in the sweat of their faces, even more than his own serfs, though he was surprised to see that in certain ways their farming methods were better. Their fields were carved somehow into small, flat, irregular steps that followed the curve of the hills, to make the most of the land.
The peasants mainly kept their distance, except for a few that approached them to sell food, or to trade (these received short shrift f
rom the cameleers, who had bigger game afoot in the cities). But McLennan saw enough of them to be amazed. He himself came from a mongrel race, descended from Picts, Britons, Vikings, Norman French and, far back, there was Roman blood. Some Scots were dark, some blond, some red-headed like him. They were of many shapes and sizes and casts of feature. All these, he thought at first, might have sprung from one egg—the travellers all had straight black hair, sallow skin, and eyes seemingly cut in half by their eyelids.
During the long journey, the travellers had eaten poorly, mainly meat and milk from the herds of the nomads they traded with in passing. But McLennan bore the simple diet stoically, feeding in his imagination on Afonso’s descriptions of the food in Chi-na, which he insisted was exotic, varied and delicious. And here – in primitive inns along the caravan’s route, where in the evenings they slumped exhausted with growling stomachs – here it was!
McLennan had never tasted such stuff. Little white grains was the bulk of it, with a few chopped vegetables half raw, some salt fish, some pig-meat, and occasional sauces that burned his tongue… He longed for a plate of porridge with honey and cream, some thick barley broth with chunks of fat mutton, good roast venison or beef in rich brown gravy, with bannock – real Scottish bread – to sop it up with.
Afonso mocked him. ‘You say you stay here? If Mongol no kill you first, you die of empty belly! You eat Mi-Ki food, my friend – is good!’ And he brought his bowl to his mouth and shovelled the stuff into it with two sticks, as the locals did. McLennan used his dhu – the short knife he carried in the top of his hose – to whittle a spoon, for which he was heartily laughed at.
How could he enjoy a place when he had no good meals to look forward to, and when his stomach was always either craving food or rejecting it? McLennan fell into a vile temper. He decided he hated this place. All these months of hard travelling to find a poor land full of peasants who ate disgusting things in a most idiotic manner! He kept his eyes on the ground and trudged on with the caravan, sullen, hungry and disappointed. Afonso tried to cheer him up, and when he failed, moved away and walked among the other men.
At last they reached their destination. As the caravan drew to a halt, amid the noise and bustle of a busy marketplace, McLennan had no choice but to look about him. And his senses reeled. He saw so many new things at once that he couldn’t take them in. Crowds, colours, scents, strange structures seemed to whirl around him.
They were outside the gates of a city. There were walls – high, strong walls – and an open gate. But he didn’t look through it at first. He looked at things nearest. There were tents both drab and brilliant, and stalls, and cartloads of exotic goods set out; there were merchants of several races, shouting, waving their arms, showing their wares – trading. There were many caravans of camels, donkeys, horses, mules and the strange creatures he had seen on the high plains called yaks. There were the clamouring noises and smells of all these. But most of all, there were colours.
McLennan’s own world was full of drab greys, blacks, browns, duns… the purple of heather in flower and the blue of summer skies reflected in lakes were almost the brightest colours his eyes were used to. Now he thought of rainbows, jewels, paintings, flowers, the brilliant tiled alcoves of the Mohammedans… Still he could think of nothing to compare with what he could see here on every side. The Mi-Ki merchants were holding these colours as if they had control of the waves of some multi-hued ocean, swirling them, displaying them – shimmering banners and bales and curtains of some wondrous fabric.
He moved forward, irresistibly drawn, and tried to touch one of the miraculous sheets. It looked like spun gold. He felt his bad mood suddenly lift like a rising pulse of music, and his desire to venture and to explore returned to him in a surge. His hands reached out… The merchant let him touch, just touch with the tips of his fingers. Then he snatched it away – like gossamer it floated on the air, tantalisingly out of reach, a glittering gold membrane that flashed in the sun.
Filled with excitement and eagerness, McLennan sought out Afonso, who was already deep in bargaining with a pigtailed merchant whose cart was laden with colourful bales of the shimmering cloth.
‘Here’s where I leave ye, my friend!’ he said exuberantly. Thanks for your company.’
‘Where you go, Scotlander? Stay close. Caravan not wait. Soon, we turn and go back. We sell our goods, then buy what we want – tea, porcelain, teak, perfume, spice, bamboo!’ All these he said in the Portuguese tongue. The new words rolled themselves round McLennan’s head like an incantation, but one vital word Afonso knew in English.
‘Look! Silk!’ The very word was like a sigh of ecstasy. He spread a thin tissue of forest green with a golden band over his arm. ‘No hands!’ he said, scowling with mock fierceness at the Scot’s rough fingers.
McLennan had hardly touched the fabled silk and already he felt its magic. It was what he had travelled for – it stood for the allure of this new country. He was not going home yet!
‘Dunna wait for me,’ said McLennan. ‘I’ll no’ be returning yet awhile.’
Afonso stared at him in bewilderment.
McLennan unloaded from his camel the woollen sack that contained his few possessions. The Portuguese saw his mind was made up.
‘You will die,’ he said with a shrug. But he embraced him. ‘Go well. Good luck, my foolish friend. Sometimes in Lisboa I think of you. We no meet again.’
McLennan shouldered his bag and set off, through the great gates into the city. It was a city as different from London as a glittering comet crossing the sky is from the muddy River Thames crawling below.
It was built on a grid pattern. Roads led away in dead straight lines, with much traffic: men on horseback, horse-drawn chariots, people-carriers on two wheels pulled by men at a brisk pace. And hundreds of men on foot. The buildings were low, but well constructed, with beautiful green-tiled roofs that curved upward at the corners (like the shoes of the Turks!) and were richly decorated with painted carvings. Steps led up to raised platforms in front of the houses and of the eating places, where McLennan could see that much of the furniture – tables, chairs, lamps, vases, pictures – was of an extraordinary delicacy, made with a skill in craftsmanship that he had never seen before.
He glimpsed gardens, half-hidden among the buildings. Not plain earthy plots for growing vegetables and fruit, but beautiful areas created for leisure. There was a curious refinement about everything, even the people.
Here were city folk, so wondrous-strange they might have dropped from the skies indeed. They wore long colourful robes and round-toed, thick-soled footwear. Their long black hair was piled on their heads, and some wore elaborate headdresses. Their wide sleeves, in which they tucked their hands, looked as if they were covered with flowers; they walked with small, elegant steps, seeming to glide along like wheeled toys. All were men.
Out of nothing more than curiosity, he looked for the women. The ones he had seen in the fields did not have small feet, but he thought, ‘In the city, they’re more refined – perhaps here they grow the small-boned ones.’ However, no women were to be seen. McLennan was disappointed. He wanted to see how anyone could walk on feet the size of pears. But perhaps it was only a tale.
Away from the marketplace, he soon discovered that he did, indeed, strike fear and disgust, and perhaps even anger, into the hearts of these strange people, just as Afonso had said.
The children fled at the sight of him. Talk died at his approach, and men drew back from him, their faces blank but their eyes growing narrower still. He walked on, counting on his size and foreignness to protect him, doing nothing to arouse them against him.
He walked a long way, staring around him at the beautiful buildings and other fascinatingly unfamiliar sights. Suddenly he saw a group of men. They appeared to be marching; they wore something like a uniform – a sort of leather armour, headdresses that combined a head-wrapping and a pointed metal helmet, and swords worn stuck in their belts. These must surely be guards, or s
oldiers.
He decided to follow them. Not too close! They began to glance uneasily over their shoulders and walk faster and faster. He quickened his own pace. Before long they broke ranks and ran pell-mell. McLennan burst out laughing at the sight, and ran after them, shouting, ‘Wait for me! I’ll join ye!’ They ran far ahead and eventually scattered, and he lost them amid the low buildings.
One of them had drawn and then dropped his weapon. It was a sword, curved, with a square-ended blade and a heavy bronze handle, thickly embossed to give a good grip. McLennan picked it up and hefted it in his hand. He liked the feel of it, and it had a keen edge. He threw it in the air several times and caught it deftly, aware that he was being watched. He ignored this and walked on, swishing the curved sword, making patterns in the air.
Suddenly – in the space of a moment – he found himself surrounded. The soldiers (if that’s what they were) had regrouped and were on all sides of him, threatening him. Their swords, like the one he held, were drawn, and pointing at him.
One man stepped forward, empty-handed. He stood in front of the big Scot and began to harangue him in the strange tongue. McLennan liked his courage. Besides, he quickly saw that he was outmanoeuvred and would have to yield, so he decided to do it with good grace.
He turned the sword till he held it by the blade, bent his left arm, and offered the handle to the man across his sleeve with a courteous bow and a smile.
The Dungeon Page 2
