It wasn’t just the heat stored in the sun-baked walls that kept Hero from sleep. He couldn’t stop marvelling at the fact that he’d travelled further east than almost any man before him, further even than Alexander, the conqueror of the known world. Once he passed Samarkand, only a week’s journey away, he’d be treading ground even Master Cosmas Monopthalmos hadn’t stepped on. He threw back his sheet, lit a lamp and took a copy of the Logothete’s itinerarium onto the balcony. Unrolling the scroll, he traced their progress sea by sea, city by city. He calculated that they’d covered between a third and a half of the distance to China. After Samarkand, the landmarks were no more than names – Kashgar, Khotan, Cherchen, Chang’an and, in a blank space at the end of the scroll, Kaifeng, capital of Song China.
A cock crowed. The first call to prayer rose and was answered from all directions, the sounds overlapping, one voice rising as another faded out, blending into a clamorous, melodious hubbub.
Hero turned and smiled. ‘Couldn’t you sleep either?’
‘I’m too excited,’ Aiken said.
‘Let’s go up and watch the sun rise.’
They climbed a twisting staircase built into one of the towers and emerged onto a high platform. Birds flocked past, black shapes winnowing across the peach and lilac sky. Hero rested his hands on the parapet and watched the sun swell above the metropolis, striking lustre from the green and blue tiles cladding mosques, minarets, mausoleums and madrasahs.
The sun rose and the clamour of the waking city rose with it. Flat-roofed houses, ribbed melon-shaped domes and feathery treetops faded into the smoke and dust of another day.
‘Are you glad you came?’ Hero said.
‘Oh yes. I feel as if I’m treading in the path of emperors.’
After breakfast Hero visited the bath house where a taciturn giant laid him on a slab and pummelled and thumped him, cracking each joint in turn and finishing by lifting up his head and bending it forward until something inside gave. On the slab next to him another masseur trod Vallon’s backbone with his feet.
Clad in a shot grey silk kaftan, Hero stood at Vallon’s side to receive the emir’s representative. The double doors opened and a mounted column high-stepped into the yard, preceded by a band playing fifes, trumpets and kettledrums. Behind the vanguard rode a young aristocrat with features so finely etched they should have been struck on coins. Only the suggestion of an epicanthic fold hinted at steppe origins. In his right hand he carried a gold-inlaid axe as badge of office. His spirited horse also commanded attention – small, chiselled head sprung on a long powerful neck, sturdy crupper and shortish straight front legs. Its flowing mane and tail suggested that at full gallop it would give the impression of flying.
Hero presented the official to Vallon. ‘His Eminence Yusuf ad-Dawlah, Second Secretary in the Office of Foreign Affairs. His Eminence trusts that our accommodation meets our expectations and assures us that this house is our house for the duration of our stay.’
‘I should hope so,’ Vallon said. ‘We’re paying enough for it.’
Yusuf sat his horse, exuding authority and the faint scent of amber. A tattered mob of crows flew cackling overhead.
Hero explained their mission, stressing the benefits that would accrue to all centres of civilisation from an alliance with the Song emperor.
Yusuf didn’t seem impressed. ‘God above is closer to us than the emperor of China. Nevertheless, it’s not our intention to deny you progress. You may proceed east with the emir’s blessing and at your own risk.’
‘We’ll need guides and fresh pack animals.’
‘That will be arranged.’
‘Ask him to arrange an audience with the emir,’ Vallon said.
Yusuf’s response was silky. ‘His Excellency would love to receive you. Alas, the emir is making a progress through the provinces, ensuring the peace and prosperity of the great khan’s dominion.’
Hero decoded the lie. ‘I suspect the emir doesn’t want to be associated with us if we fail – not after the last embassy perished.’
‘Ask the minister what he knows of their fate.’
Yusuf’s expression veiled. ‘They passed through Bukhara Sherif last summer and we afforded them every courtesy while warning them of the dangers they faced. They paid no attention. If I may say so, they struck me as arrogant and ill-prepared.’
‘That’s not a failing you’ll find in us,’ Hero said. ‘We’ve suffered setbacks and know that more await. We would welcome any advice you can offer.’
‘My advice? Turn back. Our khan, may God the exalted show mercy on him, can guarantee you safe passage only as far as Kashgar. Beyond that the roads to China unravel. Forts lie empty and crumbling. Gangs of deserters lie in wait for the few caravans desperate enough to risk the journey.’
At a prompt from Vallon, Hero indicated the troopers and Vikings. ‘Our soldiers have been denied contact with society for months. They long to resume intercourse with it.’
At the thought of letting loose the lecherous soldiery on the city, a twinge of migraine seemed to cross Yusuf’s face. ‘No more than six men are allowed out at any one time, and then only under armed escort. Any crimes they commit will be punished under Bukhara’s laws. I understand that your men have human needs.’ Yusuf nodded at one of his retinue. ‘Arrange it.’ He made to turn.
‘One last thing,’ Hero said. ‘I gather that you record the arrival of every traveller who enters the city.’
‘We welcome the righteous and try to turn away the lawless. Why do you ask?’
‘A month ago, nomads seized one of our troopers in the Kara Kum. We suspect his abductors intend to sell him in the slave market.’
‘If he was taken a month ago, you should have looked for him in Khiva.’
That brought the minister’s visit to an end. His orchestra struck up and he followed it out, the gates crashing shut behind him.
Next morning Hero and Aiken set out to explore the city under the protection of a minder called Arslan. They passed through an inner wall surrounding the medina and threaded narrow lanes tunnelling between windowless mud walls. Arslan forced a passage through the jostling crowd and strings of donkeys and camels heaped with country produce.
All God’s tribes seemed to be represented on the streets – moon-faced Turkmen with apple cheeks and green eyes, hawk-nosed Arabs with iron-grey beards, Persians with features that might have been copied from miniatures. Most of the Turkmen gentry wore skull caps and striped gowns called khatans gathered at the waist by sashes broad enough to hold scimitars. The more rustic element favoured padded jackets and riding breeches and cone-shaped helmets of white felt with upturned brims. Hero observed a man wearing kohl eye-shadow and a rose behind one ear leading a tribe of wives and daughters so smothered in horse-hair veils that they resembled beehives with a narrow window at the top. Other exotic elements included Manichean monks clad all in white, wearing tall cloches; and Jews in hats of tight-curled karakul wool, obeying the sumptuary laws that decreed they tie their gowns with cords too thin to hold weapons.
Leaving the sunlight, Arslan plunged into the semi-darkness of a multi-vaulted bazaar that from outside looked like a clutch of giant eggs. Hero and Aiken followed him along labyrinthine aisles, past piles of saddlebags and prayer mats, between the stalls of cobblers, ropemakers, confectioners and goldsmiths, assistants crying the wares while the owners bargained with their customers and slandered their competitors.
Sunlight dazzled and shadows blinded. They had debouched into an open market offering everyday goods. Rose-coloured rock salt stood in piles like pink ice. Flies swarmed over racks of meat. Poultry scrabbled in wicker cages. A stallholder insisted that the foreigners sample melon with flesh as white as milk, as sweet as honey. Metalsmiths beat out household utensils on the spot, inviting passers-by to observe the quality of their workmanship.
Hero squeezed through a gate into a noisy square where the atmosphere was as much festive as commercial. Groups of bumpkins watched artist
es perform stunts with snakes and nimble dogs.
A pimp with a wall eye accosted them. ‘Do you like bad girls?’
‘Certainly not,’ said Hero.
‘Naughty boys. Hey!’
Hero tugged Arslan’s sleeve. ‘I think that’s enough for the first day.’
Exiting the square into a quieter quarter, Hero noticed several drinking houses open to the street, their clientele lounging on rugs under awnings while musicians plucked lutes in the background.
‘What are they drinking?’ he asked Arslan.
‘Chai, sir, from China. It’s all the fashion among the gentry. Would you care to try some?’
‘Yes, I would,’ said Hero. He turned to Aiken. ‘Master Cosmas sampled the beverage and claimed it had many sovereign qualities.’
At a word from Arslan, the owner of the next chai-khana hurried to prepare a place on a fine rug dyed with precious lac. He showed his guests a block of chai stamped with Chinese characters, explaining that it was called Longevity Dragon Sprout, reserved for the emperor’s court.
He officiated while a waiter poured the chai from a silver pot into shallow white bowls. The proprietor held one of the vessels to the light to demonstrate its translucence and flicked its rim, producing a clear ringing sound.
‘Porcelain,’ said Hero. ‘Also from China.’
He breathed in the chai’s smoky scent and sipped, rolling the astringent beverage around his mouth. A servitor set down a platter of pancakes smothered in black liquid honey.
‘No charge, sir,’ said the proprietor. ‘An honour to serve such distinguished guests.’
Hero smacked his lips and set down his bowl. ‘It agrees with me,’ he said. ‘It refreshes and soothes at the same time. Do you think it would find a market in Constantinople?’
Aiken’s lips puckered. ‘Men nourished by strong wine wouldn’t choose to drink something as insipid as this.’
‘I expect you’re right,’ Hero said. He yawned, drowsy in the dappled shade, and reviewed the clientele. One gentleman seated with his legs folded beneath him was reading a book between sips of chai. From his faint smiles, Hero deduced that the codex wasn’t a holy text, and when the gentleman laid the book down and stared away, his chai growing cold in front of him, Hero couldn’t contain his curiosity. He rose and soft-footed over.
‘Forgive me, Aga. I too am a slave to the written word, and I see that the book you’re reading has laid a trance on you. May I enquire who wrote it?’
The scholar weighed the manuscript in both hands. ‘It’s a collection of the rubaiyat penned by Omar the tent-maker’s son, God bless his posterity.’
‘Omar Khayyam,’ Hero breathed. ‘I’ve heard of that great polymath’s achievements in natural science, but I’ve never read his poems.’
The scholar leafed through the pages. ‘Here’s the one I was reading.
‘Consider, in this battered caravanserai
Whose doorways are alternate night and day
How sultan after sultan in his pomp
Lived his destined hour and went his way.’
Hero allowed a silence. ‘I’m lodging in a caravanserai near the western gate. I travel with a company bound for China.’
‘My favourite nephew left for China with a mercenary force last winter. Three days ago I received news that he’d died at the Jade Gate fort.’
‘Oh, my commiserations.’ Hero turned in a whirl of confusion. ‘Please forgive my thoughtless intrusion.’
‘Wait,’ said the cleric, ‘Tell me where you come from and why you’re journeying to China.’ He arched a finger and a waiter hurried over to refresh their bowls.
Aiken joined them while they conversed. ‘I can’t believe it,’ Hero told him. ‘This learned imam met Master Cosmas Monopthalmos here in Bukhara twenty years ago. Imagine.’
The cleric stood. ‘I have to attend a mosque council.’ He picked up the book, hesitated, then held it out to Hero. ‘For you, my friend.’
‘I couldn’t possibly.’
‘Take it. You face a long and dangerous journey. Omar Khayyam’s poetry might solace, inform and inspire you during the lonely desert nights.’
Hero sprang up. ‘At least let me pay you what it’s worth.’
The cleric was already leaving. ‘Please don’t offend me with money. I’m not a shopkeeper and wisdom can’t be weighed in silver.’
Hero and Aiken watched him walk down the street, somehow remote from the bustling crowd. When he disappeared, Hero opened the book to its title page and read the dedication in Arabic. To Kwaja imam, the most glorious, most honoured proof of the nation and the religion, sword of Islam and scimitar of the imams, lord of the religious laws… From the least of slaves, Omar Khayyam. Hero’s hand flew to his mouth. ‘Oh my goodness. Look. It’s signed by the poet. I can’t possibly keep it. Here,’ he said, thrusting the book into Aiken’s hands. ‘Run after the gentleman and return it.’
Hero was still fanning himself when Aiken jogged back out of breath. ‘I couldn’t find him.’
Hero appealed to the proprietor for help, but the man could not or would not divulge the imam’s address.
Walking back to their lodgings, Hero dipped into Omar Khayyam’s quatrains. ‘How ingenious they are. The tentmaker’s son can distil a world of meaning into four lines.’
Aiken tried to steer Hero around a heap of human ordure. ‘Careful. Too late. Never mind.’
Hero wiped the turd off against the dust without raising his gaze from the page. ‘Here’s a good one, containing a truth for both of us.
‘Myself when young did eagerly frequent
Doctor and Saint and heard great argument
About this and that and everything.
Yet though I listened, I returned by the same door as in I went.’
‘I saw Lucas,’ Aiken said.
Hero stumbled. ‘What?’
‘In the slave market.’
‘What, just now?’
‘No. Before we stopped at the chai-khana. The trade minister lied to us. Lucas is here and is being sold into slavery as I speak.’
Hero gawped. ‘Why didn’t you…?’ Understanding dawned. ‘Oh, Aiken. Well, we’ll leave that for later.’ Hero had grasped the implications and spoke as rapidly as thought could run. ‘Tell Vallon. No, not Vallon. Fetch Wayland and bring money. Lots of it.’ He tugged Arslan’s sleeve. ‘Take Aiken back to the caravanserai. Quick. As quick as you can.’
Hero trotted back up the road. Everywhere he looked, his dim sight revealed animated gatherings. Hurrying towards one crowd, he discovered that a storyteller was treating them to a tale of Rustam’s exploits. Tacking towards another, he came up against a wall of spectators wagering on fighting partridges. He clutched a passer-by’s sleeve. ‘The slave market. Where is it?’
The man didn’t understand and detached himself.
‘Someone show me to the slave market,’ Hero cried. His distraught gaze fell on a sober elder observing him with mild alarm. Hero latched onto him. ‘Sir, please help me. I must get to the slave market.’
The elder called out in an authoritative voice and two touts homed in on Hero and commenced fighting over who had the right to bleed this wealthy foreigner. ‘I don’t have time for this,’ Hero said, grabbing one of them and taking a glancing blow to the jaw in the process. ‘You,’ he said. ‘Take me to the slave market. Not a moment’s delay.’
The tout waded through the crowd until he reached a dense picket of prospective purchasers, casual spectators and, no doubt, a few pickpockets and prostitutes. He barged through the crush, the promise of gold proof against any amount of protests and indignant buffets.
‘The man I’m looking for is a young Frank,’ Hero panted.
His guide winked.
‘Hurry!’
Even the tout’s bullish efforts weren’t enough to penetrate the crush. Three ranks from the front an armed man slapped him around the face and harangued him for his coarse manners. Hemmed in on all sides, Hero stood on tiptoe to f
ind the podium bare.
‘Too late,’ he groaned. ‘Oh, Aiken.’
The tout dug an elbow into his ribs and bared his teeth to their sallow roots. ‘Frankish.’
Hero craned up to see two men manhandling Lucas onto the stage. The auctioneer followed and after an aloof survey of the audience launched into his pitch, pointing a baton at Lucas while his assistants showed off the young Frank’s selling points, shoving him about as if he were livestock.
Hero heaved against the crowd. ‘Let me through. There’s been a dreadful misunderstanding. That young man is a member of a diplomatic mission.’
But the crowd held firm and bidding had already started, the auctioneer playing the crowd like a practised showman.
‘What’s he saying?’ Hero demanded.
‘This slave is the pick of the bunch,’ the tout told him. ‘Young and healthy. Very strong and lusty.’
‘Tell the auctioneer I’m interested in buying the Frank. Ask him to speak in Greek or Arabic for my benefit.’
At the tout’s bellowed request, the auctioneer leaned forward to evaluate Hero. Having gauged his worth, he acknowledged the request with a flick of fingers before resuming in both Turkic and Arabic.
Now Hero could follow the bidding, and it was brisk, half a dozen hopefuls in the market for Lucas. At forty dirhams – roughly one solidus – the bargain hunters fell out, and at one hundred dirhams only four were left in the bidding.
The tout prodded Hero. ‘Why don’t you bid, sir?’
‘I don’t have any money.’
‘No money? Sir.’
‘Hush,’ Hero said. The bidding had slowed to a drip, each advance squeezed out. Hero couldn’t see his competitors.
The auctioneer raised his baton. ‘I have one hundred and eighty dirhams. Any advance on one hundred and eighty. No?’ he said, staring at Hero. ‘Then going once, twice and…’
‘Ten gold solidi,’ Hero blurted.
Space opened up around him as the astonished audience drew back to view this profligate infidel. A voice launched an angry protest that rolled off the auctioneer like water off oil. Delighted, he raised his baton to conduct the finale.
Imperial Fire Page 33
