I looked where Batu gestured and saw that a narrow ravine led up the side of the mountain to a ridgeline that lay between two peaks. Where the ravine and the ridgeline merged, there was a dip like the curve in a horse’s back, the place where you lay a saddle.
‘From there, we might be able to see around the rock outcropping into the nest!’ Batu said. ‘Also from that ridge, you can see down into a large valley, where the track from Osh runs out of the mountains into the Ferghana Valley. The merchant caravans travel eastwards on that track towards the great Taklamakan Desert where nothing lives. Come on, Kalli!’
‘We will be late returning to camp!’ I protested. ‘My mother might worry.’
‘She is drinking koumiss with the other women, and forgetting her troubles,’ Batu said, flashing another grin. He caught me by the arm and tugged. ‘Come on! Help me find my eagle!’
Batu’s excitement was contagious; suddenly I wanted to see if the eagle had landed on a pile of sticks larger across than a chariot wheel, and to peer down into a valley where traders passed by with their long strings of donkeys, yaks, horses and two-humped camels.
And if my mother was drinking koumiss, the fermented mare’s milk, she would be smiling the rare, gracious smile that wiped the queenly sternness from her face.
We unbridled, then hobbled the horses and left them wrenching greedily at tall grasses. Gryphon ate so fast that half-chewed grass fell out of one side of his dark, wrinkled mouth. He was always an eager, impatient animal. I smiled and followed Batu’s shoulders up the ravine. Stones clattered beneath my second-best pair of riding boots. Their feet were of red leather, while the tops, rising to my knees, were of yellow leather decorated with appliqués of more red leather cut into the shapes of rams’ horns. I admired them as I climbed, bent over, trying to ignore the throb in my leg muscles.
The sun rode higher as we struggled upwards. I thought of my father’s Greek god of the sun, Helios, driving westwards in his chariot pulled by horses as golden as Gryphon. Sweat ran down inside the legs of my trousers with their embroidered stripes of brown and red. My embroidered tunic stuck to my back.
At last, we reached the ridgeline, and Batu edged along its sharpness, craning for a view of the eagle. I glanced downwards to where the horses grazed; they seemed contented in the grass and summer herbs, their backs gleaming. I straightened and looked to the south where the Pamir mountains rose in a vast wall, rumpled between us and the country called India. To the north, further away than I could see, lay the land from which my mother had come, a place of grass and tribes and the mighty Volga River. To the west lay deserts, and trading cities, and the bright Mediterranean Sea, and the land of Greece which my father had left when he was a young man filled with the spirit of adventure. And here I stood now, in the heart of all this world. I smiled to myself, and tipped my face towards the afternoon sun.
Then I inched forward to where the ridgeline fell away in a long drop into a deep valley. My head spun. I lay on my belly and peered over. For a moment, all I saw was miles of shimmering summer air, rocks, trees. Then movement caught my attention. I stared, knuckled my eyes, stared again.
No! It couldn’t be!
I froze. Even my breathing became shallow with terror.
‘Batu!’ I whispered urgently. ‘Batu, come here!’
Then I stared again, down into that valley where the track from the east trickled over the mountains towards Ferghana, my home and the heart of the world.
Batu dropped down beside me. ‘Who is it?’ he whispered harshly.
I scrutinised every detail: the foot soldiers marching doggedly along with light shining on the tips of their spears, the cavalry units on their small horses raising a pall of dust, the donkeys and black yaks and brown camels laden with boxes and bales of supplies, the loaded ox wagons lurching over stones. Above the army fluttered bright red banners made of the cloth called silk, the marvellous cloth that came from far away, in the east, and that my father longed to trade for. But to his frustration, our king in Ershi would not consent to trading agreements with the east; he was said to hate the emperor who ruled that foreign place.
‘It’s the Chinese,’ I breathed. ‘My father has described them to me. They are sending another army to attack Ershi.’
‘For the horses?’ Batu muttered.
‘They want our Persian horses,’ I agreed. ‘Don’t you remember? Years ago, they sent an ambassador over the roof of the world to ask the king of Ferghana for horses. But the king wouldn’t give them any of our horses, and the ambassador and his men were attacked and beheaded.’
‘Then what happened?’ Batu asked, swivelling to look at me, his dark eyes serious.
‘Then the Chinese emperor was very angry, and two years ago he sent an army over the mountains, a march of many starving months, but the army was defeated in the land of Osh, high above the valley of Ferghana. Now, he is sending another army to take our horses!’
Batu let out a long breath. ‘The Middle Kingdom has long been the enemy of my people,’ he muttered. ‘The Hsiung-nu tribes have been driven westwards like sheep by its armies. Now the kingdom is building a great stone wall to hold back the nomads.’
‘I have heard this too in the city,’ I agreed.
Batu glared at the troops marching far below, massed like ants, pouring out of the mountains, filling the valley, steadily moving westwards towards the safety of Ershi, and my family’s farm where our horse herd grazed the alfalfa in the shade of poplar trees.
‘I must ride for my mother!’ I cried, and I sprang up and began leaping and sliding down the mountain with Batu at my heels. Gryphon flung up his head, startled, grass trailing from his mouth. My mother would know what to do, I thought; my strong brave mother who had once been a warrior in her own Sarmatian tribe, far to the north. My mother, trainer of horses. She would know how to save us, our mares and foals, our pastures and stables. Gryphon. Me. And most important of all, my white mare, Swan. My most precious white mare.
‘Hurry!’ I screamed, fear clawing at my heart. ‘Hurry, Batu! We must save the horses!’
Chapter 2
‘I cannot ride this mare hard!’ Batu cried as we sprinted across the grass towards the grazing horses. ‘You must ride to camp without me!’
I nodded, reaching into the tree where I had hung Gryphon’s bridle. The blue clay beads, woven on to the cheek pieces, glinted as I swung the bridle free and slipped it on to my horse’s head. Then I squatted and undid the hobbles of woollen rope from around his fetlocks, my fingers fumbling with haste. ‘Batu,’ I called over one shoulder, ‘I hate leaving you alone! Promise you won’t climb back up looking for eaglets. You might be attacked by the parent birds!’
‘Forget about eagles! You must ride to warn the warriors!’
I nodded again. I knew that the fighting men of Batu’s tribe had sworn allegiance to the king of Ershi; in partial return for wheat and millet from Ferghana’s fields, they were bound to come to the city’s aid in time of attack. I straightened and scowled at Batu as he crossed his arms over the wiry strength of his chest and scowled in return.
‘Please, no eagles!’ I said, for I could be stubborn too; city neighbours thought I was a sweet girl only because I was too shy to speak. Batu and the horses knew better; they knew that my shyness was like the soft murmur of a stream that flows over a hard boulder beneath the surface.
‘No eagles!’ Batu agreed, still scowling. ‘Now go, RIDE! I’ll join you when I can!’
With one hand I caught hold of the rawhide loop that hung from my saddle’s belly band, and then poked my left foot into it. An Indian trader had described these loops to my mother, and she had made one for me to try. Although the nomads could spring on to their short horses simply by grasping a handful of mane, our taller Persian horses were harder to mount. The foot loop, hanging down, usually made it easier to swing myself into the saddle.
Now, however, Gryphon had absorbed the fear that had sent me sliding down the ravine from the high ridge
. He bounded sideways with rolling eyes, threatening to topple me off balance and drag me along by one booted foot caught in the loop. I pulled on my reins with my left hand, hopped on one leg, and then sprang into my saddle as it surged beneath me in constant movement. There was only time for a fleeting glance back at Batu, standing forlornly watching, before Gryphon burst into a gallop, heading across the hillside in the direction of the track. I knew that Batu would be longing to race after us, to see if his father would let him join the warriors, carrying his bow over one shoulder, and a quiver of arrows against his thigh. I also knew that he was too fine a horseman to endanger his mare’s injured leg even for what he considered to be the thrill of riding to war. Instead, he would walk calmly back, making the best of the situation as he always did; it was one of the things I admired about him.
Gryphon dodged around the first pine tree in a grove that lay darkly dancing on the hillside. A cloud of sweet, resinous scent filled my nostrils. Suddenly Gryphon shied, his hooves skidding in fallen needles and scoring marks into the grey dirt beneath. I lurched over his bent neck, my legs gripping harder, my body swaying to maintain balance. Now my stallion was bunched beneath me, head flung up, listening. I laid one hand soothingly along his neck, watching his narrow ears strain forward, and ran my gaze admiringly over the profile of his turned head. His fine golden hair did not conceal the veins that lay like dropped threads beneath his thin skin.
For the second time today, I strained to discover what Gryphon could hear.
In a moment, I heard it too: someone singing softly in a husky voice, and the thud of hoof beats. Gryphon gave a shrill neigh, his ribs vibrating against my legs, and was answered by a fainter cry. Over the slope of hills, beneath the sway and freckle of pine branches, came a woman, tall and regal as a mountain spirit, riding a sleek mare and leading a yearling filly at one shoulder by a rope.
Coins of afternoon light lay in the woman’s braided crown of golden hair, sprinkled the high angle of her pale cheeks, and filled her blue eyes, clear as pools of mountain water.
I heaved a gulping sigh of relief. ‘Mother!’ I called, the heavy air beneath the pines muffling my cry.
But she had seen me before I spoke. Her gaze ran over me, noting that all was well, but registered no surprise. It was seldom that I saw surprise in my mother’s eyes, or laughter, or fear; she surveyed the world with a calmness that was like the calmness of a wild animal, assessing every scent, alert to every clue; giving little away. Although I had inherited my father’s black, springing curls and round Greek face, my eyes were as blue as my mother’s – but not steady like hers. Even in this moment, my eyes were betraying my agitation, as was Gryphon who was side-stepping between the pines as though joining their summery dance.
‘What is wrong, Kallisto?’ my mother asked in her husky voice, halting her horses. ‘The racers returned to camp without you, and Batu was missing also. I have ridden out to find you.’
As my mother spoke, Gryphon stepped forward to touch his nostrils against the dark muzzle of Grasshopper, my mother’s mare, in greeting. She let out a squeal but my mother touched her on the withers with one hand, and she stilled instantly.
‘The army is coming for our horses!’ I cried. ‘The army from the Middle Kingdom, with their banners of red silk! They are marching down the trading route from the mountains, high up towards Osh!’
‘How do you know this?’
‘Batu and I climbed a ridge and saw them ourselves! And Batu is following me back to camp, leading a mare with a swollen fetlock.’
‘Yes, I see him coming now,’ my mother replied, staring past me to the slope of hill where the late afternoon sun washed the grasses. She waved and I twisted in my saddle to see the distant bright dot of Batu’s orange tunic.
For a moment, my mother pondered the situation, weaving her fingers through Grasshopper’s mane while the filly fidgeted alongside.
‘The army will not travel at night,’ she stated. ‘They will make camp in the foothills. Tomorrow they might journey on to the plain. Such an army does not arrive unseen; Ferghana scouts will have brought news to our king in Ershi already. To assemble a great army for battle is a lengthy matter; there are tents to pitch, fires and food to tend to, decisions to be made before the men go forth. Time is on our side still.
‘We will wait for Batu, not leave him alone in the mountains. There is a stream at the bottom of this pine wood, and Batu can soak the mare’s leg there. Then we will travel back to the Hsiung-nu camp together, and still have all night in which to begin riding for home; the moon is full. We will reach our horses well ahead of the army.’
‘But, Mother, there were so many of them, marching so fast …’ I muttered doubtfully, trailing off beneath her steady regard. Every time that I thought of the great army, massed beneath the tips of its spears, I felt panic welling in my belly like a spring of cold water. I had to reach Swan before the army did.
‘The larger the army is, the more slowly it organises itself,’ Mother responded calmly. ‘And men cannot march on empty stomachs. They will halt to eat and sleep tonight.’
She reached into the cloth bag hanging from her saddle, and handed me a piece of sun-dried mutton to chew. I gnawed it gratefully, for Batu and I had not eaten since our breakfast of sheep yoghurt, in the smokiness of a dark yurt before sunrise.
Mother and I waited while Batu crossed the hill to reach us. Then my mother slid from Grasshopper and ran her long, strong hands, calloused from ropes and leather thongs and reins, down all four of the mare’s legs. On almost every finger, my mother wore a silver ring inlaid with semi-precious stones: lapis lazuli, carnelian, coral, even pearl. She was like the nomad women of the Hsiung-nu who carried their wealth with them wherever they journeyed, threaded through their ears, hung around their necks, sliding on their arms. My father preferred to store his wealth at home, in the niches of our plastered walls, where he could display marble statuettes, and carvings lacquered in gold leaf, and drinking horns with silver rims.
The mare stood as still as a black horse painted on a red Greek vase; only her ears flickered as my mother spoke softly in her own tongue. At home, my mother and I spoke Greek to my father and brothers, and Persian in the neighbourhood and markets; in the nomad camp we both spoke Turkic. But to horses my mother always spoke a foreign tongue, the private language of her Sarmatian childhood in misty hills and lush river valleys, the land she had lost in a tribal raid, and that no other person spoke in the slave market of Tashkent. Here in Ferghana, only the horses had truly learned my mother’s language; although I could recognise the phrases she used frequently, I could not understand the long monologues that sometimes she muttered to horses. And sometimes, when she gazed at them, I thought she was seeing things that I couldn’t see: a ghost world of dreams and spirits. It was said amongst the nomads that my mother spoke the language of horses, but perhaps it was the other way around; perhaps my mother taught to horses the language of her lost days.
She straightened now, her dark green tunic falling to the top of her black boots, and gave Batu a glance that was brief but kind. ‘You did well to spare her from the race,’ she said. ‘With rest, and poultices of herbs, her sinew will heal as though nothing has happened.’
At this praise, the faintest blush rose into Batu’s high cheeks, although he was usually so independent and fierce. He ducked his head, and led the mare on down the track between the murmuring trees, heading for the valley’s mountain water. My mother turned Grasshopper and followed with the filly, Tulip, walking alongside whilst I brought up the rear. How could my mother be so unconcerned, while the Chinese spilled from the mountains with horse greed burning in their hearts? If only she had seen their lumbering camels staggering beneath bags and bales of supplies! If only she had watched their tight-packed cavalry formations jogging steadily westwards! In my thoughts, the warriors’ banners snapped and soared in the thin air of the high mountains, bright as wounds against the dark rocks.
‘Hurry, hurry!’
I wanted to shout at our horses as they went quietly downwards, tails flicking at flies. The filly had a reddish tail that flared in the late sloping light, for she was a red roan, and I had named her Tulip when she was born. My mother liked to lead the yearling when she rode, giving Tulip exercise, teaching her manners, making her listen to my mother’s spoken commands, exposing her to city roads and mountain tracks so that by the time she was old enough to be ridden she would be wise beyond her years. In the markets of Ershi, Andijon and Kokand, my mother’s horses were famous for their training as well as for their stamina and great beauty.
The valley into which we rode was deep and narrow, with rocky walls that the track trickled steeply down, washed out by spring rains. The horses skidded, set back on their pasterns, hocks bent under their bellies, as we descended into blue shadows and the roar of water. My saddle blanket slipped higher on to Gryphon’s withers; only the crupper, decorated with bronze flowers and passing beneath his tail, prevented it from sliding on to his neck.
Near the base of the cliff, we dismounted on a ribbon of gravel and sat upon rocks licked smooth as melons. Batu backed the mare into a pool of water, eddying behind a boulder, and let it suck away the heat and pain of her swollen leg. She stood placidly, eyes drifting shut. The other horses were not as patient. They ambled up and down on the gravel, their reins knotted around their necks, their lips working across the cliff face in search of any plants or clumps of grass that clung there. Gryphon caught hold of the branches of a shrub growing from a crevice, and pulled them sideways through his mouth, tearing off the leaves. Grasshopper balanced on three legs and reached one hind leg forward to scratch delicately at her face, where flies had bitten it, using the edge of her hoof. Tulip backed into a boulder, careful as a dancer learning new steps, and began to rub her rump and tail on the hard surface.
The Horse Road Page 2
