“But Kuchlug, still hateful toward Temüjin and perhaps made overconfident by the power of his newfound overlord, attacked the Karluks, a vassal tribe to the Mongols. Temüjin sent an army under one of his greatest generals, Jebe, to deal with the challenge to his authority, and in due course Kuchlug was defeated, captured, and died. The Mongols went on to capture the whole of the Khitan territory, which was a clear affront to the Kara Keçi.”
“So many invasions,” Varanus mused. “I sometimes wonder if the world wouldn’t be a much better place if people simply took up gardening more often.”
“Very droll, Varanus,” Iosef said. “Naturally, Arslan Khan called the Kara Keçi forces back from their raiding and rode to do battle with Jebe. And even though all the mortal accounts we have of the engagement were written by scholars favorable to the Mongols, it is clear that for possibly the only time during their period of expansionism, the Mongols were outmatched. They had the advantage of numbers and they had Jebe, who was one of the finest military minds in history, but time and time again, we are told, the Kara Keçi outmaneuvered them, ambushed them, and raided their camps and supply lines—‘as far east as Mongolia’, Juvayni claims, which is clearly an exaggeration.
“Fanciful stories are told to explain why a small tribe of pagans could have inflicted such injuries against an empire that would go on to conquer most of the known world. It is claimed that they had the power to vanish from sight or to travel vast distances by the light of the moon or that they were impervious to steel.”
Varanus laughed at this. “Ah, historians.” She raised a hand. “But tell me, if they were so successful, why wasn’t it Arslan Khan who conquered the world?”
There was surely an exciting tale to be told there.
“Because he died,” Iosef answered, rather flatly.
“Oh,” Varanus said, disappointed. “It seems we’ve returned to farce.”
“I should clarify,” Iosef said, “for had he lived, he would surely have subjugated the Mongol tribes and driven them to conquer the wider world, just as Genghis Khan would do. You see, the turning point came during the third major engagement between Jebe and Arslan Khan, one which, we are told, would have resulted in the destruction of Jebe’s army had it been lost by the Mongols. While leading his troops, Arslan Khan was struck by an arrow—Sophio believes it was shot by Jebe—and he died shortly thereafter. And for whatever reason, upon his death the Kara Keçi all but crumbled. They surrendered en masse while Arslan Khan’s bodyguard fled the field with his corpse.”
“Which they brought to his tomb, no doubt,” Varanus said, pleased at having connected the tangled thread of the narrative.
“Indeed,” Iosef replied. “Eager to find Arslan Khan’s body to make an example of it, the Mongols interrogated the Kara Keçi, in particular the bodyguards, who were captured on the steppe after laying their leader to rest. There are lurid stories of torture, some of which may even be true, and when it became clear they would not divulge what they knew, they were executed. But, the legends say, the men who carried out the interrogations all died within a few hours of one another, under the darkness of the new moon, seemingly each by his own hand.”
“It’s become a Gothic novel again.”
“But the stoicism of the Kara Keçi was all for naught. Hamadani relates that a Kipchak herder passing through the region discovered the tomb and reported it to the Mongols, hoping to gain a reward.”
“Farce,” Varanus declared.
The corner of Iosef’s mouth turned up into a thin smile.
“In the end, the Mongols located the tomb, built of earth and stone upon the shores of the Aral Sea, in a place of desolation—”
“Shunned even by the birds,” Varanus finished for him, remembering Teimuraz’s statement.
“Just so. Several soldiers examined the tomb but could find no way to enter it. The entrance was blocked by a single slab of stone too heavy for even a group of men to lift. And it is said to have borne the symbol of a goat’s head painted on it in blood, and all around the tomb were said to be the heads and skulls of other creatures. After several hours they left empty-handed, though Juvayni claims that these men also died by their own hands, or possibly by wild animals, on the night of the new moon within a few hours of each other.”
“Juvayni has a fanciful imagination,” Varanus noted.
“Sometimes he does,” Iosef agreed.
“Forgive my curiosity, My Lord, but if Sophio was present at Arslan Khan’s death, how is the location of the tomb any great mystery?”
“Once it became clear that the Mongols had supplanted the Kara Keçi as the dominant power on the steppe, she returned home to give a report of everything she had seen,” Iosef explained. “Many of the Shashavani in the region did the same. It was only afterward that she learned of Arslan Khan’s tomb from mortal sources, and by then its location had been lost.”
“And what happened to the Kara Keçi?” Varanus asked. “Slaughtered?”
“Surprisingly, no. It seems the Mongols were so impressed by their ferocity and skill at arms that the Kara Keçi were simply integrated into the Horde. There are even stories from the Persians and the Rus of ‘black goat demons’ leading the vanguards of the Mongol armies. But alas, beyond such accounts, we have no knowledge of them. Eventually, the Black Goat Turks simply faded away from history.”
Varanus felt a shiver run down her spine, which was absurd, and she folded her arms angrily. Imagine, being unnerved by such an exaggerated tale. She suspected it had something to do with her failure to rest properly for the past week. It was a dreadful habit of hers and it often put her on edge.
“You ought to tell the tale to Ekaterine,” she said. “I am certain she would enjoy every lurid moment of it.”
Chapter Seven
•
Late that evening, Iosef returned to the set of rooms he and Sophio shared as husband and wife. The main chamber was vast: two floors high and equally as wide, with walls the color of alabaster and a domed ceiling painted with the constellations. At the far end of the room, a great set of arches led out onto a balcony. There were countless books and bookshelves along the sides of the room, representing a private collection of knowledge that rivaled even some of the smaller libraries elsewhere in the castle. The chamber was draped in silk, and it smelled pleasantly of roses and frankincense from the burning braziers that formed a circle at the very center.
Iosef walked to the balcony and stood there for a time, breathing the cold mountain air and watching the stars. A breeze flowing off the mountains passed him, ruffling his hair and making his chokha ripple against his body. There was a weight in the air that troubled him. He had sensed it all evening, ever since his meeting with Teimuraz. Something was amiss. One did not demand a meeting with the Council upon first returning from a sojourn unless the news was urgent, and for those gifted with immortality, urgency soon became an unfamiliar concept.
He did not hear Sophio enter the chamber, but at the sound of the door closing, he turned in place and saw her walking toward him. Sophio’s white gown flowed like water in the breeze against her body. Her ebony tresses writhed like serpents, sliding off her shoulders and floating behind her as if possessed of life. That moment, indeed every moment he looked upon her, was like the night of their first meeting. She was beautiful and terrible and majestic.
Iosef withdrew from the balcony and approached her, his hands outstretched for hers. Gently they met, touching palm-to-palm, and entwined their fingers as they silently studied one another.
“Good evening, husband,” Sophio said. Though she spoke softly, her voice resounded with authority, something that would never—and should never—be stifled.
“My love,” Iosef replied. He gently raised the back of her hand to his lips and kissed it, lingering there for a moment to smell the fragrances of jasmine and spice that hung about her. “How was Council?” he fi
nally asked.
Sophio was silent for a time, perhaps considering the best response. It was a habit common to all the elder Shashavani and one to which he had become accustomed. It spoke not of hesitation or duplicity but of an intrinsic wish to make a statement that was at once the most accurate and the most clear.
“It proceeded well,” Sophio replied. “We discussed the matter of the harvest and other such concerns. And Brother Teimuraz furnished us with a report of his sojourn in the outer world, which is why you have asked.”
Iosef smiled at her observation.
“Indeed, my love, that is why I asked.”
Sophio nodded, possibly in agreement or possibly at the confirmation that her deduction had been correct. Iosef had dwelt with her for more than a century and a half, but there were still some qualities of her mood that he could not discern. In time, he knew, it would all become clear. He would understand her as she understood him: completely and with even greater affection for it.
“Has he discovered the tomb of Arslan Khan?”
“Possibly,” Sophio replied. “Teimuraz at least seems certain of his discovery. We will not know until it has been verified.” She looked away, a hint of uncertainty in her eyes. “I certainly...would like for it to be correct. I witnessed Arslan Khan’s rise and fall with my own eyes; the study of his tomb would so comfortably conclude that chapter of my studies.” She looked back at him. “But it would be foolish to assume.”
“But not to hope, surely,” Iosef ventured.
“Perhaps not,” Sophio said, looking into his eyes. “Hope is significant in its own way.” She dropped her hands and turned half away from Iosef, gazing into one of the braziers. “But I am troubled by it as much as I am hopeful.”
“Why, my love?” Iosef asked.
“Teimuraz spoke of a...presence,” Sophio said softly. “A presence that he sensed within the tomb, which compelled him not to enter. That is why I am troubled.”
Iosef frowned slightly and said, “Teimuraz has always been esoteric in his beliefs. He may believe that the tomb is haunted or afflicted by the occult, but surely you do not.”
“I believe only what the evidence proves to me,” Sophio replied. Suddenly she turned back to Iosef, startling him with the abruptness of her action. “But I am not troubled by the thought of ghosts or demons, my dearest. He may not know it, but I believe Teimuraz truly did sense something...something very real and very material. He is of the age for such an awakening.”
Iosef nodded slowly.
“A Basilisk,” he said.
“Yes,” Sophio answered. She reached up with one hand and placed it against Iosef’s cheek, gazing into his eyes with a look that might have been adoration of innocence or sympathy for it. “You are too young to fully understand, but as we age, we begin to sense each other even over great distances. To...know one another. It is fleeting and inconsistent, coming and going as it will, but the old know the old even a world apart. And what Teimuraz says, I know to be true.”
Iosef felt a shudder at this revelation. He had assumed Teimuraz’s story to be all talk, but talk alone was not enough to so unsettle Sophio. And the fact that she was unsettled unsettled him as well.
“Do you sense someone there now?” he asked, gently placing a hand on Sophio’s arm.
Sophio looked down at the hand, then up at him.
“I sense someone to the east,” she answered, “and to the north and to the west and to the south. I always sense someone, my love. Always. They are seldom the same for long, but they are always there.”
“That is why you were disturbed that you had not noticed when a Basilisk stole into the valley and drove those men to madness,” Iosef said, speaking the question as an observation.
Sophio was not given to displays of emotion—none of the old were—but there was a hint of distress and anger that furrowed her brow ever so slightly and brought a tightness to her mouth.
“I should have sensed it,” she replied. “Someone so close, I should have sensed it and known who it was in an instant, but I did not. I sensed nothing. I sensed no one. And my failure led to the death of innocents and to chaos within the lands of Shashava.”
Iosef took her face in his hands, gently caressing her cheeks and brushing the hair back from her temples. Looking into her eyes, he said:
“My love, you have guided and ruled in Shashava’s stead for five hundred years. Despite treason and corruption, the rise of the Turks and the conquests of the Russians, the House of Shashava remains safe and peaceful thanks to you. You cannot know all things at all times, that is for your advisors to aid you with. We were all deceived, my love, but despite that, we are safe.”
Sophio took Iosef’s hands in hers and rested her forehead against his shoulder. Iosef tilted his head so that his cheek brushed Sophio’s hair and he kissed her softly.
“I am the only one left who knew Shashava,” Sophio whispered. “I am the last. The others have gone, and I must keep Shashava’s house safe until they return. And I fear that I am failing them. Every day when I rise from contemplation, I fear that it will be the day that I fail them.”
Iosef held her tightly and ran his fingers through her hair. It was so unusual for Sophio to reveal such vulnerability; she rarely did it with him and never in front of others.
“You have not failed them,” he assured her, “and you will not fail them. You are the greatest and wisest among us. And you are my love, now and forever.”
Sophio looked up into his eyes and said, “I do not know which I fear more, Iosef: failing to protect the House of Shashava or failing to protect you.”
“You will fail at neither, my love,” Iosef said, kissing her softly on the cheek.
He pulled Sophio into his arms and lifted her from the ground. Sophio laughed softly at the motion and threw her head back, the tails of her long braids flowing across the stone floor. She looked at him with her dark eyes and said:
“You presume to carry the Vicar of Shashava? Your elders would not dare do such a thing, husband.”
“I do it because it makes you smile, my love,” Iosef said, touching the tip of his nose to hers and looking deep into her eyes. “I would risk anything to make you smile.”
Sophio touched Iosef’s face with her fingers and ran the tips of her long nails down his cheek, tickling the flesh but not cutting it.
“I would gladly slaughter the world just to know that you were safe,” she said, her eyes aflame. “If I cannot protect you, my love, what is there to protect? But how can I know that you are safe with such corruption in this world?”
“We shall protect one another, my love,” Iosef told her. “And together, we shall protect the House of Shashava. Together, we can accomplish anything.”
Sophio sighed and closed her eyes. Even draped in Iosef’s arms, she looked regal and exalted, every inch a queen and as close to divinity as Iosef had ever seen.
“How strange,” she said, “that you have only been in my life these few decades, and yet I cannot imagine it without you.”
“Nor I, you,” Iosef agreed. He smiled and kissed her forehead. “But, thank God, such a thing will never come to pass. We have eternity before us. Together.”
“Together,” Sophio murmured, bringing her lips to his.
* * * *
Iosef awoke to sunlight. A glance at the glow around the shuttered windows told him that it was noon at least. He had not slept, of course, for the Living had no need of it, but he had allowed his body to lie dormant while his mind reflected upon greater matters. And in the depths of his meditation, he had not noticed when Sophio arose from the bed. Now he found himself alone.
Of course, it was her business to come and go as she pleased, but it did surprise Iosef that she had not roused him. Rising from the nest of scented pillows and silken sheets, Iosef returned to the main chamber, and there he saw Sophio bathed in t
he sunlight that shone in through the arched doorways. She was seated in a chair, staring ahead silently.
Iosef approached her slowly and pulled the curtains closed, plunging the chamber into darkness again. Still Sophio looked ahead, unmoving.
“My love?” Iosef asked, carefully touching Sophio’s shoulder.
Sophio did not move at his touch, but she seemed to become aware of him. She blinked twice, very slowly, and asked him:
“Am I mad, husband?”
“Mad, my love?” Iosef asked in reply. He placed both hands on Sophio’s shoulders. “What troubles you that you ask such a question?”
“Yesterday, I spoke at length with Queen Tamar,” Sophio said. “We discussed many things, including the situation of the Georgian monasteries in the Holy Land and the question of when certain texts they possessed would be given into the hands of the Shashavani for safekeeping. It was a pleasant conversation.”
“My love,” Iosef said, hesitantly, “Queen Tamar died almost eight hundred years ago.”
There was a long silence.
“I know that,” Sophio finally said. “What I do not know is whether I imagined the conversation so clearly that it appeared to be real...or whether I remembered a true conversation from long ago and could not tell that it had happened in the past, not the present.”
Iosef frowned and closed his eyes. It was not the first time that such a thing had happened. Over the course of two hundred years, he had seen countless times when Sophio confused the memory of a past event with the reality of the present. It was common among the elder Shashavani, whose countless lifetimes of memories so often compounded upon one another to confuse present and past.
The Ouroboros Cycle, Book Three: A Long-Awaited Treachery Page 7
