Holy Warrior

by David Pilling

  Now he thought of it, the tales were remarkably similar to those of Baibars and the Mamluks. They were both fierce warrior peoples, powerful, sophisticated and thirsty for conquest. Hugh hated to admit it, but the Christian states were feeble by comparison.

  Only the Tartars can save us, he thought bleakly. His relief at reaching the il-khanate was tinged with bitterness and envy. Why had Christ abandoned his own people in the Holy Land, and thrown them on the mercy of pagan folk?

  “Do we move on?” he asked Maymun.

  “No,” the other replied. “Best to stay here and wait for a patrol. The men on the tower will have already seen us. We must show these people every courtesy, Longsword. The Tartars are proud, touchy of their honour, and respond badly to slights.”

  He turned to the rest of the company. “That goes for us all,” Maymun cried. “My own men know the ways of this land, and the rest of you will do well to follow our own example. Do you hear me, friars? No preaching at these folk, unless you are asked!”

  Brother John sniffed and looked away. “Of course,” replied Father Godfrey with a sweet smile. “I read once that the Tartars are born without souls anyway, so there is little point trying to save them.”

  Hugh laughed at this and felt a little easier in his mind as they waited for the patrol to appear. The presence of Maymun gave him confidence, as did the letters contained inside Godfrey’s knapsack. These were the offers of alliance from the Lord Edward to the il-khan, Abaqa, written on costly vellum and fixed with the prince’s seal. Unless this Abaqa was a complete barbarian, he would respect the immunity of diplomats.

  Soon enough he heard the faint drumming of hoofs. Ahead, the road twisted sharply and vanished among the high walls of the ravine. The sound rapidly grew louder, and Hugh counted under his breath.

  Fifteen…maybe twenty riders. No more…

  Then the Tartars cantered into view. They rode in double file, eighteen horse-archers led by two mounted officers. Almost sick with excitement, Hugh leaned forward in the saddle as he watched them approach. These were the men who had conquered so much of the known world.

  They were a lot smaller than he expected. Squat, powerfully built men, broad in the shoulder, mounted on small ponies. He quickly ran his eye over their gear. The Tartar officers wore long coats fastened at the waist by thick leather belts. The coats were doubled over, left breast over right, and lined with fur. Underneath was some kind of heavy tunic or shirt with long sleeves. They carried swords and axes and wore thick leather boots, tightly laced. Their heads were protected by cone-shaped helms made of iron plates and with iron-plated neck guards.

  Their men also wore long, fur-lined coats, but no helms. Instead their heads were covered by a type of hat, conical in shape and made of some quilted material with an upturned brim. They carried swords and quivers of arrows with red and white fletches, the deadly curved bows slung over their shoulders.

  When they rode to within a dozen paces of the company, the leading officer flung up his hand. The Tartars clattered to a halt in disciplined unison and fanned out to cover the open ground either side of the road. At the same time they unslung their bows.

  “A word out of place,” Hugh overheard Godfrey say to John, “and they will shoot us down like dogs. Hold still and silent, brother, as you value your skin.”

  “You forget, brother,” John replied. “I was sent here to speak with these people in their own tongue.”

  The quiet calm in his voice surprised Hugh, who was never sure of the young friar’s courage. He sounded brave enough now and urged his pony forward.

  “Wait!” hissed Maymun. “Let them make the first move. Then I shall go forward with you.”

  John halted. His face was pale, but he otherwise betrayed no sign of fear. Hugh was impressed by the young man’s composure. Inside, he suspected the Dominican’s guts were dissolving in terror.

  Just like mine, he thought. Hugh’s palms were slick with sweat as they grasped the reins.

  There was something else. His nostrils twitched, and then he clapped his hands over his face against a terrible, all-pervading stench. He almost gagged as the smell of dirty clothes and unwashed human flesh threatened to crawl down his throat.

  Maymun looked at him in amusement. “I did warn you,” he said cheerfully. “Tartar warriors are not in the habit of washing.”

  Hugh had remembered, though he would never have believed the smell could be so bad. Even villeins, the lowest order of Christian society, tried to keep themselves clean. The Tartars refused to wash either their clothes or themselves, apparently because they thought it polluted the natural water cycle. There was also some legend of water dragons, though Maymun was vague on the details.

  He forced himself to endure the stench and took his hand away from his face. Hugh would just have to endure it; above all, the Tartars must not have a reason to take offence.

  Their broad, flat faces showed not a glimmer of emotion. Hugh sensed the officers were uncertain of what to do next. How often did mixed bands of Christian priests, Cypriots and Saracen warriors appear on their stretch of frontier? He reckoned it wasn’t a common occurrence.

  At last one of the officers rode a little closer. He was an older man, his drooping black moustaches streaked with grey. His little eyes watched the company with deep suspicion.

  Maymun and Brother John went forward to meet him. They halted a few paces apart. Hugh held his breath as the Tartar warily held up a hand in greeting. Brother John started to speak in the Tartar tongue, haltingly at last, and then with more confidence. To Hugh’s ears it sounded guttural and virtually unpronounceable, an alien language in an alien land.

  He kept his hand near his sword, for all the good it would do. If the Tartar captain gave the order, his bowmen would shoot down the entire company within seconds. Their lives were in the hands of the young Dominican.

  After a moment John twisted in the saddle and beckoned at Father Godfrey, who spurred forward. After a brief exchange of words with John, the elderly friar opened his knapsack to produce Edward’s letters. These were shown to the Tartar, who scowled at the sight of the red wax seal on each roll of vellum. The seal was stamped with the three royal pards of England.

  There was another brief burst of conversation. Then the Tartar handed the letters back, swung his pony round and galloped away to his men.

  “Well?” demanded Hugh as Maymun and the friars jogged towards him. “Do we live or die?”

  Brother John, haggard and grey-faced, looked to have aged a decade inside a few minutes.

  “We live,” he replied hoarsely. “For now.”

  *

  They were taken west into the heart of the il-khanate. Another ten days of travel followed. Hugh found himself riding through a country of rugged mountains and vast stretches of bleak upland tundra, rolling away for miles in any direction. This was the home of the eagle and the wolf. He often saw the magnificent birds, circling high above the dizzying peaks for prey, or caught glimpses of lean grey predators at night, lurking beyond the flickering glow cast by supper fires.

  “They are bold,” he remarked to Maymun one night. Hugh tried not to let his fear of wolves show, but the Saracen had an uncanny knack for divining his thoughts.

  “They have every reason to be,” he replied. “This is the wild. The carrion-eaters rule here, not us.”

  He tapped the hilt of his kilij. “Keep your cleaver ready, Longsword. We are surrounded by dangers.”

  His eyes flickered to the Tartars. The officers sat apart from the men, who formed their own groups, cross-legged around the fires. Brother John was occasionally invited to speak with the officers, but otherwise there was no communication.

  John relayed what was said. “They mostly speak of Abaqa,” he told Hugh. “The il-khan is a very great man, so they claim. Far greater than Baibars – they have no good opinion of him, by the way – and greater than any man in the world save the Great Khan himself.”

  This came as no surprise to Hugh. The
Tartars were clearly no fools, and realised the young friar was as impressionable as hot wax. Before the journey was ended, he would be ready to fall down and worship at Abaqa’s feet.

  Even so, the Tartars had admitted to a weakness. Their master, Abaqa, ruled merely a part of the great Tartar Empire. He was essentially the governor of a province, under the heel of the Great Khan, Khublai, who ruled from his capital at Karakorum, hundreds of miles to the north. Abaqa might rule as a little tyrant in his own land, but always had to bear in mind the shadow of Khublai Khan, hanging over all that he did.

  Hugh turned over the possibilities. He wondered if Khublai would approve of an alliance with the Franks, or if he even knew about it. Perhaps Abaqa was playing his own double game. If he could help Edward to destroy Baibars, that would remove the Mamluk threat to his southern borders. Abaqa would then be free to turn against his master in the north. With the aid of Christian troops, he might be able to topple Khublai and seize the Great Khanate for himself.

  After some thought, Hugh dismissed this as too far-fetched. The il-khan had been at war with Baibars for the past decade, and lost more battles than he won. Abaqa was as desperate as the Franks to find some way of destroying the sultan. Nor could Hugh imagine his own master agreeing to send Christian soldiers to help one infidel destroy another.

  Or perhaps he is in league with the sultan, Hugh thought. Perhaps he will slaughter us all, preserve our heads in tar and send them as a gift to Damascus.

  Hugh was too practical to indulge in useless speculation for long. Instead he gave himself up to the journey. As a child he had dreamed of seeing the Holy Land, but never imagined he would venture beyond its limits. Hugh couldn’t tell – yet – if he was blessed or cursed, but it was still a grand adventure, the greatest of his life to date. If it all ended badly, at least he had seen a part of the world that few Englishmen could ever hope to clap eyes on.

  The Tartar escort took them some twenty miles west, to a crossroads deep in the mountains. Here they were met by another troop of mounted soldiers, who took charge of the company for the next stage.

  Brother John, whose confidence grew by the day, told his companions where they were headed.

  “The Tartars are taking us to a place called Maragheh,” he explained. “Abaqa’s summer palace. It lies in the middle of a vast plain, ringed by mountains. The palace is the greatest on earth, and contains the temple of eternal fire.”

  His eyes gleamed as he described the place. Godfrey looked disturbed by the note of enthusiasm in the young man’s voice.

  “Do not listen to infidel lies,” he said sternly. “However magnificent this palace may look to the naked eye, never forget its true nature. A dung-pit inhabited by infidels, tainted by the spirit of the Evil One.”

  He made the sign of the cross. “We are here for a purpose, brother. To rescue the Christian states of Outremer. Never lose sight of that. Or must I flog the blasphemy out of you?”

  John looked cowed and ducked his head in submission. Hugh wondered how many stripes he carried on his back. The young man was surprisingly wilful, and too intelligent for his own good. Good friars did not ask too many questions of their faith.

  The next ten days passed without incident. Hugh never let his guard relax for a moment, though his fears proved groundless. The Tartars kept their distance but were otherwise respectful, and the company was too large to be attacked by bandits or wild animals.

  After a week they left the mountains behind and entered a range of foothills. There was little sign of habitation, save a few distant tents set up by the nomadic tribes that roamed the grasslands. Occasionally a band of these horsemen would ride closer to inspect the strangers passing through their territory, only to hastily turn back again.

  “We’re too many for them,” said Maymun, “and they know better than to attack soldiers of the il-khan. If we didn’t have the escort, they might try to attack our camp at night and run off a few horses.”

  He spat out of the corner of his mouth. “Scavengers. Human jackals, less than wolves. Birds and animals merely obey the call of nature, but these folk have a choice. They choose to live without honour. That is no life at all. Mere existence.”

  Hugh was surprised at the venom in Maymun’s voice but didn’t question him on it. He knew the Saracen had passed through these lands before. Perhaps he had suffered losses at the hands of the tribesmen. Maymun was just as proud as any Christian knight and would have considered it a personal insult to be bested by a few ragged Tartar nomads on ponies.

  The road through the hills gradually narrowed to a winding track, in places barely wide enough for three horsemen abreast. It was the height of summer, late August, yet much cooler here than the plains of Syria, far to the south.

  Hugh longed to break free of the column and put Flight to a gallop along the bare flanks of the hillside. When he made the request to the Tartar captain through Brother John, it was firmly rebuffed. He and his companions were effectively prisoners and would be treated as such. Hugh could only stare up the eagles, wheeling high above his head in the eternal blue arch of the sky, and envy their freedom.

  Finally, on noon of the tenth day, the track passed through two flat-topped spurs of rock onto a wide stretch of flat ground. There was a patchwork of green fields here, and the land steadily rose to a natural barrier of rocky mountains in all directions save the east.

  Hugh caught his breath. The middle of the plain was dominated by a massive fortress, surrounded on all sides by a high stone wall in the shape of an oval, strengthened at regular intervals by roughly circular bastion towers.

  This was Maragheh, Abaqa’s summer palace. The roofs of the great palace complex inside rose far above the height of the wall, dominated by two buildings: one, a large octagonal structure with a domed roof, painted blue, the other some kind of fortified temple.

  The temple was a square wall with a huge central tower or keep with four turrets. Every turret was crowned by a slender chimney. Gouts of orange flame burnt fiercely from each.

  “The sacred fire temple of Zoroaster,” said Brother John in response to Hugh’s enquiring look. “It is said he was born here.”

  Hugh didn’t like the note of awe in the friar’s voice. “Zoro-who?” he asked impatiently.

  “An ancient Persian prophet,” the other replied. “And a great scholar and philosopher. He believed that mankind is engaged in a constant struggle between truth and falsehood. Truth springs from the essence of creation. His followers must embrace the truth and never deviate from it.

  “There is much more,” John added eagerly. “What I have said barely scratches the surface of his teachings!”

  “Spare me, in God’s name,” Hugh muttered, and rode away before John could get into full spate.

  To him it was obvious that John had abandoned the teachings of Christ, or was on the verge of doing so. He was just a boy, searching for some meaning to his existence, and too bright for his own good. If he had stayed in England, John might well have ended up being condemned as a heretic.

  Here, on the far side of the world, there were no such restrictions. In spite of Godfrey’s disapproval, John spent more and more time in the company of the Tartars. They appeared to welcome him and were only too glad to share their meals and beliefs with this pale young Westerner, whose mind longed to break free of its shackles.

  “Speak to John,” Godfrey begged Hugh. “He won’t listen to me and knows I would never flog him. If you were to take him to one side…”

  Hugh refused. “No,” he said firmly. “I’m not going to threaten the lad, if that’s what you mean. He seems happy, and the Tartars like him. Brother John could very well save our lives.”

  Godfrey was disappointed, but Hugh couldn’t help that. His only concern was to complete their mission and stay alive.

  The Tartars escorted them towards Maragheh. Hugh looked up at the elaborate gateway, the walls decorated with inscriptions and glazed tiles painted with images of fantastic beasts and wondered
if his head would adorn the battlements before nightfall.

  10.

  Less than an hour later, Hugh found himself in the presence of the il-khan himself. After a brief wait, he and his companions had been ushered into Abaqa’s presence. For good or ill, it seemed the Tartar ruler was anxious to meet his guests.

  Hugh barely had time to absorb his surroundings as he was marched through the southern portal gate and into the palace complex beyond. He was marched up a flight of stone steps and then into the domed, eight-sided building he had seen from a distance. The floors inside were laid with green tiles, the wall covered in more tiles emblazoned with twisting patterns worked in gold, heraldic beasts such as dragons and phoenixes and others Hugh didn’t recognise.

  He was marched through a series of long, narrow halls with high ceilings. Every hall ended in a pair of strong ironbound doors, guarded by a pair of Tartar sentries. These carried pole-arms and wore heavy lamellar armour, iron scales laced into horizontal rows over knee-length tunics.

  The corners of each hall were occupied by bronze statues of a godlike figure in elaborate face, his plump face composed in an expression of serenity, hands raised with palms facing outwards. He wore some kind of bead or stone in the middle of his forehead.

  “The statues represent Buddha,” Maymun whispered. “Abaqa pretends interest in the Christian faith but has not abandoned the faith of his ancestors.”

  Finally they entered the great hall, a vast octagonal structure, dominated by a square plinth in the middle of the chamber. A dozen wide steps on the southern side of the plinth led to the platform at the top, where Abaqa was seated on his throne.

  The hall was thronged with people. Tartar nobles, men and women in colourful silks and brocades, staring mutely at the newcomers with puzzled eyes. They were no more inclined to wash than the soldiers, and the smell that rose off them was like a blow to the face. Hugh tried his best not to breathe in.