Imperial Fire (19 page)

‘I prefer Hero’s version,’ said Wayland.

The trees thinned to a stippling of firs, the green curve of the valley replicating the blue arc of the sky. The wayfarers passed shrines painted with frescos of four-winged seraphim with wheels for feet, and other oddities rendered in a vigorous folk style. Of the inhabitants of this lofty land, the squadron saw nothing.

‘Where is everybody?’ Wayland asked Otia.

‘Waiting for us,’ the centurion said, pointing at four fortified settlements clumped near the end of the valley. ‘Ushguli. It means “heart without fear”.’

Wayland absorbed the scene – the river cascading through hay meadows, larks trilling overhead, the scent of pine resin wafting on an updraught. The towers – there must have been more than fifty – made the settlements look like miniature cities.

‘A man could live content in such a beautiful place.’

‘Come back in winter, when the snow drifts over the eaves and the wolves howl outside your door and you have to check before you enter a byre in case a bear has forced its way inside.’

Wayland scanned the slopes. ‘So everybody’s inside the towers.’

Otia nodded. ‘News of our coming probably reached them more than a day ago. In Svaneti, all strangers are potential enemies and every home is a castle.’

The centurion directed the force towards one of the settlements. The closer Wayland approached, the more impressed he was. Some of the towers stood a hundred feet high, tapering up to shallow-pitched roofs with arched loopholes at their eaves. But the houses and byres huddled around their bases were squat and windowless, roofed with crude slate tiles and surrounded by dry-stone walls.

‘See how the village forms a compound like a hive,’ Otia said. ‘Any army trying to take it would have to fight house by house, the inhabitants retreating before them, the defenders in the towers pouring down a rain of arrows and rocks.’

Wayland spotted arrows trained on them from every machicolation. Otia identified the defenders’ spokesman and began negotiations, questions and answers drifting back and forth.

Vallon rode up. ‘Is that the chief?’

‘First among a council of leading men. His name’s Mochila and he refuses to admit us. He says we can camp at the end of the valley and he’ll call on us before dark.’

The campsite offered a view of a mountain wall hung with a glacier. By the time the squadron had secured their position, the snow glimmered cold blue and the gold tracery outlining the summits was fading. A sentry called a warning and Wayland turned to see thirty men cantering out of the dusk. At their head Mochila rode a splendid black stallion. He was clad in a felt cape with square shoulder pads as wide as wings. Under this he wore ring mail, his outfit capped by a pointed iron helmet so archaic that it might have been salvaged from a Scythian grave barrow.

He and Otia greeted each other with solemn ceremony, touching hand to heart. The centurion introduced Mochila to Vallon, both men appraising each other for signs of strength, weakness or sinister intent. Mochila had the features of a starved eagle.

‘Victory to you,’ he said.

‘And to you,’ Vallon repeated.

Otia addressed Vallon. ‘General, I think I’ve convinced Mochila that we pose no threat. He invites you and your senior men to a feast. I suggest you take no more than half a dozen.’

‘I know
we’re
no threat. I’m not so sure about these Svans.’

‘Mochila would treat a refusal as an insult.’

‘I’d rather risk offending the man than handing myself over as a hostage.’

‘General, we won’t get through his domain without his consent. Even if we fight our way through, he’ll raise the next clan against us.’

‘He’ll want payment.’

‘Leave that to me. I think I can negotiate a safe passage without digging too deep into our coffers.’

Vallon and Mochila locked gazes, each looking for a tell-tale blink. Vallon inclined his head in a finely calibrated bow. ‘Tell Mochila that I’m delighted to accept his invitation. You’ll accompany me, of course, together with Wayland and Hero.’

A shout made everyone whirl. ‘Those men are traitors and felons. I’m Duke Skleros Phocas, appointed leader of this expedition by the Emperor Alexius Comnenus. A thousand gold solidi to anyone who —’

The duke’s guards smothered his outburst. Mochila stroked one finger along his top lip.

‘Who’s that?’ he asked.

‘A prisoner,’ Vallon replied. ‘Tell him it’s none of his business.’

Mochila nodded in contemplation, made a last appraisal of the Outlanders and led his party into the darkness.

Vallon watched them go. ‘Do you think they understood?’

‘The duke mentioned solidi,’ said Josselin. ‘Even up here they know what that’s worth. I advise you not to put yourself in jeopardy. If the Svans take you captive, we’ll have the devil of a job to get you back. Let me go in your stead.’

Vallon trained his gaze on Ushguli. Stars wreathed its towers and a tilted moon cast inky contours across the pastures. ‘This won’t be the only time we’ll have to throw ourselves on the mercy of strangers. You stay here. If I don’t return, you’re in command.’

A guide holding a tallow torch led them through lanes ankle-deep in cow shit. Chained mastiffs snarled and lunged from dark entrances. Wayland glimpsed eyes tracking them through shuttered windows. The guide climbed a wooden gallery, opened a door and ushered them into a large and sooty chamber fogged with smoke from a dung-fed hearth. Eyes and teeth glimmered in the light of a dozen lamps. As his vision adjusted, Wayland counted two dozen faces, old and young, many of the countenances as hard as spades. His gaze roamed over carved panels and chests painted with celestial symbols and other arcana. Crosses and icons shared wall space with trophy horns of aurochs, bison and ibex, hanging next to saddles and bridles inlaid with turquoise and silver. Mochila and his attendants had shed their armour and wore loose shirts with crosses or triangles embroidered over the heart. Mother of pearl embellished the seams of their trousers.

Servants showed the guests to their places on shaggy rugs. Wayland folded his legs and sat, placing Atam at his side.

‘What’s the procedure?’ Vallon asked Otia.

‘A long one, I’m afraid. We begin with a formal exchange of toasts, then we feast. Only after that do we get down to business. Mochila will try and get us drunk.’

Wayland put his mouth to Atam’s ear. ‘Tell me everything’s that’s said.’

A steward brought the guests beer. After the second cup, an elderly man rose and struck a theatrical pose.

‘He’s the
tamada
,’ Atam whispered. ‘The clan’s toastmaster.’

The man declaimed at length, lifting his cup at each toast. Atam summarised. ‘He says how honoured his community is to welcome distinguished travellers to their motherland. He asks you to drink to their motherland. Now he raises his cup in blessings on
your
motherland.’

The ceremony was interminable and confusing, the toastmaster sometimes raising his cup in invitation to drink, sometimes hoisting it as a prelude to another long-winded speech. Wayland refused the fourth refill, but the steward pulled away his protecting hand and slopped beer to the brim. When he tilted the jug over Atam’s beaker, Wayland wrenched the steward’s arm aside. ‘Enough. He’s too young to take strong drink.’

After the
tamada
had finished, it was Otia’s turn. Shedding his usual taciturnity, he spoke with a poet’s flourish, thanking the Svans for their hospitality, rejoicing in his return to Georgia, and lamenting the prospect of leaving Ushguli so soon.

As soon as he’d finished, another Svan stood and delivered a tipsy peroration on universal friendship under God. Atam’s voice grew squeaky with the effort of translating. Wayland tapped his arm. ‘Rest your voice for the important part.’

Service with the Seljuk sultan had trained Wayland to endure lengthy audiences, but even he was half asleep when Atam prodded his ribs. ‘Now it’s your turn.’

‘Me?’

Eyes bored expectantly through the fug. He climbed to his feet and appealed to Vallon. ‘What am I supposed to say?’

‘Whatever takes your tongue. I gave them the twenty-third psalm. “Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death…”’

Wayland managed only a few halting platitudes before his voice dribbled away.

‘Recite one of your English poems,’ Vallon prompted.

‘They don’t understand English.’

‘Then you needn’t be shy.’

Wayland remembered a poem called
The Wanderer
he’d first heard seated on his grandfather’s knee, a January storm moaning through the wildwood outside. His throat loosened.

Wayland struck his palm with his right hand.

He lowered his head and paused. The room hung on his next utterance. He pointed at a gilt cross at the rear of the chamber.

‘It is best for a man to seek mercy and comfort from the Father in heaven where security stands for us all.’

Fierce applause and hoisted cups rewarded his recitation. Vallon patted his arm. ‘That was well done. Do you think our hosts are drinking watered ale?’

Wayland took a glug of beer to ease his throat. ‘I’ve been watching. They’re drinking the same piss as us.’

One more speech delivered by Mochila followed before women sashayed in with the food. Most of them were handsome matrons, strong of feature and weighted with heavy silver ornaments and head-dresses studded with cowrie shells. The one who served Wayland was a maid with slender arched eyebrows and a face as oval as an almond. Her breasts jostled under her homespun shift. A crescent of gold in one ear emphasised the perfection of her features. When her grey-green eyes met his, he had to avert his gaze. Only two weeks since he’d parted from Syth and already he was making eyes at another woman. How could he remain faithful to his wife for two years? How could she remain true to him?

Eyes downcast under long lashes, the girl served him a mess of baked cheese and butter topped with a crust of mixed meal. The sweet-sour mixture stuck to the roof of Wayland’s mouth, but it was a delicious change from twice-baked bread as hard as brick, and he trowelled up the mess with gusto, following his hosts’ example by using his knife to scrape the treacly bits stuck on the pan. Next, the women bore in a smoke-blackened cauldron of broth holding hunks of beef. The room filled with the sounds of tearing and slurping. Mochila personally served Vallon the choicest pieces. All the time the beer kept circulating.

At last the men set aside their bowls, belched, loosened their belts and slumped back. Mochila placed his hands on his knees and inclined his face towards Vallon, his features skull-like in the smoky light.

Atam translated in a forceful whisper. ‘He asks how he can assist our mission.’

Vallon massaged his stomach. ‘You’ve already transformed our journey from painful toil to luxurious pleasure. The only help I require is advice on how to reach the Daryal Gorge.’ He allowed a pause. ‘And if you could provide a man to show us the way…’

Mochila rotated a hand in a dismissive half-circle. ‘You’ll never reach the Daryal. The passes ahead are difficult enough for lightly laden horses. Impossible for your carts.’

‘I have no intention of abandoning our wagons,’ Vallon said. ‘If necessary, we’ll strip them down and carry them over the mountains plank by plank, wheel by wheel. Of course, our task would be made easier if we had extra hands.’

Mochila sucked in his cheeks and shook his head. ‘It’s spring. All our sons are tending the herds in the high pastures, and our women are busy in the fields from dawn to dark. You’ve arrived during our busiest season. In Svaneti, the snows allow only six months to sow and reap.’

‘Naturally, we’ll compensate you.’

Wayland knew the Svans had scented prey by the way they licked their lips, pushed out their cheeks with their tongues and glanced at each other without quite making eye contact. Mochila remained immobile. ‘What are you offering?’

‘For you, my Lord – I’d rather discuss that in private.’

Mochila stilled a buzz of discontent with an upheld finger and resumed his discussion with Vallon. Wayland sensed tension growing.

‘I’ll make allowances for your ignorance of our customs. In Svaneti we don’t strike deals behind our kinsmen’s backs.’

‘Forgive me, Lord. As a general appointed by the emperor, I’m used to treating with great men and rewarding them according to their station and influence.’

Wayland saw a gleam of avarice come and go in Mochila’s eyes. The Svan leader turned his horn drinking cup and looked at it. His tone when he spoke was thoughtful.

‘I ask nothing for myself, but it’s only proper that men diverted from their livelihood should be recompensed.’ Mochila relaxed on his cushions. ‘An expedition as large as yours must be carrying a great deal of gold.’

Vallon uttered a rueful laugh. ‘If only we had enough to spare. Alas, we’re at the beginning of our journey and can’t afford to shed a single coin. I have to pay the men’s wages. They’re mercenaries,’ he continued before Mochila could respond, ‘warriors hardened in some of Byzantium’s bloodiest battles. They serve only for gain, not out of personal loyalty. Dip into their wages and they’ll vent their anger first on me and then on the people they hold responsible for depriving them of their due.’