The Towers of Samarcand (29 page)

By now Mohammed Sultan was standing behind Tamerlane’s chair, stooping to speak into his ear. He spoke loud enough for Luke to hear. ‘Grandfather, the Holy Book forbids taking another man’s wife against their wishes. Is it wise to offend God?’

Tamerlane frowned. He drank and wiped the wine from his beard with the hand not covering Shulen’s. He wrinkled his nose as if a noxious smell had crept beneath it. He leant forward. ‘Do you have any objection, Greek?’ he growled. ‘I want Jawhar-agha to be my wife. Will you divorce her?’

‘No.’

Had he spoken? He had spoken. He had said no. He had denied Tamerlane.

‘No, lord,’ he amended, his heart pounding. ‘She is my wife before God. I will not divorce her.’

Tamerlane’s frown deepened. He shook his head suddenly as if trying to escape an unwanted thought. He opened his mouth but his grandson spoke first.

‘You will need God’s favour to conquer China,’ he continued quietly, his ear close to Tamerlane’s. ‘You will need his blessing to finally unite the kingdoms. Why risk it, Grandfather?’

Tamerlane blinked twice, his head slightly tilted to listen. He drank more wine.

Mohammed Sultan went on, speaking faster. ‘Think of it, Grandfather. The Chagatai here feasting with you. Persia. The Golden Horde. You have one more khanate to conquer to create an empire bigger than Genghis’s: China, the kingdom of Kublai Khan.’ He paused. ‘You are so close.’

Tamerlane was fidgeting with the sleeves of his robe. He was breathing hard, his breath escaping in short spasms. His great brow was ever more furrowed, sweat within its folds. He was thinking. At last his hand moved away from Shulen’s. He grunted and lifted his chalice only to find it empty. ‘Wine!’ he roared. A eunuch appeared with a pitcher. He gestured to Bibi Khanum’s cup. ‘And for her!’

Mohammed Sultan had taken a step backwards. He looked at Shulen who continued to stare ahead. He glanced at Luke and nodded. Then he turned to walk back to his seat.

Tamerlane leant forward again. ‘Why are you
here
, Greek?’ he growled. ‘Why are you at my court?’

Luke straightened. He’d not practised what he would say were Tamerlane to speak to him. His mind raced. He thought
of all that Ibn Khaldun had told him. ‘Before you go to China,’ he said, summoning the words, ‘there is the Khanate of Persia’s conquest still to complete. Genghis’s grandson, Hulagu, went as far as the land of the Turks. You have to reconquer those lands, lord.’

Tamerlane squinted at him. ‘You are telling me where I should go, Greek?’

‘I say no such thing, majesty. But you should know that the tribes there are weary of Bayezid’s rule. You would be welcomed.’ He paused and glanced at Shulen, who was now staring at him. ‘You would be welcomed as the Sword of Islam.’

Luke’s heart was now beating faster than Eskalon’s at full stretch. He knew that his life was balanced as precariously as the tightrope walkers he’d watched this past month. He felt giddy with adrenalin, almost drunk.

Tamerlane said: ‘Bayezid is a tick that I’ll flick from my body when I remember to do so. Until then I will send him letters to anger him. It pleases me.’ He turned to Shulen. ‘Your husband is brave but foolish. Take him from my presence before I remove him from you.’

Shulen rose and came down from the dais, took Luke’s hand as a wife should, and led him through the silent tent, past the ambassadors and shaykhs and generals of Tamerlane’s army. And as they walked, the silence was broken as men dared once more to revel. Shulen turned to Luke, speaking from the corner of her mouth.

‘That was frightening. From now onwards, I am your wife. If Temur finds out the truth, we’re both dead.’

As summer turned to autumn and then winter, the leaves on the trees in the Garden of Heart’s Delight turned first red, then gold, then as brown as the grass to which they fell. The poles in Tamerlane’s tents were seasonally repainted but the roof above stayed blue, for such was the sky outside: day after day of brittle blue dusted with clouds of cotton fleece.

After the qurultay had run its riotous course, Luke and his friends had been given their own tent in the garden with everything they desired and some they didn’t. For Luke at least, the slave girls were a temptation but nothing more. His greatest pleasure had been to have Eskalon, then Arcadius, delivered to him repaired and well; his constant pain, to know that day by day the marriage of Anna to Suleyman was drawing closer.

Shulen’s tent was placed next to Tamerlane’s. She might be married to another man, but the Lord of the Celestial Conjunction wanted her near to him. She spent most days in his tent, often with Mohammed Sultan. Tamerlane was sixty-three and the pain of his knee worsened as the days got colder. While Mohammed Sultan read to them both, Shulen would spend hours at a time mixing lotions and applying them to the
tired joints of the man who terrorised the world. And when she wasn’t doing this, she was, very secretly, teaching him to read.

The Spaniard Clavijo left Tamerlane’s court to go home, leaving Sotomayor behind. He would travel by way of Edirne to deliver another letter to Bayezid and, it was assumed, awe the Sultan with tales of Tamerlane’s splendour.

Luke spent much of his time hunting with Mohammed Sultan in the parks around Samarcand, whenever the Prince could be plucked from the company of Shulen. Tamerlane’s heir seemed keen to learn as much as Luke could tell him of the West. Matthew and the other Varangians got used to riding by themselves, but while Nikolas and Arcadius joked about Luke’s new friendship, Matthew remained silent. He’d grown up with Luke in Monemvasia, spent barely a day apart from him since birth; they were as two brothers. Now there was another.

One morning, Luke found himself riding through the Zarafshan Valley towards the mountains in the south, passing channels that carried snow-melt to the cotton fields. Against Shulen’s advice, Tamerlane had decided to hunt and desired her company and that of Mohammed Sultan. The Prince had asked that Luke join them too.

The next day found them high up on a plateau, riding between groves of mulberry trees, the winter sun a liquid mess that spilt across the sky. Luke was riding Eskalon beside Mohammed Sultan. He was wearing a thick deel of padded fur and had Torguk’s bow beside him on the saddle. Far behind were guards wrapped in fur, who tickled the hooded necks of eagles and gyrfalcons sitting on their padded arms. Shulen was up ahead with Tamerlane.

Tamerlane’s favourite eagle had been released and had already snatched a hare from the snow. Mohammed Sultan
had been inspecting the mulberry trees and looked up. ‘What must the silkworms think when they see that fly above them?’

‘The silkworms, lord? Can they even see?’

The Prince laughed. ‘No, I don’t believe they can. They only have a month on this earth, all of it spent eating.’ He reined in his horse, happy to separate them further from his grandfather and Shulen. He looked up at the eagle again, his hand shielding his eyes. ‘They can eat, grow, fornicate, and give us the most precious thing on earth, but they can’t fly.’ He paused and glanced at Luke. ‘Imagine having everything in the world except the one thing you want. Can you imagine that?’

Luke remained silent, guessing the point of it all. Over the weeks, he’d seen how Mohammed Sultan’s admiration for Shulen had grown, day by day, into something else. He changed the subject. ‘Do you know where Temur plans to go next?’

Mohammed Sultan laughed. ‘Probably not where you’d like him to go.’

‘The army hasn’t moved yet.’

‘Which shows Shulen’s having some success, perhaps. But I wouldn’t count on it. My grandfather does what he wants to do.’

Luke pondered this.

‘You think him mad,’ Mohammed Sultan continued, ‘and you think him cruel. You’ll see terrible things next year if you’re still with us, but his cruelty has its purpose. Cities open their gates to him.’

‘And he slaughters their inhabitants anyway,’ said Luke.

‘You speak of Delhi. But the inhabitants rose up after the city had fallen. It was the same in Herat and Isfahan. They were lessons.’

‘But lessons not heeded by all,’ said Luke. ‘Tell me of
Toktamish, highness.’

Mohammed Sultan smiled and patted his horse’s neck. ‘It was eight years past, Pir Mohammed’s and my first campaign,’ he said. ‘It was a glorious thing.’

The Prince kicked his horse into a walk.

‘It was winter and Toktamish of the Golden Horde, who’d been given his throne by my grandfather and was treated as a son, chose to invade Mawarannahr from the north. The generals advised waiting until spring to confront him, saying that the snow would be too deep. But Temur Gurgan wouldn’t listen. He gathered the tribes and led an army up into the lands of the Rus, snow up to the withers. We moved by forced marches and the army of Toktamish fell back before us, always staying one march ahead. When the food ran out, Temur arranged a great hunt across the steppe, with the whole army sweeping game towards archers waiting in the hills. We marched further north into the wilds of Siberia, the Land of Shadows, and still Toktamish refused battle. We came to the Samara River, a land of mists and marshes, with no food for the army for Toktamish had destroyed everything behind him. The air was so dark and the rain so heavy that we could barely see three paces. Then the sky suddenly cleared and there was the Golden Horde, stretched out on the other bank. Their army was immense, twice the size of ours, and at its centre stood the standard of Toktamish, crowned with a human skull. Temur chose that moment to erect his tent and call for food as if the enemy wasn’t there.’ The Prince laughed. ‘I thought it the most wonderful thing.’

He sat back on his saddle. ‘The Kipchaks had guarded the ford and it would be suicide to cross. So for three days we marched along that riverbank, their army shadowing ours. Then one
night, when we were in camp, Temur had all the women don the men’s helmets and sit around the fires while the army moved silently away, its horses’ hoofs muffled by hessian. He force-marched us back to the ford. Then we crossed and came up on the Kipchaks from behind.’

Luke was astonished. The discipline that would have made such a thing possible was beyond belief.

‘But it was close. At one stage Temur was dismounted, fighting hand to hand with a half-pike shattered in his hand. Then I rallied the right wing and pushed the Kipchaks back to the river and the day was ours. A hundred thousand dead, mainly theirs.’

Luke suddenly understood why Mohammed Sultan was the favourite grandson of Tamerlane, why his name was read out at Friday prayers and was minted on the coinage. They rode on in silence. Then the Prince spoke. ‘My mother is fond of you. Perhaps you understand her better than I do.’

Luke was bewildered. ‘Highness?’

‘She has told me that you’re not married to Shulen yet she forbids me to pay court to her.’

Luke frowned. He’d not realised that Mohammed Sultan knew. ‘Perhaps she fears Temur learning the truth.’

‘No, she knows me better than that. It’s because Shulen is not exalted enough in rank to marry the heir to Temur. But it makes no sense. Few of Temur Gurgan’s wives are royal.’

Luke said nothing.

‘I don’t understand it,’ said the Prince. ‘Her love for my father Jahangir was beyond passion. Why will she not allow it for her son?’

Luke glanced at him. ‘You love Shulen that much, lord?’

Now the Prince was silent and seemed intent on the mane
he was pulling through his fingers. ‘Yes, I love her. But you, Luke. Do you love her too?’

Before Luke could answer, there was a shout from behind them and both men turned in their saddles.

‘A wolf!’ cried the Prince, kicking his horse. ‘If they’ve released the second eagle it must be a wolf!’

Tamerlane and Shulen were too far ahead to be seen. Mohammed Sultan and Luke cantered through the mulberry groves and into the wood at the bottom of the rise, the falconers hard on their heels. Then they were up and out amidst the silver birch and the eagles were circling above them, giant black crosses with their jesses trailing in the air behind. They couldn’t see the wolf but the birds could and they began their dives, one behind the other, until they were only feet above the ground.

Then Luke saw it. It was a cub and it was running for its life across the frozen ground, stirring up a blizzard as it went. The first eagle crashed into its neck, rolling the animal head first into the snow. The second sank its talons into the wolf’s rear as it landed and a spray of blood arced into the air and pitted the white ground with red. There was a flash of fur and teeth and the wolf lay still.

From below them came a shout. Tamerlane had called for his eagle.

‘Allah,’ whispered Mohammed Sultan, already turning his horse, kicking hard. ‘He promised he wouldn’t hunt. His knees are too weak to hold the horse when the eagle lands.’

Already, the piece of meat would be on Tamerlane’s arm and he’d be stretching it out for the bird to land on. The Emperor had forgotten his age.

‘What will the horse do?’ shouted the Prince over his shoulder, lashing the flanks of his own mount.

‘God knows! Why don’t the falconers recall it?’ shouted Luke.

Mohammed Sultan was riding hard. ‘It’s Temur’s eagle!’

They were in the trees now, ducking branches and urging their horses through the snow-covered debris. Above the canopy they could see snatches of the giant wingspan as the bird circled, tighter each time as its eyes fixed on to the man on the horse below. Every second the eagle was nearing the moment when it would begin its fall, when it would land on Tamerlane’s arm.

There was a cry. Not of human but of beast. Mohammed Sultan kicked his horse on through the trees. Beyond was the sound of a whip striking again and again and the scream of an animal and then they were out of the trees and before them, at the bottom of the valley, was the Emperor, still on top of his horse, the eagle clutching a gloved arm that was dripping with blood. The bird’s wings were spread and it jerked its head left and right with each screech of alarm. The horse was wheeling and at any moment Tamerlane must fall.