The Towers of Samarcand (7 page)

*

Three weeks later, Gomil had still not returned and his father stood in daily vigil on the escarpment above the camp. The chief’s son had taken twenty of the best warriors with him and the tribe should have left for summer pastures by now.

Luke was polishing the dragon pommel of his sword, sitting cross-legged before his ger. It was mid-afternoon but the sky was dark and bruised with storm. The animals in the pens were tense, their ears pricked and their noses lifted to the scent of danger; they sensed something coming in on the wind. Luke saw them stamp and move together, searching for the comfort of touch, the fear sweeping over them, stiffening the hair on their coats. A fleck of rain stabbed the side of his cheek. He looked up to the rolling tide of cloud and saw the the first stab of lightning break.

He glanced around. Women were gathering looms and pushing children before them into the tents. Men were checking ropes and driving pegs further into the ground.

‘Lug!’ Arkal shouted. Tsaurig was holding her hand, dragging her towards the safety of the ger. ‘Come inside! This one will be fierce.’

Luke looked at the sky. It was almost black now and darts of rain were hitting the ground around him. He looked towards
the shaman’s tent and saw Shulen standing halfway up the hill behind it, staring up at a tree, arms outstretched as if in greeting. A flock of crows exploded from the tree.

Lightning struck again and the tree burst into flames, sending sparks high into the sky. She was still looking up at it, her caftan clinging to her body.

‘
Shulen!
’

She was too close to the tree. Flaming debris was falling all around her.

‘
Shulen!
’

She turned and stared at him.

He looked up at the tree. Bigger branches were beginning to come apart from the trunk, each a blazing torch that crashed to the ground in fountains of fire. At any moment, she would be struck. Luke ran through the gers, vaulting the ropes in his way. Then he was running up the hill. There was a crack and a branch landed next to her. The tree was going to fall. Luke reached her, and threw himself forward. They rolled together down the slope as the tree fell above them, sparks flying over the camp to land on the roofs of the tents. A dog howled and ran in circles.

Suddenly Luke was angry. ‘You can speak, damn you!’ he yelled at her through the rain.

She was still in his arms but her body was limp. She looked at him, a slight frown breaking the dirt on her brow. Luke saw that her skin was scorched from the heat. He turned her face to the rain and the water ran down her cheeks and through her hair. He picked her up and began to make his way down the slope, her head against his chest, her long hair heavy on his forearm. He felt the tide of her breath hot upon his skin. Lightning struck again.

Inside her tent, it was the same as before: rows and rows of herbs laid out on the ground to dry and the fire burning something scented which gave off a light smoke. The old man lay on his bed and didn’t stir as they entered. Tallow candles were lit.

Luke set Shulen down on her pallet and turned to stoke the fire. He looked back. She was watching him, her head thrown to one side, hair spilt across the lynx fur like ink. Steam rose from the folds of her tunic. He studied the face that was not like other women’s in the camp. It was longer, softer, more subtle, not of the steppe. He put down the iron and went over to her. He sat down and felt the fur beneath his palm. The smell of herbs and other essences seemed stronger where she lay.

‘Shulen,’ he said softly, ‘I know that you’re not the shaman’s daughter. You’re not his daughter and you’re not of this tribe. You choose not to speak. Who are you?’

She reached out a thin hand and placed it on his forearm. The fair hair was still wet and she raked her fingers through it. She looked beyond him and smiled as if at some memory. Then her eyes came back to his.

‘I am what I am,’ she said. ‘I am yours.’

Luke frowned. ‘You’re not mine and you’re not theirs. Are you here to help me?’

‘As you have helped me.’ The hand on his forearm travelled to his shoulder. It was a caress. She traced her fingers round to the nape of his neck and, bringing his head down to hers, kissed him on the brow. It was more a breath than a kiss. ‘I am yours.’

Luke closed his eyes. The smell of the herbs was overpowering, reaching into his brain. There was a humming in his ears and his skin seemed to lift from the bones beneath to be nearer to
her. He was overwhelmed with longing for this thin, strange girl. He remembered another time, another place.

You can, Luke. And you must
.

Fiorenza. He had been drugged then. Part of someone else’s plan. Was he drugged now? He opened his eyes and pulled away. She was frowning at him, a question in her eyes.

‘Is this Omar’s doing?’ he asked. ‘Is that why I am here in this tent? Didn’t he tell you about Anna? I am not yours, I’m hers.’

It was said more roughly than he meant it. But he’d so nearly succumbed, so nearly betrayed Anna a second time. He rose and shook his head to clear it. He walked to the door and heard the rain on the other side, drumming its rhythm on the wood. He glanced back. The inside of the ger was lit by lightning and it caught her eyes, illuminating them like a cat’s. She wasn’t just not of this tribe; she was not of this earth.

He pulled the door open and stepped outside. Rain hit his head and shoulders and he looked up at it, welcoming its force. Then he was running.

*

In Konya, Allaedin ali-Bey, chief of the Karamanid tribe, lay sprawled across an extravagance of cushions.

It was night and the same storm that had afflicted the Germiyans had moved south and was now poised over the city of Konya where Omar lived. Lightning strikes lit up the domes and minarets of this holiest of cities and the thunder echoed through its streets like a warning.

But no sound could distract the eight men who swirled before their ruler. Like dizzy crows, the dervishes turned and turned, their eyes closed, their long black skirts rising and falling with the motion. Their bare feet wove patterns on the
patterned floor and the tall black hats on their heads remained perfectly still.

Allaedin yawned. He was a man of professed devotion but this nightly performance by Rumi’s disciples was trying. It was the anniversary of the saint’s death and Konya was full of earnest men making pilgrimage to his tomb. That night, Allaedin’s only entertainment was in counting how many of them were asleep when lightning lit the room.

The hall itself was large and vaulted and part of the great palace built by his father. Its pillars were lit by sconced torches whose flames moved in a light draught that was all they felt of the storm outside. Between the pillars were row upon row of turbans, their colours muted in the uneven light. Beneath the turbans were men from every corner of the prophet’s lands, sitting transfixed or otherwise, while the dervishes turned ecstatically for their god.

From his dais, Allaedin was watching the only man not wearing a turban. And, insolently, the man was staring back at him. He was slight of build and something told Allaedin that he was from Venice.

Venice
.

The dance was reaching its climax and the viol and tambour had quickened their tempo. Another lightning strike lit up the room and Allaedin forced himself to pay attention. He was, after all, guardian of this holiest of shrines. At last it was finished and the Emir leant across to his vizier and whispered. The vizier looked towards the Venetian and rose.

*

Some little time later, the Venetian found himself in private audience with the ruler of the Karamanids. The room they occupied was small, pillared and richly decorated with stone
arabesques. A low table of cedar inlaid with mother-of-pearl stood at its centre and on either side of it were cushioned divans. The Venetian was invited to sit.

Allaedin studied him. He was very young, barely more than a boy. He hadn’t removed his hat, which was pulled low over his head. The Emir said: ‘A Venetian in Konya. Are you a follower of the saint?’

The young man inclined his head. ‘The saint Rumi is revered by all men of discernment.’ His voice was high.

Allaedin sat back against the cushions, putting his head to one side. He took in the black doublet, expensively made and loose at the front. He took in the curve of thigh above the riding boots. ‘Why do you not remove your hat in my presence?’

The Venetian brought his hands together in the sign of prayer. He dipped his forehead to his fingers. ‘Forgive me, majesty. It is cold.’

‘Remove it.’

The Venetian didn’t move for a while. Then he slowly raised his hands and lifted the hat from his head. A cascade of black hair fell past his shoulders. Allaedin ali-Bey smiled. ‘It is as I thought. You are a girl.’

Zoe tucked a stray strand of hair behind her ear and raised her head to look the Emir straight in the eye.

‘You present yourself for my harem?’ he asked.

Zoe thought for a moment before replying. Allaedin was middle-aged, fat and many-chinned, but she would do whatever was required. She wondered whether his tastes inclined in her direction. ‘Your harem is filled with better creatures than I, lord,’ she said. ‘I come to you from one who would befriend you. I am a messenger.’

Allaedin ali-Bey raised his eyebrows. ‘Who is this that would befriend me? The Doge?’

Zoe put her hands to her knees, in part to hide her thighs towards which the Emir’s eyes kept darting. His tastes were clear. ‘Not the Doge, lord. One more powerful.’

The Emir leant forward, frowning. He clicked his fingers twice and a servant appeared instantly bearing cups.

‘Sherbet,’ he said. ‘As befits the guardian of the saint’s home.’ He paused. ‘It is a pity this friend could not come himself. Tell me, were he here in place of you, would he perhaps prefer wine?’

Zoe smiled. ‘He would. But not in the quantities enjoyed by his father.’

Allaedin smiled, his eyes narrowing with the movement of his face. He lifted the cup and drank its contents in one gulp, wiping his lips with his sleeve. Allaedin ali-Bey was a man of forty-five years, most of them spent in embellishing a talent for cunning. His beylik was the only independent kingdom left in Anatolia, the only one not to have been annexed by the Ottoman Turks. He was married to the sister of Bayezid and his watchword was caution.

‘So, messenger, what does the Prince Suleyman want of me?’

Zoe brought her hands back to her lap. ‘My master seeks a man. A Greek from the Despotate of Mistra. He is somewhere in the lands of the Germiyans. Your neighbours.’

Allaedin raised an eyebrow. ‘He wants my help to find a
Greek
?’

Zoe remained silent. The Emir stroked his beard and gazed at the beautiful swirling script that flowed across the surface of the table. ‘Why is this Greek so important to the Prince?’ he asked.

‘I don’t know, highness. But I know that he would be grateful for his capture. Alive.’

Allaedin thought. He thought about the first, faltering steps of an alliance he’d made with his old enemy Yakub: the arrangement of a marriage between two junior kinsmen of them both, far out on the steppe. After decades of war, the Germiyans and Karamanids were going to try friendship instead. It was all part of the plan to bring Tamerlane.

Only Allaedin ali-Bey had more to lose than Yakub if he backed the wrong side: his kingdom. What harm would come from helping Suleyman?

‘We do have some contact with the Germiyans, it is true,’ he said slowly. He paused and looked up at the stone arching above him. His hand came up to caress the luxuriance of beard that fell in waves to the hill of his belly. ‘There is a marriage.’

Zoe nodded slowly. ‘I had heard as much, majesty.’ She paused and looked down at the tips of her fingers. ‘The girl, the bride—’

Allaedin interrupted, ‘—has been inspected by the man who will marry her, yes. So she may know where this tribe is now. They move, you see.’ He lifted his empty cup and his thumb traced the complicated design on its side. ‘The tribe has a stranger in its midst, I’m told.’

Zoe did not say anything. This was treacherous ground.

‘I’m also told’, continued the Emir quietly, ‘that the girl is very reluctant to go into this marriage.’

They sat in silence for a while, the sound of the storm distant beyond the walls. A window rattled far above them. Zoe took a silent breath. ‘Might I, perhaps, meet this reluctant bride, lord?’

At first Luke thought it was Gomil’s party returning. The long line of riders was strung out along the escarpment, silhouetted against the red ball of the setting sun.

But there was something wrong about them. They were moving too fast and sitting low in their saddles. And they were carrying their bows as if they meant to use them. These were not men returning to their homes, this was a raiding party.

Luke was alone on the hillside, a mile down the valley. He was wearing a sheepskin deel drawn together by a belt which held no weapon. He’d been allowed to keep his sword but not remove it from the ger. Around him grazed a herd of angora goats, their bodies thin and scarred from shearing, and they fed noisily on the rich new grass. It was warm and the evening air was hazed by the flight of night insects fanning out to carouse amongst the scents left over from the day.

Luke had been preparing to drive his herd home when he’d seen the riders. Once he knew that they weren’t from the camp, he collected his stick and the bundle of curds left over from lunch and ran fast down the hillside. If he could get to the stream at its bottom and use the cover of its bank, he might
just reach the defile where the two valleys met before the riders got to it. Then he’d have to get a horse.

Bending double and sliding part of the way, he made it to the stream and jumped in. It was shallow and fast-moving and the pebbles beneath his feet gave no grip. The cold left him breathless and numbed to the knee. He half ran, half crawled as fast as he could and soon the junction of the two valleys came into view and the banks of the stream began to rise to form the defile.