Silk Road (18 page)

William struggled to sit up. ‘Must we leave now?’ There was resignation rather than protest in his voice.

Josseran nodded. ‘It appears there is no time to rest.’

‘Then God will give us the strength to do what we must.’ He gripped Josseran’s arm and stumbled to his feet. Their ponies had been tethered to a nearby pistachio tree. William’s horse stamped its hooves, still suspicious of the strange smell of this foreigner; and when it felt the slap of William’s hand on its rump it reared in terror, and jerked its rein so hard that it snapped. It galloped away, hammering William into the ground.

Khutelun shouted a warning and set off in pursuit across the meadow. She caught the frightened horse within thirty rods and Josseran saw her lean nimbly from the saddle to grasp its halter and rein it in.

When she returned William was still sitting on the ground, pale with shock and clutching at his shoulder. The other Tatars stood around, laughing. They thought it a wonderful joke.

Khutelun felt only irritation. They would laugh now but later he might do something not quite as amusing. ‘Is he all right?’

‘There are no bones broken,’ Josseran said.

‘He is fortunate. Please remind him again that he should mount only from the left side, as I instructed him. The horse will stand still if approached from the near side.’

‘I think he will remember better now.’

‘I hope so. He cannot ride, he does not speak like a Person, he has no more strength than a child. One day he will bring us bad luck, Barbarian!’

‘He is a holy man, not a knight!’ Josseran answered, finding himself rushing unexpectedly to the friar’s defence. ‘And do not call me Barbarian! My name is Josseran!’

So, she had finally baited him to anger. Wonderful. She felt her mood lighten. ‘Joss-ran the Barbarian,’ she said laughing and wheeled her horse away.

William settled himself into his saddle.

‘Do not die on me, priest,’ Josseran said, between gritted teeth. ‘You are under my protection.’

‘God guides and protects me each day. Do not fear for me.’

‘I do not fear for you. I just do not like to fail in my duty.’

‘Nor I in mine, Templar.’

Josseran watched the friar wearily spur his horse forward. He sits in the saddle like dough on a griddle, he thought. His heart belongs to the Pope, but surely his buttocks belong to the Beast.

T
HEY SLEPT THAT
first night in the yurt of a Kazak shepherd. Although it was spring, the nights were still bitter and Josseran and William huddled under a mountain of furs while the Tatars lay on the carpets with only their felt coats to keep them warm. The sleeves of their jackets could unfold well beyond their fingertips, and this was how they kept their fingers from freezing on even the coldest night.

They were the most self-sufficient people he had ever known, for though they were conquerors of half the world they were still nomads. Everything they needed for survival they carried with them: a fish hook and line; two leather bottles, one for water, one for koumiss; a fur helmet and sheepskin coat; and a file for sharpening arrows. Two of Khutelun’s horsemen also carried a small silk tent and a thin animal hide to serve as a ground sheet should they need to make their own shelter for the night.

They climbed the emerald pastures of the valleys, picking their way between boulders and rock falls along a path that snaked between valley torrents and cliffs. Once they even negotiated a waterfall that frothed down the blue-grey of the mountain face.

Spring had swollen the rivers to a silty torrent the colour of blood, and the Tatars used their saddlebags, which were made from cows’ stomachs, as floats to ford the raging streams. Sometimes they were forced to cross the same river many times as it twisted down through the valleys.

Josseran stared at the frozen wastes around them. Just a few patches of rock and lichen were beginning to appear from beneath the wind-scattered snow. ‘You call this your spring?’ he said to Khutelun.

‘You cannot even imagine winter on the Roof of the World. We
must press hard every day with our journey if we are to see Qaraqorum in time for you to return. The snow comes like a fist over these passes and when its fingers close nothing ever comes out.’

The old man placed his right hand on his left shoulder and murmured: ‘
Rahamesh
.’

The woman of the house clapped both hands in front of her and bowed. Like her husband, she wore a padded maroon tunic over baggy trousers and leather boots with upturned toes. There was a silk headscarf around her head and trailing over her shoulder.

Her husband was the
manap
, the headman, of the tiny village they had found in this lost valley. He waved them inside his house. There was no furniture, only earth mounds covered with richly patterned rugs of scarlet and blue. There were more thick felt rugs on the floors and the walls.

Two young girls entered with bowls of sour milk and thick rounds of unleavened bread. The Tatars tore off pieces of the bread, dipped them into the sour milk and started to eat. Khutelun indicated to Josseran and William that they should do the same.

William ate just a little of the bread. Hunched by the fire, shivering, he was an unprepossessing sight. His nose was red from the cold and wet, like a dog’s. When the main dish arrived, still steaming, the
manap
, perhaps feeling sorry for him, placed a huge hunk of boiled mutton in his bowl and dropped a dumpling the size of a large orange on top.

He motioned for him to eat.

The rest of the Tatars did not wait on invitation. They took out their knives and started to tear at the meat. Josseran did the same. William just sat staring at the bowl.

‘Your holy man should eat or he will offend the
manap
,’ Khutelun said.

How do I explain to her about Lent? Josseran thought. He tore hungrily at his own piece of mutton with his teeth. How could this insufferable priest endure so much without sustenance? ‘It is a holy time,’ Josseran said. ‘Like Ramadan. He is only allowed bread and a little water.’

Khutelun shook her head. ‘I do not care if he dies, but it is not fair or just that we should make this long journey into the mountains only to bury him in the valley on the other side.’

‘There is nothing I can say that will deter him. He does not listen to me.’

She studied Josseran over the rim of her bowl as she drank down some warm goat’s milk. ‘We revere our shamans. Yet you treat him with contempt.’

‘I am pledged to protect him. I do not have to like him.’

‘That is plain.’

William looked up from his miserable contemplation of the fire. ‘What are you saying to that witch?’

‘She is curious why you do not eat.’

‘You should not speak with her. You endanger your very soul.’

‘She may be a witch, as you say, but she still has our lives in her care. It would be churlish not to talk with her, do you not think so?’

‘Our lives are in the care of the Lord.’

‘I doubt if even He knows his way through these mountains,’ Josseran murmured, but William did not hear him.

Khutelun watched this exchange, her head to one side. ‘You are of his religion?’

Josseran touched the cross at his throat, and thought of his friend Simon. ‘I put my trust in Jesus Christ.’

‘Do you put your trust in him also?’ She indicated William.

Josseran did not answer her.

‘There are followers of this Jesus at Qaraqorum,’ she said.

He stared at her in astonishment. So, was it really true, the rumours that had filtered back to Acre about Christians among the Tatars? ‘They know of the Lord Jesus at the court of the Great Khan?’

‘All religions are known to the Khan of Khans. Only barbarians know of one single God.’

Josseran ignored this deliberate barb. ‘Are there many who know of Our Lord?’

‘When you arrive at the Centre of the World you will see for yourself.’

Josseran wondered how far this savage princess could be believed. Was she merely taunting him, or was there substance to her claims?

‘My father says your holy man does not perform magic,’ Khutelun said.

Josseran shook his head.

‘Then what use is he as a shaman?’

‘He does not need to perform magic. He is anointed as God’s instrument on earth. If I wished, I could tell him my sins and he would bring me God’s forgiveness.’

‘Forgiveness, for what?’

‘For things I have done wrong.’

‘Mistakes, you mean. You need your God to tell you that it is all right to make a mistake?’

‘He also interprets for us the mind of God.’

Khutelun seemed surprised at that. ‘It is a simple matter to understand the mind of the gods. They stand with those who are victorious.’

It was irrefutable logic, he supposed. Even the Pope said that it was God who gave them their victories and that it was their sins that were to blame for their defeats. Perhaps they were not so unalike after all. ‘You are shaman to your people,’ he said. ‘So can you do magic?’

‘Sometimes I see portents of the future. It is a gift that few others have. Among our people I am reckoned the best.’

‘Is that why you were chosen to lead us across these mountains?’

‘No. My father ordered it because I am a good leader and I am skilled with horses.’

‘Why did he not choose Tekudai?’

‘You do not trust me because I am a woman?’ When he hesitated to reply, she said: ‘It was not my wish to lead you. I was commanded. Why should I crave the company of barbarians?’

It seemed he had offended her. She turned away from him to talk instead to her companions; ribald talk, uncomplimentary comparisons between William and his horse.

After the food had been taken away the
manap
brought out a flute, made from the hollowed wing bone of an eagle. He started to play. Another of the men joined in, playing something that looked like a lute; it was a beautiful instrument, the bulbous soundbox had been carved from a piece of rosewood and inlaid with ivory. Khutelun clapped her hands, laughing and singing along, the firelight throwing her profile into shadow.

As he watched her Josseran wondered, not for the first time, what it might be like to lie with a Tatar woman. He knew for a certainty that she would not be indifferent to him, like the whores in Genoa and Venice. He wondered why he tormented himself with such thoughts. After all, it could never happen.

That night Josseran and William slept together with the Tatars in the yurt of the
manap
, the quilts wrapped around them, their feet towards the fire. Knowing Khutelun was curled up just a few feet away from him tortured his rest, and, fatigued as he was, he found it difficult to sleep. His conscience and his passions went to war inside him.

He argued with himself for his honour. Yet my honour is already stained with blood and with lust, he thought. I have no honour left! Now I want to sully myself even further and find a way to couple myself with a Tatar savage?

By the Rule of the Temple I have sworn myself to obedience and chastity; and I have been entrusted with a sacred commission that may save the Holy Land from the Saracens. Yet all I can think of is bedding a Tatar?

You are almost beyond salvation, Josseran Sarrazini. Or perhaps being beyond salvation means being beyond damnation as well. The Lord God has pursued you these last five years and out here on the steppe I no longer feel his hot breath on my neck. If it was not for this priest, I would perhaps at last be free of him.