The Towers of Samarcand (11 page)

And so Luke’s teaching began and never were teacher and pupil better suited. In his time, Torguk had been not just the tribe’s best bowyer and fletcher but also its best shot. In the annual gatherings of the tribes, no man had yet to beat the Mongol archer Esukhei’s distance of 335
ald
, but Torguk had come close. And at 40 ald, he could hit an acorn.

Every morning, Luke would awake at dawn to the banging of his ger door and find Arkal outside it, grinning above a bowl of hot gruel. He would eat and wash and dress and tie up his hair. He’d then strap thick hides to the inside of his legs to stop the chafing of a day in the saddle. Soon afterwards, he’d be riding with Torguk by his side and Arkal not far behind, galloping and whooping over the steppe to the place of his morning lesson.

Torguk began by getting Luke to practise again and again the drawing of the bow until he was able to pull it as far back as his chest and then past his ear. Because Luke was strong, he learnt quickly and what would have taken some men a year took Luke less than a month. Torguk taught him to shoot high into the air and judge, to a distance of three ald, where the arrow would land. Then he taught him how to fire with accuracy, how to keep both eyes open in the aim and to see the target not the arrow, even when it was too distant to see.

Torguk would carry a target on these rides, a piece of wood with something drawn on its front by Arkal, quite often Tsaurig’s face. These got smaller as the days went on and still Luke hit them. He was a Varangian. He had the blood of men who fought for a living in his veins and he’d spent much of his childhood being trained in the use of arms. He took to this new
weapon quickly and with a skill that astonished his teacher.

And Arkal sat on her little pony, watching and smiling and glowing with pride for them both.

Soon Luke was shooting at Arkal’s funny faces from the saddle, gripping and steering the pony with his knees while he drew the bow, aimed and fired. The experienced gazi warrior could fire twelve arrows in a minute, the thumb-draw critical to the feat. Within a month, Luke had mastered the thumb-draw and was firing ten. He could fire at the trot, at the gallop and behind him like the Parthians.

One day, when the three of them were resting beneath the shade of their hobbled horses, Torguk paid Luke his first compliment. ‘I have never taught anyone better,’ he said, smiling, cutting a ball of dried curd in two with his knife. ‘You have great talent.’

‘Better than Gomil,’ giggled Arkal, her mouth full of bread.

Luke reached for the gourd of water. The sun was high in the sky but the leather was still cool to the touch. ‘Torguk, it’s the bow that is good,’ he said. ‘It’s better than any weapon I’ve ever used. In Greece, we have a longbow, over six feet in length and made from a single piece of yew. It came over from a country called
England
, the land of my ancestors. Their archers are trained to draw them from childhood, but their bow is not as good as yours.’

Torguk nodded. He’d heard of the English longbow. ‘Perhaps that’s why we win our battles,’ he said equably. ‘Gomil thinks so.’

Luke thought of a battle at a place called Nicopolis and of the rain of arrows that had fallen on the lumbering knights of Burgundy. He thought of a hillside strewn with the flower of Western chivalry. This, thought Luke, was a new kind of
warfare, one that was faster, more flexible and, in their pride and stupidity, the Princes of Christendom had not understood it. Nor, it seemed, did they know how to stop it. Luke fingered the goose feathers of the arrow in his lap. He decided to change the subject.

‘When do we move to our winter pastures, Torguk?’ he asked, putting the arrow back in its quiver.

‘Earlier than last year, I hope.’ Torguk broke off some bread. ‘Soon after Gomil’s bride arrives, I should think.’

The tribe had been waiting for her to arrive for the past week. She was late and some thought it rude, possibly deliberately so. The marriage was not popular in the camp.

‘Perhaps she is there now,’ he said, rising stiffly to his feet. ‘We should return.’

*

It was the smell of roasting mutton that told them that Gomil’s bride had arrived, and they lifted their heads to it in pleasure. The sun was low in the sky and poppy-red and touched by wisps of broken cloud.

There was a light canopy of smoke above the gers that spoke of a feast in preparation and birds of prey circled high above it in hope. As they drew closer, they saw that a second pen, safely distant from the camp, now contained horses.

They rode in and it was Berta they saw first: Berta washed and shiny-skinned in the deel she wore to Friday prayers. She gestured to them to dismount. ‘Quick!’ she hissed, holding Torguk’s stirrup as he climbed down. ‘The woman has arrived and we are to feast at sundown. You stink of horse.’

‘Does she have a name?’ asked her husband, tethering his horse to a post.

His wife was now fussing over Arkal, looking with disapproval
at the matted mess of her hair. ‘Of course she has a name!’ she retorted. ‘Her name is Khalun.’

‘Is she pretty?’ asked Arkal.

‘Pretty enough,’ said her mother. ‘But she’s not happy. I’ve never seen such a face!’

Then Luke saw Gomil and he, too, looked far from happy. Dressed in his best deel and wearing high boots of red leather, the chief’s son was standing outside his tent staring at a new ger that had been erected outside the camp and around which stood about a dozen supercilious camels. There were garlands of flowers hanging around the tent door. Gomil’s hands were behind his back. Torguk spat.

‘This match is a mistake, Lug,’ he said quietly. ‘Karamanids feasting at our fire? I never heard of such a thing!’

*

They weren’t to see the Karaminids until night had fallen and the tribe had gathered around a huge fire. As was usual, the men sat on one side, the women across from them. Luke, with his intermediate status, sat with the children in between. This gave him the advantage of having Arkal close to his ear to explain what was happening.

Several spits had been erected next to the fire and the sheep were being slowly turned and sprinkled with herbs and oils by women who sat back on their heels and used their free hand to swat away the insects of dusk. The smells of mutton and sage and oregano and rosemary hung in the still air and overwhelmed the familiar stench of the camp. Dogs, tied to the ropes of tents, barked and whined but the people were silent in expectation.

Then there was the sound of bells, tiny bells shaken by women’s fingers, and into the light of the fire wobbled a richly harnessed camel. Behind it came a little tented cart. Leading
the camel was a small boy of perhaps fourteen, who threw dark looks to left and right as he walked. He had a jewelled dagger tucked into his belt. Around the camel and cart were perhaps a dozen women of all ages.

‘The bride’s eldest brother,’ whispered Arkal, ‘and her mother, sisters and aunts. They don’t look happy.’

They did not. The women had put up a kind of keening which Luke had last heard at a burial. Each of them wore a shawl and a cape that covered most of their faces and they carried bells at the end of heavily ringed fingers. Even the dogs fell quiet. ‘Where is the bride?’ he asked.

‘In the cart,’ replied Arkal. ‘Gomil will draw back the curtains when she comes to him.’

Luke glanced over to where Gomil sat on a vast cushion, a shawl over his shoulders. On one side of him Etabul was sipping a cup of airag and smiling grimly between sips. The gold of the little cup caught the firelight as his hand rose and fell. On Gomil’s other side was an empty cushion with what looked like lavender scattered across it.

The camel stopped outside the ring of people and sank to its knees while the women untied the garlanded harness. Then the animal rose and was led away and six women took up the shafts and began to pull the cart inside the circle and round to where Gomil sat. They set it down and the bride’s brother placed a set of steps before it.

Luke saw Etabul glance over to Gomil and apply his fly whisk to his son’s ribs. Gomil stood and straightened his turban and walked over to the tent. He lifted an arm and drew aside the curtain. A hush fell over the gathering and hundreds of eyes strained for the first glimpse of the Karamanid bride. But nothing happened.

There was a long, silent wait. Then a deep sigh came from inside the tent and an arm appeared, laden with gold and silver bands that met percussively. Next, a slippered foot emerged slowly to feel for the first step. This was not a bride hurrying to reacquaint herself with her betrothed.

Khalun was heard before she was seen. The chimes of a hundred tiny things of metal told that she was on the move. After the arm and ankle came the rest of her body and it was covered from head to shoulder by a glittering shawl. Her face was veiled and gave little away as to her beauty. Attached to her cape were miniature shapes hung from threads.

‘She’s frightened,’ Arkal whispered.

Luke considered this. He saw Khalun led to the cushion and seated. She turned away from her bridegroom. ‘She doesn’t look very frightened,’ he whispered back. ‘She just looks cross.’

‘No, she’s frightened,’ insisted his neighbour. ‘Look at all the amulets.’

They were indeed many. From her headdress were suspended tiny silver plates of different sizes with writing on them. There were beads shaped like eyes and what looked like a pig’s tooth. Arkal nudged him. ‘See the pouch sewn into her cape?’

Luke narrowed his eyes for better focus. Something had been thrown on to the fire that made it dance higher. It was difficult to see anything for the flames.

‘There is a pouch in her cape. It will have salt in it. It’s there to ward off evil, like the amulets. She thinks we’re evil and she’s frightened.’

Luke wondered what she might feel like when she met Shulen. In fact, where was Shulen? He looked along the faces of the rows of seated women. She wasn’t among them. He looked back to Gomil and his bride. Gomil was helping her remove her
shawl. Beneath it was a long, sleeveless robe of the brightest red.

‘Red for good fortune,’ said Arkal. ‘Now they will exchange shawls.’

But Luke had seen something else. The arm that had emerged from the shawl was graceful and strong, its flawless skin glowing in the firelight. Except that it wasn’t flawless. On the upper arm was a scar which was jagged and savage and which had been made, quite recently, by a pointed weapon. Luke frowned.

Arkal continued, ‘They’ll do one more thing and then they’ll eat, but not for too long. Remember the wedding is tomorrow and tomorrow night is the main feast.’

‘What is the final thing they’ll do?’ Luke asked.

‘Show us her face,’ answered Arkal. ‘Of course, Gomil has already seen it but we haven’t. He’ll remove her veil to show us his bride. Look, he’s doing it now.’

Khalun’s veil had disguised her anger. But then, as Gomil removed her cape and unhooked the side of her veil, her mood was there for all to see. Her face was a scowl. She was not many years older than Arkal but her features were more formed. She was dark, with long waves of hair that fell past her shoulders to her breasts. She held her head high and the eyes above her small, straight nose were defiant. She looked around with contempt at the rows of people staring at her.

Then her eyes met Luke’s.

At first she looked surprised and her head tilted to one side. Then she remembered something and for the first time there was doubt in those eyes. They widened and held his for longer than was correct.

I know you
.

Luke felt the colour rise in his face. He was the first to look away and when he did he saw at once that Gomil was watching him. Luke wanted to shout out:
It’s not what you think
.

But he knew that it wasn’t just Gomil who was staring at him. He turned his head slowly, willing it round, and as he did so, the fire leapt up, as if hit by wind, and sparks flew into the night.

Shulen
.

She was standing quite far behind the seated women and he wouldn’t have seen her if the fire had not risen. She was wearing white and there was a bird of some species on her arm. It was not a hawk. Then she was gone.

Arkal was speaking to him. ‘Why did she stare at you like that, Lug?’ she whispered.

‘Who?’

‘Khalun. Who else?’ she hissed. ‘You must have seen how she stared at you.’

Luke said nothing. He was not thinking of Khalun.

‘Gomil saw it too,’ continued the girl. ‘He looked as if he would kill you.’

Luke looked back at Gomil and Khalun. A change seemed to have come over her and the new shawl sat on lowered shoulders. Now she had turned to her betrothed and was talking. She even smiled.

Others must have seen it too for the mood of the feast relaxed. Khalun’s sisters and aunts took their cue from the bride and began to talk to their neighbours and toast their health with cups of mare’s milk sweetened with honey. But Luke could neither eat nor drink. His mind had drifted back to a night on
the steppe, to a chase which had ended with a single rider, a boy he’d thought, whom he’d stabbed with an arrow.

Whom he’d stabbed with an arrow in the upper arm
.

*

Much, much later, Luke lay alone in his ger and stared up at the circle of pale moonlight that hung above him like a shield. He was wondering what he should do.

There was no noise from the camp outside, beyond the sound of animals and the occasional cry of a child. The wind was light on the steppe and its caress was a low, whispered lament. The fire had long since died and the shadows that had danced across the walls of his tent had died with it. Luke’s head was cradled in his hands, alive with thought. It had been an evening of revelation.

Soon after Khalun’s unveiling, the food had been served. Great hunks of mutton were hacked from the spits and placed on wooden platters with wild carrots and bread. Chins and beards soon shone with grease below smiles that broadened as the airag was passed. Arkal chattered to him of marriage and child-bearing and her readiness for both and he’d half listened and thought of what he’d learnt.