Silk Road (56 page)

William had almost reached the crest of the hill. Josseran spurred his mount after him. He heard another singing of arrows and his horse staggered and fell. Josseran landed on his back on the wet grass and felt the breath go out of him. The arrow shaft that was embedded in his shoulder snapped as he rolled.

He pulled himself up on to his knees. The pain was sickening. The Tatars were milling around him, shouting to each other, deciding who would have the honour of the kill. One of them dismounted and rushed over, pulling a rusted sword from his belt.

Josseran had dropped his lance when he was thrown from his horse. He fumbled in the grass, and his fingers closed around the shaft. As the swordsman brought down the killing blow he brought up the lance in defence, felt the shaft snap, deflecting the stroke, delaying the coup for a moment.

The Tatar raised his sword a second time.

Josseran rolled to the side, bringing his leg around and kicking the Tatar’s legs from under him. The man went down, dropping the sword. Josseran was first to it, rolled on to his feet and jumped back, bringing the sword around in an arc, driving the other Tatars back.

He knew there was no chance, not one against this many. So this is how it will end, he thought. I had always imagined I would die wearing the cross of a crusader, not in some inconsequential skirmish in the mountains, against an enemy I do not even know, dressed in furs and a ragged coat. But I will not die cheap. I will take some of you devils with me to heaven or hell or the Blue Sky, whatever lies beyond. There were black spots in front of his eyes,
and he staggered backwards. His vision blurred. There was a roaring in his ears. He heard the Tatars laughing, they knew he was gone.

‘S
TOP!
’

He knew that voice.

He blinked, saw a pair of black eyes below a purple scarf. ‘Khutelun,’ he said. The world began to spin faster. He put his hand to his shoulder. It came away sodden with blood. His knees collapsed under him.

And that was the last thing he remembered.

They laid him on his back on the floor of the yurt and stripped off his robe. His skin was chalk-white, his silk undershirt sodden with blood from the shoulder wound. There was another wound above his eye, where he had struck his head after he fell from his horse.

Khutelun stared at him. She had thought never to see him again. How could this have happened? Was this what the spirits had tried to show her? She pushed the others aside. Then she took out her knife and cut away his shirt from around the wound. She felt her breath catch in her throat. Memories came to her unbidden; how she had taken him to the Buddha caves in the Flaming Mountains; that night by the crescent lake when they listened to the Singing Sands and he had said he thought her beautiful; the feel of his hard body pressed against hers during the
karaburan
, how terrified she had been and how his presence had reassured her.

She angrily brushed such thoughts aside. He was her prisoner now. The past meant nothing, nothing at all.

His eyes blinked open. ‘You,’ he murmured.

‘I have to remove the arrowhead,’ she said.

He nodded.

She had brought four of her
arban
with her. She assigned one of the barbarian’s limbs to each of them and they held him down, leaning their weight on him while she set to work.

Because of the barb on the metal tip, an arrow made a larger wound when it was removed than it had on entry. But his under-shirt had bound itself tightly around the arrowhead, and Khutelun was able to use the silk to turn the barb without tearing too much flesh. But the muscles of Josseran’s shoulder went into spasm and she had to use a great deal of force. Josseran groaned and bucked as she worked. Finally it came free with a wet, sucking sound and Josseran gasped aloud and fainted again.

She soaked up the blood with a cloth. Just as she had finished she heard the entrance flap behind her thrown aside. Her father stood in the doorway, his hands on his hips.

‘Is he going to live?’

She nodded. ‘The arrow lodged in the muscle and damaged no vital organs.’ She held up the golden tablet she had removed from around his neck. ‘He carries the
paizah
of Khubilai.’

‘Khubilai’s chop means nothing here,’ Qaidu growled. He stared at the body of the giant barbarian at his feet. He shoved him with his foot, more from irritation than spite. ‘It would have been better if the arrow had pierced his heart.’

‘The spirits of the Blue Sky were protecting him.’

‘Then I do not understand the ways of the spirits.’ Their eyes met. She realized that he knew more of her thoughts and feelings than she supposed. ‘This is not as I would have desired.’

‘An unfortunate coincidence.’

‘Indeed,’ he agreed. ‘But there is no help for it now. When he recovers bring him to my yurt. I will examine him there.’

Qaidu prowled the carpets, his hands clenched into fists. Before him were his three prisoners; two of Sartaq’s escort, both of Khubilai’s
kesig
, and the barbarian ambassador. The barbarian shaman had escaped, Khubilai’s cavalry had appeared just as Khutelun’s men were about to recapture him.

But they had retrieved the barbarian’s saddlebag and found the
treaty Khubilai had offered to the Christians in Acre. They also found the Khan’s gifts.

‘What is this you have here?’ Qaidu growled. He tore open the bundle and threw the scrolls of fine brushwork on to the floor. ‘Is this what Khubilai considers valuable?’ He stood on the scrolls in his boots, to show the barbarian what he thought of them.

Josseran swayed on his feet. He had lost a lot of blood. ‘In our land, they would be considered . . .’ Josseran searched for the Tatar word for art, but he did not remember it, did not know if he had heard such a word. ‘People would admire them for their beauty.’

‘Beauty!’ Qaidu spat. There was a shuffling silence. Josseran was aware of the press of Tatar bodies and the gleam of lance points in the filmy darkness. The smell of sweat and leather and fire smoke was overpowering.

‘A true warrior lives in a yurt,’ Qaidu was raging. ‘He rides his horse each day, he fights, he drinks koumiss, he hunts, he kills. The Chin have sapped Khubilai’s strength and he has forgotten how to live like a Person. Look!’ He picked up one of the scrolls and held it in his fist. ‘What good is this to a man?’

Josseran staggered again. It was difficult to concentrate on these proceedings. He was just a pawn in this civil war now. Qaidu considered him Khubilai’s creature and the gold
paizah
that was to ensure his safe passage might instead seal his fate.

‘Khubilai has proved he is no Khan of Khans. He is more Chin than the Chinese.’

‘Surely it is not wrong to learn a little from others,’ Josseran said, finding himself, even now, moved to defend his patron.

‘Learn? What is there to learn from those who are not strong enough to defeat us?’ Qaidu was working himself into a towering rage. ‘We are the masters of the Chin, and yet he builds his palaces in Cathay, and lives at his ease. Now he wants to change even our way of life, the ways that made us masters of the world! He wishes us all to become like the Chin and live in towns and cities. He no longer understands us, his own people! For us, to settle is to perish!’

The Tatars roared their assent, closing in around Josseran and his fellow captives. We are an entertainment now, Josseran thought, and a rallying cry. Qaidu is using our capture for his own purposes. His raging is to impress his soldiers and his allies.

‘If Khubilai has his way our children will wear silks, eat greasy food, and spend their days in teahouses. Our sons will forget how to fire an arrow from a galloping horse and they will hide themselves from the wind. And then we will become like the Chin and we will be lost forever. Look at all we have!’ He spread his arms to encompass the pavilion, their encampment, the grasslands on which they lived. ‘We have a yurt that we move with the seasons. We have our horses and we have our bows and we have the steppe, we have the eternal Blue Sky! With these we have made ourselves Lords of the Earth! That is the Tatar way, the way of Chinggis Khan, the way of Tengri! Khubilai is Khan in Shang-tu perhaps, but he is not my khan. He is more dangerous to the Mongol people than all our enemies!’

‘Your dispute is of no import to me,’ Josseran shouted over the cheering, fatigue and the pain of his wound making him cast all caution aside. ‘I came here seeking an alliance with the khan of the Tatars against the Saracen. The struggle for the throne among you is not of my making. I am merely an emissary from my masters in Outremer.’

‘If you wished to treat with us,’ Qaidu shouted, ‘you should have made your peace at the feet of Ariq Böke in Qaraqorum.’

‘I shall gladly make my peace with whoever rightfully holds the throne.’

‘The throne belongs to Ariq Böke! But you are right, you are just an ambassador, not like these dogs.’ He kicked out at Drunken Man, who cried and thrust his head further into the carpets. ‘What I will do with you, Barbarian, is yet to be decided. If we allow you to return to your fellow barbarians, you will tell them that we are in discord. Yet you are an envoy and it behoves us to proceed with caution. Put him in a cangue so he cannot escape and we will think further on this!’

As they led him away Josseran searched the throng for Khutelun but he saw only his old friend Tekudai, his expression as sullen as the rest. It occurred to him for the first time that she might have abandoned him.

T
HEY CALLED IT
a cangue, a yoke of heavy wood that fitted around the neck and had two smaller holes on each side that held the wrists. Once it was in place it was impossible to lie down, to rest or to sleep. The weight of it on his neck and the cramping it caused in the muscles of his shoulders were doubtless intended to break his spirit.

Blood had crusted over his right eye, which had now swollen shut. From time to time he felt a trickle of watery blood on his cheek. But it was nothing compared to the pain in his shoulder. It burned as if the joint had been opened with a white-hot metal hook.

He felt himself falling towards darkness, a phantom world inhabited by the drums of the shamans and cold, relentless pain.