by Dan Davis
After being officially ignored for weeks on end, our party was escorted most reverentially to the palace, such was the significance of the royal invitation.
Entering the walls of the palace compound, I strained to see the famous silver tree that a Parisian silversmith had wrought for Mongke. It stood in a courtyard at the entrance to the palace and it was a lovely thing to look upon. At first, it appeared to be a magnificent sculpture, dripping with fruits made of gold, the branches reaching into the upper windows of the palace. Yet it was more than that. The tree was also a device in the form of a fountain that dispensed different kinds of wine from its metal vines into basins below. At the top, a silver angel held a trumpet aloft that would play a sweet note and golden serpents wound about the trunk. Little birds and other creatures would bend and trill when the device was set in motion, which I saw only briefly that one time.
“It is a marvel, is it not?” Friar William said, breathily as we were ushered past it. “You see how it moves so, from some cunning mechanism within?”
“A little slave boy is encased within the trunk,” I said. “Yanking on pulleys.”
He thought I was being contemptuous to anger him but that was the truth, as I had heard it. It was still a marvellous sight to behold, even if it should have by rights been erected in Paris, if anywhere.
In an antechamber, the door-keeper searched our legs and breasts and arms to see if we had knives upon us, which we had already been told not to bring.
Then we were brought within the great hall of the Khan’s palace.
The palace inside was all covered inside with cloth of gold, and there was a fire of briars and wormwood roots, and of cattle dung, in a grate in the centre of the hall. It was set out just as if we were in a Mongol tent, only the walls were stone and square rather than felt and circular. There were hundreds of people within, men and women of all stations, though mostly it was richly-dressed men. Some sat in silence, others carried on whispered conversations so that there was a steady hum of quiet muttering filling the air.
Mongke was seated on a couch and was dressed in a skin spotted and glossy, like a seal's skin. He was a little man, of medium height, aged about forty-five years, and a young wife sat beside him. And a very ugly, full-grown girl, with other children sat on a couch after them.
They made us sit down on a bench to the side of the dais, just as if we were in a ger.
Mongke Khan had us asked what we wanted to drink, grape wine or cervisia, which was rice wine, or carakumiss, which was clarified mare's milk, or bal, which was honey mead. For in winter they make use of these four kinds of drinks. It seemed at first to be rather courtly, and quite peaceful, and I was apprehensive about the coming moments. I knew I would have to force the issue and by so doing I risked my own death and that of my wife and the other men who were in my company.
But I had set myself on a path and I knew no other way to fulfil my oath to kill William.
While we awaited our audience, a series of other supplicants were brought forward to plead with the Khan. Mongols and men of other races. I dragged Abdullah to my side and made him speak in a low voice into my ear. All I wanted was the general gist of what was said by the Khan and by those brought before him.
The first few were discussions of disputes between the Khan’s subjects, and also between his subjects and the kingdoms on the edges of the Mongol lands. Men sought guidance on whether to raid into neighbouring countries and the Khan appeared to tell each of them to maintain their own territories, to keep to treaty boundaries and to settle disputes with diplomacy rather than force.
It is fair to say I was shocked by the civility. Both that of the Khan and his honouring of treaties and that each man, many of them clearly great lords in their own right, took the Khan’s judgements with not a hint of ire.
Until a young man was brought forward, along with a young woman.
The sight of the girl made me sit up as straight as an arrow.
She was remarkably beautiful. Most of the Mongol women were quite unpleasant to look upon. Their bodies were wrapped from chin to ankle in thick woollen coats, or great bundles of silk. And their heads were often crowned with elaborate headdresses made from lacquered wood and silks. For some reason, the Mongols found the forehead to be a most attractive feature, in both men and women, and so they shaved the front part of their hair. In the men, it made them appear rather savage and intimidating. In the women, it made them appear the same. And their countenances were often round and flat, and quite alien to me.
Some of them, though, were very fine to look upon. Their eyes could be astonishingly alluring, especially over high and prominent cheekbones. Many of those women had lips as soft and pink as a ripe apple.
But the young woman brought forward into the hall was something else altogether. She looked almost like a Christian, perhaps like one you might see in the lands north of Constantinople. Certainly, her skin was pale enough. And her face was narrow, not round, yet her cheeks were high and sharp and she had the flat face and narrow eyes of a Mongol. Her hair was as shiny and as black as any woman of the east. In her clothing, she was also like a Mongol, wearing a coat wrapped at her waist with a belt and on her legs, she wore trousers.
The man at her side was young, also, and a most strikingly handsome man he was. Not pale, like the girl, and his face was wider but his features were arranged in some particular combination of proportions that held one’s gaze. A well-built fellow, too, broad at the shoulder like many a young Mongol warrior. It was no wonder that he had managed to win over such a wife as the girl by his side.
Neither was happy. Both held their handsome features still as they approached the Khan but it was clear that they were there against their will. Behind them, as they walked came a row of four sturdy fellows. Like a wall, warding against escape. I knew guards when I saw them, and they were certainly guarding the young couple.
While heralds made announcements regarding the couple, I turned and whispered to Abdullah. “What is this all about?”
Through the centuries, I have seen many a man deeply in love. A man profoundly smitten with a woman. But on only a few occasions have I been witness to the very moment that a man lost his mind to love.
Abdullah was staring at the young Mongol girl with his mouth hanging open wide enough to insert the rim of a goblet. His eyes were about ready to pop from his skull. His dark cheeks and neck were as flushed as a Syrian can manage. The man was breathing rapidly, with shallow breaths.
I elbowed his ribs, hard. “Cease your panting, you dog.”
He recoiled, wincing and then glared at me. Calling a Mohammedan a dog is a very grave insult.
“Why are these young lovers here, Abdullah? What are they charged with?”
He pressed his lips together and rubbed his flank, but dragged his resentful, dark eyes away from me and watched the back and forth between the young man and the court functionaries. Mongke watched and drank more wine.
“He stole her,” Abdullah said, after a few moments. “She was married. But the husband mistreated her, the foul creature. Beat her, perhaps. How could a man do such a thing? And then this one stole her away from her ger in the night. They escaped for many days. Months, it was. Riding across country from somewhere. But they were captured and brought here.”
A tragic tale, no doubt. “But what case is the young man pleading? He broke a law, I presume?”
“He is saying that the woman wished to leave her husband but he would not let her and that she never agreed to the marriage in the first place. So, she should be allowed to return to her mother’s ordus, no matter what happens to the young man, here.”
“And?”
I felt somehow invested in the young couple’s fate. Not only because of their beauty but I was mightily impressed by their stoicism as they listened to what would be their doom.
Abdullah jerked as if he had been shot by a bolt and his thin hand shot out to grasp mine. I shook him off.
“What do you think yo
u’re doing?” I said.
“They are both to be killed,” Abdullah said, tears in his eyes.
“That is a great shame,” I said. “A great shame. But why? The man, I can believe but surely the husband wants his wife back?”
Abdullah wiped his cheeks and whispered. “She was the newest wife of Hulegu. He is the brother of the Great Khan.”
“Ah,” I said. A powerful man had been wronged and shamed, and so the crown had to make an example.
“Hulegu is on his way here. Those men,” Abdullah gestured at the slab-faced guards. “They are Hulegu’s men. They chased the girl across the mountains and the plains and they brought her to here many days ago, knowing their master would arrive in this season. And Hulegu is coming now. Mongke Khan has pronounced his judgement but will allow his brother Hulegu to carry out the sentence, as the poor woman is Hulegu’s wife.”
Some of those great Mongol lords had four or five or ten or even more wives. I suppose this Hulegu took it as a challenge to his authority that had to be repaid. Or perhaps his heart was so crushed by the rejection that he had lost his mind in a murderous rage. But Mongols did not think about things in the same way as we Christians did and attempting to understand their behaviour would ever be beyond me.
The young couple were led out, their heads held high but their eyes shining and full of deep despair. Abdullah sobbed once as they went by us.
Next, came an official embassy by a small group of Saracens. The hall fell silent and the Mongols all around us grew very still. It seemed to me that they all edged closer to the Khan and all eyes were fixed upon the leader of the Saracens.
He was richly dressed in a green robe, with some embroidered pattern in yellow and a conical hat wrapped on his head. The man was tall, broad-shouldered, with a well-oiled beard. By his bearing, he demonstrated his nobility.
“Who are these fellows?” I whispered to Abdullah.
The translator scowled. “They are Nizari Ismailis.”
“Saracens, yes?”
Abdullah sneered. “They are rejecters of the true faith. Heretics.”
I had no idea what he meant. “Heretics? They look like Mohammedans. Persian ones.”
He was filled with contempt. “You know them as Assassins.”
I was shocked. Even when I had first arrived in Outremer, decades before, the name of the Assassins had been whispered in fearful tones by the crusaders. I knew they were a sect that had strongholds in the mountains of Syria and Persia and that all the other Saracens hated and feared them. Were at war with them, in fact. Because they were so few in number, they could not wage war against the Caliphate in Syria, nor against the Persians, or anyone else. Not in a traditional sense. So, they resorted to the judicious murdering of the leaders of their enemies to further their political aims. They were said to follow their leader, the Old Man of the Mountain, with complete and utter devotion. Willing to throw their own lives away, without hesitation, without question, for their lord. They were said to be willing to leap to their deaths from a cliff, at the mere click of the fingers from the Old Man of the Mountain.
So, I had heard, anyway.
“Why are they here?”
“The Mongols accuse this Nizari envoy of sending four hundred fedayin to kill the Great Khan.”
“What word is that? What is fedayin in French?”
“I do not know how to translate this word. It means a man who gives up his life. A sacrifice. But for the Nizari Ismailis, the Assassins, the fedayin are the men who carry out the secret murders. They are caught and killed. Sacrificed.”
“Martyred.”
“Yes, that is it, yes. Fedayin. The martyred.”
“This envoy must be facing a terrible death, no?” I asked. “If he sent four hundred martyrs to murder Mongke, they must have something exquisite in mind for this fine fellow.”
“He is to be sent back to his people,” Abdullah explained. “To persuade them to submit to the Mongols, before they are destroyed by the army of Hulegu.”
That name again.
Hulegu.
I would come to know it well.
I would come to hate it.
“I thought no one could defeat the Assassins,” I whispered. “Due to their great fortresses in the mountains.”
“That is what the Nizarite lord here is arguing,” Abdullah said. “But Mongke Khan says his brother Hulegu will march with an army of three hundred thousand men and crush every fortress and put every Assassin to the sword.”
I chuckled to myself. They certainly seemed to like throwing numbers like that around but three hundred thousand was ten times bigger than any army was likely to be. “Absurd,” I muttered, shaking my head.
The magnificent looking lord of Assassins was dismissed, along with his attendees. As he passed by us, he turned and looked us over. His black eyes held my gaze for a long moment, and it was a look full of meaning.
What the meaning was, sadly, I had no idea.
And then, finally, it was our turn to come before the Great Khan.
“Come forward, refill your cups,” Mongke said, indicating his benches so laden with intoxicating liquids and the servants who would pour any of them for us.
Friar William was still the nominal leader of our party and yet he was a man so filled with the traits of deference and agreeableness that he had become a monk. Instead of simply saying what he wanted, he aroused the Great Khan’s confusion and contempt.
“My lord,” Friar William said, grandly, “we are not men who seek to satisfy our fancies about drinks. Whatever pleases you will suit us.”
I hung my head and held my hand over my mouth, lest I speak out of turn. All this time and the monk had not realised that the Mongols respected strength and assertiveness while they found excessive humility contemptible.
The Khan sneered and had us given cups of the rice drink, which was clear and flavoured like white wine. I sipped only a little, eager as I was for the audience to move on. However, while we sipped our drinks before him, the Khan had some falcons and other birds brought out to him which he took on his hand and looked at. It was a way of showing his contempt for us, and after a long while, he bade us speak.
Friar William stood once more, approached before the Khan and bent to one knee. Abdullah lurked at the side and translated his words.
“You it is to whom God has given great power in the world,” William said, raising his voice as if addressing an army. “We pray then your mightiness to give us permission to remain in your dominion, to perform the service of God for you, for your wives and your children. We have neither gold, nor silver nor precious stones to present to you, but only ourselves to offer to you to serve God, and to pray to God for you.”
Mongke stared for a long while before he answered, and Abdullah turned to us and related the words.
“As the Sun sends its rays everywhere, likewise my sway and that of Batu reach everywhere, so we do not want your gold or silver.” Mongke slurred as he spoke, clearly suffering from too much drink. He seemed displeased that we had come to him at all, and he waved a hand and barked orders at a secretary or some other servant. This man came forward and handed the Khan a curling square of parchment. The Khan gripped it in his fist, rather than reading from it, and waved the crumpled document at us while he growled his words.
“My cousin Batu has sent to me a copy of the letter you sent to him, begging for his support in your war against the Syrians. It is wrong that your King of the French did this thing. Batu is a great and powerful lord of the west but he is subject to me. I am the Great Khan and Batu will not make war without my orders. Just as your King would take great offence at some foreign lord seeking alliance with one of the King’s princes without his authority, so have you offended me.”
“My lord,” Thomas said, standing up with a look of determination on his face. “My lord, if you please.” He stepped forward and stood beside. “King Louis wishes only—”
Mongke snarled a response and slashed a hand down. Be
silent.
Thomas squeezed his mouth shut.
And then, Mongke Khan turned and looked right at me.
It was no accident. It was obvious that he already knew where I was seated. It was me he wanted to see.
And Mongke himself spoke my name.
“Richard.”
He mangled it horribly on account of his foreign tongue and his inebriation but it was unmistakably my name.
One by one, everyone turned to stare at me.
I stood up and stepped forward. “Where is William?” I said.
Mongke laughed at me, even before Abdullah interpreted.
“My cousin Batu sent word to me. I know why you are here. You are another one, like him. Another man who cannot die. That is true, is it not? You cannot be killed? Like your brother, you will never grow old. Answer me.”
I took a deep breath and tried not to look at any of the others. It was silent in the great palace hall. “The years do not mark me, that is true.”
Mongke nodded and sat up straighter. “You are a hundred years old, yes?”
Again, I hesitated. The Khan was testing me. It would confuse the others but I did not need them anymore.
Or so I thought.
“I am eighty-four years old,” I said.
The monks and the knights, my companions, stirred in disapproval.
But the Khan nodded and asked further questions. Abdullah was confused and hesitant but he translated all the same.
“You must drink blood, yes? To give you life, and strength. You must kill many slaves to make such magic.”
If anything, I was relieved. I had been on the right trail after all. William was known to the Khan and so Mongke would know where my brother could be found. Was he a prisoner? Was William off at the edges of the kingdom, huddled in a cave with dozens of followers? Or had Mongke given William an ordus of his own?
To get any answers for myself I would have to give the right ones to the Khan.
How much should I admit, I wondered? Was he testing me with his questions about blood drinking and killing slaves, or was he searching for answers for himself? How much had William told him? And what lies had been amongst the words of truth? I knew I could myself speak the whole truth about us and yet still end up dead at the end of the audience.