Colin Falconer was born in North London. He has worked in TV and radio and as a freelance journalist. He has been a novelist for the last twenty five years, with his work published widely in the UK, US and Europe. His books have been translated into seventeen languages. He currently lives in Australia. Visit his website at www.colinfalconer.net
COLIN
FALCONER
First published in Great Britain in 2011
by Corvus, an imprint of Atlantic Books Ltd.
Copyright © Colin Falconer, 2011
The moral right of Colin Falconer to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act of 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.
This is a work of fiction. All characters, organizations and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
Hardback ISBN: 978-0-85789-108-2
Trade paperback ISBN: 978-0-85789-109-9
E-book ISBN: 978-0-85789-119-8
Printed in Great Britain.
Corvus, an imprint of Grove Atlantic Ltd
Ormond House
26-27 Boswell Street
London WC1N 3JZ
www.corvus-books.co.uk
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Acknowledgements
Dedication
Map
Prologue
Part I
Chapter I
Chapter II
Chapter III
Chapter IV
Chapter V
Chapter VI
Chapter VII
Chapter VIII
Chapter IX
Chapter X
Chapter XI
Chapter XII
Chapter XIII
Chapter XIV
Chapter XV
Chapter XVI
Part II
Chapter XVII
Chapter XVIII
Chapter XIX
Chapter XX
Chapter XXI
Chapter XXII
Chapter XXIII
Chapter XXIV
Chapter XXV
Chapter XXVI
Chapter XXVII
Chapter XXVIII
Chapter XXIX
Chapter XXX
Chapter XXXI
Chapter XXXII
Chapter XXXIII
Chapter XXXIV
Chapter XXXV
Chapter XXXVI
Chapter XXXVII
Chapter XXXVIII
Chapter XXXIX
Chapter XL
Chapter XLI
Chapter XLII
Part III
Chapter XLIII
Chapter XLIV
Chapter XLV
Chapter XLVI
Chapter XLVII
Chapter XLVIII
Chapter XLIX
Chapter L
Chapter LI
Chapter LII
Chapter LIII
Chapter LIV
Chapter LV
Chapter LVI
Chapter LVII
Chapter LVIII
Chapter LIX
Chapter LX
Chapter LXI
Part IV
Chapter LXII
Chapter LXIII
Chapter LXIV
Chapter LXV
Chapter LXVI
Chapter LXVII
Chapter LXVIII
Chapter LXIX
Chapter LXX
Part V
Chapter LXXI
Chapter LXXII
Chapter LXXIII
Chapter LXXIV
Chapter LXXV
Chapter LXXVI
Chapter LXXVII
Chapter LXXVIII
Chapter LXXIX
Chapter LXXX
Chapter LXXXI
Chapter LXXXII
Chapter LXXXIII
Chapter LXXXIV
Chapter LXXXV
Chapter LXXXVI
Chapter LXXXVII
Chapter LXXXVIII
Chapter LXXXIX
Chapter XC
Chapter XCI
Chapter XCII
Chapter XCIII
Part VI
Chapter XCIV
Chapter XCV
Chapter XCVI
Chapter XCVII
Chapter XCVIII
Chapter XCIX
Chapter C
Chapter CI
Chapter CII
Chapter CIII
Chapter CIV
Chapter CV
Part VII
Chapter CVI
Chapter CVII
Chapter CVIII
Chapter CIX
Chapter CX
Chapter CXI
Chapter CXII
Chapter CXIII
Chapter CXIV
Chapter CXV
Chapter CXVI
Chapter CXVII
Chapter CXVIII
Chapter CXIX
Part VIII
Chapter CXX
Chapter CXXI
Chapter CXXII
Chapter CXXIII
Chapter CXXIV
Chapter CXXV
Chapter CXXVI
Chapter CXXVII
Chapter CXXVIII
Chapter CXXIX
Chapter CXXX
Chapter CXXXI
Chapter CXXXII
Chapter CXXXIII
Chapter CXXXIV
Chapter CXXXV
Chapter CXXXVI
Chapter CXXXVII
Epilogue
Glossary
Acknowledgements
The story of Silk Road was many years in the making and I would like to thank those who finally got it into print. Firstly my agent Patrick Walsh, whose enthusiasm for my story saw it from his submission tray into the hands of the wonderful Anthony Cheetham at Corvus, Atlantic.
I would like to thank everyone at Corvus who worked on the project with me, particularly Nic Cheetham and Rina Gill, who both championed the book, and also my wonderful editor, Laura Palmer, who took it through, line by line. My thanks also to Richenda Todd for her comments and suggestions on the typescript. Thank you all. A special thank you also to Tim Curnow, my lifelong friend, who has been with me through thick and thin and knows this story, and the story of the story, better than anyone.
I would also like to thank the driver who took us out to the caves at Turpan and got us down off the hairpin cliffs after the steering rod on the 4WD broke. I wish I remembered his name now. Traumatic amnesia perhaps. Also many thanks to the bus driver out of Urumqi who somehow missed all that oncoming traffic despite driving on the wrong side of the road with his headlights on. Maybe less whisky at the rest stops next time?
This book is for my bella Diana, who mended my wing and showed me how to fly again.
PROLOGUE
Lyon, France
in the year of the Incarnation of Our Lord 1293
THEY FOUND HIM in the cloister, lying on his back with ice in his beard. He was half-conscious, muttering about a Templar knight, a secret commission from the Pope, and a beautiful woman on a white pony. His fellow monks carried him back to his cell and laid him on the hard cot that had been his bed for the last twenty years. He was an old man now and there was nothing to be done. His eyes had the cold sheen of death. A brother went to fetch the abbot so that the old
fellow might make his last confession.
It was cold as death in the room. The abbot knelt down beside him. Somewhere in the forest a fir bough crashed to the ground under its burden of snow. The old man’s eyes flickered open at the sound and the yellow glimmer of the candle was captured in the lens of his eye. His breathing was ragged in his chest and the abbot wrinkled his nose at the sour smell of it.
He whispered something; a name perhaps, but it was unintelligible.
‘William,’ the abbot murmured, ‘I can hear your confession now.’
‘My confession?’
‘You will be absolved of all sin and this night you shall see our Blessed Saviour.’
William smiled, a ghastly grin that chilled the abbot to his soul. William, who had come to them in such mystery, would leave them now in the same manner. ‘Water.’
The abbot lifted his head and moistened his lips from a wooden bowl. So cold in here. William’s breath rose to the ceiling in a thin vapour, like a spirit leaving the body.
‘The Blesséd Saviour will not see me.’
‘You must make your confession,’ the abbot repeated, anxious now that it be done before the soul was taken.
‘I see the Devil. He warms the brands for me.’
The abbot felt a thrill of dread along his spine at his invocation of the Beast. ‘You have lived a holy life. What do you have to fear from Beelzebub?’
William raised a hand from the bed, touched the sleeve of the abbot’s robe. ‘Come closer,’ he said. ‘Come closer and I shall tell you . . . precisely . . . what I have to fear.’
Acre to Aleppo
1259–1260
I
Fergana Valley
in the Chaghadai khanate of the Tatar
the Year of the Sheep
SHE HAD ALWAYS dreamed she could fly.
She imagined that the earth was laid before her, as in the eye of an eagle, could feel the updraughts of the valley in the sweep of a wing, could believe for that moment that no silver bond tied her to the earth . . .
Khutelun reined in her horse, turned her face to the north wind, the cold burning her cheeks. The snow peaks on the Roof of the World had turned a glacial blue in the late afternoon sun. Below her, in the valley, the black yurts of her tribe huddled like thieves on the brown valley. Nothing stirred on the plain. She was alone up here, alone with the great silence of the steppes.
This is my birthright, on the back of a good horse, my face burned by the wind. But if my father has his way I will be given to some upstart boy who will give me his babies and have me tend his yurt and milk his goats and I will never ride at the head of my father’s touman again. I am born to the wrong sex, with the heart of a stallion and the tail of a mare.
If I had been born in the body of a man I would be the next khan of the high steppe. Instead my consolation is that one day one of my sons will rule the high grasslands. Even for this I must one day go to pasture with a man.
The thought of submitting herself made her feel sick inside.
Of course she wanted children of her own. She also hungered for the physical comfort of a man, and lately she had listened to the lewd chatter of her married sisters with more than a passing interest. But to take a husband – though she knew that one day she must – would consign her to his yurt forever.
Her father had found a new suitor for her, the son of a khan from north of Lake Baikal. It was her father’s duty and it was also good politics. But as a Tatar woman it was also her right to refuse, as she had done many times before. This time, however, she had made a bargain with him. If he found her a boy who could prove he was worthy of her by besting her on horseback, then she would submit to marriage.
It was not outright refusal.
She heard a faint cry and looked up, saw a falcon flick its wingtips in the face of the wind.
Look at her brothers. Gerel was a drunkard and Tekudai had the brains of a goat. They could not match her in wits, or in spirit.
I was born to be more than a receptacle for some man’s seed.
She made a promise to herself then, shouted it to the Spirit of the Everlasting Sky. But her words were lost on the wind.
II
KHUTELUN’S FATHER, QAIDU, had made his camp that winter in the Fergana Valley, below the Roof of the World. Black crags rose into the sky on every side, like the fists of the gods, the slopes below dotted with silver poplar. To the north, a high col cupped a dark lake. Above it loomed the ridge called The Woman is Going Away.
The night before he had placed the headless bodies of two white goats on its crest. To win the challenge, Khutelun, or her suitor Jebei, must be first to place one of these carcasses at the door of his yurt.
Everyone had gathered to watch the spectacle: the men in their fur coats and felt caps; the women clutching snot-nosed children. There was an eerie silence. Breath from a thousand mouths rose in the still morning air.
Jebei’s escort mounted their horses and waited, a little way off. Their broad-shouldered Mongolian ponies stamped their hooves in the dawn cold.
Jebei himself had the body of a man but the face of a boy, and his quick, untidy movements betrayed his nervousness. His father watched him, frowning.
Qaidu strode from his yurt, went to his daughter and placed a hand on her horse’s mane. She was tall and slim for a Tatar, but the slenderness of her body was hidden under her thick coat and boots. She wore a fur-lined cap and there was a scarf wrapped around her nose and mouth so all that was visible was her eyes.
‘Lose,’ he whispered to her.
The dark eyes flashed. ‘If he deserves me, he will win.’
‘He is a fine boy. You do not have to ride your best.’
Her pony stamped its foot in excitement, eager to begin.
‘If he is as fine a boy as you say, my best will not be good enough.’
Qaidu frowned at her defiance. Yet he wished Tekudai or Gerel had inherited some of her spirit. He looked around at the silent, bronzed faces. Most of the women were smiling at his daughter. They wanted her to win.
‘Whoever brings me the goat has their will!’ he shouted and stepped back.
Jebei nudged his horse forward so that he stood head to head with Khutelun. He smiled and nodded at Qaidu. He thinks he can win, the old man thought. He does not know my daughter.
Qaidu raised his right fist in the air. When he brought it down the race was under way.
A hard gallop through the crowd, then out beyond the yurts, towards brown hills dusted with white. Jebei stood in the stirrups, riding hard, the wind in his face. His pony’s hooves drummed on the frost-hard plain. He looked over his shoulder, saw Khutelun’s horse veer suddenly away; in moments it was two hundred paces distant, heading towards the steepest slope of the mountain.
He wondered if he should follow her. The broad shoulder of the col loomed above him. He had decided on the cleanest way up the ridge when he walked the course the previous day. Too late to change his mind now. What was the girl doing? Perhaps she had chosen a longer way; it must be her strategy to ensure he would win. He kept straight for the col.
She did want him to win. Didn’t she?
Khutelun grinned as she imagined Jebei’s confusion. Really, he had no choice. If he followed her now he would put himself behind her in the race and he could not close the gap between them unless her horse fell. What else could he do but keep to the obvious course?
She rode around the spur towards a defile in the cliff called The Place Where the Ass Died because of the steepness of the slope. Her horse’s hooves slipped on the loose shale. She urged him on. She knew his pumping heart and sinewy muscles were equal to it. How many times had she ridden this path before, in other races, for sport?
Poor Jebei.
III
KHUTELUN PICKED HER way back down the mountain, the carcass of the goat hanging limp from her right hand, bloodying her horse’s flank. Jebei sat astride his own black mare, waiting for her, a grin on his face. So he had followed her after
all. It was immediately clear to her what he planned to do. He thought she was weak and that he could wrestle the goat from her, here in the defile, where no one could see them.
She reined in her horse.
They stared at each other. ‘You are not as stupid as you look,’ she said to him.
‘Would it be so bad to be the wife of a khan?’
‘I am the daughter of a khan. I am content with that for now.’
He held out his hand. ‘You may be swifter on horseback but you are not as strong. Do you think you can pass me with your burden?’
Her shoulders sagged in defeat. She had not thought he would have the wits to trap her this way. She walked her horse forward and held out the kid’s carcass.
‘Wait,’ he said. ‘Before I take my prize, I must know what I have won. After all, I have never seen your face. Perhaps I might not want your goat.’ The women of the steppe were not veiled, for they were Tatars before they were Mohammedans, yet she had always taken care to keep her scarf of purple silk coiled around her face, both to irritate and intrigue him. He waited as she reached for the silk with her free hand and pulled it aside.
He stared at her. ‘But you’re beautiful,’ he said.
Beautiful, she thought; well, so men tell me. A worthless gift for a Tatar princess. Beauty is the gift of submission.
‘I’m also stronger than I look,’ she said and with one fluid movement of her right arm and hips she swung the bloodied carcass of the goat into his face and knocked him out of the saddle. He lay groaning on the frost-hard rock.
Khutelun did not spare him a glance. She walked her horse over him and trotted back through the defile.
Qaidu stared at the dead goat lying at his feet. He nudged it with his boot, almost as if expecting the lifeless meat to spring to life. Finally he looked up at his daughter. ‘So. You won.’
‘Jebei is a fool.’
Qaidu looked at Jebei’s father, sitting stone-faced on his horse, by providence too far away to hear this summation of his son’s character. ‘He is the son of a khan.’
‘The wind blows cold on princes and goats alike.’
Khutelun saw her brothers watching from the doorway of her father’s yurt, their disappointment at the outcome of the contest plain to read. ‘If only Tekudai was more like you,’ Qaidu said to her under his breath. Khutelun grinned beneath the purple scarf. He could not have paid her a higher compliment.
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