Should he have offered thanks to Allah that he was left to last and was thus at the top of the heap? Perhaps. But, then, it was in the name of Allah that all this had been done.
He came to when the sun reached his exposed posterior and warmed it. Caked with blood, not all of it his own, and racked with pain – most of it actually a deep-rooted stiffness – he struggled down off the pile of corpses at the top of the well, took a brief look round. Apart from the flies that gathered with the sun, and the rats, he was now the only living creature there. The sheep and goats had been taken, and the dogs as ruthlessly dispatched as their masters. He ran. Pausing only to wrap himself in some sacking he found still hanging from the arms of a scarecrow, and plucking a bean-pole from a villager's allotment for a staff, Ali ran.
Not too far or too fast at first, but once his wound was healed he ran a long way. Perhaps he has been running ever since, or at any rate until he fetched up in Mangalore. He slept occasionally, but in those first years not much, and anyway he continued to run even in his dreams. He ran to Baghdad, then Tabriz, and finally Kabul. From then on, for the most part, he walked, rode or sailed.
He assumed the role of beggar, found his way on to the Golden Road to Samarkand, joined a passing caravan in which the ostlers, camel-men, bearers and so forth had kept in mind the injunctions of the Prophet regarding a Believer's responsibilities to the poor more clearly than their masters had, and begged his way with them right up the Silk Road as far as Karakoum and the Roof of the World. He did the trip again and again, and discovered a certain skill at bargaining, at detecting the ruses of cheating vendors and, when the caravan was ready to return for the fifth time with animals laden with silk, lapis-lazuli and gold, he had become the trusted employee of one of the merchants, a Parsee whose leanings were also towards Shiism, and who looked on him favourably.
It would be wrong to say that thereafter he prospered, hut at least he survived. For ten years or so he worked for the Parsee as a general amanuensis, dogsbody, factotum. He learnt to read and write, to add and subtract, to keep accounts. Later, as the Parsee aged and became increasingly attached to his godown and counting-house, he employed Ali as his agent, his traveller. He discovered a gift for languages born of the earlier necessity to beg from and live with people who had no cause to learn his own. He also found time in which to study the inner secret teachings of the deeper Shia and took a year or two away from trading to dwell with wise men in a community who live among the mountains that lie to the north of the Hindu Kush.
He returned to the service of his Parsee, who eventually reached the sort of age Ali is now. Ali expected to be made his partner with a loan to enable him to continue trading in the I'arsee's name. However, the Parsee preferred a more complete retirement and, urged on by his daughters who wanted to make good marriages into the gentry of the land, liquidated his assets, dug up his gold reserves, and bought plantations of pistachio and apricot trees, thus raising his status to that of landowner. Ali continued to act as his salesman abroad and did tolerably well, selling his ex-master's Sun-dried tiunza apricots and green nuts, but basically he was now a freelance, without the capital to set up as a proper merchant.
His son Haree? The disfigurement Ali had suffered at the hands of the Sunni fanatic taken with the fact that he was never a rich man virtually precluded the possibility of marriage or indeed any sexual relationship other than the transitory sort that can be bought. He was not a pretty sight, and as he aged he became less pretty. His left side slowly collapsed, and his left arm, possibly because a vital nerve had been severed, withered, though he was left with the use of the thumb, index and middle lingers. His face was like an apple that has begun to rot: fine on one side but dark brown and spongily shapeless on the other, and at almost all times when he was in any sort of public situation he covered it with the edge or hem of his scarecrow cape, leaving only the left side and left eye visible.
However, not long after his Parsee withdrew from trading, Ali was doing business on his own behalf with an Egyptian cotton-grower whose crop had failed as a result of an attack of weevils, leaving him substantially in debt to Ali. Now, there is an endemic disease amongst those who live along the banks of the Nile and the canals that irrigate the surrounding flatlands that causes blindness, and this cotton-grower had a daughter who was blind but in other ways attractive and apparently healthy. Ali married her, having first bestowed on her impoverished father all the worldly wealth he then had about him. They settled in Iskenderia where he set up as an agent in the port. Haroun, Haree, was the only fruit of that union since the cotton-grower's daughter died of puerperal fever shortly after he was born. Ali put him in the care of his dead mother's cousin and set off again on his travels but he has paid for his keep ever since. He never really got to know Haree properly, passing as he did through the area once every two years or so, but he now has the satisfaction of knowing that Haree will learn an honourable profession and hopefully make a reasonable living with less trouble than his father has had.
Enough. I am wandering. A tedious recital of a thousand and one adventures on the road was not Ali's purpose, but rather an account of the one big adventure that came at the end. And that is what you want to hear now. It far surpasses all the others in length and interest, in horror, tragedy, passion and even, occasionally, in the happiness n brought. And hopefully you will take from it the insights you desire into other nations and empires, insights for which you have paid.
It all began, as it ended, in Ingerlond, but that part of Ingerlond which is tin the mainland of Europe, namely Calais, a small enclave whose importance lies in its role as the gateway to the island – indeed, almost all the trade with the island is now conducted through this port. I have heard it said that Ingerlond is the arsehole of Christendom and Calais is the arsehole of Ingerlond. Ali didn't find anything to quarrel with in that.
The main exports through Calais are wool and woollen cloth. Indeed there is very little else the Inglysshe, or Anglish as they are sometimes called after one of the savage tribes that settled there, produce in surplus that anyone could conceivably wish to buy, except possibly tin and lead. Calais is the only town where foreigners are allowed to buy Ingerlonder wool, which makes its export easy to tax, and is therefore known in the jargon of their traders as the Staple. The quality is high, though not as good as that of Kashmere, and much in demand in climates too cold for cotton or silk. The Inglysshe have the art of spinning their wool to a fineness which almost equals silk and of dyeing it too, and of weaving it in artful ways. This fine wool is called worsted, and it was in the hopes of picking up some hales of the stuff in exchange for some sable furs Ali had brought from iMuscovy that he was in Calais.
He was staying in a tavern or lodging-house in the quarter that lies between the harbour and the main cloth market, and Suffering, as almost everyone does in those climes, from what seemed to be an everlasting cold – his nose leaked like the bladder of an incontinent octogenarian, his chest churned and rattled as if it were a bucket filled with unset mortar, and he-had gone early to bed. It was a big bed and. following the custom of those uncivilised regions, he had been constrained the night before to share it with two mariconic tinkers who buggered each other off and on, and a squire, his lady and two children on their way to join the Duke of Burgundy's court. The two infants whined and whimpered until their mother prevailed on Ali to expose his face to them. She told them that he was the devil and would carry them off to hell if they didn't shut up. They did.
However, on this second night, because of the ague from which he was suffering, he had gone to bed while the rest were still at supper and was alone in what the landlord was cheat enough to call his best 'guestroom' when there was a knock at the door.
I remember that at this point Ali ben Quatar Mayeen shifted a little in his chair, then moved the chair so the wickerwork creaked a little, took his head out of the dipping sunlight and glanced across the table at me. 'Shall I go on? I'm not boring you?'
'
No, no. Not in the least.' 'You yawned."
'A moment or two ago. perhaps, when you were describing the status of Calais. But now I am caught in the net of your tale as surely as the Sultan Schahriah was in the web Scheherazade spun. But if you, Ali, are tired, I can come back tomorrow and hear who your visitor was in that dreadful lodging-house.'
'Perhaps that would be better. The house is stirring again, and presently, no doubt, my wives will want to attend me as they usually do when the afternoon gets cooler…'
Chapter Two
The following afternoon, when I returned to that delightful patio with its pool of iridescent fish and cages of singing birds and its scent of cardamom, Ali took up his tale. He spoke slowly, with difficulty even after the lifetime that had passed since the scimitar sliced his mouth, hut making expansive gestures with his good hand.
Loosening my stiletto in its scabbard beneath the covers, I called out that the door was unlocked.
On account of the grey habit and hood worn by my visitor, I took the figure that came in to be a friar, or mendicant preaching monk, of the Franciscan order. He was earning a greasy tallow candle that gave off more black smoke than light and, to my levered brain, made the wooden plank walls of that cubbyhole sway back and forth like the sail on a luffing dhow. I noticed that his robe had been patched with a tiny heart-shaped piece of red felt just above the waist – but I was, at that time, unaware of its significance. He squeezed between the bed and the wall and thus sidled up to where my head lay propped on a dirty bolster filled with unwashed fleece trimmings and set the candle on the shelf above me. I gripped the silver-wired hilt of my stiletto and wished that my palm were not so slippery with sweat. He must have sensed my unease.
'I wish you no harm," he said, and sat on the edge of the bed, pushing back his cowl as he did so. His face was lean, grey, clean-shaven, apart from a slight stubble, and marked by two deep creases that ran from the corners of his nose, which was large but bony, past the comers of his mouth and gave him a look that combined asceticism with melancholy. His eyes were dark, but in that light piercing.
'You are, I believe,' he continued, 'Ali ben Quatar Mayeen, a traveller and merchant from the east."
I conceded that this was so.
'But I understand, too, that you belong to a secret brotherhood under which you also carry the name-'
But now I was alarmed and I let him see the stiletto. 'Pray do not utter the word on your lips, or it may be your last,' I said.
'Very well,' but I could see how his thin mouth lengthened into a smile that held both delight and mockery, 'names are power and should be respected. However, I should like you to believe that I come to you as a member of a similar society that shares many of your beliefs. I am putting my life at risk by admitting as much, but hope thereby to gain your trust. I have a favour to ask that may or may not be in your power to grant, but will be easier for you to perform than anyone else I am ever likely to meet.'
I waited to see what would be forthcoming.
'My fellow sectarians have a secret house in the north-west of Ingerlond. Amongst our number is a man, who, like you, came from the distant east many years ago. He is the younger brother of a prince of an eastern country who sent him abroad on a particular mission. He now wishes to return. However, due partly to the fact that both his legs have been cut off through the knee joints and also to certain vows he has taken, he is unable to travel. He instructed me to find a traveller who came from his pan of the world and give him this…'
He held up a packet. It was as long as the span of a stretched hand, from little fingertip to thumbnail, its width a little less, its depth half the thickness of a large thumb. It was wrapped in black oiled cloth, and tied with rust-coloured leather thongs.
'What is it?' I managed to croak. Much of my success as an agent for traders has arisen from a gift of insatiable curiosity, which I share with cats. Curiosity, you may say, killed the cat, but then you will recall Allah mitigated that threat with the gift of nine lives. At least eight of which I have used.
'I am not permitted to say,' my visitor answered. 'It should only he opened by the man to whom it is addressed or by his direct heir. Indeed, for what it is worth, my friend, whom we know as Brother John, since that is the nearest our tongue can get to his real name, added a curse of some viciousness on anyone else who might even attempt to undo these thongs. But judging by its weight and shape I would hazard a guess that it contains pages ot parchment, and is therefore some sort of message, testament or whatever. Will you take it?'
By now, for all I was suffering from a fever and all the other symptoms I have described, to which were added severely aching knees, that near fatal curiosity was stirring like a waking lion. Or cat.
'First,' I said, 'tell me to whom this packet must be delivered."
The stranger's eyes gleamed yet more brightly, and his tongue touched the corner of his thin mouth. Clearly he believed I was hooked. Indeed, I was.
'The prince you must take it to is called Harihara Raya Kurteishi."
Even by then, after such a short acquaintance, I was not able to quarrel with that 'must', though immediately I suspected that I was likely to be committing myself to a journey longer than the one I had envisaged. I cleared my throat and swallowed the evil-tasting phlegm that filled my mouth.
'And where does he live?'
'In Vijayanagara, an empire which is ruled by John's cousin, a great emperor who is known as Mallikarjuna Deva Raya.'
I sighed and let my aching head fall back on that noisome bolster. I swear it smelt of dog-shit.
'Vijayanagara is almost on the other side of the world. Only Cathay lies beyond it,' I croaked. 'If I travel for half a year I will come to the lands I was born in, which you call the Holy Land. To get to Vijayanagara I will have to travel as far as that again.'
'There was a Venetian who went the whole way to Cathay, and others have followed since. I believe he even called in at Vijayanagara on his way home.'
'Marco,' I scoffed. 'He went with his father, Niccolo, when he was twelve and came back a middle-aged man. I am already as old as he was when he returned, probably older.'
But at that moment there was uproar below, filling the narrow street, and indeed we could see the glimmer of torches dickering through the cracks in the shutters of the one dormer window of that tiny room. I was not then as fluent in the Inglysshe tongue as I have later become, but the gist of the shouts, bellowed commands, was clear enough. The commander of the men-at-arms who had burst in on our landlord had reason to believe that a foul miscreant, a counterfeit friar, a most evil heretic, was sheltering beneath his roof.
My visitor's visage went paler even than it had been before and with one swift movement he thrust the black packet beneath the bolster and headed for the window. However, before he could pull back the shutters, which had probably not been opened since summer and were jammed, three men-at-arms, clad in chain-mail and steel helmets with rims like those on a barber's bowl, burst in and apprehended him. At least I must presume they did, for I had buried myself beneath the stinking covers of the huge bed. Even cats curb their curiosity at times. And survive.
My stay in Calais was longer than I had expected. First I had to recover from the Influence of the Stars, or Influenza, as the Venetians call it; then, when I came to trade my Muscovite sables I found that they had been ravaged by moths. It took me some time before I was able to find what I took to be a more than averagely stupid Ingerlonder whom I could persuade that these holes were the fashion in Moskova and conveyed a greater value upon the furs. In truth he had the last word. The bales of worsted he gave me in return were similarly damaged: 'Broderie anglaise, my old china,' he said, and slapped me on the back.
All in all it was getting on for a month later before I was able to set off on my travels again, and, though I had no intention at all of going to the southern extremity of the Indian peninsula, I had almost inadvertently slipped that oiled black packet into one of the deeper recesses of my bag
gage.
My destination was Bruges, ami to get to the eastern postern I had to pass through the central square. A burning was about to begin. I do not like to witness such barbarities but the press was such that I had to wait until it was over. It was, need I say it, my quasi-Franciscan Iriar who was tied to the stake, high above the crowd, high enough for me to be able to see that his thumbs (his hands were bound in front of him) had been crushed and his body broken on the wheel. He was, however, still alive and aware enough of what was going on to spit on the crucifix that a Dominican was waving under his nose, conjuring him to repent as he did so. There was a plaque attached to his neck by a noose so it rested on his chest and it bore the words: 'Self-confessed but Unrepentant Brother of the Free Spirit'.
The flames caught, the smoke rose, and as they did it was my impression that somehow his mysterious eyes, still gleaming with intelligence and possibly knowledge, found mine and for a moment I felt he was communicating to me both a sense of collusion and trust. Then his eyeballs rolled upwards and his whole body seemed to relax as he breathed in the smoke that was billowing about his head. I recognised the symptoms of ecstasy, that most sublime ecstasy of all, the ecstasy of a death embraced, of union with the god within.
The smell of burning flesh remained in my nostrils for a week.
Chapter Three
For the next three days Mangaiore was the scene of a prolonged festival in which the goddess, in her role as Queen of the Sea, was wooed and bedded by Vishnu to the accompaniment of dancing, music, fireworks and the rest. On the fourth day I returned to Ali's large bungalow and rejoined him in his garden where he resumed his tale as if there had been no interruption at all.
Kings of Albion Page 2