Behind them the walls surrounding that great house soared skywards, throwing the heat on to us. Nomad pawed restlessly at the ground, and I tugged on her reins, wondering whether Swan stood somewhere very close, straining her ears to hear her stable mate, fidgeting restlessly in a stall, wondering when I would come and bring her home. If Nomad neighed, would Swan hear the sound? If I called her name, would she respond with a gusty whicker of recognition, a high joyous whinny?
‘I have come about a horse,’ I said softly, and smiled at the guards although my lips trembled. ‘Arash has said that I might visit a mare that is in the stables here.’
I smiled again, but the guards stepped towards me, their hands on their dagger hilts, and Nomad shifted two steps backwards.
‘We cannot allow you to enter,’ one of the men said. My gaze flickered across the grim line of his mouth beneath the great plume of his black moustache, and fell to the tips of his shining black boots.
‘I will wait for the honourable Arash in the hippodrome,’ I said, my words running into each other in their reluctance to fly free of my mouth. Nomad wheeled around, and the mule swung its ears and fell into step behind the mare. All the way down through the city my heart beat heavy and slow, like the sound of hoof beats when a horse is very weary. The hippodrome’s expanse was quiet; women sat cross-legged on the ground by small, smouldering fires, and shaped dough into flat bread or stitched at embroideries. Here and there a lone horse, perhaps too lamed or injured to ride out, stood with its head hanging. I found Arash’s tent at last; it was crimson and splendid, and deserted save for an old servant who sat on the ground outside, stitching at broken harness, and who said that I might wait for his master’s return. Sayeh and I tied Nomad and the mule to a tent peg, and ducked inside to where it was slightly cooler and dimmer. Cross-legged on the thick carpets, I stared at the wall hangings, at the bed of a fine, shining wood inlaid with mother-of-pearl. I wiped at my sweating face with the back of my hand, smearing the black lines of kohl that Lila had applied so carefully around my eyes.
The afternoon trickled past, sand moving grain by grain. Occasionally, a dog barked. A horse stamped. A baby cried fretfully to be nursed. The old servant man laid aside the leather and his needle, and fell asleep in the tent’s shade.
Had Swan been watered this morning? Had someone run a brush over her, lightly and with love? Or roughly and in haste? Had she been fed; was she cool and comfortable or tied up outside in the blistering sun, plagued by flies?
What was the point of it, all those hours that I had spent training her, teaching her to wheel and spin, to gallop flattened out, to canter collected beneath me, her muscles coiled tight? Why should it all come to this, her death at the base of a flaming altar in the king’s courtyard, where nobody knew her stories, her skills, her memories?
My mother said that a horse could remember everything as well as a person could; that if you struck or mistreated a horse it would remember you all of its life and mistrust you. She said that a horse had only to be ridden once along a mountain track and, years later, it would know its way there, would know where to place its hooves to avoid crevices and fissures. She said that a horse had only to find its way to a pool of water on a hot afternoon, or to watch the running of wolves down a ravine in winter, to know those places again. The water it would always know how to find, and the wolves how to avoid.
But I was the keeper of all Swan’s memories, and now we had been separated. The magi in their long white robes would not know anything about her. They would not know that they must speak her name to make her walk forward towards the moment of her death. And would she look around in that moment, searching for me, for my familiar figure that had run to her through so many years of dust or rain, through drifting snow, through summer’s ripples of heat? Would she wonder why I had deserted her before blackness engulfed her?
I bent over my knees and clasped my ankles, gripped with anguish.
But what if Lila was right, what if this was Swan’s destiny and mine? What if it was to save the city from Angra’s wrath that we had both been brought into this world, and what if we had some role to play in the great battle between the armies of darkness and light? If I withheld Swan, if I failed in this moment of sacrifice, would the enemy kill all our brave riders, all our galloping horses? Would they scale Ershi’s high walls, break its massive gates? Would they be the victors at last, and take all the elite mares, the fiery stallions, the trusting foals, homewards with them over the roof of the world, past the dread Taklamakan desert where nothing lived, nothing flew?
What would my fate be then? When I died and my soul stepped over the bridge to paradise, would the great angel Sraosha cast me down into the abyss to be tormented for ever? Was the sacrifice of Swan what the great Ahura needed and desired? Did I believe this was the right thing to do?
I remembered the words of a hymn that the magi chanted on feast days:
Hear with your ears what is best, perceive
with your minds what is purest,
So that each man may, for himself, before
the great doom cometh,
Choose the creed he prefers.
May the wise ones be on our side.
But what was the best thing for me to choose, trapped in the heat and torment of this moment?
‘We are all turning on the great wheel,’ my father had said once, stroking the long curls of his beard, and sprawled on a couch after an evening meal. ‘We are all trying to find our way to the power in the middle. There are many religions on earth, just as there are many spokes on a wheel. You can walk in any way, but the purpose of them all is the same. I do not care whether a man walks in the path of the Buddha, or the great Ahura, of the Tao, or the prophet Abraham. Or whether a man follows the spirits of his tribal rivers and mountains, or the Hindu gods and goddesses. The ways are all spokes on a wheel, carrying us towards the power in the middle of life.’
Oh, Father! I thought, as the light faded across the hippodrome, and a hen clucked near the door of Arash’s tent. Father, where are you now when I need you, when you should be here to speak for me, to save Swan? I ached for Father’s great belly laugh, his huge ringed hands laid warmly on my shoulders; even for his deep voice calling me his plump dove, his ripe peach. I had no doubt, suddenly, that my father would have saved Swan if he had been here. He would have gone to the Royal Falconer and persuaded him, with the finest imported wine from the island of Rhodes, with purses of chinking coins, with food and dancing girls and laughter, and even with Greek philosophy, to return my mare. My father would have done this because I trusted him to.
The way that Swan trusts me, I thought.
In that moment, all my doubts dissolved, snowflakes on hot rocks around a fire. I knew suddenly that Swan’s trust was more important to me than the desires of angels, than the spokes of wheels.
I rose to my feet and went past Sayeh, curled asleep on the rugs, to the tent doorway. The old servant stooped over a small fire of dried camel dung, cooking skewers of meat. ‘They will return soon,’ he said, glancing up, and even as he spoke there was a commotion near the entrance. Straining my eyes through the purple dusk, I saw the slow swell of troops and horses. They eddied in amongst the tents; voices called, harness chinked, a horse neighed. Fires winked into brightness all around as the moon rose. Still I waited and waited for Arash. The old man removed the crisp meat from the flames and the fire began to subside into embers that pulsed in the velvet night.
‘Arash?’ I asked uncertainly.
He ducked into the tent, a dark figure, alone save for a slave boy who squatted by the dying fire. Sayeh slipped from the tent to join him. The glow of a lamp blossomed and the tent shone like a pale red flower. When I entered, Arash was seated on the bed, staring at the floor, his shoulders drooping in lines of fatigue beneath the glint of chain mail. I had never seen him look this way; his handsome face was dusty and stained, his eyes bloodshot, his hair matted with sweat. A long, dull indentation lay across the should
ers of his armour as though he had been struck a heavy blow with a lance.
‘They have taken him,’ he said listlessly. ‘They unseated me, and Desert Wind has been taken by the enemy.’
Even his voice was flat and dull; there was no honey in it.
‘I am sorry,’ I said softly, and he glanced up, startled; perhaps he had thought it was his old servant who had followed him inside. His eyes widened, his glance flickering over my pale green tunic, my necklaces and earrings, my best riding boots with their pale blue leather stitched with overlays of green leaves and orange birds.
‘What do you want?’ he asked.
I knelt at his feet, the lamplight flickering over us, over the wall hangings with their still figures, over the crimson creases in the tent walls, over the length of Arash’s aquiline nose.
My mouth opened, closed. My voice was lost.
‘P-please,’ I said at last, staring at the toes of Arash’s boots. ‘Please.’
I could not speak another word; the one I had released trembled into the peak of the tent like a little bird fluttering in a blind panic. Arash raised his thin brows and stared at me.
I gathered my courage ‘Please, g-give Swan back to me. I cannot live without her.’
The lamp guttered in a draught of night air, and the tent shook around us like a poppy in a field of bending grass. Arash gave an impatient gesture, and his chain mail made a tiny scraping sound. I could not raise my head to meet his proud, fierce eyes; I could not force another word through my tight throat. The night and the tent seemed to hold us as though a spell had been cast upon us.
‘Please. I beseech you.’
He rose, paced the tent, sat again. ‘He was my best horse,’ he said. ‘ I will miss him very much. I’d had him since a colt, and trained him myself. He went out with courage this morning. We rode on a sortie from the south gate, but the enemy was waiting for us with huge crossbows that could shoot arrows continuously. They had a great range. Many men were killed today, many horses. It was not splendid, Kallisto, not like hunting lions, not the way the poets tell of it.’
I risked a glance up; his face was in profile, and his eyes were far away like the eyes of my mother when she thought of her lost tribe. Grief made him look much younger, like the little boy he’d once been and who I had shared a pomegranate with, speechless with shyness, at a feast day. Now light shone on his high cheeks, bright as tears. Pity fluttered through me.
‘My father is in disgrace,’ he muttered suddenly. ‘You know this?’
I nodded, unable to speak.
‘I must find a way to return my father’s house to favour. If we fall from grace, what will become of us all, my parents, me? To you, Kallisto? The gift of Swan will restore us.’
‘What – what did your father do?’
‘He had come by a golden treasure, a wonderful chariot harness with bridle and traces and belly straps and chest collar. It was all covered in gold, and in carvings of wonderful animals, and it was inlaid with precious stones. It was very old. The merchant from whom he obtained it owed my father his life, because my father had saved him from a lion while out hunting. Thus the merchant parted with the treasure. Then, my father promised the harness to one of the princes, one of the king’s royal sons. But before he had the harness delivered to the prince, my father lost it in a drunken wager. And so the prince was cheated of what he had been promised, and my father was disgraced.’
Arash sighed, and rubbed a long hand across his face, and squeezed his eyes shut above his narrow, beautifully shaped lips. The red tent walls reflected in the metal links of his chain mail with a dull glow.
‘What if we could f-find the other harness?’ I asked.
‘What? What other one?’
‘S-surely there must be another, a m-matching one, so that the chariot could be pulled by a team. If we could find the other harness, we could give it to the prince, and your father would be forgiven, and you would find favour and –’
My throat squeezed my voice into silence.
‘And what?’
‘And I c-could have Swan back again. You would not need her then.’
He gave me a stern, searching look that lasted for many minutes. Hours even. My legs shook, folded beneath me, and the blood rose to my face.
‘How would you find this treasure?’
‘I don’t know … I could t-talk to the merchant that your father obtained it from …’
Outside, a horse and man walked by, and the half-moon rose into the tent doorway where Sayeh squatted in the dirt, watching and listening. The old servant man coughed and spat, and Nomad shifted her weight restlessly from foot to foot.
‘If I give you the merchant’s name, and you can find the treasure and bring it to me, I will give Swan back,’ Arash said at last. ‘But only if the prince is pleased with the gift. And only if you can bring it to me quickly.’
‘And Swan?’
‘She will be safe and well cared for until you bring the treasure. I will not speak to the magi about her sacrifice yet.’
‘Swear it!’ I cried, my voice suddenly strong, my fingers gripping the toe of one of Arash’s riding boots. ‘Swear you will not harm her, and you will return her to me if I can bring the treasure!’
‘Let go of my boot.’ He kicked out suddenly, the tired lines of his face hardening into a more familiar haughtiness; I felt the burn of leather across my fingertips.
‘Swear it, Arash. Please.’
‘Before Mithras, god of oath-taking, I swear,’ he said. ‘The merchant’s name is Failak and he came from Kokand. Before the war, he was lodged in a household below tower number ten on the east wall. But I don’t know where he is now. I will give you five nights from this night to obtain the golden chariot harness – if it even exists – and bring it to me here.’
‘Eight,’ I whispered, my voice quaking.
‘What?’
‘Eight nights to bring the golden harness.’
‘Five.’
‘Seven.’
He glared at me, his eyes narrowed. ‘Seven nights. After that, your mare will be sacrificed. Now, go away; I am very tired.’
Chapter 11
Although it was fully dark as I mounted Nomad and rode from the hippodrome, with Sayeh following on the mule, I wanted to begin searching for the merchant.
‘Your own household will be worried about you,’ Sayeh muttered.
‘I can’t help it!’ I replied obstinately. ‘Finding this golden harness is my only hope of saving Swan’s life! We will ride to the street beneath tower number ten on the east wall.’
The streets grew narrower as we rode downhill. Lamplight spilled from doorways, and dogs barked and fought over refuse. A smell of dust and drains filled my nose, and Nomad picked her way fastidiously, snorting at children who dodged past, shouting and playing. Now the city wall rose up on our right hand, a looming mass that blocked out the stars, its mud surfaces still radiating the afternoon’s heat. And on the other side, I thought, the enemy waited, starving us out, prowling, impatient, implacable. Soon our last water would run dry; soon we would have to surrender unless our troops could rout the enemy and send them eastwards into the mountains without our horses. I shivered, and the hair stood up on my arms. Here, at the base of the wall, the enemy seemed very close.
I could see the watchtower now, its high rectangular shape rising against the face of the moon. The arrow slits covering its facades were invisible in the darkness. I swung Nomad into the street running towards the tower, and became aware of a roar of grinding, smashing noise.
‘What’s happening?’ I asked suddenly, reining Nomad in. The mule’s pale muzzle bumped against her hindquarters as Sayeh and I peered ahead. Torchlight flared and bobbed over the backs of men shovelling bricks amid swirling clouds of mud dust. The sound of pounding and smashing filled the air. Buildings gaped open, their roofs destroyed, their walls tumbling down as men attacked them with vigorous blows. Wooden doors splintered. Three camels strained in their harne
ss, roped to roof beams, and a wall suddenly gave way, its mud and bricks pouring into the street in an avalanche of rubble. The camels coughed and roared as the roof beams crashed downwards. Dust obscured them.
‘They are destroying this street!’ I cried, dumbfounded. People jostled around Nomad; women’s wailing cries pierced the crashing of walls, and children blubbered in their mother’s arms.
I turned in the saddle and leaned out to grasp the shoulder of an old woman shuffling past, her arms filled with a cloth bundle. ‘Please, what is happening?’
‘They are breaking down our houses, and destroying our temple!’ she cried. ‘The enemy is tunnelling beneath the wall, trying to make the tower and the wall crumble down so they can breach it and enter Ershi. But our men are filling this street with rubble. It will be piled against the wall on the inside, strengthening it against enemy attack. I must find my daughters!’
She hobbled away into the fluttering darkness, and I continued to sit on Nomad, watching in horrified fascination as men attacked homes and craft shops with swinging mallets, pickaxes and shovels, battering them into nothing but heaps of broken dirt. A string of donkeys jostled past me, their panniers laden with rubble that would be shovelled against the base of the city wall.
How thick was the wall? I wondered. How far from me, at this very moment, were the enemy troops? I imagined them digging down into the sandy soil, like mountain marmots, tunnelling underneath the wall’s bulk and into our city, into our safety. I imagined the enemy men pouring inside like water pouring through an aqueduct into a pool.
Chills ran down my spine and I wheeled Nomad around in a tight circle. ‘The house I’m looking for is gone,’ I said, my voice stricken. How would I find this merchant, Failak, now? And where had he gone to lodge?
‘It is too late to be out,’ Sayeh said, her small face pinched and tired. ‘We cannot keep searching tonight. The streets are dangerous.’
I nodded and nudged Nomad in the direction of home, past clusters of soldiers staggering along with their arms around each other’s shoulders, singing a ragged, drunken chorus. I averted my face as they blundered past, one of them running a hand familiarly across Nomad’s shoulder and then my leg. I kicked out with my boot, my beautiful pale blue boot with its leather embossing of orange birds. The soldier’s eyes widened in greedy admiration and he gripped my boot and tugged, laughing wildly. Torchlight shone like sparks in his red beard and long tangled hair. He was a Yeu-chi, I realised, and remembered that the people of his tribe believed they would be horses in their second life.
The Horse Road Page 13