‘You have no right to be alive,’ Hero said.
‘Yes, I have. The coward attacked me when I wasn’t looking.’
At Kashgar Shennu hired new camels and drivers. Here the Silk Road divided, one branch winding north of the desert under the Tian Shan Mountains, the other skirting the southern rim within sight of the Kun Lun range. A hundred rivers flowed into the Taklamakan and none flowed out. Shennu told Vallon that in the middle of the desert lay cities buried under sand, the mummified corpses of their fair-haired citizens dead a thousand years.
They took the southern route. The July sun, dull with the ash of its own burning, bored down, making travel by day intolerable. Each evening the caravan master waited until shadows overtook the lingering blue of the desert sky before giving the signal to depart. The handlers climbed to their feet, collected their hobbled beasts and drove them towards their loads where, by jerking on their head-ropes, they forced them to their knees. Then two men lifted the load onto the pack saddle and secured it with two loops and a peg. They struck the tents and stowed them on the beasts that carried the camp equipment, then string by string, the caravan moved off, the bells of the camels clonking and the drivers picking up a song that might last all night or stop for no reason, leaving only the shush-shush of the camels’ pads brushing through sand.
At daybreak or soon after, the long procession would reach the next oasis or well and the drivers would lead the camels forward in lines to drink from troughs filled with water hauled up in caulked wicker baskets. Then they would drive the camels out to forage on the spiky vegetation and the camp would fall into fitful sleep until the sun sank to the western horizon. So it continued, day after day, night after night, week after week.
Riding half asleep at night through the desert, Vallon sometimes imagined that he was treading a path above the earth, the stars lying awash beneath him. Other nights the moon-blanched sands closed in until he was travelling down a lane bounded by high hedges and overhanging trees. His eyes focused on some destination that never arrived, drifting further and further into unconsciousness until a sudden jolt jerked him back to a reality almost as outlandish as his dreams.
One night Vallon and Aiken fell in with Hero and the two Sogdians. ‘Shennu says we should reach Khotan within a week,’ Hero said.
‘The day we met I said that a journey was just a tiresome passage between one place and another. I wasn’t wrong.’
Hero laughed. ‘Admit it. A part of you is beginning to believe that we’ll really reach China.’
Vallon turned to Shennu. ‘Tell us more about its people.’
‘They are a contradictory race. Deeply conservative, revering their ancestors and traditions, yet inventive beyond belief. They believe their emperor is appointed by the Mandate of Heaven. At the same time they consider him mortal and therefore fallible, which gives his subjects the right to overthrow him if disaster strikes the empire. That’s why, though they value harmony, the empire has suffered so many upheavals. The real power lies with the scholar officials, civil servants selected by examination. In theory, competition is open to all and promotion is by merit. In practice, most candidates and top officials are the sons of aristocrats.’
‘What position do the military occupy?’
‘The ruling class regard them as a necessary evil. To be frank, they despise them. Many of the commanders are foreigners and the rank and file are largely drawn from the dispossessed and criminals. The imperial circle prefers to pay off enemies rather than confront them. China is like a large honey pot surrounded by swarms of flies. The Chinese can’t swat every fly, so they drip honey into the mouths of the flies’ masters and hope that will satisfy them. Of course having tasted drips of honey, the flies want to drink deep from the source.’
‘Who are these flies?’ Vallon said.
‘Horse nomads. Tanguts in the west, Khitans to the north. To placate them, the emperor lavishes wealth on them at the expense of his subjects.’
Vallon gave Hero a jaundiced smile. ‘That sounds familiar.’
They rode on in silence for a while. ‘Will you teach us Chinese?’ Aiken asked.
‘An excellent idea,’ said Hero.
‘It’s a difficult language,’ Shennu said. ‘The Western tongue isn’t shaped to speak it.’
Vallon indicated the night stretching ahead. ‘It’s not as if we lack leisure to learn. Let’s fill these long nights in a practical pursuit.’
‘Very well,’ Shennu said. He pointed at Vallon’s horse. ‘Ma.’
‘Ma.’
‘No. Ma.’
‘That’s what I said.’
‘You said ma, which means “mother”. Such a mistake could cast you into a most embarrassing situation. Suppose you asked a Chinese nobleman if you could mount his mother?’
Aiken suppressed a laugh. ‘Ma.’
‘Very good,’ said Shennu.
‘Ma,’ Vallon repeated.
‘Now you pronounce the word for “linen”. In a different context, the same pronunciation would mean “scold”.’
‘What a ridiculous language,’ said Vallon. ‘Ma.’
‘Like this,’ Shennu said, stretching his mouth. ‘Ma. Do you hear the difference?’
‘Ma,’ Vallon and Hero said.
Wayland cantered past with Zuleyka, the dog loping behind.
Hero hailed him. ‘We’re learning Chinese. Will you join our class?’
Wayland answered without turning. ‘Thank you. I won’t need Chinese.’
Hero watched him ride away. ‘Did you hear that? Unless you and Wayland mend your differences, he’s going to leave us.’
Aiken and Shennu exchanged glances and went on.
Vallon reined in. ‘It’s not for me to make the first move. If Wayland apologises for his irresponsible actions, I’ll gladly welcome him back into my heart.’
‘I’ve talked to him. He doesn’t think he did anything wrong.’
Vallon’s jaws worked.
‘You’re angry because he’s taken up with the gypsy girl.’
Vallon erupted. ‘He’s married to a woman who’s as dear to me as my own daughters. It offends me to the core to see him riding around with that strumpet.’
‘I don’t think they… I don’t think… Even if they did… Syth has made a hole in Wayland’s heart large enough for any other woman to pass through.’
‘That’s what hurts. I never thought Wayland would so much as look at another woman.’ Vallon wrapped his reins around his hands. ‘I thought that Wayland and Syth had discovered what I could never find – true love.’
‘But you and Caitlin love each other. I know that sometimes you strike sparks off each other, but that’s what happens when iron and flame collide.’
Vallon didn’t answer for some time. ‘My wife is unfaithful.’
‘Oh no, sir. Don’t say that.’
‘For the last nine years I’ve spent one season in four at home. Caitlin’s a passionate woman, I think you’ll agree. I can hardly blame her if she seeks solace in the arms of another man.’
‘Are you sure? Do you have proof?’
‘She wears jewellery too expensive to have been paid for out of my shallow purse. Once, soon after I returned from the frontier without warning, a Byzantine lord’s servant arrived at the house with a letter for my lady. She said the message came from the man’s wife, a woman she claimed to have befriended. A few weeks later we met the lady outside St Sophia. She didn’t so much as glance at Caitlin. They were complete strangers to each other.’
Two stages later they reached an oasis surrounded by a forest of tamarisks, the trees growing out of sand cones, their spindly branches and grey leaves lashing in a roasting wind. At the evening reveille, Josselin called a trooper’s name and received no response. His squad mates hadn’t seen him since making camp. He wouldn’t have deserted in such a hostile place, and foul play was unlikely. He must have wandered away from the oasis and lost his way. The search parties realised how easy that was when they set
out to look for him. The tamarisks sprouted from the sand at ten- to twenty-yard intervals. Turn in any direction and the view was identical. Walk the wrong way for a few hundred yards and you lost all bearings. Vallon ordered a bonfire to be lit and left behind a squad to trumpet their whereabouts. In the morning the trooper still hadn’t returned and Wayland set out to find his trail. Too many people and animals had criss-crossed the oasis for his dog to pick up the trooper’s scent. Wayland rode north calling out until he reached the end of the tamarisks and climbed a huge wave of sand and looked over an ocean of red dunes overlapping each other like shields. He guessed that the trooper must have perished within half a mile of the camp.
Shennu had warned them of the black wind that could strike from nowhere. It attacked next day while the men lay scratching and sleepless in the noonday heat. The camels began to bellow and buried their muzzles in the sand. A few curs that followed the caravan whimpered and fled for shelter. The drivers shouted and ran about tightening saddle-straps and double-pegging tent ropes.
Emerging from his tent, Vallon saw that the sky had taken on a glassy look. A dirty yellow stain advanced from the east, thickening into a grey column, its spinning base spawning dust devils that waltzed through the tamarisks with a scuttling noise. The storm wobbled closer and semi-darkness obscured the sky.
‘Take shelter,’ Shennu cried. ‘Hurry!’
Vallon ran for the lee of a low dune.
‘Cover your head!’ Shennu shouted.
Face down, head mantled, Vallon heard the rustling and clacking increase to a hungry roar and then a shriek as the storm hit, driving a wave of sand and gravel across the ground. Stones stung Vallon’s hands. Dust forced its way into his mouth and under his eyelids. Peeping from under his cape he glimpsed trees, dunes and tents looming like spectres in the howling blackout. He held his breath and his lungs were close to bursting when his ears popped and silence fell. He thought he must have lost his hearing. Shennu shook him and he looked out from under his cape at a clearing sky. Spitting grit from his mouth he tottered to his feet to see the sandstorm spinning away to the west.
Mounds of sand heaved up, reconstituting themselves as men, slapping at their clothes and blinking around through dust-reddened eyes. The tents that had stood up to the storm sagged under the weight of driven sand. The caravan master gave an order and his men salvaged the tents and gathered the animals. Fine dust had found its way into the most tightly sealed containers. The caravan moved on as the sun sank into a bed of clouds, leaving the western horizon aflame, the red fading into violet dotted with a few smoky clouds.
The caravan made the last two stages to Khotan by day, advancing under a shining veil of dust kicked up by the animals. On the evening before they reached the oasis town, Aiken was in Vallon’s tent reciting Virgil’s Aeneid. They had begun reading poetry to help while away the night marches, and Vallon found the ritual soothing. Aiken had reached a passage concerning the tragedy of Dido, queen of the Phoenicians.
‘“It was night, and weary bodies throughout the land were reaping the harvest of peaceful sleep. Forests and harsh seas lay at rest as the circling stars glided in their midnight course. The whole landscape was soundless – flocks and herds and painted birds, the ones that live far and wide on the glimmering lake-waters, and those that dwell in the wilds of prickly brambles – all laid to rest beneath the silent night.
‘“But not so the Phoenician queen. Her wretched spirit could not relax into sleep…”’
Vallon opened his eyes to find his servant hovering at the entrance.
‘Sorry to disturb you, sir. That young trooper Lucas is outside. He wishes to speak to you.’
‘What about?’
‘A personal matter, it would seem. He appears rather agitated.’
‘I’ll leave you,’ said Aiken, making to get up.
Vallon waved him back into his seat. Troopers didn’t speak to their commanding officer in his personal quarters unless summoned. Channels and procedures existed to allow them to bring their concerns to their superiors’ attention.
‘If, God forbid, Lucas is in more trouble, tell him to take his problems to his squad leader. I’m surprised you didn’t point him in that direction yourself.’
‘Yes, sir. I wouldn’t have intruded unless… Very good, sir. I’ll send him away.’
Aiken waited for the man to leave. ‘I meant to tell you. Lucas apologised for his boorish behaviour. He sounded sincere.’
‘I’m glad to hear it.’
‘I still don’t understand why he took against me so violently.’
Vallon wasn’t interested in Lucas. He sank back. ‘Read that last bit again.’
XXVIII
Pomegranate groves and fields of cotton surrounded Khotan, a walled town on the eastern frontier of the Karakhanid empire. It was an important Silk Road trading centre, famed for the quality of its silks and for the green and white jadestone gathered by prospectors in the two rivers that watered the oasis. After settling into the caravanserai, the expedition went into town – Hauk and his Vikings in search of precious nephrite jade, Aiken and Hero to visit an important madrasah. Cities didn’t hold much allure for Wayland and he remained behind. He tended to agree with the Turkmen who said that men who built walls to protect themselves didn’t realise that they were creating prisons.
Raucous cries at evening drew him into the courtyard. Hauk swayed past on horseback, drunk on wine.
‘Feast your eyes on this,’ he said in a slurred voice, holding out a chunk of pale mineral.
‘It looks like a shiny lump of rock.’
Hauk took a long pull from a bottle and hiccupped. ‘That’s all you know.’ He slapped the stone. ‘It’s white jade. Not any old white jade. It’s mutton-fat jade. Only the Chinese emperor is allowed to wear it. Forget the carpets we had to leave behind in Samarkand.’ He slapped the stone again, almost unseating himself. ‘This, my friend, will make me rich if I don’t make another purchase between here and China.’
‘Let me take a look,’ said Shennu, appearing out of the dusk. The Sogdian hefted the lump, held it against the light and rapped it with a pebble. Wayland knew what he was going to say before he said it.
‘You’ve been cheated. It’s serpentine from Afghanistan.’
‘What!’ Hauk bellowed. He snatched at the stone, toppled into the dust and staggered to his feet. ‘Come on, men. We’re going back to the bazaar. I’ll cut the thieving bastard’s liver out.’
Vallon blocked his path. ‘Close the gates,’ he ordered.
Hauk fumbled for his sword. ‘Out of my way.’
Vallon stood his ground and one of Hauk’s more sober lieutenants led the Viking struggling and swearing to his quarters. Wayland hadn’t seen this side of Hauk before and it fed his forebodings. He returned to his cell and was meditating on this and other matters when someone tapped on the door.
‘It’s me. Wulfstan.’
Wayland let him in and fumbled a lamp alight. Wulfstan held what looked like a bolt of whitish cloth in his hands.
‘You’ll never guess what this is,’ he said.
Wayland stroked the textile. It felt cold, heavy and inert. ‘Some kind of coarse silk?’
‘Salamander skin, born in fire and immune to flame.’
‘Hauk showed me his jade. A fool’s born every moment.’
‘All right, it’s not salamander skin. That was just the merchant’s patter. Shennu says it’s a textile spun from rock fibres. The Greeks call it asbestos, meaning “pure” or “unquenchable”. Something like that. It’s used to make royal burial shrouds.’ Wulfstan picked up the lamp and held its flame to the fabric. The material didn’t burn or melt or smoulder. When he took the flame away, it left only a sooty halo. Wulfstan brushed the lampblack away.
‘You see? Flame doesn’t harm it. The hotter the fire, the brighter the fabric.’
‘Are you planning to wear it for your funeral?’
‘Don’t talk soft. I was thinking it might provide pro
tection against Greek Fire. You know what a fickle friend that can be.’
Wayland suppressed a yawn. ‘You made a better bargain than Hauk struck.’
Wulfstan stowed the material under one arm. ‘I didn’t call on you just to show my salamander skin. Hero told me that you mean to quit. That ain’t no surprise. I’ve seen you moping ever since we left Bukhara.’
‘Leave, not quit. I nearly went my own path at Kashgar, where a turning leads south to Afghanistan.’
‘Don’t take it. If the general’s too proud to admit it, I ain’t. We need you.’
‘I suspect Hero put you up to this.’
‘No, he didn’t. It’s the talk of the caravan.’
Wayland lay on his pallet after Wulfstan had left. He didn’t latch the entrance and a breeze slapped the door against its hinges. Zuleyka appeared in the gap, her gown rippling against her body. She beckoned.
‘Come away now. We must leave soon.’
Wayland jerked awake to find the doorway dark and empty.
Next day he explored Khotan. The Muslim Karakhanids had captured it less than a century before and were building mosques on the levelled foundations of Buddhist temples and monasteries. It was still a frontier town, though. Walking down one of the wider streets, Wayland gave way to a mob of Tibetans swinging along like pirates on shore leave – big, black-haired ruffians wearing boat-shaped felt boots and homespun red or black gowns hanging in pleats below the waist, baggy right sleeves dangling loose to leave unwashed arms and chests exposed. Crudely forged swords jostled at their hips and chunky coral and turquoise necklaces chinked against silver amulets containing charms certified by lamas. The Tibetans examined the blue-eyed stranger with unabashed curiosity and went on their way with earth-shaking tread.
In the next street he passed a depot where a Chinese overseer with hands tucked into the sleeves of his gown looked on while a gang of pigtailed menials in short black jackets and baggy trousers gathered at the ankles stacked loads for a caravan. Neither master nor workmen paid him a second glance.
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