His eye was naturally drawn to the figure on the plinth. Abaqa was a small man with an oversized round head, dressed in an ankle-length purple kaftan, a cloak of red silk and pointed black slippers. On his head he wore a golden coronet, and his little hands were folded over a slight paunch.
The il-khan beamed down at his guests. He had a firm mouth, currently smiling, and an extraordinary type of beard: the moustache was clipped to two points, and a thick, plaited braid extended from the end of his chin halfway down his chest. His eyes were small and hard and difficult to read. This made for a stark contrast with Hugh’s master, the Lord Edward, whose moods and thoughts were usually written all over his face.
At the foot of the plinth stood a tall, well-built man in early middle age. He wore an orange tunic and black breeches, and a sort of white turban. Hugh noted the look of keen intelligence about him.
Spymaster and advisor, thought Hugh. Or something similar. I’ve seen his like before.
The man was first to break the silence. He steepled his fingers under his chin, bowed his head and signalled at the English to come forward.
“Please,” he said. “Approach the dais and bow before His Majesty. You are most welcome.”
He spoke perfect English in a high, sing-song accent. Hugh gave Brother John a wry look.
“It seems your presence here is not required after all, master of languages,” he said. John scowled and refused to answer.
The captain of their escort grunted at his men, who stamped aside to allow the envoys to approach the dais. Godfrey and John went first, followed by Hugh and the Saracens in double file. The Cypriots, who weren’t important enough to attend, had been taken down to the palace kitchens. Hugh imagined they were already sampling Tartar cuisine and wished he could join them.
“My name is Rashīd al-Dīn Ṭabīb,” said the interpreter with another of his amiable smiles. “I am chief scribe and advisor to His Majesty, Abaqa Khan. He bids me greet you in his name. You are here, we understand, as envoys of the Lord Edward, son and heir to the illustrious Henry, King of England.”
His awareness came as no surprise. Hugh knew the Tartar escort had sent riders on ahead to Saturig, bearing word of the Christian embassy.
Father Godfrey bowed, and held out his bundle of vellum scrolls. “We honour your royal master,” he said formally, “and thank him for the courtesy of his welcome. Alas, we lost a member of our party on the way, but God looked kindly on the remainder. We humbly ask His Majesty to accept these letters from my master, the Lord Edward.”
Rashīd clapped his hands, and another man came scurrying from the crowd behind the dais. He was young and plump and anxious and wore a plain black kaftan. Hugh judged him to be a clerk.
The interpreter smiled at Godfrey, took his letters with a bow, then handed them to the clerk. Rashīd murmured something in his own tongue, and the clerk flickered away, bowing as he went.
“We shall, of course, read the letters in due course and give them our full consideration,” Rashīd said smoothly, switching back to English. “We understand they contain details of an offer of alliance from your master. Abaqa Khan desires me to say that he is flattered and wishes for nothing but love and good fellowship with the noble Lord Edward, whose fame has reached even our humble dwelling.”
Hugh looked around him. The hall was at least as big as the royal hall at Westminster in England, and every bit as magnificent.
Humble dwelling, he thought sardonically. There is nothing humble about this il-khan and his people, and rightly so. They are wealthy and powerful. Edward was right to seek their friendship.
“Your lodgings are prepared,” Rashīd added. “His Majesty begs you to enjoy the fruits of his hospitality. Tomorrow evening you shall hear his decision. Until then, rest and amuse yourselves.”
The summer palace was a place of marvels. Though forbidden to venture outside, Hugh and his companions were free to wander the enclosure.
Hugh preferred to explore the palace alone. His mind struggled to absorb the splendour and complexity of it, and he had no words for anyone who wished to accompany him.
He paced the walkway of the massive oval wall and the ramparts of the bastion towers. From talking with Rashīd, Hugh learned the wall was ancient.
“It was built by the Sassanids,” the interpreter told him, and smiled at the vacant look on Hugh’s face.
“The Sassanid empire,” he continued, “was the last great kingdom of the Persian empire before the rise of the worshippers of Mohammed. Sassanid kings built many great cities and palaces like this one. They fought the Romans, and the Arabs, until finally their realm was crushed by the legions of Islam.”
He gave a little sigh and tucked his hands into the full sleeves of his caftan. “The tides of war and time. They wash over all in the end.”
Hugh had no interest in the Tartar’s philosophy and resented his patronising tone. Yet he could not deny his own staggering ignorance. What did he truly know of the world, beyond the borders of his own cold little country in the North Sea? Every day he spent in the East was a revelation. He could sense the restrictive barriers of his mind crumbling under the weight of new information, fresh experiences.
He thanked Rashīd and spent the rest of the day wandering about the palace grounds. Hugh felt tiny and insignificant, a mouse creeping about the works of higher beings. The core of the palace itself lay inside the southern part of the oval, and the entire complex was oriented in a south-southeast direction, apparently to catch the sun. Hugh stopped to marvel at the west iwan, one of the four that guarded the enormous central courtyard.
The iwans were rectangular halls, vaulted and walled on three sides, their gateways decorated with bands of script written in a strange language, tiles glazed with all kinds of patterns. He gazed at stars worked in gold, complex intertwining shapes that hurt the eye to look upon too closely, along with more familiar imagery such as hunting scenes in the forest or horsemen locked in combat.
The Tartar guards at the gate showed no interest in Hugh. He walked through the long portal and came to the inner courtyard, which was dominated by a huge man-made lake, lined on all sides by a covered arcade. In the middle of the lake was a small island, occupied by a tiny version of the palace. A small party of Tartar noblewomen were being rowed across to the island in a longboat, laughing and chattering among themselves. Servants and clerks bustled past Hugh, sparing him not a glance.
“A glorious place, is it not?”
Maymun had appeared at Hugh’s elbow. He had swapped his mail for a Tartar kaftan of red silk and looked perfectly at home in his surroundings. He would, Hugh suspected, make himself look at home almost anywhere.
“The palace is grand,” Hugh agreed, “and I thank God for granting me the chance to see it.”
“But you don’t want to spend a moment longer here than necessary,” said Maymun with one of his brief smiles. Hugh was unnerved, and a little irritated. The Saracen had a worrying knack for reading his thoughts.
Hugh moved a little closer to him. “Perceptive as ever,” he said in a low voice. “I don’t like the feel of this place, Maymun. Something is wrong here. We’re being watched.”
“Abaqa’s spies dog my footsteps,” Maymun said indifferently. “They are clumsy, some of them. I am sometimes tempted to turn round and give them a fright.
“That Rashīd is a clever fellow,” he added. “It wouldn’t surprise me to learn he sent the worst of his men to follow us, knowing we would detect them. Meanwhile his real spies hide in the shadows.”
“An old trick,” said Hugh. “My late master in England used to employ it. Sometimes the old ways are the best.”
“Just so,” replied the other. “Be on your guard, Longsword. A knife in the back is no way to go. Speaking for myself, I prefer to look into the eyes of the man who kills me.”
He strode away then, whistling under his breath. Hugh could only smile when he recognised the tune as The Song of Roland. Despite himself, he couldn’t help b
ut like Maymun.
Rashīd was true to his word. Shortly before dusk, while Hugh was still walking around the shores of the lake, a Tartar scribe came hurrying up to request his presence in the great hall. This man, Hugh was unsurprised to learn, also spoke good English.
He followed the scribe back to the domed building. To the west, the sun was a ball of fire, slowly sinking behind purple mountains. Hugh was reminded of how far he was from home, and a great ache passed through him. It would be late summer in England now, fading into autumn, his favourite season. There was a strange excitement about an English autumn, even though it was the dying of the year. He remembered how the chill made his blood pump faster, and the beauty of the red-gold leaves as they carpeted the earth. He could have wept.
It would not do to weep before the il-khan. Hugh buried his desolate longing for home and rejoined his companions in the green-tiled antechamber to the hall. Maymun and his Saracens were there, as well as the two friars.
“Well,” Hugh said to the Dominicans, “how have you enjoyed the hospitality of the Tartars? At least our heads are still attached.”
Godfrey was in no mood for jests. “This fool of an apostate,” he said, scowling at his colleague, “has fallen in love with this latter-day Sodom. He wishes to stay here, among these filthy heathens. Can you credit it?”
Hugh put a finger to his lips. “Lower your voice, father,” he murmured. “Our hosts have been polite so far, but they might take offence at being called the spawn of Satan. Remember what these folk are capable of.”
He pointed at one of the larger of the glazed tiles on the walls. It showed Tartar horsemen sweeping through the wreckage of a city. The corpses of women and children lay strewn at their feet, while fires raged merrily in the background. In one corner a Tartar chieftain sat cross-legged under a tree before a pile of severed heads, taken from slain enemy warriors. Behind him a line of miserable captives were being dragged away into slavery.
“Savages,” Godfrey muttered. “Filthy barbarians. The sooner we are away from here, the better.”
Hugh noticed the flash of anger that passed across John’s face. The boy had indeed fallen in love with Maragheh and its mysteries. If he wished to stay, and spend his life among the Tartars, Hugh was not inclined to prevent him. He had a greater chance of happiness here than back in England, eating his heart out in some cheerless monastery.
Soon there was the clash of a gong from inside, and the double doors were pushed open by the sentries. Once again Hugh stepped inside the vast chamber, his footsteps echoing on the tiles. As before, the hall was thronged with Tartar lords and ladies, and Abaqa sat perched on his throne, a little man on a high seat, beaming down happily at everyone.
Rashīd was also in place at the foot of the plinth. His hands, plump and heavily beringed, held Edward’s letters against his chest.
“Honoured guests,” he said, “we are pleased to inform you that His Majesty, Abaqa Khan, has graciously considered your noble master’s offer of alliance against the false slave of evil spirits who calls himself sultan. Baibars, let his name be cursed forever more, his flesh burnt in eternal fires, his soul roasted in the lowest pits of Hell.”
Hugh waited, hardly able to breathe. This was the vital moment. He looked up at Abaqa, who resembled one of the statues of Buddha: benign, smiling, apparently lifeless.
“After talking over the matter,” Rashīd continued, “we have on our account resolved to despatch Samaghar, one of our generals, at the head of a mighty force to aid the Lord Edward in his valiant fight.”
Hugh breathed again and swayed on his feet as all the tension went out of him. He forced himself to remain wary. There was no guarantee of the il-khan’s good faith, and this might all be some foul trick. Men of power like Abaqa could change their mind in an instant. A single word from him, the flick of a finger, and Hugh’s blood might yet stain the tiles.
The statute on the plinth finally showed a twitch of life. Abaqa lifted his left hand slightly and snapped his fingers. In the stillness of the hall it sounded like the beat of a drum.
A man stepped forward from the crowd of nobles. He was burly and bow-legged, his face heavily scarred, and looked uncomfortable in his yellow silk kaftan and fur-trimmed robe. Hugh, who knew a born soldier when he saw one, judged this to be General Samaghar.
The general waddled closer and glared at his master’s guests, weighing each up in turn. He saved Hugh for last. Samaghar’s eyes were like a couple of chips of marble, small and black and without a trace of humanity. They seemed to drill into Hugh’s soul, hunting out signs of weakness.
Rashīd’s smooth voice seemed to fill the hall. “The general will take command of over twenty thousand horsemen and lead them into northern Syria. Our men shall drive the Mamluks before them like sheep, onto the lances and swords of the knights of Outremer.”
The interpreter raised his right hand, palm outwards, and slowly closed it into a fist. “Our combined forces shall crush Baibars in a vice. His slave-warriors shall be whipped all the way back to the borders of Egypt where they belong. Together, my friends, we shall restore the glory of Jerusalem and rescue the Holy Sepulchre.”
For a price, Hugh silently added. The Tartars, for all their occasional interest in Christianity, had no reason to care for the fate of Jerusalem.
He chose this moment to speak. “What does your master ask of us in return?”
Rashīd smiled gently at the bluntness of the question, while Father Godfrey gave Hugh a furious glare. Hugh cared little for the friar’s anger. He was tired of all this horse-trading and wanted an end to the business.
The interpreter put his hands together, as if in prayer. “Plain speech deserves a plain answer,” he said. “In truth, Abaqa Khan desires nothing but friendship with the noble Lord Edward, and the other Christian princes of Outremer. Friendship and mutual aid. After all, we have a common enemy.”
Hugh sensed the implication. Until Baibars was defeated, the Tartars would ask nothing of the Christian states beyond mutual assistance. If and when the Mamluks were driven out of the Holy Land, the terms of the alliance might change.
He could only wonder at the terms Abaqa meant to extract as the price for his aid. With Baibars gone, the Tartars would be left as the supreme power in Outremer. The il-khan might choose to enslave the Christians or wipe them out. It would be his choice.
“In the meantime,” Rashīd went on, “my master does require one guarantee of good faith. A mere necessity. He begs you not to take offence.”
Hugh braced himself. Abaqa meant to show his teeth after all. “Name it,” he said.
“His Majesty requires hostages,” came the reply. “Two of your party will remain here while the others return to Acre.”
He held up his plump hand, heavy with rings. “Have no fear. We plan no treachery. Those who choose to stay will enjoy the best our poor hospitality has to offer. They will be released as soon as His Majesty is informed that the noble Lord Edward agrees to his terms.”
This was an unexpected blow and implied more to Abaqa’s terms than he was prepared to admit in public. That, at least, came as no surprise.
“We had not planned on leaving any member of our company behind,” said Father Godfrey. “Yet we quite understand your master’s concern. The exchange of hostages is also a custom in our land.”
He looked thoughtfully at Brother John, whose face had turned red.
“If my colleague is willing,” Godfrey continued, “then perhaps…”
His colleague’s eyes glimmered with tears. “Thank you, Father,” John said with almost pathetic gratitude. “I would be honoured to remain here, for as long as necessary.”
“Very well,” beamed Rashīd. “One hostage is agreed upon. My master requires a second.”
Hugh sighed inwardly. The Tartars required a Christian hostage, and one of some standing: Maymun and his warriors didn’t count, let alone the Cypriots. Father Godfrey clearly had no desire to linger in a place he regarded as the Dev
il’s playground.
“I am the second,” said Hugh.
11.
On the cusp of October the Tartars swept into northern Syria, ten thousand armoured horsemen and Rumis slave-soldiers. They carried fire and sword deep into Mamluk territory, wasting the land and driving the terrified people before them.
There was no resistance. Several towns went up in flames, abandoned by their garrisons, who fled away to the south. The Tartars gave chase and took a large number of prisoners. These men were made to kneel and then beheaded, their bodies left to rot.
Hugh rode with the Tartars. As a hostage, he should have stayed at Maragheh, or wherever the il-khan wished to move his court. The prospect of spending months cooped up in some remote palace in the mountains, cut off from events, near drove him mad. He begged Rashīd to ask Abaqa to let him go with the army.
At first the interpreter was reluctant. “What if you were killed, Master Longsword?” he said, “A dead hostage is of no value.”
“If I stay here,” Hugh replied. “I will beat my brains out against the wall of my chamber. I swear I will do it. Unless your master wishes to load me down in chains, day and night, and have me spoon-fed like a baby.”
For the first time in their brief association, Rashīd looked mildly vexed. It passed within seconds.
“Very well, Master Longsword,” he said. “You are a stubborn man, I think, and I wish there to be no bad blood between us. I will petition His Majesty on your behalf.”
He held up a finger. “On one condition. Perhaps you may ride with General Samaghar but take no part in any fighting. If Abaqa Khan agrees, I will arrange for two horsemen to escort you at all times.”
This was the best Hugh could hope for. He stayed in his chamber, an elaborately furnished room on an upper floor of the palace, and waited patiently for a response.
Holy Warrior Page 11