Most of his companions had left the previous day. As soon as they were gone, Brother John had vanished into the bowels of the Temple of Zoroaster and was yet to come out. Hugh wouldn’t be surprised if the young man became an initiate. Before he left, Godfrey had refused to speak to or even look at his former novice.
“Shameless apostate,” the old friar mumbled. “Accursed and abandoned by God. His soul will come to the fire.”
He also parted on bad terms with Hugh, whom he blamed for refusing to help him save Brother John’s immortal soul. Hugh exchanged warmer farewells with the Saracens and the Cypriots.
“We will crack a cup together in Acre, one day,” Maymun said with a grin as the two men shook hands. “I know a little backstreet tavern where they serve decent wine of Gascony, smuggled in by a merchant friend of mine.”
“I look forward to that,” replied Hugh, and meant what he said. Maymun’s strong, capable presence had been a comfort to him on the long journey to Maragheh and would be sorely missed.
Hugh was left alone in his chamber for the best part of the day. He was just starting to wonder if his request had caused offence, when Rashīd pattered into the room.
“His Majesty has accepted your petition,” he said, “though I had much work to persuade him. Fortunately he is in a good humour, otherwise you might have found yourself loaded down with chains after all.”
Thus, Hugh found himself riding east in the company of General Samaghar and a thousand Tartar lancers. Swift riders went ahead of them, to summon more horsemen and the Rumis from the Seljuk sultanate; the sultan, Rashīd explained to Hugh before he left Maragheh, was under the heel of the Tartars. He was obliged to supply fighting men whenever the il-khan demanded them or else lose his head.
The Tartar host gathered a new miles north of the Syrian border. Hugh had seen military camps before but was impressed by the speed and discipline with which the Tartars assembled. They pitched camp on a broad, flat piece of ground defended by a fast-flowing river to the south. Some of the Rumis were set to work, digging a ditch to guard the other three sides of the camp. Others threw up a palisade of logs, cut from a nearby wood, or worked to dig latrine pits.
Thousands of men came streaming into camp. After three days the place was all noise and stench and bustle, though never chaotic. Tartar discipline was severe. Hugh witnessed men flogged for minor offences, such as neglecting a piece of gear or watering their horses in the wrong place. The officers seemed to be in a permanent bad mood, forever cuffing their men or bawling in their faces. Thankfully Hugh couldn’t understand a word.
The treatment of the Rumis was even worse. These men were despised, given the worst of rations, generally treated like animals. When a few of the latrine-diggers tried to desert, Samaghar sent a band of horsemen to fetch them back. They were dragged back on the end of ropes, stumbling in the dirt, and begged for their lives before the general, weeping and casting dust on their hair. Samaghar spat in disgust and had them all beheaded. Afterwards their heads were impaled on stakes in front of his tent as a warning to others.
Hugh judged Samaghar to be an efficient brute. The general, who spoke no English, paid little attention to his hostage. He had more important matters to attend to and wasted no time in leading his army over the Syrian border. Hugh, with his two Tartar guards either side of him, was allowed to ride at the very tail-end of the long column of riders.
The Tartar host rolled south, like a storm, driving all before it. After a day and a night in the saddle they arrived before a walled town, defended by a strong castle on a hill. Samaghar sent riders forward to demand the city’s surrender. They were greeted by a hail of arrows from the ramparts. One of the envoys was shot from the saddle; the others fled back to the army.
Hugh saw Samaghar swell with anger, like a furious toad. The Tartar general snarled orders at his captains, who sent gallopers flying up and down the line.
Now Hugh witnessed at first hand the fury of the Tartars. Hundreds of horse-archers swarmed forward and unleashed a constant stream of arrows over the wall. The sky turned black with deadly, whispering rain, dropping on the heads of the defenders. Within minutes the battlements were swept clean of living men.
Some of the mounted archers leaped from their horses and ran to the foot of the wall. They carried ropes and grappling irons and flung these onto the rampart. The most agile men climbed swiftly up the wall and ran for the gatehouse. There was none to stop them, and within moments the gate came crashing down over the ditch.
Samaghar gave the signal. His heavy horse now rumbled into life. Company after company of heavy lancers thundered towards the open gateway, even as the horse-archers charge inside to begin the butchery.
Hugh had no desire witness the sack. He heard and smelled it, the screams and the fires and the acrid stench of smoke. Samaghar let his troops do their worst and sat down to a meal while the town was given over to pillage and slaughter.
Like many Tartars, Samaghar had a taste for strong drink, and soon he and his officers were rolling drunk. They laughed until the tears ran down their faces, played dice, and sang war-chants in deep guttural accents that sounded barbarous to Hugh’s ears. Two men quarrelled over their game of dice and started to wrestle in the dirt, clawing at each other’s faces. Samaghar almost fell off his stool laughing at them, until Hugh though the big man might have a seizure. Instead his laughter trailed off into a violent coughing fit. When he had recovered, Samaghar mopped his brow and shouted for more wine.
Hugh sat apart from the merriment, alone save for his two watchdogs. He chewed on a bit of salted meat and sipped a cup of salted tea, wincing at the taste. It was at least kinder on Hugh’s delicate stomach than airag, the other Tartar drink, made from fermented mare’s milk.
His guards were two silent young men, members of Samaghar’s personal guard. They had hard faces, despite their youth, and Hugh was more than a little afraid of them. He had met enough killers – he was one himself – to recognise the type. They watched him like a couple of owls, stern and unblinking. Hugh didn’t even bother to try and talk to them.
One of the guards now extended his arm in the direction of the burning town. The screams had stopped about an hour ago, mercifully, which Hugh took to mean the Tartars had killed everyone inside. They were on their way to invade Syria, so there was no point taking slaves.
“’Ayn Tab,” the young Tartar growled, deep in the back of his throat.
Hugh took this to be the name of the town. He wondered if the guard was testing him and chose not to rise to the bait. Instead he fixed his gaze on the fire.
The guard nudged Hugh’s leg with the toe of his boot. He grunted something which made his comrade snort with laughter.
Hugh looked up in annoyance. He would not be mocked by these people. “What is it?” he demanded. “You don’t speak my tongue, and God knows I don’t speak yours, so we may as well sit in silence. Unless you prefer to make hand gestures at each other?”
He put down his cup of tea and waved ironically at the Tartars. They stared at him without a trace of amusement.
After a moment the one who spoke slowly drew his knife from its leather sheath. Hugh watched him carefully. They were quick, these men, but he was quick too. If the man sprang at him, he would find Hugh ready.
The Tartar held up his knife. Firelight reflected in the steel heart of the blade. He suddenly pointed it at the town, and then at Hugh’s breast.
Hugh gently laid a hand on the pommel of his own knife. “Put it down, my friend,” he said calmly. “Or you and I will have a problem. You seem a bright lad. I’m sure you understand my meaning.”
He appreciated the Tartar’s crude message. Today my people have destroyed a town and slaughtered the inhabitants, down to the last child. They were our enemy. You are our enemy.
The Tartar winked at Hugh, spun the knife in his hand and slid it back into the sheath. Then he poured himself another cup of airag from the jug and held it up in an ironic toast before gulping d
own the contents. His comrade sniggered again and mumbled something that made them both laugh.
Hugh smothered his anger. He knew their game. They were trying to provoke him, so they could explain to Samaghar that they had killed his valuable hostage in self-defence. Yet Hugh had done nothing to earn their hatred. Perhaps they resented being forced to serve as glorified bodyguards to some despised foreigner.
As honourable warriors, Hugh was reasonably certain they wouldn’t murder him in his sleep. Even so, he resolved to sleep light, and with his weapons close to hand. If it came to a fight, he would have to hope his cleaver – as Maymun called it – was equal to the kilij.
*
The Tartars swept on, leaving a trail of fire and destruction behind them. Hugh at least had some idea of where they were headed. Before he left Maragheh, Rashīd had informed him of Samaghar’s instructions.
“His Majesty has ordered the general to ride south for Aleppo,” said the interpreter. “The city is currently in Mamluk hands. If – when – our men take it, that will be the first stage of the conquest of Syria. Aleppo will be garrisoned and used as headquarters for the next stage.”
The plan seemed logical, though Hugh didn’t like the term ‘conquest’. Abaqa was supposed to be sending aid to the Christian states, not taking the land for himself. All his old suspicions were confirmed. The il-khan meant to exploit the Christians and use their weakness to his own ends.
For the present, there was little he could do about it. His guards stuck too close to him, waiting for the slightest excuse to slit his throat. Somehow Hugh would have to slip free and make his way back to Acre. Edward had to be warned of the treachery his so-called allies had in mind.
A week after crossing the Syrian border, the Tartars reached the outskirts of Aleppo. They found the suburbs deserted, as the people had already fled for refuge to the city, taking all their goods with them. Samaghar had the houses and shops fired, to leave no obstacle between his army and the city walls.
To Hugh’s eyes, Aleppo looked a fearsomely strong place. The ancient city lay on the left bank of a wide river and was surrounded by a rough circle of eight hills. The prominent central hill rose higher than the others and was guarded by a strange kind of fortress. It was more like a fortified temple, similar to the Roman ruins Hugh had seen at Tyre, only more complete and on a much larger scale. There were nine strong gates, each defended by guard towers, and the city was encircled by a broad, deep ditch.
“Your general hasn’t got a hope of storming Aleppo,” Hugh remarked cheerfully to his guards. “He needs siege engines, and he didn’t bring any. Cavalry are no use against those high walls. Looks like we’re in for a long siege.”
The pair of young Tartars just glared at him. They might not speak English, but the mockery in Hugh’s voice was easy to understand. He winked at the one who had threatened him with a knife; as if to say, one day, my friend, you and I shall settle our differences.
As it turned out, Hugh was wrong. One of the Tartar scouts spotted that the nearest of the city gates stood ajar and ventured closer to investigate. Together with a comrade, he managed to push the gate inward, to find the streets inside deserted. They raced back to inform Samaghar, who rode forward himself to investigate.
Aleppo was empty of life. The citizens had simply abandoned the city and fled, presumably deep into Mamluk territory to the south. Tartar soldiers wandered the eerily silent streets or searched the buildings for plunder. There was little of value to be had; any portable goods had been carried away, leaving only the bare walls and furnishings.
Hugh explored a couple of houses and found a silver penny dropped in the corner of an upstairs bedchamber. It was stamped with an image of two kneeling figures on one side, a man and a woman in royal dress, and a lion rampant on the other. He squinted to make out the inscription round the edge, which read:
HETOUM REX
King Hetoum. Hugh knew the name. Hetoum ruled the Armenian kingdom of Cilicia, also called Little Armenia, somewhere beyond the mountains north of Syria. Little Armenia was neither rich nor powerful, so Hetoum had wisely submitted to the Tartars. He was also a friend to the Christian states, if not a very useful one.
Hugh took the find to be a good omen. He tucked the coin into his purse and clattered down the stairs, whistling, to find his watchdogs waiting for him at the doorway. Feeling bold, he blew them a kiss and strode outside.
The Tartars didn’t linger at Aleppo. Samaghar left a small garrison to hold the city and drove onwards into a vast river valley, stretching south for miles. The valley was sparsely populated, and the few empty hamlets and farmsteads soon went up in flames.
It was impossible to live off the land, since the people had burnt their crops and taken any livestock with them when they fled before the Tartar advance. Hugh reckoned the host still had enough supplies to last another week, but Acre was still over two hundred miles away. If the Tartars meant to push on and join Edward before turning to fight the Mamluks, more supplies would have to be found.
Samaghar appeared to realise the problem and halted to talk with his captains. Hugh watched the council of war, held on horseback. It was brief and dominated by the general’s harsh voice. After a short time his captains dispersed and galloped back to their squadrons.
Horns sounded, and several companies of Rumis, Turkic horse-archers, left the main army and rode away south under a cloud of dust. The rest of the Tartars followed at a slower pace. Hugh guessed that the Rumis had been sent on ahead to scout for the enemy and look for food.
The Tartars moved deeper into the valley. It was really a broad expanse of low-lying marsh and water meadow, bordered by ranges of hills on either flank, barely visible under banks of white mist. The land was quiet and dotted with more ancient ruins. Hugh marvelled at the tumbledown remains of ancient temples and colonnades, marching rows of broken pillars among piles of scattered debris and stunted walls.
A land of the dead, he thought.
He shivered. The air seemed to grow cold, and he could imagine the misted valley haunted by the spirits of ancient gods. Once powerful, they were long deprived of human worship and reduced to pitiful shades, mere whispers on the wind.
Father Godfrey, of course, would argue they were never anything more than agents of the Devil, sent to corrupt men and lure them into sin.
“There is only one God,” the elderly friar had often remarked during the long journey to Maragheh. “It is our task to bring His light to dark places.”
Hugh remembered these words as he gazed at a massive colonnaded avenue, a mile or so to the west. It was larger than most abbeys he had seen, and even now the broken columns had a certain splendour, standing defiant against the relentless waves of time. If these were the works of the Devil, then he had some mighty engineers.
Another three days passed. The Rumis returned, obviously with good news, since the Tartars resumed their usual lightning pace. They swarmed down the length of the valley, which gradually started to narrow. Samaghar sent the Rumis on ahead, and a couple of hours later Hugh spotted wisps of black smoke on the horizon. The slave-soldiers had found something worth burning.
The Tartars pushed on eagerly. Hugh sensed a new excitement among their ranks as the heavy lancers spurred into a gallop. Some of the men around him started to make a keening noise in the back of their throats, the prelude to slaughter. Swept along in the rear of the column, flanked by his guards who tied their reins to his, he had no choice but to follow. His horse, Flight, surged under him, sleek muscles bunching and contracting as she sped along.
Then Hugh saw them; scattered horsemen reeling back from the south, two score or more. Rumis in full flight. They pelted back towards the main host, hunched low over their saddles, crying out in terror.
After them came a forest of lances. Hugh’s eyes widened as he took in this new host of armed riders, armoured horse-archers and lancers in red tunics. He had seen such warriors before, gathered on the plain outside the walls of Acre; Mamluk cavalr
y, hundreds of them, galloping straight at the Tartars.
Samaghar was not one to resist a challenge. The horns wailed, and the onrushing Tartar host split smoothly into three divisions, one in the centre led by the general in person, the others spreading out to cover his flanks. Hugh found himself on the left wing, thundering along in the last but one rank, sword in hand, heart in mouth.
The Mamluks were less than a hundred paces ahead. They closed rapidly, Hugh counting madly under his breath. Eighty, sixty, fifty. Now he could see their faces under the leather caps or steel helms, bearded and contorted, teeth bared as they couched their lances. While the lancers charged home, the horse-archers swerved aside and unleashed a hail of arrows at the Tartar flanks. Samaghar’s mounted bowmen responded in kind.
A fresh burst of horns sounded in the west. Hugh’s head whipped to the left. Horror surged through him as he saw another band of horsemen charging out from the mist. The Mamluks had used it as cover to outflank the Tartar host.
“Beware!” Hugh screamed, his voice lost among the horns and the war-cries and the ear-splitting thunder of hoofs. “Beware, in God’s name – turn about! Look to the left!”
The warning was futile; nobody could hear him and wouldn’t understand even if they did. His guards at least had seen the danger. They screamed at each other and at Hugh, who roared back at them.
“Slow down, you whoresons!” he cried. “Tell your friends to look sharp, or we’re done for!”
Too late. The Mamluk charge was perfectly timed, and simultaneously hit the Tartars front and flank. For a brief, dizzying moment Hugh lost all his bearings. He tried to swerve Flight to the left, only to meet his watchdog coming the other way. Their horses crashed together, screamed, reared up on their haunches, forelegs flailing. One of Flight’s hoofs slashed the Tartar’s face open. He plunged sideways out of the saddle, both hands clapped to his ruined features.
Hugh almost lost his seat as well, but managed to get Flight back under control. He slashed at the reins tying him to the now-riderless horse. The other Tartar locked an arm about his neck. Hugh caught the flash of a knife just in time, and caught the other man’s wrist as he tried to drive the blade into Hugh’s eyeball.
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