The Medieval Murderers - The Lost Prophecies

‘I would just have to recommend you?’

He was imagining clear profit for no effort; for just being a figurehead. He thought I needed him more than he needed me, and that it was he using me, not the other way around. And so he was eager. I even toyed momentarily with the idea of doing an honest deal with him. It might have worked, after all. But I didn’t consider it for very long. Why work hard to gain a fraction of the amount you can grab with just a little subterfuge? As a token of my false honesty, I gave him back the dagger I had won from him. It was more ornamental than practical, anyway. He grinned widely, showing yellowed teeth, and accepted the gift. But then he grimaced.

‘There’s only one problem.’

‘A problem?’

‘Yes. I am not going to Sarai with good news, so I will not be the best of partners. Besides, I would advise you to seek your fortune in Cathay. There is a far greater prize to be had there. Ask the old man. He’s been, and knows the score.’

Eldegai jerked his thumb over his shoulder, and I looked over to where Sartakh stood. I could see he was talking to the other old Tartar.

‘He knows. I have spoken to him of the riches that await anyone in Cathay. Once my message is received in Sarai.’

The wind takes on a different character. Instead of gusting, it now becomes a persistent howl that tugs at the whole structure of the stove-house. We all instinctively huddle closer together despite the uneasiness surrounding the Tartar’s death. Someone in the room has murdered him. And I am no nearer to working out who. For the time being I remain the chief suspect, and at least one of these Tartars will be happy to see me dead. The real murderer, that is. The logs that make up the framework of the stove-house creak in protest at the battering from outside. Out of the corner of my eye I see a Tartar reach up and dab some kumiss on the felt doll on the shelf over his head. It’s the one called Tetuak. The doll is an image of the Tartars’ god, Tengri. Making an offering to Tengri betrays the fact that Tetuak is obviously very nervous. He sees me looking at him and masks the fear that shines from his eyes. He grabs the skin from me and takes a slug of the kumiss with a show of bravado that only serves to amuse me. It reminds me of how his boasting also amused Eldegai.

The stew had been eaten by all but the fastidious Eldegai, and once again the kumiss sack was circulating. We were in for a long night, and the Tartars fell back on what all warriors do to pass the time. Bragging of past deeds.

‘I have crossed the Great Desert of Lop,’ averred the boastful Tetuak, seeking in others’ eyes the awe that feat should occasion. ‘They say there are sirens there, which can lure you from your path, leading you astray to a place from which you will never return alive.’

‘All the more reason to pay attention to your companions and stick together,’ observed Eldegai with a smile. ‘If you believe such nonsense.’

Another man would not have risen to the bait. Tetuak, however, could not leave it there, and retorted with what would turn out to be an ominous comment.

‘Lucky that you found us, Eldegai, or you certainly would have perished in this blizzard. Death was at your heels.’

No one knew then how unfortunate those words were to prove. Murder was merely hours away, and the victim’s only epitaph was Taulubeg’s uncharitable next words, as he looked over at Eldegai, the outsider, sitting on his own.

‘Saved by us, but still avoiding the common herd.’

‘Enough.’

Sartakh’s reprimand was sharp and abrupt. He had a look of concern in his eyes. The arrival of Eldegai in our midst had soured the mood of the little band of Tartars, but he was still Sartakh’s responsibility. In his impromptu role as host, it was he who had welcomed Eldegai to his fireside. But the man had made himself unpopular with everyone, and a sullen hesitancy gripped the camp. It was Karakuchuk who broke the awkward silence.

‘Sartakh is right. We are stuck here until this storm decides to release us. Let’s make the best of it. After all, we have another skin of kumiss to get through yet.’

He tossed a skin from his own saddlebags into the centre of the floor, where it wobbled enticingly, announcing its fullness. The old-timer himself tipped the dregs of the previous skin down his receptive throat, gargling on the milky brew. The new skin began its rounds of our eager hands, and my perception of the evening became as hazy as one of those winter peasoupers that fog out Venice so much you can’t even see the other side of the Grand Canal. Did I say evening? With no windows in this damned hut, there was no way of even knowing what time of day it was outside. And I didn’t know how long we had been cooped up together. We were suspended in a fog of timelessness. We drank.

Suddenly something caused me to wake up. A voice, a gurgling sound – I don’t know what it was that roused me from my drunken stupor. But something woke me, and I threw the goatskins back that I had pulled around me. The cold air struck me hard, like a blow in the pit of my stomach, and I wrapped my fur jacket around me tightly. The room was dark, and I realized there was no rosy glow from the stove. No one had attended to the fire recently, and it was nearly out. I pushed myself up from the floor, keen to keep the embers in the stove going. It would take a great effort to relight it, if it died. My belly was suddenly eager to throw back up the kumiss I had drunk last night. I swallowed hard against the stale, sour taste, quelling the queasiness, and longed for a good red wine. Belching acidly, I laced up the front of my new, thick leather boots. They were the Tartar pair I had won off Eldegai last night. If indeed this was now morning. My old boots had been worn quite through, as I had bought them years ago from the little cobbler in the San Silvestro district of Venice. Old times, good times.

I stood on legs as wobbly as that fresh skin of kumiss had been last night before we had all emptied it down our throats. Why did my head ache more than it had a right to? Sudak had turned me into a seasoned drinker of rot-gut, but this brew seemed to have had a strong effect on me. And looking around, an even worse effect on everyone else. All I could see in the darkness were bodies, scattered over the floor like the aftermath of a battle. But unlike a scene from a military disaster where not a breath passed dead lips, here stertorous snores emerged from several mouths in a tuneless counterpoint of noise. I began stepping over bodies. One I recognized as Kyrill from the tangle of his beard – the Tartars were mostly hairless on their chins. I went to step over another recumbent figure face down on the ground and tripped on the fur-trimmed edge of his robe. As I fell, my hand went out to save me, and it encountered something wet and sticky on the hard-packed earth that formed the stove-house floor. I prayed it wasn’t the man’s regurgitated horsemeat stew from dinner. It wasn’t, it was worse than that.

When I cautiously sniffed my besmirched hand, I smelled a familiar odour. Metallic, coppery. It was blood. I knelt beside the body I had stumbled over and turned it over. It was Eldegai. I could see that his elegantly decorated outer jacket was matted with black blood. His normally ruddy face was pallid and wax-like, his bloodless lips curled back in a fixed scream of horror. But more shocking were the eyes. They were gone, apparently gouged from their sockets.

I heard someone gasp behind me.

‘Demon.’ It was Ulan, who had just seen what I had observed of the damage to Eldegai’s face. ‘Only a demon would do such a thing.’

I groaned at the Tartars’ fierce superstitions. First off, Eldegai himself had been dubbed a demon by Ulan. Now he was saying Eldegai had been killed by a demon. Maybe he thought that demon was me. Ulan’s cries seemed to rouse the rest of the sleepers, who voiced their horror at what they saw. For a moment the room was a turmoil of groans and guttural sounds. Then it died away, and I looked up to find the Tartars all staring at me with suspicion. But then, what would I expect them to think? Here I was kneeling over Eldegai’s mutilated body with his blood all over my hands. This didn’t look good for me. The tension in the air was palpable, and Taulubeg spat out something unintelligible. Father Kyrill quietly crossed himself and muttered a prayer. I had been in worse fixes and survived. But not much worse. My brain started racing. I pointed to Eldegai’s chest.