The Medieval Murderers - The Lost Prophecies

As I bend forward to pick up the kumiss sack, something digs into my ribs. I finally recall the Black Book of Brân that was to have been my passport to Sarai, and the prediction that I found in it. The one that jumped out at me, as if it wanted to be read. Doesn’t it say something about demons and Tartars? I slide the book from the folds of my jacket. The cover is dark and shiny in the firelight, and it feels warm and alive in my grasp. Flipping through the pages of prophecies, I find the quatrain in question:

Tartarus’ hordes irrupt through Alexander’s gate.

Six Christian kingdoms crumble in a breath.

Though Latin traders use long spoons to eat,

It won’t protect them from a demon’s death.

I once joked about these prophecies and denied their significance. Now, in the straits I find myself, this particular one isn’t so ridiculous. Its import doesn’t seem to bode well for me. The first two lines are now clear enough. The West’s first sight of the Tartars has been when they surged through the Pass of Derbend between the Caucasus and the Caspian Sea – the so-called Iron Gates of Alexander. And there must have been at least six dukes, princes and other assorted nobles who died in the Battle of Liegnitz alone. As for the last two lines, any other reader could take them as a general warning about consorting with the devilish Tartars. Usually, these prophecy books addressed the grand affairs of kings and nobles, their issues of state and world-shattering events. Not the meddlings of little men like me and you. But these lines are uncannily accurate. If I am the Latin trader, then this old monk Brân is saying I will be involved in a demon’s death – Ulan has called Eldegai a demon, after all. On the other hand, he may be suggesting I myself, in the guise of Zhong Kui, would die a ‘demon’s death’.

I shudder, even though until now I reckoned I didn’t believe in mad prophecies. This stuff all seems too accurate to be scorned as nonsense now, however. Anxiously, I flip the handful of pages over, but none of the other prophecies makes sense. I look at the last quatrain, perhaps in the vain hope that there is a happy ending. I notice there is a gap between the last two verses, bigger than that between all the others throughout the book. This final set of verses, written in the same hand, seems different somehow. It is expressed in a more modern style, though still in Latin. It seems to me as though whoever has copied the original verses has had a yearning to sneak his own predictions in with the older ones. But was not bold enough to include them fully with the original predictions. These lines are smaller and more discreet:

Though portents dire do fill with dread

And great significance implanted here,

Take care to always use your head,

Seek out the lie, for then your way is clear.

I peer closely at them, and smile. I grab the sack of kumiss and drain the slimy dregs. The words of the anonymous scribe have just given me an idea. And all this talk of demons means that a plan is beginning to form in my mind.

For its climax, I will need the services of the Russian priest. Any con artist needs a good accomplice – a ‘shill’, we call them – and the more trustworthy he is, the better. Well, who could be more trusted than a priest? Normally, the shill purports to be a complete stranger, who just happens to be passing by, when the con man is sucking in the victim. This chance stranger confirms what is being said by the con man and apparently goes on his way. That wouldn’t entirely work in the circumstances, but Kyrill arrived at the stove-house before me, and the Tartars know we are strangers therefore. What greater confirmation could the sting’s victim have of the con man’s tale than from the mouth of a priest? Kyrill has already innocently affirmed his credentials as a man of God. Now I will have to risk bringing him into my confidence. In the meantime I will play it by ear, setting the mood. I turn to the group of sullen Tartars and smile confidently.

‘Do you remember when Eldegai first arrived? Ulan, there, thought he was a demon. Then later Tetuak spoke of the sirens of the Great Desert of Lop. That they sometimes seize the horse and leave the rider. But sometimes they also rip the bowels out of the rider and leave the body on the horse. Of course, it wasn’t a demon riding in – it was only Eldegai. Just another traveller, like us. And he wasn’t dead. Then.’

Sartakh mutters a clearer translation of my poor mixture of Turkic and Tartar to his compatriots. Their eyes widen, and Ulan throws a sharp comment back. Sartakh translates for me.

‘He says, then do you think Eldegai was killed by a demon?’

I’m not sure if Ulan is entirely serious, but all the Tartars appear to be hanging on my response. The storm wind rises, spattering a swirl of hail on the outside of the shelter. It sounds as if something intangible is scratching at the walls, seeking to enter. The young Tartar named Tetuak draws a sharp breath and glances nervously over his shoulder. All this talk of demons is getting to him. I’m glad – that is what I am playing for. I want the Tartars to be fearful and open to suggestion. Kyrill casts a look of godly disapproval my way, which I ignore, and press on.

‘I cannot say, but all this talk of demons reminds me of a story I once heard of creatures at the furthest edge of the world who have no neck or head. Their faces are in the middle of their chests. I would not like to come across them on a night like this. Maybe then I would be convinced. Of demons. Have any of you ever come across such monsters in your travels?’

As Sartakh translates the story, I am aware of a communal shudder that runs through the little group. The very idea of headless men is horrific to them. They shake their heads in denial of ever having seen such monsters. But I can see it has stirred their fears and fevered imagination, which is my intention. It is Karakuchuk who now responds to my uneasy story of headless monsters. I don’t fully understand what he says, but I will tell it to you as best I can with only a little of my own embroidery.

‘I have seen monsters,’ he says.

Karakuchuk is as old as Sartakh but a little more reserved. He has hovered on the edge of the group most of the time. That he should speak up so readily is a surprise. Maybe the eerie quality of the setting – all of us trapped by the storm with a body bundled up in the darkness outside, and talking of demons – maybe it has sparked off his recollection. Whatever it is, his face, normally squashed and wrinkled due to his lack of teeth, becomes animated and alive.

‘It was a long time ago, when these things were more common than now. After the campaign in India, in the time of Chinghis’s son. As we returned through the wastelands, we came across a tribe of women whose men were in dog’s form.’

The other Tartars cast sidelong glances at Sartakh – he of the reputedly canine hearing – and grin. But this is no snide joke at Sartakh’s expense. Karakuchuk is in earnest.

‘I saw them. Dark-skinned, hairy women, they were, in the village that we occupied. And no sign of ordinary men. The men-dogs ran in packs, and I saw them attack one of our men and kill him. We tried to shoot them with our arrows, but they had rolled in freezing water, and their pelts were coated with ice. It rendered our arrows harmless. We ran after them, but they were too swift, and ran off into the night.’ He shudders. ‘We left there pretty soon afterwards.’

I would not have taken old Karakuchuk for a coward. Nor for someone who could not see that the menfolk of the village had merely disappeared into the wastelands for safety when they heard that the Tartars were coming. Still, I had not been there when the pack of dogs attacked. Maybe I would have believed the stories too, in the circumstances. He shuffles to the back of the group once more, brooding. There is an awkward silence.