James Heneage - The Towers of Samarcand

The door of the ger flew open and Gomil strode out, his deel flying behind. He wrenched the reins of his horse from a rider and vaulted into the saddle. ‘What are we waiting for?’ he barked, swinging round. ‘We go to Karamanid territory. So keep your bows strung.’

Luke looked across the saddle at Arkal. She shrugged. ‘I heard my parents speak of it,’ she whispered. ‘He’s been told to marry a girl from the Karamanids.’

‘The Karamanids ?’ said Luke. ‘But they’re your enemies!’

‘It’s come from Yakub,’ she said. ‘He wants an alliance.’

‘With Allaedin ali-Bey? They hate each other!’

Arkal shrugged again. ‘Who can tell these things? But Gomil must go and inspect the girl and not give offence. They say she is ugly.’

Luke looked at the riders, a mass of furred flank muscle in dust shot through with sunlight. The smell of horse rose all around him. He felt bereft.

I want to ride .

Arkal was watching him. So was someone else. Luke felt it. He turned towards the shaman’s tent. The girl was standing in the shade of a horsehide, her body quite still. She was watching him without expression.

Arkal spat on to the ground. ‘She is no good.’

‘She saved Tsaurig’s life.’

The girl grimaced, shaking her head. ‘The spirits saved my brother!’ she whispered. ‘She had nothing to do with it.’

*

Three weeks later, Gomil had still not returned and his father stood in daily vigil on the escarpment above the camp. The chief’s son had taken twenty of the best warriors with him and the tribe should have left for summer pastures by now.

Luke was polishing the dragon pommel of his sword, sitting cross-legged before his ger. It was mid-afternoon but the sky was dark and bruised with storm. The animals in the pens were tense, their ears pricked and their noses lifted to the scent of danger; they sensed something coming in on the wind. Luke saw them stamp and move together, searching for the comfort of touch, the fear sweeping over them, stiffening the hair on their coats. A fleck of rain stabbed the side of his cheek. He looked up to the rolling tide of cloud and saw the the first stab of lightning break.

He glanced around. Women were gathering looms and pushing children before them into the tents. Men were checking ropes and driving pegs further into the ground.

‘Lug!’ Arkal shouted. Tsaurig was holding her hand, dragging her towards the safety of the ger. ‘Come inside! This one will be fierce.’

Luke looked at the sky. It was almost black now and darts of rain were hitting the ground around him. He looked towards the shaman’s tent and saw Shulen standing halfway up the hill behind it, staring up at a tree, arms outstretched as if in greeting. A flock of crows exploded from the tree.

Lightning struck again and the tree burst into flames, sending sparks high into the sky. She was still looking up at it, her caftan clinging to her body.

‘ Shulen! ’

She was too close to the tree. Flaming debris was falling all around her.

‘ Shulen! ’

She turned and stared at him.

He looked up at the tree. Bigger branches were beginning to come apart from the trunk, each a blazing torch that crashed to the ground in fountains of fire. At any moment, she would be struck. Luke ran through the gers, vaulting the ropes in his way. Then he was running up the hill. There was a crack and a branch landed next to her. The tree was going to fall. Luke reached her, and threw himself forward. They rolled together down the slope as the tree fell above them, sparks flying over the camp to land on the roofs of the tents. A dog howled and ran in circles.

Suddenly Luke was angry. ‘You can speak, damn you!’ he yelled at her through the rain.

She was still in his arms but her body was limp. She looked at him, a slight frown breaking the dirt on her brow. Luke saw that her skin was scorched from the heat. He turned her face to the rain and the water ran down her cheeks and through her hair. He picked her up and began to make his way down the slope, her head against his chest, her long hair heavy on his forearm. He felt the tide of her breath hot upon his skin. Lightning struck again.

Inside her tent, it was the same as before: rows and rows of herbs laid out on the ground to dry and the fire burning something scented which gave off a light smoke. The old man lay on his bed and didn’t stir as they entered. Tallow candles were lit.

Luke set Shulen down on her pallet and turned to stoke the fire. He looked back. She was watching him, her head thrown to one side, hair spilt across the lynx fur like ink. Steam rose from the folds of her tunic. He studied the face that was not like other women’s in the camp. It was longer, softer, more subtle, not of the steppe. He put down the iron and went over to her. He sat down and felt the fur beneath his palm. The smell of herbs and other essences seemed stronger where she lay.

‘Shulen,’ he said softly, ‘I know that you’re not the shaman’s daughter. You’re not his daughter and you’re not of this tribe. You choose not to speak. Who are you?’

She reached out a thin hand and placed it on his forearm. The fair hair was still wet and she raked her fingers through it. She looked beyond him and smiled as if at some memory. Then her eyes came back to his.

‘I am what I am,’ she said. ‘I am yours.’

Luke frowned. ‘You’re not mine and you’re not theirs. Are you here to help me?’

‘As you have helped me.’ The hand on his forearm travelled to his shoulder. It was a caress. She traced her fingers round to the nape of his neck and, bringing his head down to hers, kissed him on the brow. It was more a breath than a kiss. ‘I am yours.’

Luke closed his eyes. The smell of the herbs was overpowering, reaching into his brain. There was a humming in his ears and his skin seemed to lift from the bones beneath to be nearer to her. He was overwhelmed with longing for this thin, strange girl. He remembered another time, another place.

You can, Luke. And you must .

Fiorenza. He had been drugged then. Part of someone else’s plan. Was he drugged now? He opened his eyes and pulled away. She was frowning at him, a question in her eyes.

‘Is this Omar’s doing?’ he asked. ‘Is that why I am here in this tent? Didn’t he tell you about Anna? I am not yours, I’m hers.’

It was said more roughly than he meant it. But he’d so nearly succumbed, so nearly betrayed Anna a second time. He rose and shook his head to clear it. He walked to the door and heard the rain on the other side, drumming its rhythm on the wood. He glanced back. The inside of the ger was lit by lightning and it caught her eyes, illuminating them like a cat’s. She wasn’t just not of this tribe; she was not of this earth.

He pulled the door open and stepped outside. Rain hit his head and shoulders and he looked up at it, welcoming its force. Then he was running.

*

In Konya, Allaedin ali-Bey, chief of the Karamanid tribe, lay sprawled across an extravagance of cushions.

It was night and the same storm that had afflicted the Germiyans had moved south and was now poised over the city of Konya where Omar lived. Lightning strikes lit up the domes and minarets of this holiest of cities and the thunder echoed through its streets like a warning.

But no sound could distract the eight men who swirled before their ruler. Like dizzy crows, the dervishes turned and turned, their eyes closed, their long black skirts rising and falling with the motion. Their bare feet wove patterns on the patterned floor and the tall black hats on their heads remained perfectly still.

Allaedin yawned. He was a man of professed devotion but this nightly performance by Rumi’s disciples was trying. It was the anniversary of the saint’s death and Konya was full of earnest men making pilgrimage to his tomb. That night, Allaedin’s only entertainment was in counting how many of them were asleep when lightning lit the room.