The Mongoliad: Book Two

10

The first week, they had covered ground quickly on European horses taken from the Livonians. They had carried some fodder with them. When this ran out, they slackened their pace and gave the horses leisure to forage in abandoned farm fields where wild grain was richly interspersed with the native feather grass. A fortnight into the journey, Vera had guided them to a market town on a great river where they had traded for steppe ponies, which were smaller but capable of traveling indefinitely on nothing but fresh grass-and in fact rejected provender as unpalatable. That was the last place they had seen that could answer to the name of city or town. Vera knew where it was that Raphael wanted to go, but rather than guiding them along a straight course to that destination-a range of low hills east of the Volga-she allowed the horses to trace the invisible boundary between the tall feather grass of the north, where they could enjoy level footing and richer forage, and the spiky bunchgrass that prevailed farther south.

A subtle shift in the ground, the patterns of birds in the distance, a fragrance on the breeze told them that they were descending into the watershed of the great river-the last river of any consequence that, Vera assured them, they would be seeing for a very long time. There were no bridges and no fords; they would have to be ferried across, a fact that obliged them to gather round the fire one night and hold a council of war. The fire was a feeble glimmer, reflecting the lack of trees hereabouts, and Raphael hoped that this was not an omen of what might emerge from the discussion.

It had been surprisingly long since they had all gathered in a circle and faced each other in this way. Proper campfires had been few and far between. The openness of the steppe invited the group to spread apart; at times, their caravan might be stretched out over a mile, while their camp might occupy an acre. Since they could all see each other at great distances, this did not occasion the same concerns about getting lost as would have applied in the forests of the north. A spread-out camp made it easier for the horses to forage. A strung-out caravan would make it more difficult for a Mongol raiding party to surprise and surround the entire group. The Shield-Brethren had had quite enough of one another’s company during the journey from Legnica and felt no need to bunch up. The twelve mounted skjalddis under Vera’s command provided a welcome change in company, and many long marches and evenings in camp could be whiled away in conversation-frequently somewhat halting, given the language barrier-between these two long-sundered branches of the lineage of Petraathen.

At first, Raphael had been dismayed by the number of skjalddis whom Vera had brought, worrying that their numbers would have diminished the ranks of those who remained behind in Kiev, but she had scoffed at his concern, pointing out that thrice this number of Shield-Maidens remained in Kiev. And there was only ever room enough for a dozen on the walls at any given time.

For the purposes of this evening’s council, the twelve Shield-Maidens were posted as sentries, forming a large and loose ring around the fire, about a bowshot in diameter. Only Vera joined the Brethren to discuss the next day’s maneuvers. She sat to the left of Cnan. The Binder had, at first, found the Shield-Maidens impossibly strange and had pointedly avoided their company, but as the weeks had gone by, she had adjusted to their ways and been drawn into their society.

On Vera’s left side was Feronantus. Even more so than usual, the old man had kept to himself during the weeks after Kiev, and Raphael had often noted him riding far out in front of the others. Not, he suspected, out of an intention to scout the way, but because he enjoyed the illusion that he was alone on the steppe. He carried Taran’s sword always, as Percival now carried Roger’s. Cnan had remarked on this during the journey, and Raphael had explained to her that each man was honor bound to bring his fallen comrade’s weapon back to the hall of arms at Petraathen to be mounted alongside those of other Brethren who had fallen in battle over the ages. “Then we had best stop losing people,” she had remarked, “or the survivors will have to carry an insupportable burden across half the world.”

Percival sat left of Feronantus. Small sideways movements of the latter’s eyes reminded Raphael of the strange tension that had existed between these two men since the vision, hallucination, or angelic visitation that Percival had experienced on the day of Taran’s death. Percival himself was oblivious to this. For a fortnight after Roger’s fall, he had spoken barely a word to anyone, ranging far off to the caravan’s flanks, staring into the distance, mourning and thinking.

Thinking, as Raphael could easily guess, about his quest, and the folly into which it had led him, and the consequence of that folly.

Of the surviving Brethren, only Raphael knew about Percival’s quest. Percival had first mentioned it in the presence of Vera, Raphael, Roger, and Illarion. Roger was now dead. Illarion had decided to stay behind in Kiev. His health had not fully recovered. His country was calling to him; he felt that he could strike a harder blow against the Mongols by remaining there, regaining his full strength, and confronting them directly rather than taking a chance on surviving the trek to the Great Khan’s capital. So the only witnesses to Percival’s odd behavior concerning the quest were now Raphael and Vera, and since Vera had not known Percival before, it meant little or nothing to her.

Continuing around the circle leftward, then, the next was Eleazar, who was relaxed and happy, as he had been enjoying the company of the Shield-Maidens almost too heartily for a celibate monk. Then Yasper, bored and morose. In the aftermath of the cave fight, they learned that the Livonian leader-the one named Kristaps-had escaped from the tunnels by returning to the monastery near the river, emerging from the well house, and stealing Yasper’s horse, which had been laden with all of the scraps of metal that the alchemist had been patiently assembling for his still-making project, as well as a jug of aqua ardens. Since then, of course, they had seen nothing except open countryside, and Yasper had been reduced to the status of a mere herbalist. Next to Yasper was Istvan, somewhat pointedly placed directly across the fire from Feronantus so that the two men could look each other in the eye over the flames. Then Raphael, then Finn, then R?dwulf.

Finn and R?dwulf had only just arrived back in camp with the gutted corpse of a small antelope slung over the back of a spare pony. They had been absent for two days. Finn, never one to sit still during a solemn discussion, busied himself butchering the animal. Raphael tried to prevent his mouth from watering as he thought about the roasted meat they would be enjoying later. The steppe was replete with small burrowing animals that were hardly worth the effort expended in catching them. It was becoming increasingly obvious why the Mongols derived so much of their diet from mare’s milk. Antelope meat, stringy and gamy though it might be, was a delicacy.

“We are pleased to help you eat your bycatch,” Feronantus said, “but this is not the game you were hunting for, is it?”

Finn, perhaps not trusting himself to interpret the dry humor, pretended not to hear, and so eyes moved to the face of R?dwulf.

“I saw him clearly,” the Englishman announced. “As you all know, I scoffed louder than any of us when Finn told us, a fortnight ago, that he had seen a man tracking us and recognized him as the grizzled Mongol who eluded us after the fight that killed Taran.” For they had made a habit, all during the journey, of letting Finn range across the countryside in their wake, secreting himself in covert places to look for any who might be pursuing them. “But I have seen him now, and there is no mistaking his gray hair. It is the same man. I have apologized to Finn for doubting him.”

“How close did you get to him?” Feronantus asked. The others were all letting out exclamations of surprise, but he still needed convincing. Or perhaps, Raphael realized, that was what a leader must do: play the role of skeptic even when-especially when-all others had swung round to a shared opinion.

“Well within a bowshot.”

“A Mongol’s bowshot, or-”

“Mine.” R?dwulf could shoot an arrow a long way.

“Did you consider taking the shot?” Feronantus asked, with the faintest trace of a smile.

“Of course,” R?dwulf said, “but he knew where I was.”

“Still, you could have shot him!” Istvan blurted.

R?dwulf’s eyes swiveled to study the Hungarian. “It was odd, to my mind, that the man allowed himself to come within my range.”

“Have you an explanation for this oddity?” Percival asked.

“I do,” R?dwulf said. “I think that he is unfamiliar with the characteristics of the Welsh longbow and the arrows that we use.”

“He thought he was safe,” Feronantus said.

R?dwulf nodded. “I could have disabused him,” he said, “but the wind was swirling, and-”

“If you had missed,” Percival said, completing his sentence, “you would never have been given another chance.”

A silence ensued, broken only by the snap and hiss of the fire and the swift, slick movements of Finn’s knife through the antelope’s carcass.

“What are we to make of this Graymane and his dogged pursuit of us?” Raphael asked finally.

Feronantus looked mildly annoyed and did not answer immediately. Of course, this was precisely the question on his mind.

“He is a man of some authority,” Feronantus said, “or else he would have gone immediately to his superior and handed the matter off to him. Instead, he devotes weeks to following us, studying us. Why?”

“He wants to know what we are about,” Raphael said. “We have aroused his curiosity.”

“And perhaps he has his own reasons for traveling to the East,” Eleazar suggested.

“Further evidence, if true, that he is a man of some consequence in the councils of the Mongols,” Feronantus said.

“It is a fine riddle,” Vera said, “and pray enjoy it at your leisure. I must know whether you wish to cross the Volga tomorrow or not.”

“If we cross over,” R?dwulf pointed out, “then Graymane will suspect that our errand must lie far to the east.”

“Oh, I think Graymane knows that already,” Feronantus said. “No. The journey already drags on far longer than I had hoped. We cross over with no further delay. And if Graymane follows us, then we set a trap for him-and this time R?dwulf lets his arrow fly.”

It did not happen as quickly as Feronantus had hoped. The larger settlements along the river, where ferries were easy to come by, were garrisoned by the Mongols, and so two days were lost in scouting up and down the Volga’s bank to find a way across. Vera’s second-in-command, Alena, located a fishing village whose inhabitants were willing to ferry the party and their horses across the river in exchange for a tariff that Feronantus claimed to find shocking. But the Shield-Brethren had made it obvious that they were trying to hide their movements from the Mongol authorities, and so it was inevitable that they would end up paying dearly. Rather than paying double to ferry the Shield-Maidens over as well, and then paying yet again to bring them back a few days later, they made the decision that Alena would remain with the other women on the river’s west bank and await the return of Vera.

In truth, Vera was of little use to them once they had reached the eastern bank. Her fluency in Slavic languages had, of course, been indispensable near Kiev, and her expertise in the geography of the steppes had seen them to the great river more quickly and safely than they’d have been able to manage on their own. But she and Alena had been able to communicate with the fishermen only with great difficulty, and they had finally resorted to drawing figures in the dirt. The few locals on the eastern bank who were willing to come anywhere near them were of another race altogether and did not speak a single word of Russian, Greek, Latin, or indeed any of the languages of Christendom.

Cnan identified them as a sort of Turk and found a way to talk with them. Her skills had been of little use to the group during the journey from Kiev, and she had become little more than a shadow following in the wake of the company. Now, once again, they were unable to continue forward without her assistance. Raphael found himself to be inordinately pleased by this turn of events, realizing he had come to enjoy Cnan’s presence when she was an active part of the company.

“You know what I am looking for,” Raphael told her as they approached a small settlement of such Turkic-looking people, “so feel free to ask whenever you sense that the time is right.”

A long conversation followed, in the hut where the headman of the village lived. Cnan served as translator for Feronantus and Raphael. Or that was the plan going in. But after a few initial pleasantries, she stopped translating altogether and would sometimes speak to the headman for as long as a quarter of an hour without bothering to turn round and say a word to the knights. It was obvious, however, from tone of voice and facial expressions, that she was busy satisfying the chief’s curiosity and assuaging his concerns about this armed band of Frankish interlopers who had just presented themselves on his doorstep. So Feronantus did not bristle but merely sat still, looked formidable, and behaved himself.

Raphael, with nothing better to do, doodled on a blank page of the book that he carried with him as a sort of diary and sketchpad.

Finally, Cnan turned and addressed them. “I think it is safe now to ask him.”

She spoke in Latin, and her words-as Raphael saw, when he looked up from his sketching-were directed at him. Surprised, he gave a little shrug and glanced at Feronantus, who nodded.

Cnan turned back to the headman and spoke to him for a little while, and in that speech, Raphael thought he heard words very like Khazar and Jew, Ibrahim and Musa-words that he had been hoping would be known to the natives of this land.

The chief responded immediately. Cnan turned to Raphael. She almost never smiled. But she was smiling now. “He says that they are not all dead yet,” she announced, “and that he can show us the way to where they live. In exchange for a small consideration, of course.”

“Of course,” Feronantus said.

At a certain point, perhaps three centuries ago, the Khazars had converted to Judaism. Lacking rabbis, they had sent some of their young men down into Jerusalem, Baghdad, and Cairo to study at the great yeshivas. The intention, of course, was that they would return home once they had completed their studies. And, indeed, that was how it happened during the first century or two, when the Khazars’ empire had stood at its zenith. But the decline of their power had led to gradually increasing emigration and reduction of the populace.

Jewish Khazars, dispossessed of land by the empire’s shrinkage and decline, or simply feeling insecure about the stability of the place, had traveled south with what possessions they could carry. The tiny colonies of Khazari rabbinical students in the great cities of the west and south had swelled into neighborhoods, clearly defined at first, but growing more diffuse with time as the descendants of the first waves of emigrants had intermarried with the indigenous Jews. Still, they could be identified, if you knew what to look for, as a small but distinct minority.

During his travels through the Islamic world, Raphael had seen traces of them as far west as al-Andalus. In Toledo, he had befriended a young man of Khazari descent named Obadiah. Raphael’s curiosity about the Khazars’ past had earned him an invitation to Obadiah’s home for a Passover seder at which he had plied Obadiah’s incredibly ancient great-uncle with endless questions. From this and other researches, he had learned that the Khazars’ wealth and power had derived largely from their position astride the Silk Road and that, during their heyday, it had been considered no great thing for a Khazari trader to range over a territory bounded on the east only by the ocean that washed the shores of China and on the west by the capitals and trading cities of Christendom. They had been so pleased to meet a young Christian who actually cared about their history that they had, in truth, burdened his mind with far more information than he really desired. For Raphael, in those days, had been curious about everything, not just the Khazars, and Obadiah had been only one of a number of friends he had pestered with innumerable and sometimes impertinent questions.

Recently, though, he’d had cause to wish that he’d consumed a little less wine at that seder and listened more carefully to Obadiah’s great-uncle. For the company of Shield-Brethren had a problem, which was that summer was already drawing to a close, and still they had a vast distance to cover and little time in which to cover it. Without Cnan’s guidance, of course, they would have traveled even more slowly. But even with her help, they were not moving nearly fast enough. Raphael had conceived an idea that they might get across the steppes more quickly and more safely if they could form some sort of alliance with traders going into the East to trade for silk. People, in other words, who actually knew what they were doing-who took those routes routinely, for a living.

So it was that, the day after the conversation in the hut, they rode up a winding path into dark hills that brooded over the east bank of the Volga. They were dark because they actually had trees on them-not everywhere, but in their declivities and on sheltered slopes. The few people eking out livings in those hills were a far cry from the generally prosperous and well-fed urbanites Raphael had known in his youth, but certain details in their appearance, their clothing, and their language made it clear to him that he was looking at the last of the Khazars and that this godforsaken range of hills was the rump of their empire, the final refuge into which their beleaguered ancestors had retreated hundreds of years earlier. Like everyone else, they must be paying tribute to the Mongols, but the Mongols seemed to be leaving them alone, and no wonder, since the wooded hills were not well suited to their ponies.

Vera pointed out that she had ceased to be useful to them some days ago and was about to become a positive impediment, since if these Khazars knew anything of their own history, they would remember that women of her order had marched in the invading army of Sviatoslav.

Feronantus reluctantly agreed and detailed Finn, R?dwulf, and Eleazar to escort her back to the bank of the Volga so that she could buy passage across and be reunited with Alena and the others. The rest of them said their good-byes, and Raphael found himself powerfully affected, knowing how unlikely it was that he would ever again look upon this handsome woman with whom he had fought back-to-back in the tunnels. They embraced front-to-front, and then he turned away from her before the pain in his face became too obvious.

That contingent rode away in the company of their guide, who had been paid the agreed-on amount by Feronantus.

Feronantus, Raphael, Istvan, Yasper, Percival, and Cnan now began what they assumed would be a slow and halting project of making themselves known to, and trusted by, these last remnants of the Khazar Empire. Even Raphael, who had come up with the idea, gave long odds that it would work. But they had to cross through this territory, or other territory like it, in order to get where they were going anyway, and they could not move too quickly lest they make it impossible for Vera’s escort to reconnect with them. No harm in being friendly with the locals en route.

They came upon a hill-bound village of scattered huts and even a few grand log houses, with great central halls, the moss and decay of which spoke hauntingly of lost glory. Cautiously, they made their way to a central square and arrayed themselves around a stone-faced well, to be unavoidable and yet demonstrate they meant no harm. For a time, the inhabitants kept their distance, perhaps remembering the Varangians who had once harried their towns-but need finally drove them in.

They were a picturesque lot, with broad, flat faces not unlike the Mongols themselves, though wearing long black robes with gray-and-silver embroidery over gray loose pants, and broad-brimmed fur hats. The women wore white-and-gray and dun skirts, long and full, and their blouses were adorned with luxurious sable-thick, well cured, and neatly sewn. Some were bold enough to display, as they drew water from the well in wooden buckets, ornate gold torques and other jewelry that Raphael recognized as Greek in craftsmanship but Scythian in design.

Working in concert with Cnan, who knew how to make herself understood (for the Khazar language was yet another Turkoman dialect), Raphael began attempting to strike up conversations with old men whom he guessed were rabbis, showing by various gestures of respect that he knew a little of these people, their history, and their religion and that he’d had friendly dealings with some of their long-lost cousins in the Diaspora. At first, he received very little response, which was to be expected, but on the third night of their sojourn, he was at last invited into the well-kept home of a rabbi of some importance, who had traveled to Jerusalem and Baghdad and who could speak Hebrew and Arabic. Raphael spoke a few words of the former and was reasonably fluent in the latter, and so it was now possible to have something like an actual conversation. The great bulk of this was given over to pleasantries and chitchat, but at the end, Raphael was able to make some allusion as to their errand: they sought assistance in traveling far into the East, preferably as quickly as could be managed.

The rabbi seemed to find this interesting but had little to say about it. Which was to be expected, and which Raphael considered to be excellent progress for one evening. More importantly, they were now offered hospitality, and some social presence, for this rabbi presided over the synagogue and invited them to make themselves comfortable in an old disused house. Some great family had abandoned it centuries ago and moved to Antioch or Jerusalem, and the locals had been using it as a barn. After their many nights under the sweeping starry sky, having a log-and-wattle roof over their heads-even though knocked through with holes and packed with starlings, who peppered them with droppings-seemed like luxury.

The next day, Finn and R?dwulf and Eleazar caught up with them and reported that they had seen Vera to the river and observed her journey to its opposite side in a fisherman’s boat. A prearranged smoke signal proved that she had reconnected with the other Shield-Maidens. They had retraced their steps up into the hills with care, leaving Finn behind in places of concealment to look for any persons who might be tracking them. Finn had seen nothing.

That evening, a longer discussion took place, with Raphael now serving as an interpreter between Feronantus and the rabbi-whose name was Aaron. Again, much time was expended on pleasantries, and Raphael had to bridle his impatience by reminding himself that if they could strike some sort of deal that would get them into a Silk Road caravan, it would save them many weeks of aimless travel in bitter country. They crept infinitesimally closer to explaining what it was that they really wanted. But it was plain from the look on Aaron’s face and the nature of his questions that he was baffled by these Franks and their inexplicable desire to range far into the East.

The next day was spent as they always spent rest days, in mending their equipment, looking after their horses, and obtaining the necessaries for the next leg of the journey. Rabbi Aaron had gone on a journey of his own-since rabbis were scarce, he had to range across a fair territory-and so they dined in their house on food purchased from local hunters and went to bed early.

The following day, Aaron came back to town in the company of a relatively prosperous-looking Khazar merchant and let it be known that they would continue the discussion that evening.

The affluent merchant-it was too much of a stretch to describe him as rich-seemed to be just what they were looking for in the way of someone who knew his way around the caravan business. Little happened during their first encounter, the purpose of which, evidently, was to give this man-whose name was Benjamin-an opportunity to size up the mysterious Franks. But it was clearly a propitious sign that the rabbi had bothered to summon such a person, and so they bided their time and redoubled their preparations the next day.

That turned out to be the Sabbath, and so nothing at all happened, but on the morrow, Rabbi Aaron and Benjamin turned up at their house in the middle of the day, seemingly eager to continue the discussion.

And that discussion went quite well for about an hour. At which point Vera, covered with blood and bandages, staggered through the open door, lurched into their midst, and collapsed on the floor.

Once they had recovered from their astonishment, all rushed toward her to see what was the matter. On her shoulder and arms and one leg, she was swathed in mud-spattered and bloody bandages. She waved them away, though, and insisted they go outside first and tend to Alena.

Alena was sitting on an exhausted Mongol pony, hunched over, shivering uncontrollably, though the afternoon was warm. Percival and Eleazar carried her down as gently as they could, then brought her inside and laid her on a pallet so that Raphael could get a look at her. She too had been wounded in several places, and the wounds crudely bandaged. Raphael was disturbed by one in particular, a deep puncture of the arm, obviously made by an arrow, which had suppurated. Alena’s skin was marked by three distinct red lines that originated at the wound and ran up toward her armpit. Raphael had seen such marks before. They did not bode well.

“What are you doing on this side of the river?” Cnan was asking Vera. “Where are the other Shield-Maidens?”

“They are all dead,” Vera muttered, her jaw aquiver, and so exhausted she could barely force out the words. “As soon as we began the journey west, we were ambushed by a force of Mongols.”

“How many?” Istvan asked.

“A jaghun-one hundred men,” Vera said. “Though they are fewer now.”

“Do you think it was an unlucky chance?” Feronantus asked. “Or…?”

Vera shook her head. “They were lying in wait for us,” she said. “And their commander was the one you call Graymane.”