Authors: Robert Lyndon
Toghan indicated right. ‘On that side.’
Wayland stood, lifted Toghan from his seat and placed him by the door. ‘Start from the moment you entered the property. What did you see?’
‘A luscious garden and the mansion behind it, slave quarters and stables to the left, the harem to the right.’
‘Separated by walls.’
‘Yes. The harem has its own courtyard.’
‘How will we enter?’
‘Over the outer walls.’
‘What’s beyond them? You mentioned a canal.’
‘No canal on that side. Just fields.’
‘How high are the walls?’
‘Not so big.’
One thing Wayland had learned during his employment in the sultan’s court was that the Turkmen had no common scale for measuring. They could spot an enemy two miles away, but they couldn’t agree on the exact distance. Point out a falcon seen close up and they’d declare it was an eagle. Show them an eagle a mile away and it was a hawk or falcon. Wayland had a dozen words for raptors, whereas the Turkmen had only three, meaning big, middling and small respectively.
‘Are the walls higher than the ones surrounding this ribat?’
‘Smaller.’
‘Twice my height?’
Toghan’s gaze roamed. ‘Yes. Twice as tall.’
So any height between ten and twenty feet. Ropes and grappling hooks would be needed.
‘You said the approach was clear.’
Toghan’s manner became evasive. ‘I couldn’t ride all the way around the house. It would have made the guards suspicious.’
‘That was going to be my next question. How many armed men?’
Toghan didn’t hesitate. ‘About a dozen.’ He tossed a hand. ‘Flabby bullies. Three of us could slaughter the whole household.’
‘Killing isn’t our intention. Our goal is to get Zuleyka away without hurting a soul. You’re right about one thing, though. There’ll be three of us. You, me and Lucas. Plus the dog. We’ll do it tomorrow.’
Toghan’s laugh drifted into a wistful register. ‘Can’t I kill the overseer?’
‘No, you can’t. Steal Zuleyka from under his nose and you’ll inflict a sore that will never heal. Rub more dirt into the wound by suggesting that we bribed him to turn a blind eye to our entry.’
Toghan doubled over in husky laughter. ‘How clever you are.’
How stupid, Wayland thought.
The guard at the Samarkand Gate watched Wayland and his two conspirators as they approached, leading a spare horse and with the dog tucked in behind. Wayland continued talking to Toghan in Turkic, sitting his horse in the slouched yet elegant posture that signified a lifetime spent in the saddle. The Turkmen clothes he wore and the indigo turban swathing his yellow hair couldn’t disguise his foreign ancestry. His eyes, blue as the hottest part of a candle flame, betrayed his northern origins.
The guard stopped them. ‘Who are you and where are you going?’
Wayland answered, running a rosary through his fingers. ‘We are the trusted agents of Mohamed ibn Zufar of Samarkand, may the blessings of God be upon him.’ He cocked his finger at Lucas. ‘We’re escorting this infidel to his new owner. I purchased him at the slave market four days ago, along with that horse.’
The guard walked around all three riders before facing Wayland again. ‘When did you join your master’s household?’
‘Eleven years ago. I was captured at Manzikert aged sixteen. Defeat in that battle was my spiritual salvation. Through my master’s teachings I embraced the true religion, thanks and praise be to God the most high exalted, the creator of the world and the knower of hidden things.’
The guard looked at Toghan.
‘He’s very religious,’ the Seljuk confided.
The guard stepped back as if piety might be contagious. ‘Pass in peace and may your journey be an easy one.’
Toghan burst into laughter when they reached the open road. ‘That was a cunning touch.’
Wayland urged his horse into a trot. ‘We’re leaving a trail. He’ll remember our passing and will testify against us when the time comes.’
The evening sky had separated into charcoal and vermilion when they rode past the mansion. Wayland took in the salient features of the compound with a couple of glances. Its walls were higher and thicker than Toghan had described, and there was no cover to hide their approach. They trotted on until the sun went down and then they lay up in a mulberry grove. Bats flickered through the branches. A rind of moon hung low in the south. Out on the plain a lion’s roar shivered the night.
Wayland settled himself. ‘Muffle the horses’ hooves,’ he told Toghan. ‘Wake me at the deadest hour.’
He watched the stars in their orbits, wondering what Syth would make of this crazy adventure. That wasn’t hard to answer. He flinched as he imagined her batting her hands against his chest.
You left me and our children to imperil yourself for a gypsy dancer.
‘It’s not like that!’
He gasped against a muffling hand. ‘Hush, Lord. There’s no space on earth so distant that a cry doesn’t enter.’
Wayland prised Toghan’s hand away and blinked awake.
‘Time to go,’ Lucas said.
On padded hooves the horses approached the mansion. A furlong short of it, Wayland left the road and detoured through a field of alfalfa until the compound bulked over him. He slid to the ground, listening. Frogs burped in the waterway behind the house. Jackals snarled and yipped in the distance.
He crept up to the wall. Eighteen feet high at least. ‘You’re sure we’re at the right spot,’ he murmured.
‘Yes,’ Toghan hissed.
‘Let me go in,’ Lucas whispered.
‘Watch the horses,’ Wayland said.
‘But I should be the one who sets her free.’
Wayland grabbed a bunch of Lucas’s tunic. ‘You promised to do what I told you.’
‘Sorry.’
From his saddlebag Wayland drew a rope with two iron claws spliced to one end. He swung it in circles and lobbed it over the ramparts. The clatter when the claws hit the baked mud on the far side made him wince. He listened for sounds of alarm. The frogs went on croaking. The dog looked at him, panting.
He drew in the rope and the claws bit into the parapet. He pulled with all his strength and the anchor didn’t shift. ‘Keep it taut,’ he told Toghan.
He spat into his palms and walked himself up the wall, reaching the top with chest heaving and arms burning. He lay flat on the parapet and conned the layout. Toghan hadn’t got it wrong. The space below was a garden courtyard, the women’s quarters to the right. Not a light showed in the building or anywhere else. Somewhere a fountain tinkled.
He craned back. ‘Toghan.’
‘Lord.’
‘We’ll need you to help haul us up.’
The rope jarred as Toghan heaved himself to the top. Wayland produced another clawed rope from his pack, hooked it over the outer face of the wall and dropped the free end into the courtyard.
‘Make sure it doesn’t work loose.’
He let himself down the rope. His confidence grew when he reached solid ground. He listened again then stalked towards the door of the harem. This was the part he couldn’t plan for. Zuleyka might be confined in a cell deep within the compound. If she was, he wouldn’t have time to find her before his forced entry roused the whole household.
He prowled the harem walls, listening at each shuttered window, picking up no sound at one, a pleasant female purring from another.
Looking back, he could just discern Toghan clamped on the wall – a malevolent incubus primed to descend on sleeping maidens and ravish them. Wayland tested the lock on the door and established that it wouldn’t yield to tinkering.
From his pack he pulled an iron ram weighing twenty pounds. He drew it back and hesitated.
‘Attack the citadel while it sleeps,’ Toghan hissed.
Wayland smashed the lock with two blows, kicked the door open and stumbled inside.
‘Zuleyka!’
Women screamed.
‘Zuleyka!’
Wayland heard a terrific slap and a pained cry.
‘I’m coming.’
Zuleyka threw herself into Wayland’s arms wearing only a sheer silk shift, its luxurious texture not lost on him as he ran her towards the wall. A bugle’s discordant note sounded through the caterwauling from the harem.
‘Grab the rope,’ Wayland said. ‘Toghan will pull you up.’
Holding the free end, he turned to see what forces his invasion had unleashed. The whole establishment was in turmoil, women’s squeals and men’s cries mingling with the shrieks of peacocks. Zuleyka yelped and fell from the rope, knocking him flat. He yanked her up and put her hands to the rope again.
‘Just hold on and let Toghan pull you clear.’
A chubby woman in a nightgown, clamping a wig cockeyed over her head, advanced as if propelled on castors. Gibbering with fury, hands crooked into talons, she made straight for Zuleyka. The gypsy girl took one look at her, released the rope and with a harsh cry launched herself at her jailer, gouging and kicking.
‘Oh, great,’ Wayland said.
He tore them apart, holding off the hellcat and suffering a lacerated cheek in the process.
‘Get up the damned rope!’
He flung the harridan into the dust, where she lay mouthing imprecations to curdle the blood. ‘The same to you,’ he said, watching the gate into the main courtyard.
It burst open a moment after Toghan shouted that he had Zuleyka safe.
‘Don’t wait for me.’
Wayland went up the rope as if Satan’s imps were jabbing from below with pitchforks. A hand brushed his ankle. He kicked it away and climbed hand over fist. Halfway to the top, he heard a falling wail and saw the hooks anchoring the rope on the other side spring loose and whip out of sight. He gained the top and glanced back to see a mob of armed men running towards him.
Toghan swung the rope. ‘Here.’
Wayland glimpsed from the corner of his eye an archer drawing a bow. ‘No time for that.’
He sat on the wall, drew a deep breath, and threw himself off. A fall of nearly twenty feet allowed a surprising amount of time to contemplate the injuries he might suffer. The impact knocked him witless, but he’d landed on soft sand and sprang up, pushing away his ecstatic dog. He hobbled towards his horse and mounted at the second attempt.
He kissed his horse between its ears and clapped his heels against its flanks. ‘Fly!’
They reached the road and galloped down it in a windswept blur. Two miles from the mansion Wayland’s horse stumbled and its rhythm faltered. He eased up. ‘Wait!’
Zuleyka and Lucas returned from the darkness.
Wayland dismounted and lifted his horse’s right foreleg. ‘She’s lame. You two go on. Wait for us outside the Gate of the Spice Sellers.’ He rooted in his pack and lobbed a suit of men’s clothes at Zuleyka. ‘Put them on. Off you go.’
Toghan lay prostrate on the trackway behind him, one ear to the ground. ‘Six riders at least.’
Wayland could already hear the drubbing hooves. ‘We can’t outride them. We have to get off the road.’
Toghan pulled his horse to the right. ‘This way.’
Before they’d ridden a hundred yards a yell told them that they’d been spotted. Wayland cranked a glance across his shoulder to see a rider lashing his horse in pursuit.
‘Split up,’ he shouted.
‘Never,’ Toghan cried. In the next instant he demonstrated what Wayland had witnessed many times but had never been able to accomplish himself – the horse archer’s rearward delivery, the Parthian shot.
Toghan dropped his reins, swivelled until he was facing his horse’s tail, drew his bow and loosed. His arrow hit the pursuing horse square in the chest. It squealed and lurched to the left, spilling its rider over its neck. Five more riders crashed out of the dark. The fallen horseman urged them to continue their pursuit.
Wayland spurred on, the concussions behind him drawing closer, his dog flowing alongside in an easy gallop.
‘Hound them,’ Wayland told it.
It swung round and ran towards the pursuing riders, giving tongue as if it had spotted a fox or jackal. Wayland glimpsed it bounding around a horse before a black canal opened up in front of him. He set his horse at the water and hit it with a mighty splash. His horse flailed to climb the opposite bank but couldn’t find purchase. Wayland leaped off and, with Toghan’s help, dragged it up. Three riders skidded to a halt on the other side and tried to aim their bows. The dog wouldn’t let them. Jaws popping, it nipped their horses’ heels, driving them in circles.
Wayland sprang back into the saddle and flogged his mount on. The yells and barks behind him faded away.
‘Stop,’ he said after covering a mile or so.
He listened through his pumping heart, Toghan panting beside him.
‘I think we’ve lost them.’
Toghan threw back his head. ‘Oh, what fine sport.’
Together they cantered back to Bukhara. Its domes were just beginning to show against the dark when the dog caught up, barely out of breath and very pleased with itself. They made a wide circuit of the walls and approached the western gate as dawn fanned up in pistachio green behind the city’s minarets. Lucas and Zuleyka were waiting, the girl in nomad garb. Lucas gasped in relief.
‘Did you have to fight?’
Wayland swigged from a water bottle. ‘We didn’t have to shed human blood, thank God.’
Not long after the first call to prayer, the gates opened. Wayland rode up to the three guards, his clothes wet and muddied, his turban unravelling. There was no point trying to hide his identity.
‘I’m with the Byzantine mission.’
‘Where have you been?’
‘We were returning from Samarkand when thieves attacked us. To escape them we had to ride cross-country and got lost. We left Bukhara without the general’s permission and must return to the caravanserai before he finds us gone.’
‘Not before you tell us more about these thieves.’
Wayland rolled a gold solidus between thumb and forefinger. ‘There’s one for each of you.’
He placed the coin in a grasping palm and lobbed the other two into the dust.
The guards were still scrapping for the gold when Wayland and his companions rode through the gates.
He pushed Zuleyka into an empty cell and made for the door. ‘Lie low until I say otherwise.’