The Golden Horde (18 page)

There were horses of all kinds, mostly the characteristic stocky ponies that watchers from Austria to the shores of the Nippon Sea had come to know, hate, and fear. Among the others were tall Western destriers plundered from the shattered ranks of Poles, Silesians and the Teutonic Knights after their crushing defeat at Liegnitz, and fine-limbed Arab steeds from Bokhara and Samarkand, in what was beginning to be called the Ilkhanate of Persia.

And then there were the camels, a source of wonder and loudly remarked upon. Though horses of all shapes and sizes were commonplace to people whose Tsar rode a black stallion that was far from ordinary, these strange lumpy creatures with their hides shedding fur like an elderly carpet were new to all but well-travelled merchants. Even some of them, who fared West instead of East, hadn’t seen the shaggy, double-humped Bactrian of the deep Gobi desert.

During a pause in the music, Tsar Ivan overheard one man tell his companion how the Saracen dromedary with its single hump and sneering face and whore’s eyelashes was a relatively sensible creature, as all things became sensible to a man well drunk on
arak
after a hard session of haggling in the marketplace. But these Bactrians – well, at least the space between their humps made a man less likely to fall off when he was well drunk…

And so on.

Despite the Tatars, whose arrival he had secretly dreaded for nearly three years, Ivan grinned and wanted to hear more travellers’ tales. If the Saracen beast was described as sneering, then it must truly have a supercilious expression to be more so than these. Perhaps they looked so superior because they belonged to the Tatars, and scorned the people their masters had so thoroughly conquered.

Ivan’s grin went sour at that. But another took its place almost at once, because the Tatars were showing Khorlov courtesy of a sort. It was strengthened when a
tuk
standard of six yak-tails went up above the most splendidly attired rider, token that the man beneath it held the authority of Ilkhan Batu himself. When the usual senior representative was the
tuman
-
bashi
commander of whatever army waited to crush potential resistance, that standard was significant indeed. If they were being so mannerly as to present their threats and demands at a more elevated level, such respect could at least be matched.

“Akimov,” he said to the Captain of Guards, “send someone for bread and salt. Quickly.”

Petr Mikhailovich Akimov gave his Tsar a curious glance that didn’t delay his salute, or the rapid departure of one soldier towards the kremlin kitchen. Akimov was a Cossack, a pragmatist and a loyal servant of the Crown of Khorlov whoever might be wearing it; if his Tsar had a notion that offering formal hospitality was a good idea, it wasn’t his place to question the order.

As the Tatar rider came closer it was clear that though his face was hidden by the iron eyebrows and moustache of his helmet-visor, he was neither Tatar nor Mongol like the warriors behind him but a Turk. The elaborate armour covered all but his hands and booted lower legs, but couldn’t conceal his height. Batu Khan of the Golden Horde was a Mongol of the
altan
uruk
, the Golden Clan descended in right line from Chinghis-Khan Temujin himself, and didn’t usually entrust important tasks to those outside his own clan, never mind those of different race.

Ivan shot a sidelong look at Volk Volkovich, but received only an unhelpful shrug in reply. The Grey Wolf had seen several Tatar envoys arrive at the gates of several Rus cities since Ryazan, and all had followed the same routine of a contemptuously small group or single rider making outrageous demands on the ruler of the city. This was as new to him as it was unfamiliar to Ivan, and it was eerie for so many of the old, traditional enemies of the Rus people to approach a city gate thrown open before them, rather than shut and bolted and spiked with steel.

As the music reached its shattering conclusion, the Turk horseman and his Mongol guards rode forward in silence until a mere three spear-lengths separated them from the guards at that gate. At least the man looked the part of a visiting official. His armour and that of his horse was lamellar, its rows of scales alternating between bright steel or a covering of gold-worked scarlet fabric, and a spray of peacock plumes rose from between the horse’s ears to match the one on its rider’s visored helmet.

The iron stare of the visor swept to and fro across the watchful Rus faces until Ivan took a step forward and those metal features snapped around to study him. If hammered iron could have shown surprise he would have seen it at that moment, as if the Turk was taken aback by his appearance. Ivan wondered if he’d been expecting someone older, or taller, or more richly clothed. Ivan didn’t wear his best garments for court paperwork; the more expensive a coat of figured velvet might be, the more it had, like his children, an almost supernatural affinity for ink. He wasn’t wearing anything like a formal crown, just his comfortable fur-trimmed hat with gold plaques set into the band, and it all meant the Tsar of Khorlov was dressed no better than most of his councillors and worse than some of the more ostentatious.

Mail scraped and rustled against scales as the Turk removed his helmet, shook loose the three braids of his long hair and looked down at Ivan. His face was harsh and angular, as if carved with an adze but not smoothed down afterward. His moustaches – there were two of them indeed, separated by the width of his upper lip – hung down on either side of his mouth almost to his breastbone, thin as streaks of ink painted on the air, and they framed a beard placed on the point of his chin by the same meticulous artist.

“You are Ivan, son of Aleksandr, son of Andrey, crowned Tsar of Khorlov?” he said in excellent Russian with only a trace of accent.

Ivan looked him up and down, not entirely sure whether that choice of phrasing was merely pedantic or if it contained some subtle form of insult. “I am Tsar Ivan, yes,” he replied finally. “And you are …?”

“Amragan
tarkhan
, son of Temur, of clan Barlash.” By rights a salute or a bow should have accompanied such a prideful announcement made in such a voice, but the
tarkhan
sat as still as though his armour was part of that worn by his immobile horse. “Envoy of Ilkhan Batu of the Golden Horde.”

And that was all. No demand to bow down or be destroyed, no list of required tributes, no threats, just a bald announcement of name and status. Ivan blinked just once, then stifled any other indications of confusion. All would doubtless be made clear in good time though whose good time, his, God’s or the Khan’s, remained to be seen. He was uneasy, wondering about the delay. For three years now he’d been steeling himself against the day when he would publicly lay his honour in the dust and throw away the respect of his people in the hope of saving all their lives. And now it seemed that all his fretting, all the acid griping of apprehension in his guts, had been a waste of time. Or at least held over until later.

He gestured at the guardsman who had arrived at last with the bread and salt. With no advance warning that one might be needed there was no guest-loaf in the kitchen, the proper round loaf of black bread baked with a recess at its centre for a wooden dish of salt. Instead the soldier carried an ordinary small rye loaf meant for part of that night’s dinner, with a hollow hastily carved in the middle and filled with a mound of white sea-salt from the Tsar’s own table. He held the bread up to Amragan
tarkhan
, who looked at it and then at Ivan, both times with the same quizzical expression on his hard features.

Out of all the receptions the envoy might have expected, this old rite of hospitality was the least likely. He shrugged – or perhaps that was just a movement to settle the weight of his armour more comfortably on his broad shoulders – then tore off a small chunk of the bread, sprinkled salt on top and crunched the mouthful up. His mouth twisted slightly, only reasonable from a man who had just eaten a spoonful of raw salt, but his face betrayed nothing else of what he was thinking. Then he dismounted with an easy grace made only slightly ponderous by all the iron he wore.

“What I have to say may take some time,” he told Ivan. He didn’t bow, but the Tsar hadn’t been expecting it. “I accept the hospitality of bread and salt, but while it is good to speak beneath Tengri’s blue sky, there are many ears and many eyes. Too many. Shall we go in?”

“Alone,” said Ivan, eyeing the escort of Mongols and Uighurs who were still sitting on their tough little horses, apparently disinterested in the proceedings – but still far too close to the city gate. The Turk followed his gaze and grunted softly to himself, then shook his head.

“Not alone,” he said. “That would be unseemly.”

“Other… envoys have approached Rus cities alone,” said Mar’ya Morevna. “Why should you be any different?”

The
tarkhan
favoured her with a long, speculative look, and for the first time Ivan saw a small crack appear in the man’s veneer of controlled good manners. Whether it was irritation at being addressed sharply by a woman was more difficult to tell. Any man of the Tatar horde should be well used to that, for Mongol women freely joined their menfolk’s conversations, expressed opinions asked or not, and generally comported themselves as equals. Amragan
tarkhan
took Mar’ya Morevna’s comment with better grace than a Russian who had never met her might have done.

“Lady,” he said quietly, “you must have observed that this envoy’s behaviour is somewhat different to the usual …”

“Why?”

“Not here. Not now. I already mentioned beady eyes and flapping ears.”

The observation was almost completely accurate. Once convinced they weren’t all to be slaughtered or enslaved, the common people of Khorlov hung onto every word spoken, straining to hear more than they should like a pack of dogs doing their best to get more than a fair share of meat. If their ears had been any larger, they would have flapped in very truth.

Ivan looked at the ranks of his own subjects, noting how not just the commons but some of the nobility were displaying too much interest in matters none of their business. There was a sharpness about those faces, dogs keen not just for meat but for the sharp scent of scandal while a Rus lord was so amiable with this steel-tipped lash of the Scourge of God. He knew enough names already, men who had been most troublesome over the past two years, most subject to second thoughts about their Tsar’s decision regarding the Tatars. They were all there now: Rostislavl and Vladislav, Gyorg’yevskiy and Romanov.

Especially Romanov. Ivan had kept a particularly close eye on the Romanov father and son ever since that almost-ugly incident at the Council meeting, and had done so personally rather than leave the matter in the hands of a subordinate. Volk Volkovich had helped, of course, but none of Akimov’s guard; all of them were men of too much loyalty and passion, and not enough sense. If any opportunity had presented itself to have the Romanovs legally put away – permanently – Ivan had long convinced himself to take it and never mind any scruples. It was as if the Romanovs knew it, for they’d been on what passed for their best behaviour ever since. Aleksey Mikhailovich had absented himself from court on all but the most unavoidable occasions, and his father, though a councillor and expected to be in his place whenever that august body met, had been a model of quietness and rectitude.

In Ivan’s opinion he’d been far too quiet; but despite long hours with his High Steward and the old legal statute rolls, the Tsar couldn’t find a law to condemn the man for that. Unfortunately… He turned away from the stares of curiosity and other things, and considered the escort riders who had come up to the gate with Amragan
tarkhan
. “Very well then. For the sake of seemliness, not alone. Which of these,” Ivan stumbled for an instant on the word, “gentlemen will accompany you?”

“Not soldiers,” said the
tarkhan
. “I judge you a man of sense, one aware of how the Khan would respond to my murder. That is a greater defence than any number of swords.”

Am
I
that
transparent
? thought Ivan, a little surprised even though the Turk was right. There was no point in fair talk at the gateway when a knife in the back awaited the envoy inside.

“What, then? Or who?”

Amragan
tarkhan
raised one mailed arm and closed his fist. There was a scuffle of activity among the Tatar horsemen as four of their number dismounted and came forward, and even one of the bandsmen left his place and joined them. Ivan stared.

“And just who are these?” he wondered aloud, indicating the gaggle of greasy and disreputable figures who now stood behind Amragan
tarkhan
, making him look all the more magnificent by their own shabby appearance.

“They are shamans. Priests, necessary for the religious wellbeing of my men,” said the Turk. He spoke smoothly and perhaps a little too fast, so that both Ivan and Mar’ya Morevna favoured the ‘priests’ with a more careful second look.

“Priests, keeping company with a military and diplomatic envoy?”

“To bring us the solace of our religion in foreign lands. The Christians and the Moslems do it all the time.”

Ivan raised his eyebrows a notch, but decided to say nothing. At least not yet. From the little he knew of the Tatar faith – if such a formless and unstructured collection of tribal superstitions could be called anything so organized – the Tatars, Uighurs, Mongols or whatever had no need for great numbers of priests to accompany them anywhere. Tengri the Eternal Blue Sky was above them wherever they went, and from Chinghis-Khan on down, they spoke to him personally. A man wishing to commune with the god or with the spirits would go to a high place, rare in their flat, treeless steppes and therefore imbued with great power. He would make a token of submission by laying his fur cap on the ground and his belt about his neck, and then he would make whatever prayers or supplications or sacrifices had brought him there. Priests weren’t necessary. But as a defence against the
kelet
, the spirits of sickness or enmity –
or
unfriendly
magic
, said a voice of small but blinding clarity in the back of his mind – they were vital.