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  “It tastes like vomit.”

  “Surely it can’t be that bad.”

  “That was not a figure of speech. It literally tastes like vomit. Try it, if you don’t believe me. Ah, don’t spray it all over my clothes! I warned you.”

  We had to buy a drink at each establishment we visited, so we choked down a fair quantity of kymyz, so much in fact that it began to seem almost palatable. It was not very strong, but Abu Lu’lu’ah was unused to intoxicants, and became giddy with drink and excitement. We also handed over a lot of silver coins, following rumours and whispers which led nowhere except to more kymyz.

  Then, at last, we talked to a spice merchant, who knew a blacksmith, who told us where to find a horse trader, whose name was Chat. Chat sat on a stool in a crowded yurt which was rank with the odour of men, horses and milk, and stared sourly at the inane grin on Abu Lu’lu’ah’s face.

  “So, you want to know about the Romans?”

  Chat was a stout man with an oddly thin face, which made his head look like an almond stuck on the top of a pear. He had a huge, misshapen nose, and his hair and beard were dyed with henna.

  “I can show you where their camp is. But it will cost you.”

  I sipped my kymyz, and tried not to pull a face.

  “How do you know where the Romans are?”

  “Sold them some horses. Hung around a bit, and heard them talking. I suppose they thought I wouldn’t understand them, but my mother was from Kerch, and I speak some Greek. I can take you to their camp, for ten dirhams.”

  He held out a gloved hand, but I hammered my fist on the table.

  “No. I need some proof first, that you really have dealt with the Romans. You might be a swindler, plotting to take our money, then lose us in a back alley somewhere. Tell me what they were talking about.”

  Chat grunted.

  “That information costs extra. Twenty dirhams.”

  “Fifteen. Five now, the rest when we’ve seen the Roman camp.”

  He nodded, and I handed over the silver. He examined the coins carefully and concealed them somewhere within his tunic, before he spoke.

  “They were talking about the shaman. The one who tends to the khagan’s son.”

  “Papatzys?”

  I could not keep the excitement from my voice. This confirmed the rabbi’s story. Chat seemed startled by my enthusiasm, and answered warily.

  “Yes. That was the name they used. I think they have abducted him. They are holding him in a yurt at their camp.”

  I glanced at Abu Lu’lu’ah. I should send him back, if things were going to get dangerous. However in his milk-sotted state he might never find his way home, and certainly could not keep our expedition secret if he did.

  “Take us there now.”

  “Very well. Where are your horses?”

  “We do not have horses. We are on foot.”

  “On foot?”

  If I had told Chat we had been carried there through the air on the wings of a peri, he could not have looked on us with greater contempt and disbelief. He insisted on going to fetch horses for us, even though we were only travelling to the other side of the city, and for a few moments we were left alone.

  “Are you all right?”

  Abu Lu’lu’ah smiled as though he were about to make a joke, then saw my face, and composed himself.

  “Yes. Yes, I am all right. Why have the Romans kidnapped this shaman?”

  “I don’t know. However, I think I can guess. Chat said that Papatzys tends the son of the khagan. If the boy is ill, and Tuzniq is relying on the shaman to heal his heir, then whoever holds the shaman holds the destiny of the Khazars in his hands.”

  “I’m sorry, I didn’t understand a word you just said. Who or what is Tuzniq?”

  “Tuzniq? He is the khagan.”

  “What is a khagan?”

  I nearly spilled my kymyz in amazement.

  “You do not know of the khagan? Has Abu Yusuf told you nothing about this land, and its customs?”

  “I have no need to know about the Khazars. My object of study is the Quran, and the Hadith.”

  “How can one so acute also be so obtuse? You continue to astound me. The khagan is the sovereign of this land, ruler of all the Khazars. The word means Khan of Khans.”

  “But I thought it was the bek who ruled over the Khazars? That is the title of the one who convened the disputation.”

  “The bek is only a minister, like the wazir. The khagan is the priest-king, sent by the sky god Tengri to watch over his people. However in recent generations the khagans have become increasingly reclusive. Once, the khagan used to ride at the head of his troops. The present khan of khans, this Tuzniq, has never even left the fortress of Khazaran.

  “Now the bek carries out most of the functions of government; he commands the army, makes the laws and appoints the judges and governors. Nonetheless he acts in the name of the priest-king, the khagan Tuzniq. And the khagan has only one child, a son. The boy is his heir, the future ruler of the Khazars. If the khagan’s son is sick —”

  But Abu Lu’lu’ah had stopped listening. He was staring at the door through which Chat had left. Suddenly he giggled.

  “Why does the horse trader dye his beard like that? It makes him look ridiculous.”

  “I suppose he wants to look more like a White Khazar. He has the blue eyes and pale skin; perhaps, with red hair, he can pass for one, in poor light.”

  At that moment Chat returned with the horses. We rode west to the edge of the city, where the yurts were more sparse and temporary, little huddles clustered around the main road to Tanais. Here Chat stopped his horse.

  “Over there.”

  He was pointing to a circle of yurts, set back slightly from the road.

  “That is the Roman camp. The shaman is held in one of those tents, but I can’t say which one.”

  Having received his coin, he rode off. I drew my sword, and a look of fear and arousal crossed Abu Lu’lu’ah’s face. He had never seen me armed before. I climbed down from my horse.

  “Right. You wait here, and I’ll go and have a look —”

  “No.”

  Abu Lu’lu’ah was also dismounting.

  “I’m not sitting around in safety while you risk your life. If you got hurt, I could never forgive myself. And if you died, I would not want to live without you. We go together.”

  He seized my hand, and I gazed in despair at his ardent, fearless eyes. Then I had an idea.

  “You must mind the horses. If we are pursued, we will need to get away quickly.”

  He nodded.

  “You speak, I suspect, more from love than from strategy, but your argument makes sense. Very well, I will stay.”

  I crept toward the yurts. My heart seemed to beat so loud that I was sure it would give me away. The night was entering its final watch, and the darkness of the suburbs was smothering. I glanced back at Abu Lu’lu’ah. His torch glowed like a firefly, tiny and distant.

  At last I reached the camp, and slunk between two tents. From around the corner, I could hear a voice.

  “The shaman cannot hold out for much longer. Soon, he must divulge the secret —”

  It was only the slightest of sounds behind me that alerted me to my danger. My hand flew to my mouth in an involuntary gesture of surprise, and it was only this that saved my life. The bowstring that looped around my neck caught my wrist as it drew tight, so that my windpipe was protected from being crushed.

  The assassin behind me pulled harder, squashing my hand against my chin and dragging me down. At the same time another man ran around the corner and tried to grab my legs. I kicked out, and caught him square in the face with a mud-crusted boot. He staggered back, spitting teeth from a bloody mouth.

  My sword hand was pinned to my throat, so with my left hand I scrabbled in my sleeve and found a tiny knife which I kept there for peeling fruit. I brought it up to my chin and from the inside hacked at the bowstring until the silk fibre snapped. The strangl
er fell backwards, and I landed on top of him. He thrashed at me with his fists, but I managed to turn over and jab the knife repeatedly into his face and chest.

  At last he lay still and I rolled off his body, just in time to dodge the sword that swooped down on me. The bloody-mouthed man had returned, but succeeded only in jamming his weapon in his partner’s breastbone. While he struggled to wrench it free, I launched myself at him, knocking him to the ground, where I pinned his shoulders down with my knees.

  I poked the knife into his throat so that he could feel its point. In the darkness he could not have known how small it was, and he froze, fear in his eyes.

  “Where is the shaman?”

  “I don’t know —”

  I smashed my fist into his face, breaking his nose, but he had already given away a crucial piece of information. I had addressed him in Greek, and by thoughtlessly responding in the same tongue he had revealed that he was not a Khazar brigand, but a Roman agent.

  “Tell me where he is, or I’ll carve my name on your face.”

  The Roman whimpered. Perhaps he was not an agent at all, but simply a scribe who had been recruited to assist in my murder.

  “I don’t know, I swear! He is in Khazaran somewhere.”

  “In Khazaran? Then you have not taken him?”

  “No! It is to be tomorrow…”

  The horse trader Chat had betrayed us. Approaching footsteps reminded me of the danger that surrounded me, so I jammed the knife into the Roman’s gullet and left him choking on his own blood.

  I scurried back to where I had left Abu Lu’lu’ah and the horses. I was halfway there before I realised what was wrong: the light from the torch had gone out. Abandoning caution, I drew my sword and sprinted across the rough ground.

  The horses were still there, grazing idly. At first, though, I could not see Abu Lu’lu’ah. When he blundered toward me from behind his mount I nearly ran him through, but then I heard his plaintive voice.

  “Oh, Abu Ali, I’m frightened! Hold me…”

  He threw himself at me and clung to me.

  “What’s the matter, my love?”

  “He was here…”

  My midriff was growing warm. I put my hand on my stomach, and it felt wet.

  “Who was here? What has he done to you?”

  “I feel tired. I need to sit down.”

  He slumped to his knees. I put an arm around his shoulders to steady him.

  “Let me see —”

  “I am frightened, Abu Ali. I don’t want to die.”

  I looked down at his belly, at the sodden, ragged blackness slowly pulsing there.

  “You’re not going to die. Don’t be afraid, my love. Was it al-Sifr?”

  “I’m thirsty. I want a drink.”

  “Yes, of course, in a moment. But you must concentrate, listen to what I’m saying. What does he look like?”

  “In the name of God, Abu Ali, I beg you. Please get me a drink.”

  I looked around. There were yurts a few hundred paces away, but I had no idea which might contain our enemies.

  “I have nothing to give you. We need to get away from here. Can you stand?”

  “It doesn’t matter now. It’s too late anyway.”

  “Nonsense. Come on, I’ll help you up —”

  My hands were slick with blood, and as soon as I tried to haul him upright I could see that it was hopeless. He must have been stabbed twenty or more times. I sank down beside him.

  “I’m sorry. Oh my love, I’m so sorry.”

  His next words were whispered so weakly I could not hear them, so I put my ear to his mouth.

  “What did you say, my love? I am here. I am listening to you.”

  “It was worth it. To be with you.”

  I found that I could not talk, but then Abu Lu’lu’ah spoke quite clearly.

  “He said you would find me.”

  “Who did?”

  “He said if you lived, you would find me. Either way he won.”

  I howled like a wolf, no longer caring whether our enemies heard us. If every Roman in the world had descended on me then I would have fought them all. Abu Lu’lu’ah uttered a harsh groan, as though he was joining in my cry; but it was only the sound of his soul leaving his body. I held him and wept for a while; then, aching and floundering, I hoisted his slippery corpse onto the horse’s back, and rode back to the camp.

  VI

  There was a valley, just beyond the outskirts of Atil, where a ridge curved round to form a bowl in the earth. As we approached it, shortly before noon the next day, there were already thousands of people gathering on its slopes. The rain had eased, but a thin drizzle persisted. Those who could afford it had slaves holding canopies over their heads; the common people crouched under sheets and boards. Many of the White Khazars remained seated on their horses, peering superciliously across the crowds, ignoring the spatter on their faces.

  Despite the weather there was a cheerful mood in the valley. Vendors hawked snacks, and there was laughter and snatches of songs in a score of tongues. The bek’s men, however, met us at the edge of the city, and whisked us past the festivities. Any merrymakers that impeded our progress were roughly shoved aside with spears and fists.

  We were taken to the bottom of the valley, where a crude platform had been erected. Our arrival caused a ripple of interest in the onlookers, who now surrounded us on three sides. They edged forward, and the tone of their hubbub shifted, from a low murmur of anticipation to a high buzz of excitement.

  A wooden staircase at the rear of the platform led us to uncomfortable exposure at its top. The Romans were already there, trying to look stoic in the damp wind. It was not hard to guess which was Theodore of Stoudios, a long-limbed, wild-eyed holy man to whom the others deferred. I studied his entourage carefully, hoping to spot al-Sifr; but there was no way of knowing, among the anonymous bearded students, which might be him.

  Abu Yusuf saw what I was doing, and scowled at me. He had not raised his voice to me when I arrived at dawn with the blood-drenched body of Abu Lu’lu’ah, but could not conceal his rage at the young life wasted. It was only because of my obvious grief that he spared me the castigation I so richly deserved. In cold tones he had informed me that I was forbidden from seeking revenge, looking for the shaman Papatzys or indulging in any further politicking. I was to stay with the scholars and behave myself.

  I had not seen the Rabbi ha-Sangari, and assumed that he was yet to arrive. Then I noticed him standing in quiet isolation at the other end of the platform. He came over to us, but did not acknowledge me. Instead he greeted Abu Yusuf.

  “Peace, qadi. Let us pray that God will guide the bek, so that he chooses for the best.”

  “And peace be upon you also, rabbi. Are you alone?”

  Ha-Sangari looked round at the qadi’s attendants, his scribes and students and servants, at Ilig and me, at a similar score of men on the Roman side.

  “Yes. The Jews of Atil are traders and artisans, not scholars. Whom should I have brought with me? Only one man is allowed to speak for each faith.”

  They wished each other blessings, and the rabbi took his leave. I watched him stop to greet the Christian priest, Brother Theodore. A few words drifted across, and I realised that ha-Sangari was speaking in Greek.

  The bek almost came upon me unawares, so quiet was his approach. There were no fanfares, no drums or trumpets. All such symbols of kingship belonged to the khagan; the bek was simply the man who got things done. The first we knew of his arrival was when soldiers appeared on the platform, swiftly and silently taking up positions all around us. I knew enough of military matters to recognise that their disposition was tactical, not ceremonial.

  There was no mistaking Bhulan himself, however, when he ascended the steps. Although dressed in simple clothing, he was richly robed in sureness and authority. His jet-black moustache drooped like his pot belly, and his words carried across the valley, while his voice remained calm.

  “You know me. I hav
e served the Khazar people, and my lord the khagan, all my life. I have sought to obey the law of man and the law of god. I have tried to do what was right.”

  Barely a whisper troubled the hordes on the hillside, as they strained to hear Bhulan speak.

  “One night, as I slept, an angel came to me. In his presence my body was cold as glass and my limbs froze to my mattress. I heard him, not with my ears, but with my heart and stomach and liver. ‘Your intentions are pleasing to God,’ he said. ‘But your actions are not.’

  “The angel’s words filled me with terror. I redoubled my efforts, made sacrifices to Tengri every day. Yet the angel came to me again, and again I heard: ‘Your intentions are pleasing to God; but your actions are not.’

  “At last I understood. The world is changing. Mankind is waking from the darkness, our vision clearing. Where once there seemed to be many gods, there is now revealed to be but one, creator of all that is, lord of all lands and peoples. The old religions, the beliefs of our ancestors, are dying.

  “Yet even among those who worship the one true God, there is no agreement on how He should be worshipped. The angel’s meaning was unequivocal. It is not enough that I am virtuous in my soul, I must also be righteous in my customs: how I dress, what I eat, when and in what form I pray.

  “And so I have invited here today the wisest men from the three great creeds, the followers of Musa, of Isa ibn Maryam, and of Muhammad. Each will speak in turn, explaining why it is their laws which are the pure, uncorrupted will of God. I swear now, before you all, that whichever makes the best argument, to their authority I will submit myself, and it is their teachings that I shall follow every day that remains, of the life that God has given me.

  “I make this decision for myself alone. I continue to serve the khagan, and every Khazar is free to worship in their own way, as they have always been. However, for me, I cannot ignore the messenger God sent to me, and condemn my soul to damnation.”

  Bhulan sat, in a wide chair that had appeared unobtrusively behind him. The spectators seemed to breathe out collectively, and a froth of muttered discussions arose.

  The substance of his speech was no surprise. It was over a year since the messengers had left Atil, bearing his request for scholars to speak at the disputation. The story of the angelic vision, and his intention to convert, were well known throughout the khaganate. Everyone understood, however, that the event was a performance. The bek’s decision to hold a public debate, rather than take religious instruction as a private individual, carried its own significance.