Isabelle sat in one corner of the slave auction area, her eyes surveying the goings on all around its vicinity. The past couple of months or so had been rather mundane. There was none of the unpredictability that had prevailed all through her journey from Brittania. But at least here she was safe from the pirates. She never liked them at all.
She had also met a Bolgar woman, Shamira, with whom she had formed a close friendship. Shamira had a young son, Ozalan, six years of age. He had readily taken to Isabelle, whom he quickly adored as the elder sister he never had.
Isabelle kept recalling the words of prophecy of her grandaunt, Katherine the Seer, as told to her by her own grandmother, Meredith the Healer. As she outgrew her childhood, Isabelle had begun to increasingly doubt that anyone could really see into the future, much less do so with such conviction as Katherine seemed to do.
Recent unexpected turns of events in her life, however, had made Isabelle reconsider Katherine's predictions. Now she clinged to them tenaciously. She did not have much choice. They remained the only things that had given her hope and kept her going through her latest ordeals. Then she saw him.
He had two comrades with him. One of them looked to Isabelle like a Persian. She could not make out of what nation the other was, but there seemed to be quite a few of his like around in the city too, and their number appeared to be gradually growing.
As for the man himself, Isabelle could guess even less where he hailed from, although she thought that there was a hint of Persian ancestry in him. Could he be the one?
Shakranta then noticed a young girl. Still in her early teens by the look of her. She had sparkling blue eyes and striking yellowish brown hair about the same colour as Zvietta’s. Her skin looked like it had recently become a bit tanned from the strong Byzantine sun. Though it was probably originally fair with a pinkish tone. A child of the northwestern lands, Shakranta guessed. A Saxon, perhaps.
She had also met a Bolgar woman, Shamira, with whom she had formed a close friendship. Shamira had a young son, Ozalan, six years of age. He had readily taken to Isabelle, whom he quickly adored as the elder sister he never had.
Isabelle kept recalling the words of prophecy of her grandaunt, Katherine the Seer, as told to her by her own grandmother, Meredith the Healer. As she outgrew her childhood, Isabelle had begun to increasingly doubt that anyone could really see into the future, much less do so with such conviction as Katherine seemed to do.
Recent unexpected turns of events in her life, however, had made Isabelle reconsider Katherine's predictions. Now she clinged to them tenaciously. She did not have much choice. They remained the only things that had given her hope and kept her going through her latest ordeals. Then she saw him.
He had two comrades with him. One of them looked to Isabelle like a Persian. She could not make out of what nation the other was, but there seemed to be quite a few of his like around in the city too, and their number appeared to be gradually growing.
As for the man himself, Isabelle could guess even less where he hailed from, although she thought that there was a hint of Persian ancestry in him. Could he be the one?
§
Somewhere in the main square of the city of Constantinople, Shakranta and his two friends, Ashgar and Tegrud, found themselves wandering through a large slave market. Numerous slaves of all tribes and nations, men and women, children and adults, sat or stood. Some alone, some huddled together in groups, mostly appearing either glum or bored, with that lost forlorn look in their eyes. But all seemingly waiting in the hope that they would eventually be bought sooner or later by a kind master.Shakranta then noticed a young girl. Still in her early teens by the look of her. She had sparkling blue eyes and striking yellowish brown hair about the same colour as Zvietta’s. Her skin looked like it had recently become a bit tanned from the strong Byzantine sun. Though it was probably originally fair with a pinkish tone. A child of the northwestern lands, Shakranta guessed. A Saxon, perhaps.
Her whole face as well as her arms and legs looked mostly stained and dirtied. She would talk to herself almost constantly. Every once in a while she would sob and cry. Other times she would break into a laugh all of a sudden. Sort of a bit loony, Shakranta thought. Quite common though, he had heard, among some newly captured slaves. It’s the extreme trauma. Then, suddenly, she glanced at Shakranta and their eyes met momentarily.
She seemed rather hungry. Shakranta took out a piece of mutton kebab from the food pouch he had been carrying and held it out to her. The girl grabbed it from his hand and gulped it down in a heartbeat. Shakranta gave her another piece ... and then another ... and then another ...
Moments later, Shakranta was about to leave. A servant of Sultan Mahmud, escorting Shakranta, pulled the reins to Shakranta’s new horses.
“Excuse me, Sir!”, a young female voice, speaking in Persian, startled Shakranta. He turned around to see the speaker. It was that young girl with the yellowish brown hair.
“I’m sorry,” the girl continued, smiling for the first time. She looked rather sweet when she did so, Shakranta thought. “You look like someone from afar. Got a bit of the Persian look in you, but a little different, though."
"You think so?"
"Yes."
"Well, must've got that from my Kambhoja grandfather."
"Kambhoja?"
"A nomadic Indo-Iranian tribe ... of the Western Himalayas ... as my father told me. They're closely related to the Persians."
"I see. That explains it then. You’re not going away already, are you? You get bored so fast. Won’t you just consider buying me?”
"You think so?"
"Yes."
"Well, must've got that from my Kambhoja grandfather."
"Kambhoja?"
"A nomadic Indo-Iranian tribe ... of the Western Himalayas ... as my father told me. They're closely related to the Persians."
"I see. That explains it then. You’re not going away already, are you? You get bored so fast. Won’t you just consider buying me?”
With both Shakranta and the girl having limited fluency in Persian, it was left to Ashgar to interpret whatever stilted conversation taking place between the two. Fortunately, Ashgar knew a smattering of Saxon too, from his days as a young mercenary with Byzantium’s multi-ethnic army. Having a certain aptitude for languages, he had also picked up bits of Malay from his months of association with Shakranta.
Shakranta just stood there for a few moments. Lost for words for a while. Suddenly he felt a tinge of sympathy. Or was it pity?
“Isabelle!” a man shouted. Shakranta turned and saw a hirsute, heavy set man. He looked like he had thick dark hair sprouting from all over his body. It was the slave trader, owner of the girl, probably. A Greek merchant, Shakranta thought. “You talk too much. Hey, why can’t you ever get it into your head? You’re just another lowly little slave girl ... and ...”
“No! Let her speak,” Shakranta cut the man off while raising his hand, signalling to him to stop scolding. “I need to hear her talk. To gauge her suitability.”
Shakranta turned round to face the girl again.
“Umm,” Shakranta finally spoke to the her. “All right, then. Tell me what you can do. Convince me that you will be useful to me.”
“Those young Norman horses of yours,” the girl continued. “They’re magnificent. Destrieres, they’re called. Great war horses. Used as chargers, mostly. They’re going to need good care and proper handling from young. If they’re going to grow up into the formidable war horses that they can be. Otherwise, they’ll just end up as ordinary farm horses."
"Oh?" Shakranta turned his head slightly. "That's really interesting. And how do you know all that?"
"I grew up on a farm, Sir. My family bred all kinds of horses. I can help you to raise your destrieres correctly, Sir. Educate them in the right way. So that they’ll one day turn into fine battle steeds.”
"Oh?" Shakranta turned his head slightly. "That's really interesting. And how do you know all that?"
"I grew up on a farm, Sir. My family bred all kinds of horses. I can help you to raise your destrieres correctly, Sir. Educate them in the right way. So that they’ll one day turn into fine battle steeds.”
“Great insight,” Shakranta replied after a brief contemplation.
“Sir. Buy me. You’ll get the best from me, I promise. You won’t regret it. And I’ll bring you good fortune too.”
The girl was practically begging Shakranta to buy her. Quite persuasive she was as well, Shakranta thought. Could it be that she could no more tolerate her owner’s harsh treatment, Shakranta wondered. He did look the cruel type, Shakranta pondered.
But then, she was a girl from the cool northern climes. Would she be able to adapt to the heat and humidity of the Golden Peninsula, Shakranta contemplated. Then he noted that during the summer days, Constantinople sometimes got as hot as the hottest day in Bukit Panau.
"Ummm ... what tribe are you? And where do you hail from?"
"I'm a Saxon, Sir. I come from Enghel Land ... in the island of Brittania."
"That's quite far in the northwest, as I understand it. Very cool, the climate, I hear. Where I come from, it's very much hotter, for much of the year. Think you can cope with that?"
"Well, I've survived a summer in Constantinople, haven't I?"
"Ummm ... what tribe are you? And where do you hail from?"
"I'm a Saxon, Sir. I come from Enghel Land ... in the island of Brittania."
"That's quite far in the northwest, as I understand it. Very cool, the climate, I hear. Where I come from, it's very much hotter, for much of the year. Think you can cope with that?"
"Well, I've survived a summer in Constantinople, haven't I?"
“All right,” said Shakranta, eventually. “What’s your price?”
The girl pointed her finger in the direction of her stocky owner. Indicating to Shakranta to ask the man himself. “Kolanos!” she called out to him.
Shakranta turned to face the man again. “What’s the price of this girl?”
”3,000 drachma,” the man answered with a straight face.
“2,400, and I’ll pay for her in cash right now,” replied Shakranta, haggling for a better price.
“2,800 drachma, last price,” the man said, haggling back.
"2600?" Shakranta continued, testing his luck.
"I said 2,800, last price," the man stood firm. "Take it or leave it."
"2600?" Shakranta continued, testing his luck.
"I said 2,800, last price," the man stood firm. "Take it or leave it."
“All right, I accept,” Shakranta answered. “I’ll take her for 2,800.”
The girl seemed to beam with pleasure. She looked so happy. Or more like relieved. Now she’d be free from Kolanos. That fat, hairy, ugly Greek slave trader.
“Oh no,” Shakranta said, feeling the money in his pouch. “I don’t think I have enough on me. I’m short of 400 drachma. Shall I top up the 2,400 drachma I have now with this ruby here? It’s a beautiful gem of the highest quality. From Suvarna Bhumi, the Land of Gold, far yonder in the east. You can easily get 700 drachma for it.”
“No,” the fat one answered. “I’ve already got too many of those.”
“In that case, I’ll come right back with the other 400 drachma. Keep the girl for me. Consider her mine.”
§
Returning from Mahmud’s ship with more money, Shakranta quickly made his way back to the market. Accompanied by Ashgar and Tegrud. About midway to their destination, they saw a servant of Sultan Mahmud riding in the direction of the port. The servant saw them, and slowed his horse to a trot as he approached them.
“Good morning, Lord Shakranta,” the man greeted him. “I bear a message from His Majesty Sultan Mahmud. His Majesty Emperor Basileios of Byzantium requests to see Your Lordship at his palace. He is keen to hear a bit more about Langkasuka and the Golden Peninsula, the land that you come from. He would be pleased if General Ashgar and General Tegrud could come along too.”
§
The meeting with the Byzantine sovereign took much longer than Shakranta had expected. The Emperor seemed so fascinated by everything that Shakranta told him about Langkasuka and the Golden Peninsula. He was especially keen in establishing direct trading links between Byzantium and the Langkasukan kingdoms. He was also mulling over the idea of setting up a Byzantine trading post in one of the Langkasukan kingdoms.
The Emperor’s advisers felt that it could help to facilitate better and more direct trade between Byzantium and China. Which until then had been conducted through the Tamils, Gujaratis, Persians and Arabs. The emperor himself was particularly interested in the spice trade, the kingdoms of the White Continent having recently begun acquiring a taste for the exotic foodstuff. Regarding that, dealing directly with the native kingdoms of Suvarna Dvipa, the Golden Islands, would certainly bring in much greater profits for Byzantium.
For Shakranta, a Byzantine base in former Amdan Negara, the fallen ancestral kingdom that he had been working hard to restore, especially if supported and defended by Byzantine troops, would make a brilliant strategic counterweight to the overwhelming power of Palembang in Kedah Negara and Gangga Negara. In the turmoil still enveloping the Langkasukan Federation, wealthy powerful Byzantium would be a dream ally for Amdan Negara. By the time their discussions were finished, it was late afternoon. The Emperor had also invited them all to a private dinner with him the following day.
Shakranta rode back to the market in a hurry, accompanied by Ashgar and Tegrud. As they approached it, Shakranta felt himself somehow getting anxious for some inexplicable reason. Many of the slaves were still around. But the girl ... Isabelle ... she was not among them. Then he saw the stocky figure of the Greek slave trader.
“Kolanos!” Shakranta spoke in a loud voice, calling the man by his name.
The man jumped. He looked rather worried.
“Where’s that girl whom I bought from you this morning?”
“Is … Isabelle … has been bought ... by someone else,” Kolanos muttered. “Some guys from the northwest. They offered me 4,000 drachma. I ... I had to sell her to them. They just wouldn’t ... take no ... for an answer.”
“Liar!!!” Shakranta roared. In one movement, he sprang down from his horse, pounced on Kolanos, placing his sword blade right up against the man’s thick bull neck. “They?” Shakranta demanded with a look that said mean. “You greedy slave trader! Pray tell me ... who were they? ... and which way did they go?”
“They ... they looked like ... a band of mercenaries,” Kolanos replied in an anxious tone. “Franks, by the look of them. They took Isabelle ... with them ... to those hills.”
“Now, Kolanos. You’d better pray that you’re right,” Shakranta said, now looking calm and resolute. “Because ... if I don’t find Isabelle safe and sound ... you will not live beyond this night.”
“Ashgar. Tegrud.” Then Shakranta turned to his two friends. “You two don’t have to come with me. You are both here to escort Sultan Mahmud. This fight is mine … and mine alone.”
“Pardon me, my friend,” Ashgar replied. “With the first part of that, I agree. But with the second part, I beg to differ. Sultan Mahmud is also a warrior. Not just a mere warrior, but a warrior among warriors. He will understand. A true warrior will never forsake a friend in his hour of need. Your fight is now my fight too. I shall go with you.”
“Me too, comrade,” Tegrud weighed in with his support. "Men travelling the same journey are like brothers. When one of them faces any difficulty, the others must rally around him and give him support. That is the code of the traveller, as I understand it."
Shakranta and his two friends then sprang onto their horses and started riding away. A familiar man stood in their way, with his hand raised at Shakranta, signalling to him to slow down. Shakranta knew him. Parmenion, his name was, or something like that. A merchant dealing mostly in textiles, garments and apparel. His stall was close to the slave auction area.
“Be careful, my friend,” the man advised. “Keep your wits about you. Those guys look like Frankish mercenaries. Battle hardened fighters, they are. From a fierce, warlike race of the northwestern lands. They kill guys for fun. My prayers go with you all.”
“Thank you, my friend,” Shakranta answered. “We’re going to need that.”
“I hope you save Isabelle,” the man continued. “She’s a good girl.”
“So do I,” Shakranta said. “Thank you again.”
“Ashgar. Tegrud. Let’s go!”
“Wait!” Ashgar spoke. “Something just flashed through my mind.” He leaned towards Shakranta and whispered something to him.
“Fantastic. Let’s do it.”
“Now, Lord Shakranta, I have an idea too,” Tegrud spoke.
“Well, let’s hear it then, comrade,” replied Shakranta.
Tegrud leaned towards Shakranta and whispered his thought to him.
“Another brilliant one,” said Shakranta. “We’ll merge your two gems together.”
The three then dismounted and spent some time making up their final combined plan.
§
They rode out towards the hills at full gallop, digging their heels hard into the flanks of their horses. Shakranta, Tegrud and a tall, striking Persian lady wearing a long flowing turquoise dress and an elegant purple silk scarf covering her head. Her thick, luxuriant hair, wavy and dark violet in colour, was tied back in a neat ponytail, with a dazzling red rose pinned through it. She rode with Tegrud, perched at a slight angle sideways behind him, both legs hanging over one side of the horse, like a polite Persian lady. A spare horse galloped along with them.
“Sir. Buy me. You’ll get the best from me, I promise. You won’t regret it. And I’ll bring you good fortune too.”
Isabelle’s last words kept ringing in Shakranta’s ears all the way to the hills. Why had he not brought Isabelle back to the ship straightaway with him, he scolded himself. He could have asked either Ashgar or Tegrud to stand as surety for him with Kolanos until he came back.
Isabelle’s last words kept ringing in Shakranta’s ears all the way to the hills. Why had he not brought Isabelle back to the ship straightaway with him, he scolded himself. He could have asked either Ashgar or Tegrud to stand as surety for him with Kolanos until he came back.
And then he recalled Isabelle’s face, as she had last looked in the morning. It had dramatically glowed into life the moment Shakranta had agreed to buy her from Kolanos. If he did not find Isabelle, that imposing, princessly face of hers was going to haunt him forever. The utmost regret now filled his heart.
Midway through their ride, Shakranta called out for a short break.
“My friends. Remember. Those guys are mercenaries. They’re paid to fight and kill, and therefore highly dangerous.”
“And so are we, my friend,” Tegrud retorted.
“Thanks for the reminder, comrade,” Shakranta managed, with a suppressed smile. “Nevertheless, we must be prepared for any possibility. Still, I want us to do our best to avoid any shedding of blood. As far as that is reasonably possible.”
“Very well then, Shakranta,” answered Tegrud. “That would be the ideal case. But don’t you worry too much. They are big, strong guys, I know. But they’re slow. I’ve fought their likes many times before. Furthermore, they’ve probably been drinking a lot. That’ll slow them down even more. With us on our big horses, and them on the ground, drunk, we can cut them all up to pieces if that’s what we have to do.”
The bubbly confidence of the Turkmen warrior sometimes worried Shakranta. But he knew that Tegrud spoke from actual experience, having served as a mercenary commander for several years each in both Byzantine and Bolgarian armies. Which had got him into numerous bruising scraps with big boned fighters like the Normans, the Skandi, the Varangi, and the Franks. While Tegrud himself was not exactly such a little runt either.
Moments later, a lone rider appeared. He was tall, with reddish brown hair and a light skin complexion.
"Another Frank?" Tegrud wondered, softly.
"Looks quite nearly like one," Shakranta muttered under his breath.
"Greetings, friends," the man ventured as he neared them. "I overheard your conversation with Parmenion at the market. I figured that you could use an extra man. You know ... just in case ... if push comes to shove."
"But you look like one of them," said Shakranta.
"No, I'm not" the man dismounted from his horse. "I'm Richard from Enghel Land. Folks here call it Anglia. It's in Brittania. I'm a Saxon. Between our tribe and the Franks ... we're sworn enemies ... we've always been ... for centuries."
"Isabelle ... the girl that we're planning to rescue ... she's a Saxon too," Shakranta explained.
"That makes it one more good reason for me to join you all," the man continued. "So I could help save a fellow Saxon from some bloody Franks. It's also been quite some time since I last killed a Frank."
"That's just fabulous," Shakranta smiled. "But I'd rather we don't have to spill any blood today. Still, welcome to the group, anyway. You're one of us now."
"Great stuff."
Moments later, a lone rider appeared. He was tall, with reddish brown hair and a light skin complexion.
"Another Frank?" Tegrud wondered, softly.
"Looks quite nearly like one," Shakranta muttered under his breath.
"Greetings, friends," the man ventured as he neared them. "I overheard your conversation with Parmenion at the market. I figured that you could use an extra man. You know ... just in case ... if push comes to shove."
"But you look like one of them," said Shakranta.
"No, I'm not" the man dismounted from his horse. "I'm Richard from Enghel Land. Folks here call it Anglia. It's in Brittania. I'm a Saxon. Between our tribe and the Franks ... we're sworn enemies ... we've always been ... for centuries."
"Isabelle ... the girl that we're planning to rescue ... she's a Saxon too," Shakranta explained.
"That makes it one more good reason for me to join you all," the man continued. "So I could help save a fellow Saxon from some bloody Franks. It's also been quite some time since I last killed a Frank."
"That's just fabulous," Shakranta smiled. "But I'd rather we don't have to spill any blood today. Still, welcome to the group, anyway. You're one of us now."
"Great stuff."
Shakranta explained to Richard the plan that he and his friends had devised.
"Bloody good plan you've got there! Couldn't have done any better myself."
Just as they were getting ready to leave, another horseman came. He looked like a Greek.
"Greetings, friend," the man addressed Shakranta, then nodded in aknowledgement to the rest. "You must be the warrior Shakranta."
"Yes, I am."
"Good. Parmenion told me everything he knew about you."
"Are you his friend?" Shakranta enquired.
"I'm his brother, Philokles. I just came back from Pale, in Macedonia. Army duty. I'm pleased to meet you."
"And I to meet you, soldier," Shakranta answered.
"I heard about the girl Isabelle," Philokles continued. "So I've come to lend you a hand. Someone has to show that not all Greeks are as sly and unfeeling as Kolanos. There are times when honour must be fought for and allowed to stand."
"How glad I am to hear you feel that way too," Shakranta responded.
Shakranta then looked at Tegrud.
"Well," the Turkmen smiled casually. "Now our army is nearly twice bigger."
Shakranta explained his group's plan again, this time to Philokles. The men then continued their journey with all haste.
"Bloody good plan you've got there! Couldn't have done any better myself."
Just as they were getting ready to leave, another horseman came. He looked like a Greek.
"Greetings, friend," the man addressed Shakranta, then nodded in aknowledgement to the rest. "You must be the warrior Shakranta."
"Yes, I am."
"Good. Parmenion told me everything he knew about you."
"Are you his friend?" Shakranta enquired.
"I'm his brother, Philokles. I just came back from Pale, in Macedonia. Army duty. I'm pleased to meet you."
"And I to meet you, soldier," Shakranta answered.
"I heard about the girl Isabelle," Philokles continued. "So I've come to lend you a hand. Someone has to show that not all Greeks are as sly and unfeeling as Kolanos. There are times when honour must be fought for and allowed to stand."
"How glad I am to hear you feel that way too," Shakranta responded.
Shakranta then looked at Tegrud.
"Well," the Turkmen smiled casually. "Now our army is nearly twice bigger."
Shakranta explained his group's plan again, this time to Philokles. The men then continued their journey with all haste.
§
They were pushing, shoving and occassionally throwing about what looked like a screaming, shouting young girl between them. Her hair looked unruly, and her clothes torn to shreds. The men had apparently been cutting and slicing them up with their daggers and swords. It was quite obvious then that they now only had one thing on their minds. As Shakranta moved closer, he recognised her.
Yes, it was Isabelle. She seemed on the verge of hysteria, and she looked absolutely terrified. For some reason, he felt at once both relieved and anxious.
“But she’s too small and too skinny ... not attractive enough for me,” one of the man complained in Greek, although he looked like a northerner. Luckily for Shakranta, it was the only language spoken around Byzantium which he could understand, besides Persian. Even then, it was only with a huge effort.
“Oh, shut up, Ragnar!” one of his companions, Helmut, shouted in Frankish. Time for Tegrud to put his linguistic skills to good use again. “Aren’t we all big, strong warriors? Hey! When arse gets scarce, anything in a dress is good enough for me. As long as it’s not a pig.”
Another man, Wulfgar, laughed. “You’re right, Helmut. You know Ragnar. He can’t stop moaning even at a party. He’s just a big, bloody, disgusting blob of bad whine. Gets worse with age.”
The other guys broke into great guffaws at the man’s wisecrack.
“Wulfgar, you’re gonna pay dearly for that one, some time.” Ragnar responded with an obviously fake threat, considering the amused smile on his face, to his stocky, barrel chested, one-eyed friend.
Shakranta, Tegrud, Richard and Philokles slowed their horses gradually to a trot, then a walk, well before they got near to the Frankish mercenaries.
“Friends!” Shakranta alerted the men to his group’s arrival in Greek. He raised his right hand in a gesture of peace as they all turned around to face him. “Wait. Apparently, there has been a little miscommunication.”
“Who’re you?” Mathias, another one of the Franks, demanded, while also giving Richard a curious glance. He was easily the tallest and biggest of the bunch, far exceeding the others. “And what do you want? Answer me fast. Or my halberd is going to split your face in two very soon,” he continued, caressing the blade of his massive double-edged battle axe as he spoke.
Shakranta dismounted from his horse calmly, showing neither fear nor hostility. He approached the men slowly, while Tegrud, Richard and Philokles stayed on their horses.
“Steady on, my friends,” Shakranta coaxed, gently. “We come in peace. That scrawny, dirty little girl ... Isabelle ... has actually been bought by us this morning. But Kolanos, the trader, assumed, quite wrongly, that we had cancelled the purchase.”
The Franks listened intently.
“Now, we gladly offer to you all, this beautiful, elegant, full bodied Persian lady in exchange for Isabelle,” Shakranta continued. “Her name is ... Mehrandokht ... Daughter of Mehran ... Mehran, the River of the Gods far yonder in the east ... she’s from Hamadan ... of aristocratic extraction. You can just see it in her ... the sharp features ... the high cheekbones ...”
“Such a beautiful name. For such a beautiful lady.” Guntur responded, in an obviously approving tone.
“Wowww,” Ragnar enthused, practically drooling with desire. “Wowww. Wowww. Now, now. That’s what I call a real woman. Vivacious, gorgeous and voluptuous. Glowingly attractive like the full moon. She will be my Aphrodite tonight. And I shall be her Zeus. Hey, friends. Let’s take this one. I’ve long dreamed of a sweet, exquisite, adorable Persian lady such as she.”
The Persian woman blushed with embarrassment at Ragnar’s unabashed admiration for her. She nervously shifted her position on Tegrud’s horse.
“Yes, Ragnar,” replied Wulfgar. “For once I agree with your taste in women. You know, I’ve always loved a big girl. Only that we’ve very rarely, if ever, been in accord on this matter.”
“Naaah,” his comrade, Siegfried, scoffed. “You’re not qualified to talk about taste, Wulfgar. You’d take even a wild boar when you’re hard up.”
“Pity that boar found by Wulfgar when he gets desperate,” another friend, Friedrich, added.
The other Franks all roared again in loud hilarity at the increasingly bawdy humour.
Tegrud then urged his horse to approach the Franks, slowly. They appeared to be gradually losing interest in Isabelle, eventually releasing her. She ran towards Shakranta and hid behind his back, holding on tightly to his shirt tail as she did so. Richard and Philokles looked on in silence.
“Get onto my horse,” Shakranta instructed Isabelle, softly, offering his hands as support for her feet. “Slowly. Then wait for me.”
“But be careful, my friends,” Shakranta continued loudly, addressing the Frankish men again. “The lady, Mehrandokht, she’s of noble birth. She despises the barbarian way. You know, rough, savage men. But if you treat her gently ... and if you know how to win her heart ... then she’ll make you happier than you have ever been.”
“Ooooooh,” Siegfried cooed. “Love it. Love it. I love it. She’s just the woman for me.”
“Me too,” Mathias concurred with his big booming voice.
§
Tegrud helped the Persian lady seated on his horse to dismount. She did so, slowly. Very, very slowly. Until both her feet had touched the ground. And then ...
A pair of black hawks flew up high into the air from somewhere around Tegrud’s horse, in the direction of the group of Franks, each firmly clutching a small bright pouch in its talons. One after the other, the birds let go of their pouches from high above the men, then flew away quickly. A fiery arrow loosed from Shakranta’s bow, striking one pouch.
The contents of the pouch immediately broke out into a riot of explosive sounds, followed by numerous, scattered wispy palls of smoke wafting out into a multitude of brilliant colours. As the Franks looked up, completely awed and enthralled, another fiery arrow shot out, this time from Tegrud, striking the other pouch. Suddenly ...
“Hiaaah!!!”, the Persian lady roared loudly, with a voice that sounded rather deep for a woman, and vaulted onto the spare horse, now seating herself with legs astride. It was Ashgar all along, all dressed up and made up to look like a sophisticated, aristocratic Persian woman.
At the same time, Shakranta sprang onto his horse, seating himself behind Isabelle. With no time to waste, the five riders galloped away from the Franks like the wind.
The Frankish warriors were stunned beyond belief. Then they swore and cursed. Lifting and shaking their weapons, waving them at Shakranta and his friends in anger, obviously challenging them to a fight. Shakranta ignored their taunts.
“Thank you, Sir,” Isabelle spoke to Shakranta, after a long silence. “Thank you so much. You and your friends ... you all saved my life. And you risked yours ... for mine.” And then she broke down, sobbing.
“We only did what we could, young lady,” Shakranta answered. “Obviously, someone somewhere up there still loves you.”
Isabelle then cried uncontrollably. It had been an extremely stormy day for her, emotionally. Her body started feeling feverish. Her heart shrank when she thought about what might have happened to her, if the three men that she had met only this morning had not come to rescue her, with their two friends.
“Won’t they ... chase us?” Isabelle asked, in a shaky voice, as she recovered a little, still sounding very scared.
“I don’t think so,” Shakranta answered. “They look too drunk for a chase. They’d fall from their horses if they do. Anyway, it’s growing dark fast.”
As soon as they had got to a safe enough distance, Shakranta stopped briefly and wheeled around to look at the Franks again. He took out a white pouch and waved it at them. They were still looking confused and bewildered about what had just happened. Some of them made obscene signs at Shakranta.
Tegrud put two fingers between his tongue and lower lip, and whistled, loud and shrill. His two young hawks flew back in from a distance, each perching itself on one of his shoulders.
Shakranta tossed the white pouch, containing four thousand and five hundred drachma, in the direction of the Franks. Four thousand drachma was repayment for the money they had paid for Isabelle. The other five hundred drachma being compensation for loss and damages. The six men then galloped onward toward the city.
§
Shakranta, Tegrud and Ashgar went for their last walk around at the market. This time, they brought Isabelle along with them. They browsed through various merchandise at different stalls to see any interesting goods they had not noticed previously. Because they were due to sail back to Gujarat the following day. The last stall they stopped by was Parmenion’s. To look at some new textiles and apparel that had just arrived.
Then Isabelle remembered the request of her Bolgar friend, Shamira. She looked for the medallion in her small leather purse. It was not there.
“Young lady,” a deep man’s voice sounded. “I believe you’ve forgotten something.”
Isabelle turned around to face the man. “Uncle Parmenion!”
“Welcome back, girl. I was worried for you. Here’s something you gave to me for temporary safekeeping. Remember?” The man handed Isabelle an object. It was the medallion.
“Thank you, Uncle Parmenion. I thought I had lost it.”
“Lord Shakranta,” she spoke, addressing her new master. “Forgive me, Lord. I have one small wish to make. I hope it is not too inconvenient for you.”
“What is it, Isabelle?” Shakranta answered. “Tell me.”
“I need to see a friend, before we leave. To say goodbye to her. She ... is also ... a bit unwell, by the way.”
“Oh, that’s not a problem. Let’s just finish off our shopping here. Then we can go.”
After having made their final purchases, Shakranta and his friends were just making their way back to the slave auction area, when they heard the sobs of a child. Shakranta turned round, to see a little boy, about six years old, with not a single stitch of thread on his body.
“Zibâ Baji! Zibâ Baji!,” he seemed to call out to Isabelle by a familiar nickname, crying. After a while, Shakranta recalled that zibâ meant ‘beautiful’ in Persian, and that baji meant ‘sister’ in Turkmen.
“Ozalan!” Isabelle responded, rather surprised. Apparently she knew him. “What’s the matter? Where’s your mother?”
“Zibâ Baji, don’t leave me,” the child pleaded. “I want to go with you, Zibâ Baji. Please, Zibâ Baji. Mother ... asked me ... to go with you," he continued crying.
And then only, it dawned on Shakranta that the word zibâ would also sound, to a small Turkmen child, close enough to the name ‘Isabelle’, and would be much easier for him to pronounce.
“Ozalan,” Isabelle coaxed the little boy, placing a shawl around his body to cover him. “Calm down, hero. You always told me that you wanted to be a warrior, didn’t you?”
The child went silent for some moments. Then he drew himself up, until he stood fully erect. “Like my father, Commander Uzulmez,” he replied proudly, in a firm, determined tone.
“Now, that’s better,” Isabelle kept soothing him. “So, tell me what’s happened. And where’s your mother?”
“Mother ... my Mother ... she’s dead.”
“What?”
“Mother ... is dead.”
“But I just spoke to her yesterday. She looked fine then.”
“She’s dead.”
“Oh God! Poor boy,” Isabelle’s natural motherly instincts took over immediately, despite her young age. Urging her, without herself being consciously aware of it, to protect and nurture an unfortunate child in his moment of crisis. She dropped down to her knees immediately, put her arms around the boy and hugged him close to her for the longest time, as he broke down sobbing again, burying his face in Isabelle’s chest.
“Shush,” Isabelle said. “It’s all right, Dear. It’s all right. I’m here with you now. I won’t leave you.” She kept hugging him, stroking his face and hair, kissing his head, like she was his own mother now.
Ozalan’s father, Uzulmez, was a Turkmen warrior of the Oghuz tribe, who had served as a mercenary with the Bolgar army. His mother, Shamira, was a Bolgar woman who had long suffered from a strange sickness. Which had often struck her and laid her low at the most unexpected of times. Uzulmez had fallen in battle in a border skirmish with Byzantium. Shamira and her son were afterwards taken captive by the victorious Byzantine army and sold as slaves in Constantinople. That was how they ended up as friends and co-slaves with Isabelle. Co-slaves owned by Kolanos.
“Ozalan!!!” a familiar hoarse man’s voice sounded. “How many times have I warned you not to wander too far? Come here!” It was Kolanos.
Before the child had a chance to move, Kolanos lashed him repeatedly on his back, his bottom and his legs with a cane. Ozalan hugged Isabelle tighter. Isabelle shifted her body around to shield the child from Kolanos. Shakranta started moving towards the man.
“Kolanos!!!” Isabelle screamed. “You vile beast! Stop it! He’s only a little child. And he’s just lost his mother.”
Seeing Kolanos lift his cane for yet another round of lashing, Isabelle was now at the end of her tether. As the cane came arcing down towards Ozalan, she rose and leapt at the man, clung to his cane wielding arm, and sank her teeth into that arm with all the strength and ferocity her frail body could muster.
Lifting Isabelle’s scrawny frame with effortless ease, Kolanos drew his left hand back and whacked his massive fist squarely on her small head, sending the girl spinning around, then sprawling down heavily to the gravelly ground.
“Hey you!!!” Shakranta bellowed, now surging towards Kolanos. "You vicious bastard!!!
Tegrud, Ashgar, Richard and Philokles all stood at the ready, each with his hand on his sword hilt, just in case somebody else intervened and the situation swerved out of control.
No sooner had Kolanos turned around, than Shakranta thundered his big right fist with all his might into the man’s face. It hit Kolanos right on the base of his jaw, cracking his jawbone. He staggered and lurched for a while, finally falling flat on his back, hitting his head hard on the ground. With not a sound from his throat.
The small crowd that had gathered around the area in the meantime, some of them slaves in chains, clapped, whistled and shouted in applause.
“Such a heartless brute,” Shakranta muttered. “High time that you learnt something about compassion.” But Kolanos was no more capable of hearing him, let alone reply. Not for a while, at least.
Isabelle pulled herself up slowly, Shakranta lending her his hand. While little Ozalan waddled over to her, looking concerned, offering what comfort and consolation he could.
“Zibâ Baji, are you hurt?” he enquired.
“Ughh ... I’m fine, Oja. Just a little dazed,” answered Isabelle, although she now felt the beginnings of a throbbing pain in her head.
Strangely, the child Ozalan never let out a single sound when he was being beaten hard with Kolanos’s cane. Like the spirit of a warrior had suddenly flowed into him from somewhere. Making him strong, proud and defiant.
But that was not so strange, actually. For Ozalan was the son of Uzulmez, commander of the mercenary battalion of the Bolgar army until his death in battle. Among the most formidable soldiers of the Tsar of Bolgarsko Tsarsvo, now mostly called simply Bolgaria. Ozalan, therefore, surely carried some of Uzulmez’s warrior blood in his veins.
But that was not so strange, actually. For Ozalan was the son of Uzulmez, commander of the mercenary battalion of the Bolgar army until his death in battle. Among the most formidable soldiers of the Tsar of Bolgarsko Tsarsvo, now mostly called simply Bolgaria. Ozalan, therefore, surely carried some of Uzulmez’s warrior blood in his veins.
“Come, young man,” Shakranta spoke to the boy, holding the child's small hand in his own. “You will come with us. Isabelle, let’s go look around for some suitable clothes for Ozalan and you. We also need some medicine for Ozalan’s wounds as well as your headache. And buy anything that either of you two wants to eat or drink.”
Shakranta threw a pouch containing a thousand drachma to Kolanos’ side. As payment for Ozalan.
A sound like the clatter of hooves rumbled in the distance. Moments later, a group of about twenty well-armed soldiers in full battle armour came galloping in, kicking up a pall of dust in their wake. As they drew nearer, Shakranta recognised them. It was the Royal Varangian Guards, led by none other than General Frederik himself, their Chief Commander.
"Greetings, Your Excellency Prince Shakranta," the commander spoke. "We received word that there was some trouble around here, involving you and Kolanos. We came over to see that you're all right."
"Well, fortunately I am."
"Greetings, Your Excellency Prince Shakranta," the commander spoke. "We received word that there was some trouble around here, involving you and Kolanos. We came over to see that you're all right."
"Well, fortunately I am."
"Looks like everything's in good order now," Frederik smiled in amusement as he saw Kolanos' body lying motionless on the ground.
"Who doesn't?" the general responded. "The man has quite a reputation around these parts."
"Looks like he's just picked up another one now," Tegrud sneered. "For going down cold with just one blow."
"Should improve his general attitude a bit now," Richard added. "At least for a little while."
Philokles chuckled.
"Should improve his general attitude a bit now," Richard added. "At least for a little while."
Philokles chuckled.
§
After crossing the Bosphorus on a barge, the land journey from the Asiatic side of Constantinople to Esfahan took four weeks. With frequent stops on the way to rest and recover. The group stayed at Ashgar’s family home in Esfahan for three nights, at his father's insistence, before moving onward to the port city of Gumarun. Sultan's Mahmud’s fleet then took a month to sail home from Gumarun to Gujarat.
The two kids proved to be a boon to Shakranta, Tegrud and Ashgar on their long journey. The childish antics of Isabelle and Ozalan provided them all some much needed distraction from what would otherwise have been a dreary four weeks of gazing at the horizon, the sky, the clouds and the sea.
The men took turns regaling the children with folk tales, or real stories of their own adventures. Occasionally, Sultan Mahmud would join in with them too. While Isabelle herself turned out to be a storyteller of quite some reckoning.
The men took turns regaling the children with folk tales, or real stories of their own adventures. Occasionally, Sultan Mahmud would join in with them too. While Isabelle herself turned out to be a storyteller of quite some reckoning.
The children had both been granted complete and immediate freedom by Shakranta, just before boarding the ship. But they opted to follow him back to his homeland and pledged to serve him for pay, as he had offered. Well, at least Isabelle did. Ozalan, meanwhile, was still too young to fully grasp the seriousness of such weighty matters.
Ozalan, in particular, turned out to be more than a handful for the three men, as well as Isabelle, his chief minder. His tireless, unrestrained ebullience kept them both busy and entertained. As well as alert, in case something untoward occurred. Suddenly unshackled from the constraints that had stifled him as a slave child, he was transformed into a ball of energy in perpetual motion.
§
Tegrud allowed Ozalan and Isabelle to feed his two hawks and play with them. So that the kids did not get so stressed up from boredom during the journey. The young raptors continually had Ozalan shouting, screaming and shrieking in delight. There was always food aplenty for them, and they had their pick of the fish that swam around the ship. The kids would toss small crumbs of bread or other food into the water, the fish would come rushing in, and the two birds would swoop on them.
While Ashgar started teaching Ozalan to ride his two young Persian ponies at walking pace. Ozalan was rather scared at first. But the ponies were well trained and gentle, especially with children. Ozalan gradually overcame his initial fears. Isabelle, on the other hand, was already quite an accomplished rider, and she helped to guide Ozalan along.
§
The weather was a bit cool. The sky was cloudier than usual. A slight wind was blowing. It had been drizzling lightly all morning. One by one, Shakranta, Ashgar and Tegrud dozed off, after a rather heavy breakfast, washed down with thick, black Byzantine coffee sweetened with honey, served by Isabelle.
Suddenly, Shakranta was woken up by the shrill screeching of Tegrud’s two young hawks. The birds seemed extremely agitated. One was pecking at Tegrud’s chest and neck, trying to wake him up. The other was flying about restlessly, looking bewildered. It kept flying out to the sea in one direction, then flying back into the ship, then flying out in that same direction again.
Shakranta looked around him for the kids. They were nowhere to be seen. And then he heard a faint cry from one side of the ship. The side that Tegrud’s bird kept flying to. It sounded like Isabelle.
Shakranta rushed over to that side. He saw Isabelle in the water. Swimming towards something. Or trying hard to. Looking further ahead, he saw a little lump of something, bobbing up and down in the water. And then he saw two little hands flailing. Good heavens, he thought. It was Ozalan.
Shakranta jumped into the water immediately. Isabelle herself had got into difficulty by then. Shakranta swam for Ozalan first. Securing the child fast with his left hand, he then quickly went for Isabelle. He managed to grab her arm just as she was about to start sinking. Then he heard the splashing sound of another person jumping into the sea. Then another. It was Tegrud, followed by Ashgar. They had been awoken and alerted by Tegrud’s hawks.
Shakranta passed Ozalan over to Tegrud, while he shifted his hold of Isabelle to his left arm, leaving his stronger right arm free for paddling. Ashgar then swam to the other side of Isabelle, holding her other arm, helping Shakranta to pull her back toward the ship.
§
The two children approached Shakranta, Ashgar and Tegrud, as they were sitting down, talking. Ozalan, particularly, looked rather sheepish.
“Lord Shakranta, General Ashgar, General Tegrud,” Isabelle spoke, addressing the three men. “We’re both very sorry. For getting ourselves into trouble. And for causing you all so much distress.”
“Hey, it’s all right, kids,” Shakranta assured them. “Don’t you two worry your little heads too much about it. It’s such a small matter.”
“Well, the both of you gave us a great chance to refresh our swimming skills, children,” Tegrud responded, with his usual robust good humour.
“We’d be a great deal more distressed if we don’t have you both with us now.” Ashgar added. “So, how did it happen then?” he enquired. “Tell us.”
“Well, I was just feeding some fish, as usual,” Isabelle explained. “Then, a rather big one came skipping in over the waves. One of General Tegrud’s hawks was flying about, saw it, and made a spectacular swoop. Oja got excited and made a wild dash to the ship’s side, to watch. He climbed up the side at speed, and he just tumbled over. And all I could think of, then, was to run and jump out, after him.”
§
The five spent a few days in Gujarat. Sultan Mahmud had made his way back to Ghazna from Gujarat immediately. On their final morning together, Tegrud and Ashgar accompanied Shakranta, Isabelle and Ozalan to the port.
“Isabelle. Ozalan. I have a gift for the both of you. For you, Ozalan, consider it a special gift from one Turkmen to another. Do not forget ... we Turkmen people ... we have been hunters for thousands of years. The tazy (hound), the gyrgy (hawk), the chagri (falcon) and the burgut (eagle) have always been our good friends. Take this pair of young gyrgy (hawks) with you two. The female one is for you, Isabelle. While you, Ozalan, you shall have the male one.”
“Thank you,” Isabelle and Ozalan said, almost in unison.
“I name my male gyrgy Zarpcy, the Warrior,” said Ozalan.
“And I shall call my female gyrgy Mehrandokht, Daughter of Mehran,” said Isabelle, in all earnestness.
“Such a beautiful name. For such a beautiful lady,” Tegrud commented, teasingly. Repeating exactly the same phrase that one of the drunken Frankish mercenaries in Constantinople had used with reference to Ashgar when he was in a woman’s disguise.
Those men were completely convinced then that Ashgar was a real woman. Ashgar punched Tegrud in his ribs. It was a mild, extremely well controlled strike. Tegrud gave out a loud exaggerated scream of faked pain. Shakranta chuckled.
Those men were completely convinced then that Ashgar was a real woman. Ashgar punched Tegrud in his ribs. It was a mild, extremely well controlled strike. Tegrud gave out a loud exaggerated scream of faked pain. Shakranta chuckled.
Memories of that encounter with those Franks in Constantinople came drifting back to Ashgar, Tegrud and Shakranta, bringing an amused smile to each of them.
Moments later, Isabelle got the joke, and blushed slightly. “Oh! I’m sorry, General Ashgar. Perhaps I should find another name,” she offered.
“Oh, no!” Ashgar responded quickly. “Don’t you worry about it, girl. It’s perfectly all right. Please keep it. Maybe it’ll remind you of me,” he continued in sportive good humour.
“Take good care of them both, Ozalan, Isabelle,” said Tegrud. “They shall bring you good luck. And they shall be good friends and companions for you two in Amdan Negara.”
“I shall, Uncle Tegrud. I shall love them always,” said Ozalan.
“Me too, General Tegrud. My father also kept chagri and gyrgy. He has taught me many things about them. Like how to handle them and look after them.”
“Splendid,” said Tegrud. “Zarpcy and Mehrandokht shall be in good hands then.”
“Now it’s my turn to give the gifts,” Ashgar spoke to the kids after a while. “You two, especially Ozalan, are going to need a couple of small horses. For riding practice when you’re in Amdan Negara. Before you grow big enough to be able to ride Lord Shakranta’s big horses safely and comfortably. So ... Ozalan gets this young male Persian pony ... and, for you Isabelle, you get his female friend.”
“Thank you, General Ashgar,” Isabelle said. “I name her Khanum, the Lady.”
“Thank you, Uncle Ashgar,” said Ozalan. “I shall call my pony Shahpur, the Prince.”
As Shakranta and the two kids were just about to board their ship, Isabelle suddenly turned around and scrambled back toward Ashgar and Tegrud. Ozalan then followed closely on her heels.
“General Ashgar, General Tegrud, you two helped save my life that day. I’m indebted to you both forever,” Isabelle said. Then she gave the two men a peck on their cheek, each of them stooping low for her to reach him. It was a common Saxon gesture of close friendship, when it’s time for two friends or relatives to part ways.
“Oooh, that’s nice,” Tegrud said, in his usual provocative way. “Good bye, Zibâ Baji. You take care, all right.” He addressed Isabelle by the affectionate name that Ozalan liked to use for her.
“Oooh, that’s nice,” Tegrud said, in his usual provocative way. “Good bye, Zibâ Baji. You take care, all right.” He addressed Isabelle by the affectionate name that Ozalan liked to use for her.
“You too, General Tegrud. Good bye.”
“Good bye, Isabelle. Have a safe journey,” said Ashgar.
“And you, General Ashgar. Good bye.”
“Aren’t you going to give me a kiss too then, Oja?” asked Tegrud.
“No!” Ozalan answered quickly. “I’m not a girl.”
“In that case, I’m the one who’s going to give you a kiss, then,” Tegrud said, grabbing the boy and hoisting him up to his chest, then planted a kiss on his warm cheek. “You remind me of my little nephew, Son. Boisterous and exuberant all the time.”
Ozalan shrieked and screamed, squirming in the grasp of Tegrud’s big muscular arms. “Ughh. You’re too hairy, Uncle Tegrud.”
“That’s why the ladies love me.”
“But I’m not a lady,” Ozalan insisted, adamantly, sending Ashgar into great guffaws of laughter. Shakranta stood waiting on the ship, observing their antics patiently from afar.
“Hey, boy,” Tegrud continued. “You’re going to be a hairy one as well, when you’re fully grown up. Because you’re a Turkmen too, you know. Just like me. And don’t you ever forget that, alright.”
“Of course I won’t,” Ozalan replied. “When I grow up, I’m going to be a brave and strong Turkmen warrior. Like my father, Commander Uzulmez.”
“Good boy,” Tegrud responded. “I’m sure you will.”
Ashgar grabbed Ozalan and hugged him tightly as soon as Tegrud put him down, stroking his face and his thick mop of wavy, jet black hair, in a fatherly way.
“Good bye, Uncle Tegrud. Good bye, Uncle Ashgar,” little Ozalan at last managed.
“Good bye, Oja,” Tegrud and Ashgar responded, almost together.
§ § §
Mubarak the maulana had been enthralled by stories he had heard about Suvarna Bhumi, the Golden Continent, and Suvarna Dvipa, the Golden Islands. The moment the Arab traveller had heard from traders about the arrival of Shakranta, the young warrior prince from the Golden Peninsula who was also fast making a name for himself in mercantile circles, he had made it a point to meet Shakranta as soon as Shakranta appeared at the palace of Sultan Mahmud.
The two had become good friends over the months that Shakranta stayed in the palace grounds as a special guest of Mahmud, each regaling the other with tales from their native lands, and stories of their own adventures in foreign lands, whenever they both had the time to spare. Despite their close association, Mubarak never ever tried to push his faith onto Shakranta, while Shakranta always regarded the elder man with the utmost respect.
Before Shakranta left Ghazna for Byzantium, he had invited Mubarak to go with him to his homeland when the time came for Shakranta to return. Mubarak was pleased beyond his dreams, and he made his way to Gujarat with all haste as soon as he received word that Shakranta had arrived back there from Constantinople.
§
When she came back, there were three strangers in the family abode: a young, extremely fair-skinned girl with blue eyes and hair almost the colour of the skin of ripe boiled corn, a small boy whose features she thought looked like a mix of Persian, Greek and Tatar, and a tall Arabic looking man sporting a thick growth of beard and sideburns but no moustache. Ever the hospitable hostess, she had no problems whatsoever accommodating the presence of her new guests.
As she got to know them better later, Kembang Seri Wangi seemed especially delighted to have Isabelle and Ozalan in her home, having long missed the merriness and good cheer of having children around the house ever since Shakranta had grown up. As for Mubarak, he looked a bit strange to her at first. But then they always did, these mysterious men of the temple, she reflected. Still, he seemed like a pleasant change from the usual Hindu Brahmins and Buddhist Bhikkus that Shakranta had often liked to bring home with him, intermittently, from time to time.
The man performed his prayers without fail, five times a day, always facing the direction of sunset. Before which he would wet and cleanse his hands, mouth, face, arms, a bit of his hair around the forehead, his ears and finally his feet, thoroughly.
Something peculiar about this holy man, which did not escape Kembang Seri Wangi’s attention, was that he woshipped no statue and revered no idol, and that there was nary an amulet on him. A while later, she started seeing Isabelle praying in the same manner as Mubarak, but completely enveloped in plain white cloth except for her face, sometimes alone, other times together with him, a short distance behind him. Occassionally, she would find Ozalan joining in with them too, often after some persuasion from Isabelle.
Something peculiar about this holy man, which did not escape Kembang Seri Wangi’s attention, was that he woshipped no statue and revered no idol, and that there was nary an amulet on him. A while later, she started seeing Isabelle praying in the same manner as Mubarak, but completely enveloped in plain white cloth except for her face, sometimes alone, other times together with him, a short distance behind him. Occassionally, she would find Ozalan joining in with them too, often after some persuasion from Isabelle.
But what Kembang Seri Wangi did not know yet, then, was that Isabelle had already embraced that new faith when she was in Byzantium. Isabelle had first learned about it from her Bolgar friend Shamira, Ozalan’s mother. Shamira herself had been a Muslim from birth, her Tatar parents having migrated to Sofia from Bulghar, in their homeland of Volszkaya Bolgariya.
The Khan of Volszkaya Bolgariya and his followers had converted to Islam en masse after an official visit by Amir ibnu Fadhlan, special envoy of the Caliph of Baghdad, the Khan then proclaiming Islam as his kingdom’s official faith. Isabelle had been fascinated by how that faith considered all men and women as absolutely equal, whether dark or fair, slave or king, prince or pauper. She had then pursued it further, rather ardently, within the bounds that always constrained a slave, listening with rapt attention to a captive preacher from Baghdad at every rare opportunity.
After several weeks of observing Mubarak and Isabelle dutifully performing their daily worship, Kembang Seri Wangi started feeling a certain irresistible curiosity about their faith. They both looked so calm and at peace with themselves when they prayed, that she just had to find out for herself what it felt like. So she followed what they did a few times, going through all the motions, without yet knowing even a word of the verses they recited.
Soon, she would listen, utterly absorbed, to Mubarak as he stood under the cool shade of a big beringin tree in the grounds of Dharmakusuma Palace on certain days, patiently teaching and explaining the basic tenets of his faith to a constantly growing number of people from the local community.
Within a couple of months, Kembang Seri Wangi, her son Shakranta and the entire Dharmakusuma household had firmly embraced Islam. It was only a long time later that Mubarak let on that it was not his decision alone to come to Amdan Negara, although he was quite passionate about it.
Rather, Sultan Mahmud al-Ghaznavi, without Shakranta's knowledge, had played a major role too, coaxing, cajoling and exhorting Mubarak no end to give full vent to his thirst for adventure in the Golden Peninsula. Mubarak's close friendship with Shakranta had not escaped the Sultan's keen observation, and the Sultan had, for the sake of Islam, vowed to himself to make use of it to the full.
"Remember, Mubarak. Your immediate mission is to guide the children, Isabelle and Ozalan, in order to sustain them in their faith. But your bigger, long term challenge is to spread the light of Islam to all of Amdan Negara, beginning with Prince Shakranta and his immediate family. If you need support, just let me know. I shall get it delivered to you with all speed."
Thus went Mahmud's last words to Mubarak, as the Sultan bid farewell to the Arab preacher adventurer, just when the man was leaving Ghazna for Gujarat. And how well Mubarak was fulfilling Mahmud's wishes.
They called Mahmud the Lion of Islam. But he did not spread the faith by force of might alone. It was the power of his wisdom which played the much bigger part. A wisdom which Shakranta could not help noticing even from early on in their relationship, and which he had strived to emulate.
After several weeks of observing Mubarak and Isabelle dutifully performing their daily worship, Kembang Seri Wangi started feeling a certain irresistible curiosity about their faith. They both looked so calm and at peace with themselves when they prayed, that she just had to find out for herself what it felt like. So she followed what they did a few times, going through all the motions, without yet knowing even a word of the verses they recited.
Soon, she would listen, utterly absorbed, to Mubarak as he stood under the cool shade of a big beringin tree in the grounds of Dharmakusuma Palace on certain days, patiently teaching and explaining the basic tenets of his faith to a constantly growing number of people from the local community.
Rather, Sultan Mahmud al-Ghaznavi, without Shakranta's knowledge, had played a major role too, coaxing, cajoling and exhorting Mubarak no end to give full vent to his thirst for adventure in the Golden Peninsula. Mubarak's close friendship with Shakranta had not escaped the Sultan's keen observation, and the Sultan had, for the sake of Islam, vowed to himself to make use of it to the full.
"Remember, Mubarak. Your immediate mission is to guide the children, Isabelle and Ozalan, in order to sustain them in their faith. But your bigger, long term challenge is to spread the light of Islam to all of Amdan Negara, beginning with Prince Shakranta and his immediate family. If you need support, just let me know. I shall get it delivered to you with all speed."
Thus went Mahmud's last words to Mubarak, as the Sultan bid farewell to the Arab preacher adventurer, just when the man was leaving Ghazna for Gujarat. And how well Mubarak was fulfilling Mahmud's wishes.
They called Mahmud the Lion of Islam. But he did not spread the faith by force of might alone. It was the power of his wisdom which played the much bigger part. A wisdom which Shakranta could not help noticing even from early on in their relationship, and which he had strived to emulate.
§
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