Unfortunately, the knowledge that he had acted wisely could not quench the slow, frustrated burn of arousal that tormented him whenever he thought of Juliet. As he finished his tea, he uttered a silent prayer of thanks for loose, concealing Asiatic clothing.
Yearning for Juliet did have one benefit. It distracted him from the question of whether he might be butchered like a feast-day lamb the next day.
Though none of his companions referred to his possible fate, an undercurrent of tension was present the rest of the evening. So far, nature had supplied the journey's worst hazards. From now on the enemies would be human and far more dangerous.
* * *
After another restless night, Ross rose the next morning and put aside his Asiatic garments for English clothing. As he had told Juliet back at Serevan, whatever influence he might hope for came from his status as Ian's countryman and kin, and his well-tailored blue coat, white shirt, and tan breeches instantly proclaimed that he was European. He even donned his black English hat, a folding style which he had brought because of its ability to survive being packed.
The rat-faced Uzbek must have spread his story around the caravan, for most of the other travelers kept their distance from Ross. Some were unobtrusive in their avoidance, while others shunned the ferengi as if he were a plague carrier. Given the amir's reputation for quixotic violence, Ross didn't blame them.
Nonetheless, the first part of the day's journey was quiet. By noon they had left the trackless desert behind and were traveling along a shady, poplar-lined road. The land was dead flat, and lushly irrigated orchards and fields ran as far as the eye could see.
After the desolate Kara Kum, the country seemed prosperous and crowded. The road carried a steady flow of traffic in both directions, heavily laden ponies competing with bored donkeys and high-wheeled carts.
They had passed through the village of Shahr Islam and were only five or six miles from Bokhara itself when Ross saw a large dust cloud in the road far ahead of them. Since it was unusual to travel at high speed during the midday heat, he said to Murad, who had the keenest vision among them, "Can you make out what kind of party is coming toward us?"
The young Persian shaded his eyes and squinted against the brilliant sunshine. "Three men. They are dressed as royal chamberlains—and two are carrying baskets."
Ross tensed as he remembered what the rat-faced Uzbek had said the night before. His journey from Constantinople had had its risks, but they had been no worse than on any journey through wild, unsettled lands. Bokhara, however, represented a very different kind of danger. Putting himself in the power of a xenophobic madman was like a fly landing on a web and asking for the spider's mercy.
Up till now it had been possible to turn back, but the point of no return was at hand. If the men in the distance were indeed royal chamberlains and were coming for him, there was a small but very real chance that he might be killed within the next half-hour. He did not consider that likely; even if the chamberlains were hostile—and they might not be—they would probably take him prisoner rather than slaughter him out of hand.
What had the Uzbek said would be in the baskets—bandages, chains, and blades? If ever he needed his English sangfroid, it was now, for it took a special kind of courage to remain stoic while waiting to see if his doom had arrived.
On the whole, Ross would prefer being attacked by marauding Turkomans, but his voice was calm when he said, "You all know what to do. Now do it."
His companions slowed their mounts and merged into the caravan. As the chamberlains thundered toward them, all of the travelers watched warily. Some cast sympathetic glances at Ross, but no one spoke, though the air twanged with tension.
Riding alone and wearing his European clothing, Ross was readily identifiable. The riders galloped right up to him and pulled up their horses with a flourish. The leader, who wore a lavishly patterned silk robe, announced, "I am the amir's grand chamberlain. You are the English Lord Khilburn?"
Ross reined in his camel and inclined his head respectfully. "I am, O servant of the great and powerful king, the successor of the Prophet."
The chamberlain gave a broad gap-toothed smile. "Nasrullah Bahadur, the King of Kings and Commander of the Faithful, bids you welcome. As a token of his desire that there be peace between our great lands, he invites you to be his guest during your stay in Bokhara." The man waved a hand at his minions, who opened the baskets and brought forth a lavish spread of food that included fresh fruit, roast horseflesh, and jugs of tea.
It was the most welcome anticlimax Ross had ever experienced. Reining in his giddy relief, he said formally, "The amir does this insignificant traveler great honor."
The chamberlain's speculative glance shifted from Ross to the caravan, which had ground to a stop, all its members watching the show. "Have you no slave, Lord Khilburn?"
Ross made an instant decision. Although the amir's invitation was no guarantee of limitless royal favor, for the moment Ross's head would stay attached to his shoulders. It was time for their party to split according to their plan, though he still hated the idea of Juliet staying with him and facing some of the same dangers. "I have one, but he preferred to stand aside until it was clear whether fortune would smile or frown on me."
The chamberlain's lip curled. "Like a dog running off with his tail between his legs."
For Juliet's sake, it was important that she not be perceived as a loyal servant, so as Ross beckoned to her, he said matter-of-factly, "One's own life is sweet. Why should a son of the Prophet, on whom be peace, risk his life for a ferengi?"
Silently Juliet rode up beside him. She was leading the pack camel that carried Ross's baggage; the other beast had been placed in Murad's charge.
After a curious glance at Juliet, the chamberlain said, "We shall eat now. Then we shall escort you to the royal palace so you can make your obeisance to the amir."
Startled at the swiftness of events, Ross said, "You mean I will be able to present my petition today?"
"If it pleases his majesty, yes." The chamberlain turned and barked, "The rest of you, be off about your business!"
The members of the caravan set their beasts in motion and streamed by. Saleh and Murad deliberately avoided looking at their erstwhile companions, while others, including Muhammad and Hussayn Kasem, called friendly farewells and good wishes. The Kasems had already given Ross instructions on how to find their house in Bokhara, along with solemn assurances that they would help his mission in any way they could.
Within a few minutes Ross and Juliet were alone with the royal officers. As they settled down for a picnic under the poplars, Ross asked, "My lord chamberlain, surely you have heard what brings me to Bokhara. Is my brother, the British Major Cameron, still numbered among the living?"
The chamberlain's dark eyes became opaque. "That is a subject that you must discuss with the highest. I am but an ignorant servant." Opening a jug, he said, "Especially for you, we have brought tea with milk and sugar. That is the English fashion, is that not so?"
"Indeed it is. Once more I am flattered by your courtesy."
It was the best meal Ross had had in weeks, and having just received a stay of execution, he enjoyed it thoroughly. Juliet also ate well, though she said nothing. She was thoroughly into her role of dark, enigmatic desert marauder, her eyes darting around warily, as if expecting attack. After snatching her food, she hunkered down a little apart from the others to eat.
The Bokharans watched with interest as she raised food to her mouth behind her veil. One of the deputy chamberlains said to the other in Uzbek, "That slave is a wild one. The ferengi is lucky the fellow has not taken his gold and perhaps his life."
Ross ignored the comment. He'd decided to use his fluent Persian so that he could communicate freely with Bokharan officials, but to conceal his knowledge of Uzbek on the chance that he might overhear useful comments by men who thought that he did not understand. Even if the comments weren't useful, they could be amusing, like the one he had ju
st heard.
As they finished the meal, the grand chamberlain said, "Your slave is a Targui of the Sahara, is he not? Once or twice I have seen one of his tribe in Bokhara."
"Aye, but he is a servant, not a slave. Among his own people, he is of high rank. He serves me only as long as it pleases him." Ross bit into a ripe, juicy date. "The Tuareg are great thieves. In their own language, the words 'to plunder' and 'to be free' mean the same thing. But Jalal usually does what I ask, and he's good with camels."
"Does he speak or understand Persian?"
"A little, I think." Ross gave a bored shrug, clearly indicating how tedious he found the topic of his servant. "It is hard to tell how much he understands."
"The lad has unusual gray eyes, like a Baluchi," the chamberlain said reflectively, his gaze still on Juliet. "It is said that the Tuareg are a handsome race."
"The women, who go unveiled, are very handsome. Of Jalal himself, I cannot say, for I have never seen his face."
Curiosity finally satisfied, the chamberlain rose to his feet. "Now, Lord Khilburn, we will ride to Bokhara."
* * *
The Silk Road had turned Bokhara into the richest oasis in Central Asia, an arrogant citadel guarded by the perilous deserts that surrounded it. The city had not changed in the years since Ross's first visit. He suspected that its massive walls and lofty watchtowers hadn't changed in centuries.
When they reached the giant gateway that was the western approach to the city, Ross halted his camel, preparatory to dismounting. The chamberlain frowned. "Why are you stopping?"
Ross raised his eyebrows. "Is it not forbidden for unbelievers to ride in the city?"
"Usually, but exceptions are made for those in the amir's favor," the chamberlain said. "Of course you will have to dismount when we reach the royal palace. Even I will, for only the amir and his grandees may ride within the palace walls."
Ross nodded and set Julietta in motion again. He and Alex Burnes had had not only to put aside their mounts inside the city but also to change to humbler garments, since they were infidels. Because they were traveling as private individuals rather than as representatives of the British government, they had quietly obeyed all local customs so that they would not attract unwelcome attention.
The city skyline was dominated by minarets and domes. Bokhara was one of the holy cities of Islam, and it was said that a good Muslim could pray in a different mosque every day of the year. Ross and Burnes had decided that was an exaggeration, but there were easily a couple of hundred mosques and dozens of religious colleges.
On this journey it was not possible to avoid attention. The wide street that led from the entry gate to the palace teemed with people who stopped to stare at Ross, with more emerging onto their flat rooftops to see him. A hum of comments about his clothing, coloring, and general foreignness arose from the watchers. As on the trip across the Kara Kum, the general tone was more curious than hostile. Once a young water carrier who had pressed against a wall to let the riders pass called out cheerfully, "Salaam Aleikum!"
Ross smiled and lifted his hand. "And peace be unto you."
The great public square in front of the royal palace was called the Registan. Ross remembered it from his previous trip, for the square was the heart of the city, and it churned and buzzed during the daylight hours. In the center was a great market with canopies shading sellers of fruit, tea, and goods from all over Asia, but most of the throng were present to talk, to see and be seen.
The diversity of the crowd was incredible. The majority were either oriental-eyed Uzbeks from Bokhara's ruling class or people of Persian descent, who were called Tadjiks when they lived in Turkestan. Virtually every other race of Asia was also represented, from Hindus to Uighars to Chinese. The few women present rode astride like men, their bodies invisible under black horsehair veils that covered them from head to foot.
Two sides of the Registan were flanked by medressehs, religious colleges, and another side was bounded by a great tree-shaded fountain. But it was the vast thousand-year-old bulk of the royal palace that dominated; called the Ark, it loomed threateningly over the rest of the square.
At the entrance to the palace precincts, the entire party dismounted and Juliet moved forward to take Ross's reins. For a moment their gazes met. Quietly, under the noise of the crowd, he said, "This is it."
She nodded. "Tomorrow at this time, we could be headed home."
He doubted that she believed that any more than he did, but he supposed it was theoretically possible. As they walked up the ramp that led to the turreted entry gate, Ross felt the hair at the back of his neck prickle.
This was his first visit to the Ark, for he and Burnes had never sought an audience with the amir, but he'd heard many stories about it. Some who entered were never known to leave again.
The design of the Ark was similar to a European castle. The greatest of the medieval fortresses were designed by builders who had studied Saracen architecture during the Crusades. The towering outer walls enclosed a small city of buildings and a broad courtyard where royal servants and slaves moved back and forth about their business.
The grand chamberlain gestured for a groom to come and take their mounts to the stables. "It is customary to take one's slave into the palace proper," he said with a dubious glance at Juliet, "but he must be silent and cause no trouble."
As Ross removed a leather case from his saddlebags, he asked Juliet in Tamahak, "Think you can behave yourself, slave? It might be better to stay with the camels."
"I wouldn't miss this for anything," she murmured as she took the leather case from him.
The grandest of the buildings was the palace, and a wide flight of steps led them to the main entrance. Inside the palace, high ceilings and marble floors provided a cool contrast to the shimmering heat outdoors. Silently the grand chamberlain led his guests through a series of passages to a large room where other petitioners waited for an audience with the amir.
An even more richly garbed man came up. He was about sixty years old and appeared to be Persian.
Surprisingly, the man said in accented, almost unintelligible English, "Welcome to Bokhara." He bowed. "I am the Nayeb Abdul Samut Khan, commander of the amir's artillery. I have had the honor to serve with others of your splendid race in Afghanistan."
Ross bowed back. "The honor is mine." Switching languages, he said, "While you have a masterly command of my native tongue, I prefer to speak in Persian, so that all men may hear and understand that I have nothing to hide."
"Very wise, Lord Khilburn," the nayeb said with an approving nod, "for there are many men that do not value the British as I do." Switching to Persian, he said, "I have been sent to ask if you will submit to the mode of salaam when you are presented to the amir."
"Of what does the salaam consist?"
"A man who comes before his majesty must stroke his beard and bow three times, saying 'Allah Akbar, Salaamat Padishah."'
Guessing that there had been ferengis in the past who had balked at performing the ritual, Ross said peaceably, "I would willingly do it thirty times if necessary, for it is fitting to say that God is great and to wish peace to the king."
Abdul Samut Khan nodded, satisfied, then gestured to the case Juliet carried. "What is that?"
"A modest gift for the amir, as a token of the esteem in which I hold him."
Juliet opened the leather case. Ross lifted out a flat wooden box with a brass plate set in the lid. Flipping up the lid, he revealed two superbly made flintlock holster pistols nestling in velvet-lined niches.
The nayeb sucked in his breath at the sight of the pistols, for the weapons dazzled like jewels. Every square inch of metal and wood was chiseled and engraved in elaborate patterns, and the walnut stocks were inlaid with gold wire.
The pistols had been made by one of Britain's finest gunsmiths, so they should be as accurate as they were beautiful. Ross had bought the pair on the assumption that they would prove useful, perhaps as a gift for some Arab chi
eftain in the Levant. They were a gift fit for a king, or an amir.
Reverently Abdul Samut Khan lifted each of the pistols and checked to see that it was unloaded before replacing it. "Very good," he said, handing the box back to Juliet. "Now, give me your passport and any letters of introduction that you have."
Ross produced his travel papers and the letters he had been collecting since Constantinople. There were an even dozen, starting with the sultan and ending with the khalifa of the Turkomans. All the letter writers asked, in incredibly elaborate language, that the amir look favorably on Ross's petition.
The nayeb accepted the documents, then gestured toward a stone bench along the wall. "Wait here."
Ross sat and crossed his legs, a vaguely bored expression on his face for the benefit of the curious. A couple of feet away Juliet squatted by the wall in a dark ball of flowing robes. The wait was surprisingly short—less than half an hour—before the nayeb returned for him.
Under the resentful gazes of those who had been waiting longer, Ross followed his guide from the room, Juliet behind him with the gift case. A short walk brought them to the crowded audience chamber. On the left, arches opened to a courtyard bright with flowers. Inside the chamber, courtiers whose richly patterned robes were precisely graded to reflect their status watched eagerly to see what the ferengi would do.
Finally, after four long months of travel, Ross was in the presence of the Amir Nasrullah, called the most brutal ruler in Asia. The man who had murdered his own father and brothers to secure his throne was about forty years old, and stout, with a long black beard. Though the audience chamber was lavishly decorated, he himself wore clothing as plain as any mullah.
Ross removed his hat and held it in his left hand as an English mark of respect, then performed the obeisance. Lacking a beard, he had to stroke his chin, but his bows were deep and he called out "Allah Akbar, Salaamat Padishah" in a resonant voice.