Under the Falcon's Wing

The boy did not meet my gaze. Instead, he took up the cup of airag again and tentatively lifted it to his lips. He grimaced and drew it away,

Smiling, I got up and took it from him. "Perhaps one day you will come to like it," I said. I finished it for him and placed it along with my own cup on his empty plate. I pointed to the plate and then to the pantry.

The boy quickly took my meaning, but he feigned ignorance. I lifted an eyebrow and pointed again to the crockery before him. Then I lifted my hand and cut the air with it.

The boy knew better than to act like he had misunderstood my meaning this time. He gathered up the crockery and put it away in the pantry.

"Good," I said. "It will be your job to tidy up. Tidy up, do you understand?"

He blinked at me. "Tidyup?" he repeated.

I sighed. "Well, it's a start. Now it's time for bed." I pointed to the blankets. "Bed."

"Bed?" he repeated.

I nodded. I took off my silk jacket, folded it up and lay down on the blankets. The boy looked at me fearfully.

"Time for bed," I said, patting the blankets. "Sleep, do you understand?"

He took a step back, shaking his head.

Then I realised what was wrong. He thought I was demanding he share my bed. I grinned. The boy who had gambled his life to strike at me, now horrified by the thought of my embraces!

I opened my mouth to try and explain, but hesitated. Why not demand he share my bed? He was my spoil of war, after all. And the night would be cold. His slender body would fit nicely in my arms.

Stupid, frivolous musings, such as would amuse Houlun! I pushed such thoughts away, turned over and pulled the blankets over myself. The boy would understand the meaning. I heard him moving about. Perhaps he was looking at the flap of the ger, wondering if it were possible to escape. No. He knew escape was impossible, that to try would likely lead to his death.

Would he try regardless, I wondered? He did not move for a long while and I began to imagine that he was lying there, staring at the flap, waiting for me to sleep so that he could make his escape. It would be regrettable to lose him before I had time to see whether he could make a workable servant. I rolled over, ready to spring and tackle him if he moved.

But he remained on his side, unmoving. I crawled over and pushed at the lump he made under the blankets. He stirred, muttering.

Already asleep. The terrors of the battle and the terrors of my ger had stolen his spirit from him.

Well, he was still little more than a boy.

I took a blanket and went to cover him with it, then railed on myself. What was I doing? Such stupid sentimentality! He would have to grow tough quickly if he was going to share the way of life of the Plainspeople. Was I his mother to coddle him so?

My hand, holding a blanket I had woven myself, covering the body of my son. The image slipped unbidden to my mind.

I tossed the blanket aside in a rage and threw myself back on the floor and pulled my own blankets over myself.

As I lay there, I grew colder, despite the warmth of the fire. My leg, colder still, coldest in the place the Rus spear had split it to the bone. It still hurt, that wound, though years old. Cold and painful, the ache deep in the bone.

---------------------

I woke before the boy. I nudged at him with my foot.

"Wake up," I said. "Time to work!"

The boy woke with a start. He pulled the blankets around himself and scrambled away from me with the eyes of a frightened deer.

Was I really so fearsome? I reached up and felt my hair. Ah, it was always like this of a morning, especially when I was too tired after battle to brush it. Perhaps it had frightened him.

I retrieved my comb, sat on a stool and began to brush at the ranks of tangles arranged against me. The boy watched me like a cornered animal and I soon tired of it.

"Tidy up," I said, pointing at the blankets with my comb.

He stared at me.

"Remember? Tidy up!"

My voice was gruff and he started. Then he got to his feet and began to gather up the blankets and fold them.

I nodded to him. "Good," I said. "Tidy up and we'll have breakfast."

He did not look at me while he worked. His movements were those of one dreaming. Still in shock, perhaps. No wonder the Rus had proved no match for us. Their easy life here in the warm valley of the Ijil had made them soft.

But no, the boy was no Rus with his golden hair, his sky-bright eyes. Probably a Cuman. I had fought the Cuman. Unlike the Rus they were great warriors. For generations they had raided the Rus themselves, but the two had joined together to fight us as Jaliqai Khatun had moved west from the steppes. The Rus wholly destroyed, the Cuman had managed to retreat. Now some of them fought alongside us, far to the south, with our Khatun against the rebel house of the Halagus. So strange that this boy might be of the same blood as one of those bloodthirsty turbanned warriors!

"Come," I said, first in Rus then in my own language. He put the blankets in his hands down and approached. He kept his head lowered and stared at the floor, refusing to meet my gaze, though I caught the flick of his long eyelashes as he glanced up at me.

How was it that this boy could be so arrogant in such a servile way? I gripped his chin and raised his eyes to mine.

"Are you Cuman?" I asked.

He recognised the word, but made no reply and just stared at me with those eyes, ice-blue now.

"You," I said, tapping his chest. "Cuman?"

He nodded, then.

Was he a slave, I wondered? No, the son of a slave. Perhaps that explained the mixture of servility and insolence.

I sighed. "Here. Let me show you your next job. You will prepare my tea for me."

He watched as I showed him how much of the dry leaf to take, how much water to add, and of course the rancid butter which is the most important part. He turned up his nose at the butter and I chuckled.

Probably I smelled bad to him as well. He would not understand the importance of one's smell to the Plainspeople. The greatest honour Jaliqai Khatun ever bestowed on a worthy warrior was to award them her old clothes, saturated in her scent. With that scent came power and prestige. In the same way, my whole ger smelled of me. No doubt the boy would too, soon enough.

I lay back and had him repeat what I had shown him. He used too much tea and did not add enough butter, but for all that his first attempt was passable.

I took the cup from him. "You may have the tea I made," I said, indicating the other cup. He took it.

I drank my tea and indicated with an arched eyebrow that he should do the same. He tasted his own and grimaced. But he quickly took another sip. He was thirsty, and the sour richness of the butter did not hold him back.

His tea was astringent from the surplus of leaf, but I enjoyed it nonetheless. I watched the boy drink. What had I done in my ger of a morning usually? I seldom tarried here. Too many things to think of. But with the boy...

A voice from outside the ger. Houlun.

"Nohio horio," she said, the polite words uttered when entering another's ger. "Hold the dog," spoken whether there is a dog or not.

The flap opened and she pushed her head in.

There was no need for Houlun, being the beki, to stand on ceremony, but politeness among the Plainspeople has always been a matter of course. I beckoned her in and offered her tea and candies as she sat.

The boy stared at the two of us. Houlun looked to me, amused, and I turned and raised an eyebrow to him. With a start he got to his feet and went and made tea.

"Not so much leaf this time," I warned. "Leaf." I mimed pouring from the cannister with my hands. "Do you understand?"

He nodded and busied himself with his task.

Houlun whistled. "One night and he's already eating out of your hand like a lamb." Her eyes narrowed. "I suppose you share my philosophy of using honey rather than the stick? No doubt the fun you showed him last night has made him bond to you."

I laughed, unwilling to let Houlun's jest affect me. "He had his own bed. But we have already reached an understanding."

Houlun watched him as he bought the bowl over to me. I shook my head and indicated Houlun and he took it to her. He glanced at her, unsure.

Houlun grinned and reached out for the cup.

"A prize befitting your valour," she murmured. "Such beautiful eyes and hair, and skin like curdled milk." She sipped her tea. "A Cuman, do you suppose?"

"Yes," I said. I sipped my own tea. "I asked him before. I think he is the son of slaves taken by the Rus."

"Perhaps," said Houlun. "He has taken to his position quickly. That is good. No need to wrestle him, then."

"I think he would break," I said.

"You left early last night," said Houlun. "Your company was missed."

"This old wound," I muttered.

Houlun hugged her bowl. "Yes. You move fast despite of it. I saw much of the old Falcon yesterday."

I nodded. The compliment, though genuine, pricked me. I had been one of the most skilled with the axe before my wound, and now I served mostly as an archer. Though the position brought no less honour with it, it was a reminder of what I had lost.

"Please come to my ger tonight," said Houlun. "As my honoured guest. We will eat mutton and gamble. And bring the boy. He will enjoy the company of others who speak his language."

"I will come," I said.

Houlun finished her tea and left. The boy cleaned the cups without having to be asked.

"Good," I said to him. "Now come. There are many other things you must learn."

------------------

The boy shivered in the cold. I would have to get him more suitable clothes than those robes. He always wore his hood down and his neck was open to the elements. The cold had turned the skin of his face and neck rose-pink, a not unbecoming colour, but an unhealthy one.

"Come," I said.

I showed him the various jobs being done around the camp. Though we were a military camp, our supremacy in this region meant that everyday life was little different from a village at peacetime. We still sent children and pregnant horses back to the steppes as a precaution, but otherwise we were free to let our flocks and cattle roam free, knowing the Rus were not likely to harass us.

The camp was already alive. Fires flickered outside the gers to ward off the cold. Millet porridge was being cooked and the smell pervading the whole camp. We passed people kneeling around a great square of felt, sewing and chatting, the making and repairing of our homes always a communal activity. Others were combing the goats, harvesting the long, soft hair used for making scarves and clothes. I had the boy try his hand at everything, and though he worked in silence he was no longer in the dreamlike state of shock he had suffered earlier. His long, slender fingers were well-suited to the more technical work, and the swiftness at which he took to the various tasks elicited murmurs of approval which pleased me. He would prove useful after all.

We took our lunch together with everyone else around tables set out under the sky, taking great chunks of mutton with greasy fingers. In the camps of the Plainspeople slaves who work well eat well. I took the opportunity to teach him some of our language, pointing to various items and teaching him the word. He learned quickly.

My neighbour Yesuntei had a young son around the same height as the boy and she happily gave me a set of clothes for him. The boy stood awkwardly as she brought out that long, collared robe called the deel and placed it against him.

"It should fit," Yesuntei murmured. She took hold of the boy's old robe by the hem and lifted it. He struggled for a few moments, but soon understood the futility of his protest and submitted. His undergarments were the next to go. He placed his hands over his nakedness and Yesuntei grinned at me.

"Seeing spoils such as these I regret missing battle all the more," she said. Heavy with her third child, she had remained in camp despite being one of our best archers. Women of the Plainspeople regularly fought pregnant, but not during the last third of their pregnancy.

"I don't think your husband would be pleased sharing you with a boy," I said with a laugh.

Yesuntei snorted. "He'd be happy for the rest. My blood always runs hotter when I'm with child."

We laughed. The boy stared at us, no doubt wondering what was so funny. His bemusement made us laugh all the more.

My eyes settled on his slender form. A priest's body, soft with good food and relaxed living, but not unattractive. All the more attractive, perhaps, for how different he looked from us. The paleness of his complexion, like a girl's, and the blondness of the sparse hair on his body accentuated that girlishness. Yet he had been fast with that knife. A brave spirit dwelt within that milky flesh.

He dropped his gaze. We had had our fun. Yesuntei placed the deel around his shoulders and showed him how to fix the clasps. It was important for him to wear it loose, like a man. I would not have him dressed effeminately, like the slaves who shared Houlun's bed.

Yesuntei finished tying his sash, placed a fur hat atop his head and stepped back. She looked him over, but said nothing. I knew what she was thinking. I was thinking the same. The boy, despite his pale skin and gold hair, suited our clothes exceedingly well.

Pink flooded his cheeks and he turned away from us. I smiled at the childishness of his reaction. The lingering of my eyes had shamed him.

Yesuntei glanced in my direction. "I hope you are prepared for the envy you will attract, Chamuka."

I laughed. "There will be no envy. He is going to work." I took his hand. "Thank you, Yesuntei. I will have him bring you some of the horse-flesh we took in the battle."

Her eyes glittered. "There really is no need, Chamuka," and we fell into that polite combat which is the giving and accepting of gifts among the Plainspeople.

"Go, then," said Yesuntei with a laugh after I finally got the better of her. "I accept your kind offer. But you must go before the boy gets the wrong idea."

I followed her eyes. I was still holding the boy's hand.

I let it drop.

"Come," I said after some final words of thanks to the grinning Yesuntei. "Your work is waiting for you."

-----------------------------

I left him in the hands of others to learn the different jobs of the camp while I spent the day practising with my axe. The sharp ache in my leg shamed me and I pushed myself hard until the rest of my body ached with the same violence. I was still training when Cheren, the young man charged with cutting the wood today, brought the boy back to me.

I made one last swing at the target hanging from the pole, then fell to one side, panting.

"Falcon," said Cheren. "Here is Nikola. He has worked hard today."

I stared at the two boys. "Nikola?"

I realised, then, that I hadn't bothered to ask the boy his name, or to introduce myself. The boy Nikola glanced at me. He looked tired. So he did not shirk hard work. The dirt on his hands and face and the wood-chips on his clothes pleased me and I smiled at him.

He looked down at his feet. So he found it hard still to meet my gaze.

The boy was exhausted after the day's labour. As he fixed my tea, I watched his long fingers at their work. Fingers used to books and pens and other gentle things, they were red and blistered.

I, too, was tired. My body ached, my leg more than the rest. Fool that I was to try and escape it. When he handed me the bowl I gestured to him to make himself tea as well. He nodded and busied himself. He did not add any butter to his. I hoped he would grow used to our food soon. The fat and salt of the butter were good for energy, good for keeping out the cold. He would grow sick if he only drank tea. Meat as well. Cheese would only serve him so far with the punishing work of a camp of the Plainspeople.

As he tidied the ger, I taught him some more words: the name of the banner hanging from the crown of the ger, the poles, the altar, the stools and other furniture.

Eventually I had named everything. His labour had also been a lesson. The ger fell silent except for the spitting of the fire.

He knelt down on the blankets, looking to me for permission to lie down, or so I thought. I smiled at him. He did not smile back. Instead he brought his hands together, bowed his head and closed his eyes, the way the Rus pray to their god. Their god, I knew, was a god of the sky like ours, but theirs was a vengeful, frightening god. Tengri was not frightening. How could he be? He was the source of everything that was good. His children the sun and moon watched the earth for him, guarding against Erlik, the lord of death. The boy knew of Erlik, though he would call him devil and shaitan.

The boy prayed for a long time. When he was finished he looked up at me. Perhaps he was expecting me to utter some word of censure, to punish him for his behaviour. He did not know that there were followers of the Book like him among the Plainspeople, though not many, and none in our camp. The god of deserts and towns, of the slaves and the dispossessed, his god was out-of-place on the steppes and held little attraction to us. More of the Plainspeople wore the yellow sash of the disciples of Madraya, or followed the prophet of Mecca, that great warrior of the southern deserts. Among the Plainspeople all were allowed to worship freely. It must have seemed very strange to a boy whose religion punished apostasy with torture and death.

His surprise amused me. He watched me, expectant, and soon appeared to grow disappointed I had not punished him. That look did not please me. To seek punishment was a foolish diversion, a waste of effort. The followers of the Book feared pleasure, I knew, thinking it an evil temptation. I had heard that some of their priests forwent not just meat but also the touch of a woman, and not merely in times of ritual observance, but throughout their whole lives. To think of this boy here, this beautiful boy, for whom many girls' and women's blood would run hot, living and dying a virgin seemed an awful waste.

Such thoughts annoyed me, at last.

"Rest," I said, gesturing to the blankets on the floor. "Tomorrow you will work hard again. Do you understand?"

He nodded. "Yes," he said. "I understand."

"I am your mistress," I said. "My name is Chamuka. Some call me Falcon, but you will call me mistress."

"Mistress," he repeated.

"You are Nikola, yes?"

He nodded.

"Rest, Nikola. You worked hard today and I am pleased."

He blinked at me, not understanding.

I sighed. I could not expect too much at once. "Rest," I said. "I will bring you food later. Food?"

Food he understood. He nodded with enthusiasm.

I left him. The night's fires already flickered through the camp. Houlun and others were seated around one not far from her ger. I made my way there.

"Falcon!" Houlun roared as I stepped into the firelight. She looked about and frowned. "The boy?"

"In my ger resting," I said. "He worked hard today with Cheren cutting the wood."

Houlun sighed. "A shame. We would at least have had something more pleasant than Ordu's beaten face here to look at." Ordu, the warrior of our camp most skilled with herbs and the knife, was sitting on her left, and she gave him a hard push which he took with a good-natured grin. Houlun indicated the now empty spot and I sat down. A bowl of airag was thrust into my hands.

We ate and drank and laughed into the night. Life was good to us here in the valley of the river Ijil. The Rus continued to fall and the slaves and booty flowed like the waters of the great river itself. Ordu brought out his horse-head fiddle and played as we sang some of the great long-songs which seem to come so quickly to the lips after many cups of airag, songs of valour, sung in the throat and resonating in the chests of all present. I wondered what the boy Nikola would make of it. The singing of his people was very different, although the voice of their shamans, their monks, was not so dissimilar to ours. No doubt he could sing, too. I knew his voice, even bearing foreign words, would be sweet to the ear.