But late in summertime they saw before them a wall of mountain, and in three days climbed by its defiles to a pleasant land, where once more they found the dwellings of man.It appeared that they were in a country where the Tartars had been for some time settled and which had for years been free of the ravages of war.The folks were hunters and shepherds who took the strangers for immortal beings and offered food on bent knees like oblations to a god.They knew where the Ilkhan dwelt, and furnished guides for each day's journey.Aimery, who had been sick of a low fever in the plains, and had stumbled on in a stupor torn by flashes of homesickness, found his spirits reviving.He had cursed many times the futility of his errand.While the Franciscans were busied with their punctual offices and asked nothing of each fresh day but that it should be as prayerful as the last, he found a rebellious unbelief rising in his heart.He was travelling roads no Christian had ever trod, on a wild-goose errand, while his comrades were winning fame in the battle-front.Alas! that a bright sword should rust in these barrens!
But with the uplands peace crept into his soul and some of the mystery of his journey.It was a brave venture, whether it failed or no, for he had already gone beyond the pale even of men's dreams.The face of Louis hovered before him.It needed a great king even to conceive such a mission....He had been sent on a king's errand too.He stood alone for France and the Cross in a dark world.Alone, as kings should stand, for to take all the burden was the mark of kingship.His heart bounded at the thought, for he was young.His father had told him of that old Flanders grandam, who had sworn that his blood came from proud kings.
But chiefly he thought of Louis with a fresh warmth of love.Surely the King loved him, or he would not have chosen him out of many for this fateful work.He had asked of him the ultimate service, as a friend should.Aimery reconstructed in his inner vision all his memories of the King: the close fair hair now thinning about the temples; the small face still contoured like a boy's; the figure strung like a bow; the quick, eager gestures; the blue dove's eyes, kindly and humble, as became one whose proudest title was to be a "sergeant of the Crucified." But those same eyes could also steel and blaze, for his father had been called the Lion, his mother Semiramis, and his grandsire Augustus.In these wilds Aimery was his vicegerent and bore himself proudly as the proxy of such a monarch.
The hour came when they met the Tartar outposts.A cloud of horse swept down on them, each man riding loose with his hand on a taut bowstring.In silence they surrounded the little party, and their leader made signs to Aimery to dismount.The Constable had procured for him a letter in Tartar script, setting out the purpose of his mission.This the outpost could not read, but they recognised some word among the characters, and pointed it out to each other with uncouth murmurings.They were strange folk, with eyes like pebbles and squat frames and short, broad faces, but each horse and man moved in unison like a centaur.
With gestures of respect the Tartars signalled to the Christians to follow, and led them for a day and a night southward down a broad valley, where vines and fruit trees grew and peace dwelt in villages.They passed encampments of riders like themselves, and little scurries of horsemen would ride athwart their road and exchange greetings.On the second morning they reached a city, populous in men but not in houses.For miles stretched lines of skin tents, and in the heart of them by the river's edge stood a great hall of brick, still raw from the builders.
Aimery sat erect on his weary horse with the hum of an outlandish host about him, himself very weary and very sick at heart.For the utter folly of it all had come on him like the waking from a dream.These men were no allies of the West.They were children of the Blue Wolf, as the Constable had said, a monstrous brood, swarming from the unknown to blight the gardens of the world.A Saracen compared to such was a courteous knight..
..He thought of Kublai, the greater Khakan.Perhaps in his court might dwell gentlehood and reason.But here was but a wolf pack in the faraway guise of man.
They gave the strangers food and drink--halfcooked fish and a porridge of rye and sour spiced milk, and left them to sleep until sundown.Then the palace guards led them to the presence.
The hall was immense, dim and shapeless like the inside of a hill, not built according to the proportions of mankind.Flambeaux and wicks floating in great basins of mutton fat showed a dense concourse of warriors, and through an aisle of them Aimery approached the throne.In front stood a tree of silver, springing from a pedestal of four lions whose mouths poured streams of wine, syrup, and mead into basins, which were emptied by a host of slaves, the cup-bearers of the assembly.There were two thrones side by side, on one of which sat a figure so motionless that it might have been wrought of jasper.Weighted with a massive head-dress of pearls and a robe of gold brocade, the little grandchild of Prester John seemed like a doll on which some princess had lavished wealth and fancy.The black eyelashes lay quiet on her olive cheeks, and her breathing did not stir her stiff, jewelled bodice.
"I have seen death in life," thought Aimery as he shivered and looked aside.
Houlagou, her husband, was a tall man compared with the others.His face was hairless, and his mouth fine and cruel.His eyes were hard like agates, with no light in them.A passionless power lurked in the low broad forehead, and the mighty head sunk deep between the shoulders; but the power not of a man, but of some abortion of nature, like storm or earthquake.Again Aimery shivered.Had not the prophets foretold that one day Antichrist would be reborn in Babylon?
