THE PROPHET QUEEN

Chapter 3

At the time of the Autumn Moon, Grandfather Mugan called the clan together. “We’ve reached a decision,” he announced. “We’re moving early to our winter quarters. It’s safer down in the lowlands, by the coast.”

 “Aye. Safety in numbers,” added Kundaj, his eldest son. “There’ll be several clans together, and townsmen. And a garrison upriver. Raiders won’t dare face so many.”

“But will there be enough pasturage?” Leya’s Aunt Gul asked.

“If not, we can sell some sheep,” said Father. “Better that than let the Pechenegs take them.” His hand went to his leg, where a Pecheneg arrow had lamed him. 

And Leya understood the reason for the elders’ constant meetings, and their look sofanxiety.

That day the women dismantled the yurts, by first rolling up the felt coverings, then bundling up the flexible supports. They loaded everything into wagons along with their rugs, blankets and pots, while the men rounded up the flocks and harnessed the horses for travel. The golden herd dog Bogday barked with excitement all morning. Yakob and his father watched these activities with little comprehension, and when they tried to help they only got in the way. “We’re moving, Yakob,” Leya tried to explain. “For safety.” She made hand motions and grinned at the foreign lad, and he grinned back.

Finally, Grandmother scattered a pinch of herb as a farewell offering, and removed the tamga stones, inscribed with the clan symbols, from the perimeter of the camp. In that way she would bring the clan guardian spirits along to the Kimmeri’s new encampment.

All that day the wagons and the flocks rolled across the hills, to the sound of jingling sheep bells. They slept under a star-filled sky while the men took turns standing guard. The next day their path descended and they caught sight of a wide expanse of water: the Azov Sea. From there it was only a short journey to the coastal town of Karachai: fishing village, market town, garrison village and way station on the route toward the Don River.

Land had been marked off outside the walls for the hereditary holdings of various nomad clans, with stockades for sheep and horses. The Kimmeri arrived to find the land already dotted with yurts. People were going about their business, watering their animals, cooking food on outdoor fires.    

“I can see that we’re not the only ones who have come to town for protection,” Father murmured to Uncle Kundaj.

When they had finished setting up their dwellings, Grandmother placed the tamga stones at the direction points of the clan enclosure.  She hung the Hebrew amulet at their doorpost and burned a handful of fragrant incense at the door to attract good spirits and fortune. “May the Sky grant us peace and safety,” she prayed.

***

A day after their arrival, a visitor stopped by. He wore a townman’s skullcap and vest coat.  “I am Elias,” he said, bowing. “My master the Tudun Arshak, village governor, is assembling with the townsmen and clan headmen,” he told Father. “Please come with me, and bring the two newcomers with you.”   

Father quickly beckoned to the two strangers. “Word travels fast,” he remarked. “How did they know about our visitors?”

“An eagle told them,” replied Leya’s grandmother, the Qam Almalik.

“I’m going too,” Leya decided. Usually a young woman wasn’t included in town men’s business. But I found Yakob and his father.

Yakob flashed her a look that said he was glad to have her along.

A clay wall, the height of a man, surrounded the town of Karachai. But no guards or gate blocked their way. The Azov coast had not known an invader’s boot for a generation.  Within the wall, the visitors passed circular dwellings which had once been yurts, made permanent by the addition of logs or mud bricks. A large marketplace stood in the center of the town. At the farther end of town Leya could just glimpse the flat expanse of the Azov Sea. Trading barges floated in the docks; sea gulls squawked and fought over morsels of fish. Fishermen labored to haul in their nets.

The headman’s house, larger than the others, served as the village meeting place.  Within, they stepped down into a large chamber decorated with carpets and hangings. Many oil lamps gave a warm glow to the room. Several other visitors had already gathered in a circle.

A broad-bellied elder greeted them. He looked quite impressive with his short gray beard, fur hat and silk kaftan. “Greetings to the family of Apandi Bashtu of the Kimmeri. I am Tudun Arshak.” The village governor touched his forehead, bowed, and introduced his guests.   

“This is Tabib Yarligh…” The tabib, a priest of the old traditions, wore an old-fashioned tribal head wrapping adorned with an eagle feather. “And his son Bilga.”

Bilga, a bland-faced youth with a wispy reddish beard, leaned against a wall with his hands tucked into his sleeves. “Tabib Yarligh owns the finest herd of horses this side of Azov,” the Tudun told them. “And this is Reb Menashe, who leads the Shabbat service at the Beit Midrash--the House of Prayer. This is my cousin Amram, the wool shop owner….” he introduced the boatman, the kiln owner, the tradesmen, and several of the nomad chiefs who were camped outside the town. They nodded, spoke polite phrases of welcome, and sipped tea.

“We have been talking about the Pecheneg raids, of course,” said the Tudun. “They’ve been quite brazen this year. They stole ten sheep from the Tabib’s holdings.

And several of the others spoke out at once. “Aye, and five of my horses.”

“And two of my daughters!”

“They’ve never been that bold before,” said the Tabib. “I bet someone’s put them up to it. Someone powerful, from across the borders.”    

“And now the King, God bless his name, is recruiting our sons to try and hunt them down,” Father put in. “But that leaves us defenseless in our own homes.”

Others grumbled their assent, sucking on their pipes. “Easier to keep flies from a horse’s ears than to keep enemies from our lands. The army is useless!” 

The Tudun let them talk awhile, then cleared his throat. “Let us speak of something else.” He looked at Leya’s father. “Apandi Bashtu of the Kimmeri. We hear that you have taken in two foreigners from Byzantium. I would like to speak to them. Reb Menashe, would you interpret for us please? Tell the foreigners they are welcome in our village and to please introduce themselves.”   

Menashe faced the Greek man and launched into what seemed like a flowery welcome speech in the Byzantine tongue. Zacharias gave him an equally formal reply.

“He says his name is Zacharias ben Esaias of Constantinople. He wishes to thank Leya the daughter of Bashtu for saving the lives of himself and his son Yakob.  And he thanks the apandi Bashtu and his family for their kindness and hospitality.”

Leya smiled, hearing her name, and Father inclined his head in courtesy.

“Now tell him,” said the headman, “that we have heard rumors out of Byzantium, and we need to know what has brought him to our shores.”

 When Zacharias heard this speech, he bit his lip and twisted a curl of his beard between his fingers. He seemed reluctant to speak, but at last he began. 

“He says that he was a cloth weaver in Constantinople,” Menashe translated, “where his family has lived for generations. Had a comfortable home, a wife, a daughter and son, two looms and a trading skiff. Says it’s all gone now, but for his son Yakob. ‘You have probably heard about the wonders of Constantinople,’ he says to us. ‘Its inhabitants call it the Golden City, the center of the world. The empire of the Byzantine Romanoi is truly as great as the fabled ancient empires of Egypt and Babylon…and like them, it is a country entirely devoted to…’ ” Here the interpreter hesitated, searching for a proper translation. “ ‘To idolatry.’ He says that the wealth of Byzantium is lavished on its churches and its religious icons and reliquaries covered with jewels and gold. You cannot open your eyes in Constantinople, says apandi Zacharias, without seeing at least a hundred Christian religious objects….”

Zacharias fell silent. “Do go on, please,” said Tudun Arshak.

The interpreter nudged the Greek man, who then continued with his tale.

“He says that the most important part of Byzantine belief is to make converts of all the world, and thus to rule over them. They do not do this by the sword, as the Muslims do, but they seek to break the power of other nations through stealth, trickery, and bribery. Their favorite diplomatic tactic is to set their opponents against each other.” Zacharias’ voice had taken on a bitter intensity.

“But in the case of Jews, says apandi Zacharias, their tactics have become more direct since the rise of a new episcopos to office.” Menashe frowned. “An episcopos—a  bishop--is like a tabib or rabbi…only with more power and authority.”   He scratched his beard.  “The episcopos makes rulings about what people are required to believe about God, his mother, and his Son. And the people must obey.” He shook his head, perplexed by this concept. “ This episcopos, he has launched a sort of…” again, Reb Menashe searched for a word and had to borrow one, this time from Arabic. “A jihad. A holy war against the…”

He threw up his hands in frustration. The Khazar language simply couldn’t express these sorts of concepts. “…against the infidels…those whom they despise for having a different faith. This bishop and his minions began to preach that Jews were children of… of he whom we call Erlikh-khan, Lord of the Underworld… he whom they call Satan.”

Yakob put his hands over his ears.  His father Zacharias put an arm around the lad. His expression grew ever more grim as he continued.

“In the days of the Emperor Romanus Lecapenus the Evil One, it was declared illegal to practice the Jewish faith. This new bishop has decided to once again enforce these laws with zealous wickedness. He obtained orders to have the Jewish worship-houses closed down.” Reb Menashe paused, listening to Reb Zacharias’ increasingly agitated story. “Soldiers came to destroy the synagogue, and…”

At this point Zacharias trailed off into silence. Yakob made a noise like someone having the breath choked from him. Zacharias put both arms around the boy, holding him tight.

The Tudun signaled for his servant. “Perhaps our guests could use a bit of wine,” he suggested.

Yakob took the proffered mug and drank it in one gulp, letting a stream run down his chin. For a moment, his refined manners had deserted him. Leya saw a look in his eyes, like a man cornered, and wished this discussion had never started.

Zacharias cleared his throat and continued. “There was…a riot.  Our family hid until it was safe. We made a run for the city walls…jumped into the sea. By God’s grace we managed to survive. We could not get to our boat…so we swam to a nearby shore…stole a fisherman’s boat. The winds carried us all the way across the Black Sea. We survived on rainwater and raw fish that we caught… there came a terrible storm that wrecked our boat…we were cast up on the shore, half dead…but God in his mercy sent us a rescuer, the brave and beautiful Leya.’ ”

Yakob glanced at Leya for one instant and she blushed to the crown of her head.

  “Alas, my beloved wife did not survive the journey. The Holy One, blessed be He, took her back to his bosom…. but she will rest in peace knowing that her husband and son reached Medina ha-brakha, the Blessed Land. For Jews in all the countries hereabouts suffer under the yoke of the persecutors… and dream of coming to Khazaria, which they call ‘the Blessed Country’…a country ruled by a Jewish king, where people of all faiths can live in freedom without fear of the…”

Reb Menashe listened closely to Zacharias’s words and groped for translations. “He seems to be naming various instruments of torture and execution. He says that Jews in all countries are accustomed to pray for Khazaria’s victories and for the health of King Joseph ben Aaron who looks out for his brethren everywhere. ”

The Tudun bowed his head with a pious ‘Amen’. He gave the two visitors a compassionate glance and cleared his throat. “You see, we may have our troubles here, but let us thank God for our freedom. Now let’s talk no more of sorrows. Elias,” he called to his servant, “cakes and wine for everyone!”

***

Father’s prediction about Yakob and his father had proved true: when we winter in town, they’ll surely find others like themselves. The two Greek refugees took lodging with Reb Menashe, and Leya saw little of them. Later she heard that Yakob had gotten work at the wool shop. Just before the Feast of Lights, she brought a basket of spun wool to the shop and there he sat, weaving while the wool merchant’s daughter Sarai supervised.

Sarai, Leya noticed, had the plump and curvy figure men liked—which Leya herself lacked. Yakob no longer wore the wool coat which Leya had draped around him the day she’d rescued him—now he wore a coat of a much finer weave. I guess Sarai gave him that? Sarai placed her dainty hand on Yakob’s shoulder while she moved her lips close to his ear, laughing. Leya wondered what was so funny. Was she laughing about the scruffy nomad girl and her ragged kaftan?    

 Then one night a visitor rang the bell outside the yurt doorway. There stood Reb Menashe, with Yakob and his father a step behind. “Greetings,” said the Jewish holy man. “Your friend Zacharias wishes to invite you to prayer for Shabbat Eve.”    

Father raised his eyebrows. “But…I would be out of place. We revere the One God, but I’m no Scroll Reader.”

 “You’ll soon learn,” Reb Menashe reassured him.

Leya put her spinning aside. Weren’t they going to invite her?  She had never been inside a Jewish worship-house. What was it like, she wondered…would their priest make cries like a bird and go into a shaking fit, as her grandmother the qam did?

Yakob flashed her a quick smile as they left, but other than that, she may as well not have existed.

How dare they! Were these secret rites, perhaps for men’s eyes only? But they hadn’t actually forbidden her to go. So she waited until they had gone up the lane. Blending in with wagons, beasts and folk going about their daily business, she followed them to the center of town. She thought she had gone undetected until a wet nose pushed itself against her hand.

The herd dog had followed her. “Bogday,” she whispered, “you want to pray too? Go on home!” She shooed the dog away. He stopped and gazed after her with mournful eyes.   

The House of Prayer, once a yurt, had been reinforced with logs and clay so that it had become a permanent structure. A few narrow windows had been cut in the sides. The walls of this structure were painted a vivid sky-blue, the sacred color, revealing its former function as a center for the traditional ceremonies. On one side of the wooden doorpost, Leya could see the tamga symbols of several tribes. She recognized the Kimmeri Tree of Life symbol, with its curly branches, and the seven-branched candlestick of Zion.

She pushed open a door made of woven reeds, crept in and hid behind a silk curtain. Within, the Shabbat lamps burned on a fine carven table. A handful of men in blue-striped shawls clustered around, while a few scarf-wrapped women sat along the walls.  Leya saw no divination, no sacrificial offerings. The worshippers merely chanted blessings in the Sacred Tongue. Yakob’s voice carried above the others, curling around the plaintive melody. His honey-sweet voice floated through the room and into Leya’s soul.

When they had done with their prayers, the worshippers gathered to share wine and conversation.

 “The traders from Taman say there have been quite a few refugees from the Golden City,” said Omri the fisherman.

“I hear King Joseph has expressed his outrage at this persecution,” said Amram the wool shop owner.

A traveling wine merchant from Crimea spoke up. “It’s happening once again, just as in the days of Romanus the Evil One. Back then, the king sent soldiers to Cherson to take revenge!”

“You think King Joseph will do the same?” Reb Menashe said.

“A trade embargo would be more effective,” a portly merchant commented. “ Most Byzantines worship money more than God, you know."

A couple of others nodded. “Yes.  They may call us the Devil, but business is business.”

“That's right. If they want to ship their merchandise through our country to the Silk Road, they'd better stay on our good side.”

Leya tried to follow the conversation. She was filled with an all-consuming hunger to understand the world of which these men spoke. The simple life of a shepherd clan would never be enough for her now.

 “Still, His Lordship the Bek Joseph should have a care,” Amram said. “If the Byzantines wanted to, they could crush us like a grape." The volume of the conversation had become quite loud in the little room.

 “The hell you say!" A storm of protest broke out. "There may be more of them, but our warriors are worth ten of theirs!"

"Besides, they need us.  Without us, who would protect them from Muslims, and the Pechenegs, and the Oghuz, and all the savage tribes of the steppes?”

“That’s right. The cowardly Byzantines need the Khazars to protect their backs! Uh—what’s this?” Omri broke off as a golden-colored dog entered the room. “How’d that animal get in here?”

Leya could have slapped herself. She had forgotten to tie the door shut. ­Bogday must have pushed it open with his nose. Now he wasted no time finding his mistress. He nosed the curtain and gave a sharp bark. One of the men pulled the curtain aside, and Leya was betrayed.

Reb Menashe burst out laughing. “What’s this? Have our enemies sent out girls to spy?”

“Leya!” Father cried. “By Kvara—what are you doing here?”

“I…I just wanted to hear. Is there…” she tried to cover her embarrassment. “Is there going to be a war?”

 Amram thought it was hugely amusing. “Bashtu, tell your child to go back home and take care of your sheep. This is no matter for little ones.”

Omri the fisherman studied her intently.   “She’s not so little. Old enough to have a husband to tell her what to do. Eh, Bashtu?”

Her father gave the boatman a black look, then turned his scowl on her. “Leya,” he said, “I’ll speak with you later.”

Then she spotted Yakob among the others and his black eyes met hers. She saw in them an echo of the stormy seas…dark mysteries…and a hint of mischief.  A sudden smile transformed his face, like a ray of sun in the midst of winter.

****

Leya waited for Father to show his displeasure. But Father kept gloweringly silent until the next day, when he beckoned her aside. “You know, Leya, you’re a big girl now. Too old for silliness. People are telling me you’re old enough to be married. They’re naming some good prospects.”

Prospects! Leya scowled, knowing she was in big trouble this time. Far worse than if Father had used his leather belt. She bowed her head, trying to look contrite. Perhaps if she kept out of his way and worked extra hard at her chores, he would forget whatever ideas he was hatching with these new friends of his. He seemed to spend a lot of time with the town men these days, drinking tea with the Tudun and the boatman and the Tabib. 

A few days later she came back from feeding her horse, to find two visitors in her family’s dwelling: Tabib Yarligh the village priest, and his son Bilga.

“Leya,” Father took her aside. “Bring wine for our guests, would you?”

Leya scowled. When daughters were asked to serve guests, it meant fathers wished to impress these personages. Why?

Composing her face to hide her apprehension, she poured wine for the visitors. The Tabib watched her with his hands folded across his ample belly, while young Bilga stroked his wispy beard and stared at the floor as if he wished he were somewhere else.

Father smiled. “Daughter, did you know that Tabib Yarligh’s clan, the Sabir, has some rich pastureland nearby? He owns the finest herd of horses west of Fergana.”

Leya looked from Father to the village priest, trying to guess his meaning.

“He has offered us grazing rights on his land next summer.”

“That is most generous,” Leya murmured, wanting to ask what does he want in return?

“My son has a gift for you,” the Tabib said. At his signal, the youth placed a square of silk on the rug in front of her.

“Go on, open it,” her father commanded.

This could only mean one thing. But Leya could not decline, so she reluctantly unwrapped the cloth to reveal a necklace of glowing amber beads.

“I am honored,” she murmured, inclining her head with exquisite politeness. In truth, amber was quite valuable.

Bilga, his obligation concluded, went back to grooming his fingernails with a jeweled dagger.

His gift says one thing, his eyes say another. Not once had he met her glance. For Leya was not curvy and luscious, like the dancing girl he was said to visit, according to the other girls’ gossip at the watering place.

“We’ll visit again,” Tabib Yarligh said.

“Of course,” Father said. “The Qam Almalik will consult her oracles at the Spring Festival, as well.”

 At last the visitors stood up and took their leave. As soon as they had gone, she turned on her father. "That was a betrothal gift, wasn’t it. You’re marrying me off to him!"

Father nodded. “That’s right. Tabib Yarligh is a wealthy man. He has offered six fine horses to our family, and two of them to you: fine Kabardin ponies for your very own.”

This stopped her for a second, for that was tempting indeed. Still… “But Father, Bilga has no interest in me, and I have none in him!"

Father sighed and put a hand to his thigh where he had been wounded. “Leya, we must face realities. Our fortunes have fallen. I’m nearly crippled. I can no longer carry my weight among the clan—I have to look to other means of livelihood. Tabib Yarligh’s offer can mean land and security for you, and for all of us.”  

 Leya scowled. “But I don’t care for him. And they say he likes to go to the tavern, and he visits dancing girls—“

Father slammed his hand against the cushion. “Nonsense! I’ll not listen to cackling hens’ gossip. This will be a good match for you. How many other offers have you had?”

None, Leya admitted to herself, because the Holy One had not endowed her with the lush, womanly figure that men desired. People sometimes mistook her for a boy.  “Grandmother says that by toru—tribal law—I can’t be made to marry against my will.”

Father struck his forehead in exasperation. “Your grandmother fills your head with foolishness. Is there another man who would have you?”

“Yakob would have me.”  

“What!” Father threw back his head and laughed. “By the Wolf Guardian! Yakob is a refugee. His father has no lands—no herds--nothing! Besides… believe me, daughter, you would not fit in well with Yakob and his kind. I have seen that the Scroll Readers have many stringent rules and rituals—rules about food, and observances. You’d go mad trying to remember them all--”

“Bilga doesn’t even want to look at me. Yakob looks at me like I’m the most beautiful girl in the world.”

Father didn’t seem to hear. “If you were to wed a man like Yakob, you’d spend your days dusting his scrolls. Anyway, I hear he’s to marry Sarai, the wool merchant’s daughter.”

Leya made a sudden move and spilled tea on the rug.

“He’ll be better off with his own sort of folk. Amram the wool merchant can set his father up in business. And trust me, you’ll be happy as a horse-breeder’s wife with your own herd of lovely Kabardin ponies.  Leya? Where are you going?”

Leya did not answer. She stood up and yanked her boots on. To Erlikh with Bilga and his father—and Yakob and Sarai, too!

“Perhaps I won’t marry at all,” she muttered, stomping out into the snow.

Chapter 4
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