Troesemis, Summer Capital of the Avar Khaganate, Moesia Inferior
A light breeze ruffled the horsetail standards, drawing a rattling sound from the skulls and copper bangles suspended from tall poles. It was such a familiar sound that C'hu-lo was unaware of it, the gentle flapping of flags and banners fading into the background. The T'u-chueh climbed a hill of green grass, following the line of skull-crowned poles. Atop the hill, surrounded by hundreds of men in armor, the khagan of the Avars was standing on a wooden platform, looking out over the marsh flats. The sky was a brilliant blue, streaked with puffy white clouds and the wind carried the smell of the sea.
C'hu-lo sprang up the steps, feeling gloriously alive. It was a perfect day. A day for racing horses, for feeling cold wind rushing in your hair as white hooves thundered on the short grass prairie. It was the kind of day when you could see the summits of the Rampart of Heaven, etched cold and white against the sky, even from the lowland plains. The T'u-chueh carried a heavy wooden gorytos on his back, slung on a gorgeous dark brown leather strap. It was a fine piece of work, one that had come from the treasure houses of Ctesiphon. C'hu-lo felt odd carrying it-the bowcase had been a trophy of war, taken by the great Persian king Khusro the Just from the body of the Hepthalite khan Akhshunwaz over a hundred years before. C'hu-lo was sure that the Avar khagan would prize it highly.
Akhshunwaz had been slain by the Persian king in a great battle near Balkh on the Oxus. In the aftermath of that war, the Hepthalite tribes had been scattered to the four winds, not only by Persia, but by the rising power of the T'u-chueh. C'hu-lo's grandfather had been an umen commander of the war against the Hepthalites, winning much praise from the yabghu for his fierce pursuit of the defeated enemy. Many of the Hepthalites had fled to the west, crossing over the steppes north of the Mare Caspium and then down into the grasslands of southern Sarmatia. In time, after recovering their numbers and subjugating the Slavic tribes that lived in those lands, the Hepthalites had grown powerful once more, conquering both Moesia Inferior and Superior from the Romans. In these latter days, they were called the Avars.
This Avar khagan Bayan, he was the great-grandson of the dead Akhshunwaz. The bowcase was the perfect greeting gift. C'hu-lo grinned inside, hiding his amusement behind a stoic face, as he stepped onto the wooden platform itself. It seemed unlikely that Bayan would recognize the token. C'hu-lo appreciated the sly humor in the offering.
"Hail," he called, his voice clear and strong. "Hail, Bayan, son of Jubudei, khagan of the Avars, master of the Slavs and the Romans!"
C'hu-lo bent one knee, making the sign of greeting, his neck exposed between his oily black hair and the top of his laminated armor. The Avar khagan snorted, turning from his place at the edge of the platform. "Rise, emissary of the Persians."
The T'u-chueh stood, his temper leashed. The khagan was in a foul mood, as were his advisors, a grizzled set of older men that stood close by. They glowered at C'hu-lo, fingering their weapons. Persia was no longer a friend of the Avars, not after the disasters of the previous spring.
"Great lord, my master sends you warm greetings, offering you gifts and tokens of his friendship." C'hu-lo pulled the gorytos from his back in a smooth motion, laying it down on the rough-hewn planks. In the bright sunlight the bowcase gleamed a rich dark red. The horsehide had been carefully treated, rubbed with preserving oils, the nap of fine hair arranged just so. Leather edging surrounded the mottled red and white hide, punched with signs representing the sky, the wind, the gods, the horses and the people. Skilled craftsmen in the court of the king of kings had repaired some small abrasions and nicks that the bowcase had endured over the years. "The king of kings thinks you will find this small gift, the least of gifts, pleasing."
Bayan did not even bother to look at the case, his face dark with anger. The khagan was a stout man, shorter than his advisors, with one arm hidden in the folds of his fur vest. His other hand, his left, tugged at a thin patchy beard. Like his captains and advisors, he was wearing a long peaked cap, made of green felt, and a fur-lined cape. Armor of riveted iron rings covered his barrel-like chest and hung down past his waist. His features echoed C'hu-lo's own-a flattened nose, high cheekbones, a slant to his eyes. To the Eastern eye, there were subtle differences; the Avar khagan wore his long black hair in two plaits, where the T'u-chueh favored one. C'hu-lo thought his own features were sharper, cleaner, not so round, and decidedly more handsome. "You are not pleased, Lord of Men? Has the king of kings given offense in some way?"
The Avar advisors growled, bristling and one of them drew his curving cavalry sword. C'hu-lo ignored the dogs that yapped at the feet of this man. Below the platform, at the bottom of the hill, stood two of the Shanzdah and while they were within a bird's call, C'hu-lo feared no one. If the khagan attacked the embassy of the king of kings, he would find that he had overreached himself.
"What is the cost of Persian friendship?" Bayan turned and looked down upon C'hu-lo, who remained kneeling on the pine planks. "You offer a single bow and the swords of the Romans will take ten thousand of my subjects. You offer fine words and promises of victory, but the Romans deliver fire and death. Three years we strove against the walls of the City. We had nothing for it but windrows of the dead. Where is the glory there? The prizes? The slaves? Cold and rotting in the ground with my sons, with the sons of my sons."
C'hu-lo remained impassive; though the fury and hatred in the man's voice was hot enough to set wood alight. In response, he unhooked the three clasps that held the bowcase closed. Deftly, he opened the case, revealing the bow and arrows within to the sky. C'hu-lo was looking down, intent on his hands, so it was easy to hide a smile when the men around him hissed in surprise. That was enough success already-that one or more of these men would see what was in the case and desire the weapon.
The bowstave was a sleek dark wood on the inner face, then glossy bone on the outer. It was of a full length, the 'man' bow of the Huns, with a long curving topstave and a short, thick foundation. Coiled strings, shining with oil, sat in leather holders on the inside of the case. A sheaf of arrows, the shafts painted in blue, the fletching white and gray goose, filled the other half of the case. C'hu-lo stood, holding it in his hands. "This is the bow of a king, a mighty weapon."
Bayan's face darkened, turning a muddy red color. C'hu-lo matched his stare, wondering if the Avar would burst his heart and die, even as everyone watched. There would be a struggle on the platform then! The Shanzdah were waiting for just such an outcome. "Here, Lord of Men, take it, draw it, set your sight upon a pleasing target."
Bayan could not even speak, so enraged was he. The man's right arm, hidden in his vest, slipped out. It was withered, scored by a long curling scar that lapped over the elbow. C'hu-lo took the moment-the advisors had averted their eyes from their khagan's shame-and stepped close, looking slightly down on the man. "Lord Bayan," he whispered, "put your hands upon this weapon, feel the power in it! The king of kings offers you not insult, but a great gift."
The khagan glared up at him, but then paused, seeing the urging in C'hu-lo's eyes.
"My arm is too weak," whispered the khagan. "You insult me before my men!"
"No, great lord," C'hu-lo's voice was low and urgent. "Here is the string, well waxed, a shaft, straight and true. Do as your fathers have done, string, draw, loose! Trust me and you will be delivered from shame."