are you calling besotted ignorance, anyway? You mouldy son of a half-baked weevil, if you was in the Wanderer’s galley right now, Ay reckon we would wipe the dishes with you, eh, Derrick?’
‘Abusive language invariable mark of cultural backward person,’ said Li Han.
‘Relax, Li Han, and turn us out something we can eat. Look, there’s a nice clear fire, and there’s that antelope all ready at hand,’ said Derrick, persuasively.
‘Regret am otherwise engaged. Also, certain personal remarks add touch of obnoxious compulsion. Shall remain in vindictive immobility.’
There was a short silence, in which Olaf came to a slow boil. ‘Skavensk!’ he cried, suddenly throwing down his bowl and leaping to his feet. ‘Lookit here, you cook-boy, you cook us a meal right now, or Ay ban going to tie you up in a knot like you’ve never seen before.’
‘Steady, Olaf. You can’t beat him up: he’s too small.’
‘Well, is he going to sit there like a heathen image just because he’s small, eh? Too high-hat, he is, see? Besotted ignorance, eh? You heard what he said? Ay sure got a mind to turn him inside out. Maybe he’d look better that way.’
Derrick whistled softly, and Chang thrust his muzzle against his knee. ‘Listen, Chang,’ he said. ‘You grab a hold of Li Han and make mincemeat out of him. Seize him, Chang! Break him and tear him then. Bring me his liver and lights, Chang.’ Chang rumbled like thunder in his throat, waving his tail.
Li Han started up. ‘Physical violence is mark of barbarian mind,’ he said apprehensively. ‘I will dissociate self from distasteful brawlery.’
‘High-hat, eh?’ cried Olaf. ‘You dissociate yourself from that!’ Olaf swung the iron pot in a high arc. Li Han dodged, but too late. The mess came down squelch on top of his head and the pot slammed down over his ears. At this moment Chang joined in, leaping delightedly for the seat of Li Han’s trousers and roaring like a bloodhound.
Li Han sprawled into the fire, sprang out, spinning like a teetotum, and shrieked curses in a high-pitched yell. Derrick tripped him up and sat on his stomach. ‘You’d better pull the pot off, Olaf,’ he said, ‘it might be hot.’
‘Ay reckon we ought to leave it on for ever,’ said Olaf. ‘That ban a fine high hat, eh?’ Olaf had rarely made a joke of his own, and now he was so pleased with it that he could hardly stand for laughing.
When he could stop he pulled once or twice at the pot, but it was immovable. Muffled bellows came from Li Han.
‘Crack it, Olaf,’ said Derrick.
‘That won’t never crack. It’s iron, see?’
By now the bellowing from inside had assumed a pleading tone.
‘No. Ay reckon there’s nothing but a winch will ever unship this pot,’ said Olaf. ‘Or maybe a monkey wrench,’ he added thoughtfully.
‘I’ll hold him by the shoulders and you pull,’ said Derrick. ‘I think he’s drowning.’
‘Drowning a thousand miles from the nearest creek!’ exclaimed Olaf. ‘Cor stone the crows, that ban funny.’ He howled with laughter, but he grasped the pot again and heaved. But suddenly he changed his mind, rapped smartly on the sounding iron and hailed Li Han within, ‘Ahoy, Li Han. Will you cook if we let you out?’
‘Yes, yes. Me cookee top-chop one-time. Let out, plis,’ came the muffled voice, and Olaf heaved again. They pulled, grunting. Li Han shrieked like a stuck pig. Suddenly the pot came off with a loud plop: Olaf fell backwards into the fire, and Chang, charmed with the game, pinned Li Han to the ground, baying wildly.
Between them they made such an appalling din that they never heard the approaching thunder of the Mongols. The camp was filled with Kokonor tribesmen before Derrick could get up for laughing.
As they came in Hulagu and his brothers ran from the horse-lines, where they had been doctoring a sick mare. The leading tribesmen leapt from their horses, saluted Hulagu and spoke rapidly for a few moments. Hulagu ran to Sullivan’s yurt: in a minute he was out again, running for his horse, and before the dust of his going had settled down he was out of sight, together with his brother Kubilai and the other tribesmen.
Chingiz stood staring after them, fingering the dagger at his belt. ‘What’s the matter?’ asked Derrick.
‘The Altai Kazaks have come down from the north,’ replied Chingiz, with a savage grin. ‘They have come for their revenge for the tower of skulls, and they have joined with the Uruchang horde. They are raiding our yurts and killing whatever they can find. They have driven some of our herds into the Takla Makan, and they think they can destroy us, because my father is away. We are going to try to lead some of them into an ambush beyond the Kazak Tomb.’
Sullivan came quickly out of his tent and passed down the lines, giving his orders quietly and distinctly. An indescribable bustle filled the camp for half an hour, and then, out of the apparent confusion, a well-armed, well-mounted and well-prepared troop rode westward after Hulagu. Chingiz rode on Sullivan’s right hand to show the way, and once again Derrick was impressed by the way in which the Mongol seemed to carry a compass and a chart in his head. He was never at a loss, although the bare steppe seemed always the same, and as they rode fast through the gathering night he said that they were coming near to a single rock that stood out of the plain, and that there they were to stop. Hardly had he spoken when out of the dusk loomed the rock, straight ahead of them: he said that in the light of the dawn they would see broken country beyond, and that was to be their goal for the hour of the rising of the sun.
They lit no fire, for no light was to be seen, but they sat in a circle as though a fire had been there, and they ate their horse-flesh cold.
‘This is very instructive,’ said the Professor, as he wiped his lips. ‘As I understand it, the tribes beyond the Altai have been pushing the Kazaks to the south, and now the Kazaks in their turn are attacking our friends: it is surely a repetition of those great waves of barbarians who came one after the other to destroy the Roman Empire. And there are many other instances which will occur to you. One sees the evidence of these successive invasions so clearly in the excavation of any archaeological site, but to see the whole thing in present action is to have history brought to life in the most vivid manner – more vivid even than the most pronounced differentiation of the culture strata at, let us say, Beauplan’s classic excavation at Chrysopolis.’
‘I am sure you are right,’ said Sullivan, ‘but speaking as a layman, I must say that for my part it is a demonstration that I could do without. Living history has an awkward way of separating you from your head, and I would rather reach Samarcand all in one piece. For the moment I could wish that history would keep in its proper place – between the covers of a history book.’
By the time the eastern sky began to lighten they were in the saddle again, making their way towards a region of abrupt rocks and twisted ravines, a great stretch of country that seemed to have been torn apart by an almighty earthquake in the past.
Li Han took a gloomy view of the whole affair: he was riding behind, between Derrick and Olaf who kept near to him to pick him up when he fell, for although they had now traversed hundreds and hundreds of miles of Northern China, Inner and Outer Mongolia and Sinkiang on horseback, so that even Olaf could navigate his mare efficiently, Li Han had never become more than a most indifferent rider, and he was apt to pitch off on one side or the other whenever they went faster than a walk. ‘Surely,’ he gasped,
