‘You will not tempt me to lift you up, Akram. Once is enough for each trick.’
The instructor smiled and leapt to his feet, but the light was fading and Inalchuk bowed to him before handing over the blade.
As the sun set, Inalchuk heard the voices of the muezzins call the greatness of God across Otrar. It was time for evening prayers and the courtyard began to fill with the members of his household. They carried mats and lined up in rows, their heads bowed. Inalchuk led them in the responses, the thoughts and worries of the day vanishing as he took the first position.
As they chanted in unison, Inalchuk looked forward to breaking the day’s fast. Ramadan was close to its end and even he did not dare to ignore its disciplines. Servants chattered like birds and he knew better than to provide them with evidence against him for the shari’a courts. As he prostrated himself, touching his forehead to the ground, he thought of the women he would choose to bathe him. Even in the holy month, all things were possible after sunset, and there at least could a man be king in his own home. He would have honey brought and dribble it onto the back of his current favourite as he enjoyed her.
‘Allahu Akbar!’ he said aloud. God is great. Honey was a wonderful thing, he thought, the gift of Allah to all men. Inalchuk could have eaten it every day if it were not for his expanding waist. There was a price for every pleasure, it seemed.
He prostrated himself once more, a model of piety in front of his household. The sun had set during the ritual and Inalchuk was starving. He rolled up his prayer mat and walked swiftly through the yard, his scribe falling in behind him.
‘Where is the army of the khan?’ Inalchuk called over his shoulder.
His scribe fussed with a sheaf of papers as he always did, though Inalchuk did not doubt he had the answer ready. Zayed bin Saleh had grown old in his service, but age had not dulled his intelligence.
‘The Mongol army moves slowly, master,’ Zayed said. ‘Allah be thanked for that. They darken the earth all the way back to the mountains.’
Inalchuk frowned, the image of honey-covered skin vanishing from his imagination.
‘More than we thought before?’
‘Perhaps a hundred thousand fighting men, master, though I cannot be sure with so many carts. They ride as a great snake on the land.’
Inalchuk smiled at the image.
‘Even such a snake has but one head, Zayed. If the khan is troublesome, I will have the Assassins cut it off.’
The scribe grimaced, showing teeth like yellow ivory.
‘I would rather embrace a scorpion than deal with those Shia mystics, master. They are dangerous in more than just their daggers. Do they not reject the Caliphs? They are not true men of Islam, I think.’
Inalchuk laughed, clapping Zayed on the shoulder.
‘They frighten you, little Zayed, but they can be bought and there is no one as good. Did they not leave a poisoned cake on Saladin’s own chest as he slept? That is what matters. They honour their contracts and all their dark madness is just for show.’
Zayed shuddered delicately. The Assassins ruled in their mountain fortresses and even the shah himself could not command them to come out. They worshipped death and violence and Zayed felt Inalchuk should not be so casual in speaking of them, even in his own home. He hoped his silence would be taken as a subtle reproof, but Inalchuk went on as another thought struck him.
‘You have not mentioned word from Shah Mohammed,’ he said. ‘Can it be that he has not yet answered?’
Zayed shook his head.
‘There are no reinforcements yet, master. I have men waiting for them to the south. I will know as soon as they appear.’
They had reached the bathing complex in the governor’s house. As a male slave, Zayed could not pass through the door and Inalchuk paused with him, thinking through his orders.
‘My cousin has more than a million men under arms, Zayed, more than enough to crush this army of carts and skinny goats. Send another message with my personal seal. Tell him … two hundred thousand Mongol warriors have come through the mountains. Perhaps he will understand my garrison can only retreat before so many.’
‘The shah may not believe they will strike at Otrar, master. There are other cities without our walls.’
Inalchuk made a tutting sound and ran a hand down the oiled curls of his beard.
‘Where else would they come? It was here that I had the khan’s men flogged in the marketplace. Here that we made a pile of hands as high as a man’s waist. Did my cousin not guide me in that? I have followed his orders in the knowledge that his army would be ready to throw these Mongols back on their heels. Now I have called and still he delays.’
Zayed did not respond. The walls of Otrar had never been broken, but Arab merchants were beginning to come in from Chin lands. They talked of the Mongols using machines that could smash cities. It was not beyond possibility that the shah had decided to let the Otrar garrison test the mettle of the Mongol khan. Twenty thousand men rested within the walls, but Zayed did not feel confident.
‘Remind my cousin that I once saved his life when we were boys together,’ Inalchuk said. ‘He has never repaid that debt to me.’
Zayed bowed his head.
‘I will have word sent to him, master, by the fastest horses.’
Inalchuk nodded curtly, disappearing inside the door. Zayed watched him go and frowned to himself. The master would rut like a dog in heat until dawn, leaving the campaign planning to his servants.
Zayed did not understand lust, any more than he understood men like the Assassins who chose to eat the sticky brown lumps of hashish that banished fear and made them writhe with the desire to kill. When he was young his body had tormented him, but one blessing of old age was relief from the demands of flesh. The only true pleasure he had ever known came from planning and scholarship.
Zayed realised dimly that he would need to eat to sustain him in the long night ahead. He had more than a hundred spies in the path of the Mongol army and their reports came in every hour. He heard his master’s rhythmic grunting begin and shook his head as if at a wayward child. To act in such a way when the world was ready to topple mystified him. Zayed did not doubt Shah Mohammed had visions of becoming a new Saladin. Inalchuk had been just a child, but Zayed remembered the reign of the great king. He cherished memories of Saladin’s warriors passing through Bukhara to Jerusalem more than thirty years before. It had been a golden time!
The shah would not let Otrar fall, Zayed was almost certain. There were many leaders who had come to his banners, but they would be watching for weakness. It was the curse of all strong men and the shah could not give up a wealthy city. After all, the Chin had never been weaker. If Genghis could be stopped at Otrar, there was a world to win.
Zayed heard his master’s grunting passion grow in volume and sighed. No doubt Inalchuk had his own eyes on the shah’s throne. If the Mongols could be broken quickly, perhaps it was even in his reach.
The corridor was cool after sunset and Zayed barely noticed the slaves lighting oil lamps along its length. He was not tired. That too was a blessing of old age, that he needed very little sleep. He shuffled away into the gloom, his mind on a thousand things he had to do before dawn.
CHAPTER NINE
Jebe had lost count of the miles he had ridden in a month away from the khan’s army. At first he had headed south, coming across a vast lake in the shape of a crescent. Jebe had never seen such a body of fresh water, so wide that even the sharp-eyed scouts could not see the other side. For days, he and his men had speared fat green fish they could not name, feasting on the flesh before moving on. Jebe had decided against trying to swim the horses across and took his tuman along the clay banks. The land teemed with animals they could eat, from gazelles and ibex to a brown bear that came bellowing out of a copse and almost reached a raiding group before arrows brought it down. Jebe had the bearskin draped over his horse’s back, thick with rotting fat. He hoped to smoke-cure the skin before it was
too far gone. Falcons and eagles soared the winds above their heads and the hills and valleys reminded Jebe of home.
As Genghis had ordered, he left small villages alone, his men riding past in a dark mass as farmers ran or stared in dull fear. Such men reminded Jebe of cattle and he could only shudder at living such a life, trapped in one place for all time. He had destroyed four large towns and more than a dozen road forts, leaving the loot buried in marked spots in the hills. His men were coming to know him as leader and they rode with their heads up, enjoying his style of striking fast and covering huge distances in just a few days. Arslan had been more cautious as a general, but he had taught Jebe well and the younger man drove them hard. He had a name to make among the generals and he allowed no weakness or hesitation in those who followed him.
If a town surrendered quickly, Jebe sent its merchants north and east to where he thought Genghis might have reached with the slower carts. He promised them gold and tempted them with Chin coins as proof of the generosity they would receive. Many of them had been forced to watch their homes burned to the ground and had no love for the young Mongol general, but they accepted the gifts and rode away. They could not rebuild with Genghis coming south and Jebe found them more pragmatic than his own people, more accepting of the fate that can raise one man and break another with no cause or reason. He did not admire the attitude, though it suited his own purposes well enough.
By the end of the new moon, which Jebe had learned was the Arab month of Ramadan, he reached a new range of mountains to the south of the crescent lake. Otrar was to the west and further on lay the golden cities of the shah, with names Jebe could hardly pronounce. He learned of Samarkand and Bukhara and had Arab farmers draw their locations on rough maps that Genghis would value. Jebe did not travel to see those walled places. When he did, it would be with the Mongol host at his back.
As the moon vanished, Jebe rode on one last sweep into the hills of the south, mapping sources of water and keeping his men fit. He was almost ready to return and go to war. Though his tuman had stayed out for more than a moon’s turn, he had no gers with him and made his camp in a sheltered valley, with scouts posted on all the peaks around him. It was one of those who rode back into camp, his pony lathered with sweat.
‘I have seen riders, general, in the distance.’
‘Did they spot you?’ Jebe asked.
The young warrior shook his head proudly.
‘Not in this life, general. It was in the last light before the sun set and I came straight back.’ The man hesitated and Jebe waited for him to speak again.
‘I thought… they could have been Mongols, general, from the way they rode. It was just a glimpse before the light went, but there were six men riding together and they could have been ours.’
Jebe stood up, his meal of rabbit forgotten at his feet.
‘Who else would have come so far south?’ he muttered. With a low whistle, he had his men leaving their rations and mounting all around. It was too dark to ride fast, but he had seen a trail leading through the hills before sunset and Jebe could not resist moving closer in the darkness. By dawn, he would be in position. He passed on his orders to his officers and let them inform the men. In no time at all, they were clicking gently to their mounts, moving into a column.
Without a moon, the night was very dark, but they followed his orders and Jebe grinned to himself. If it was Khasar, or better still, Tsubodai, he would like nothing more than to surprise a Mongol force at dawn. As he walked his mount to the head of the line, he sent scouts out with whispered orders, knowing that the khan’s generals would take pleasure in doing the same to him. Unlike the older men, he had a name to win for himself and he relished the challenge of a new land. Tsubodai’s rise had shown Genghis valued talent over blood, every time.
Jochi woke from sleeping like a dead man in pine woods, halfway up a mountain slope. He lay still in pitch darkness, raising his left hand before his face and blinking wearily. The Arabs judged dawn as the time when a black thread could be distinguished from a white one and it was not yet light enough for that. He yawned and knew he would not sleep again now that his battered body had dragged itself awake. His legs were stiff in the mornings and he began each day by rubbing oil into the raised scars from the hot irons and the tiger’s claws. Slowly, he worked the ridged skin with his thumbs, grunting in relief as the muscles relaxed. It was then that he heard hoof-beats in the darkness and one of his scouts calling.
‘Over here,’ he said. The scout dismounted and came to kneel by him. It was one of the Chin recruits and Jochi handed him the pot of oil to continue as he listened. The scout talked quickly in his own language, but Jochi interrupted only once to ask for the meaning of a word.
‘In three weeks, we’ve seen no sign of an armed force and now they come creeping at us in the dark,’ Jochi said, wincing as the Chin warrior’s thumbs worked a tender spot.
‘We could be miles away by dawn, general,’ the scout murmured.
Jochi shook his head. His men would allow him to run if he had some plan to draw an enemy into an ambush. To simply retreat would undermine him among all the groups of his tuman.
He cursed softly. In the moonless night, he could not know where the enemy were or how many came against him. His best trackers would be useless. His one advantage was that he knew the land. The isolated valley to the south had been his training ground for half a month and he had used it to work his men to a new edge of toughness. Along with his scouts, he knew every back trail and piece of cover from one end to the other.
‘Fetch my minghaan officers to me,’ he said to the scout. The ten senior officers could spread his orders quickly to the individual thousands of his tuman. Genghis had created the system and it worked well. Jochi had only added Tsubodai’s idea of naming each thousand and each jagun of a hundred men. It led to less confusion in battle and he was pleased with them.
The Chin scout handed him the pot of oil and bowed his head before scurrying away. Jochi stood and was pleased to find his legs had stopped aching, at least for a while.
By the time his men were walking their mounts up to the ridge that led down into the valley beyond, two more scouts had come in. The sun was not yet up, but the grey light of the wolf dawn was over the hills, when men felt life stir in their limbs. Jochi saw the scouts were chuckling and gestured for them to come to his side. They too were of Chin stock, but the usually impassive warriors were visibly amused at something.
‘What is it?’ Jochi asked impatiently.
The two men exchanged a glance.
‘Those coming are Mongols, general.’
Jochi blinked in confusion. It was true that he could make out the faces of the scouts in the dim light, but they had ridden through darkness to get back to him.
‘How do you know?’ he demanded.
To his surprise, one of them tapped his nose.
‘The smell, general. The breeze is north to south and there is no mistaking it. Arab warriors do not use rancid mutton fat.’
The scouts clearly expected Jochi to be relieved, but instead he narrowed his eyes, dismissing them with a sharp gesture. It could only be Arslan’s tuman, led by the new man his father had promoted. He had not had the chance to know Jebe before Genghis sent him out. Jochi showed his teeth in the darkness. He would meet him on his own terms at least, on land Jebe could not know as well.
Jochi passed on new orders and they increased the pace, needing to be in the valley before dawn. They had all heard the news of another tuman in the area and, like their general, were eager to show what they could do. Destroying Shah Mohammed’s armies could not bring them the satisfaction of confounding their own.
With the sun above the horizon, Jebe moved slowly forward. His warriors had crept through the last of the darkness, moving stealthily to surround a valley where they could hear warriors and horses. The whinnying calls carried far in the bowl of hills and Jebe had left forty mares in season well back, where they would not call to stallions.
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The first light made the young general smile to see the terrain ahead. Warriors moved in dark smudges on the land, surrounded on all sides by slopes and crags. The shamans told stories of great stones hurtling from the stars and gouging valleys. This looked like such a place. Jebe spotted a prominent ridge where he could direct the flanking groups and used the tree cover to move towards it, always out of sight from those on the valley floor. He did not intend to take lives, only to show the Mongol tuman that he could have destroyed them. They would not forget the sight of his armed lines thundering down the slopes.
Jebe’s eyes were sharp over distance and he was pleased to see no sign of alarm in those he watched. They were clearly training and he could see a line of distant discs that could only be straw archery targets. Rank after rank galloped and shot their arrows at full speed before looping back for another try. Jebe chuckled as he heard the distant calls of Mongol horns.
With two senior men and two flag-bearers, Jebe tied his reins to a pine tree and crouched, moving slowly to the ridge. For the last few paces, he approached on his stomach, worming forward until he could see the entire green valley. It was still too far to recognise the general, but Jebe nodded at the sharp formations as they wheeled and manoeuvred. Whoever it was had trained his men well.
Half a mile away, Jebe saw a flash of red, gone as quickly as it had appeared on a high crag. His left flank had found themselves a slope they could ride and they were ready. He waited for the right to do the same and his heart beat faster when a flag of blue flickered.
Something nagged at him then, spoiling his concentration. Where were the other scouts, the men who were meant to watch for exactly this sort of attack? The valley floor was vulnerable to any hostile force and Jebe could not think of one of Genghis’ generals who would leave himself blind. His men had orders to disarm the scouts before they could sound their horns, but that was down to luck. Perhaps the sky father was watching over his endeavours this day and the scouts had been taken in silence. He shook his head warily.
Bones of the Hills Page 11
