by David Cook
"My scribe will read these. I have no use for reading," the khahan bluntly explained. The scribe carefully placed the paper on the writing desk.
"Koja the Lama," continued Yamun, arching his back to stretch, "you are the envoy of the Khazari. Therefore, I've ordered proper documents prepared for you, stating your position and the honors you must be shown. These will keep you from being mistaken for a bandit or a spy." Yamun's eyes flicked up and down over the priest. "Show these signs and you will be allowed to pass unmolested-except where my word says you will not go. No one will refuse you because defying my word is death."
Yamun waved to the scribe once more, who scurried from his table to present Koja with a golden paitza-a heavy, engraved plate, almost a foot long, strung on a red silken cord.
Taking the paitza, Koja studied it closely. At the top was the fanciful face of a tiger, the seal of the khahan. Below it was writing, carved in Shou characters. Koja read it softly aloud. " 'By the power of eternal heaven and by the patronage of great grandeur and magnificence, who does not submit to the command of Yamun Khahan, that person is guilty and will die.' "
"Wear it about your neck and do not lose it or you may find yourself in trouble." Koja gently hefted the paitza and decided to wear it somewhere else.
"Now, priest, I must dismiss you. There are other things I must do. I will consider the words of your prince. When the time is ready, I will prepare a reply." Yamun abruptly ended the meeting, turning to the scribe while ignoring the presence of the priest.
Bowing one last time, Koja took his leave. After the previous night, the formality and shortness of this meeting was jarring. Perhaps, he thought, there was something he didn't understand about Tuigan hospitality.
Koja returned to his yurt to work on his reports. Since leaving Khazari, the priest had tried to maintain a careful account of his mission by writing his observations in letters to Prince Ogandi. Although Koja had sent a few missives from Semphar, he had not had the chance since. Pulling out a bundle of sheets, the priest began to carefully add the recollections of last night and today to the papers. He quickly became engrossed in the work.
It was dark when Yamun summoned Koja back to his yurt. The khahan sat alone on the dais. The scribe was seated at his little table. A wick floating in a bowl of oil provided the man with light. Other lamps were lit, casting a dim illumination against the dark. Koja was ushered in with little ceremony.
"Sit, priest," Yamun said, dispensing with formalities. Koja took his seat on the cushions in the center of the floor. "No, here." Yamun pointed at his feet. "You will look at my hand."
"As you wish, Khahan." Koja reached into the front of his robe, getting his charm pouch.
"Priest, will you join me in drink?" Yamun asked while he watched the Koja rummage through the bag.
"You are most gracious, Khahan. I will take wine."
Yamun clapped his hands, taking care not to strike his bandage. "Bring hot wine and kumiss for me. It's a better drink than wine," he said, pointing a finger at Koja. "Kumiss reminds us of who we are. It is our blood. But," he concluded with a grin, "it is an acquired taste."
The servants appeared and poured the drink into silver goblets. As they did so, Koja carefully unwrapped the bandage on Yamun's hand. The skin around the edge of the wound was black and crusty, but there was no sign of swelling. Already it had started to knit properly. "Let the wound air," Koja advised the khahan.
"Very well. Now, for the sake of formality, read me your prince's words," Yamun requested. Reaching into his robe, the khahan produced the letters and tossed them to Koja. He leaned forward, intent on Koja's words.
The priest unfolded the sheet and squinted, trying to make out the words in the dim light.
" 'To the gracious lord of the steppe from Prince Ogandi, ruler of Khazari, son of Tulwakan the Mighty:
" 'Long have we heard of your people, and great are they in their lands! Mighty is your valor. Greatly it pleases us to have so stalwart a neighbor-' "
"What does it say?" Yamun interrupted impatiently, tapping his fingertips together.
"Great Lord?"
"What does your prince say? Tell me. Don't read anymore. Just tell me."
"Well…" Koja paused as he scanned the rest of the letter. "Prince Ogandi offers his hand in friendship, hoping that you will enter into peaceful trade with him. And then, later on, he proposes a treaty of friendship and defense."
"And the other letter, what does it say?"
Koja unfolded it and scanned through the lines. "My prince has outlined this proposed treaty for you to consider. It calls for recognizing the borders of the Khazari and Tuigan lands. He says that, 'Your enemies shall be our enemies' " Koja stopped to see if the khahan had understood. "It's a promise to assist each other against attackers."
"He does not threaten war?" Yamun asked sternly.
Koja looked at the letter again. "No, Great Lord!"
"Does he state that assassins will be sent to slay me?" Yamun fingered at the baubles in his mustache.
Koja wonder just what Yamun was getting at. "Not at all."
"Hmmm.." Yamun stroked his mustache. "Then why would someone tell me these things?" he wondered out loud as his gaze settled on the old scribe. The man went pale, sweat beading out on his forehead. "Why would someone tell me lies?"
"I did not lie, Lord! I only read what was there!" the scribe babbled as he frantically pressed his face into the carpets. His voice muffled, he continued to plead. "I swear by the lightning, by the might of Teylas, I only read what was written! I am your faithful scribe!"
"One of you has lied and will forfeit his life for it," Yamun rumbled, looking from the priest to the scribe. The prostrate servant began heaving with muffled sobs. Koja looked at the letters again, baffled by this strange accusation. Yamun looked at the two men over his folded hands, his mind deep in thought.
Suddenly the khahan stood, knocking the stool over, and strode to the doorway of the tent. "Captain!" he shouted into the darkness. The officer appeared within a second. "Take this dog out and execute him. Now!" Yamun thrust his finger at the scribe. With a shrieking wail the man clutched at the carpets for safety.
The scribe's pathetic screams grew louder as the black-robed guards approached. Koja slid back, out of the way of the grim-faced warriors. Yamun's visage was fixed with anger and hatred.
"Shut up, dog!" the khahan shouted. "Guards, take him!"
Three soldiers picked up the scribe and carried him from the tent. His muffled cries could be heard through the tent walls. Yamun waited expectantly. The screaming grew frantic and hoarse, then there was a dull thud and the screaming stopped. Yamun nodded in satisfaction and took his seat.
Koja realized that he was trembling. Lowering his eyes, the priest practiced his meditation to regain his composure.
The captain of the guard pulled the tent flap aside. In his hands was a bloodstained bundle-a simple leather bag. Wordlessly he entered and knelt before the khahan. "As you ordered, so is it done," the captain said as he unwrapped the package. There, in the middle of the cloth, was the head of the scribe.
"Well done, Captain. Take his body and feed it to the dogs. Set that," he sneered, pointing to the head, "on a lance where everyone can see it."
"It will be done." The captain looked at Koja in curiosity, then took the head and left.
Yamun let out a great sigh and looked at the floor. Finally, he turned to Koja. "Now, priest, bandage my hand."
Still trembling slightly, Koja took out his herbs and began to work.
2
Mother Bayalun
Yamun trotted his horse, a sturdy little piebald mare, through the camps of his soldiers. Alongside him rode Chanar on a pure white stallion. From behind came the jingling clatter of reins and hooves as five bodyguards, black-robed men of the elite Kashik, followed closely behind.
It had been days since the audience with the priest from Khazari, and Yamun was still reflecting on the events. He scowled as he pondered
the contents of the envoy's letters. The prince of the Khazari wanted a treaty between their two nations. Yamun didn't know if that was desirable, and, before deciding, he needed to know more about the Khazari-their numbers, strengths, and weaknesses. "The sleeping rabbit is caught by the fox," or so went the old saying. Yamun had no intention of being lulled to sleep by mere paper.
Dismissing the topic in his mind, Yamun slowed his horse and looked with pride on the endless sea of soldiers' tents and campfires. This was his army. He had organized the tribesmen into arbans of ten men, then jaguns of one hundred, further still to minghans of one thousand, ending finally in the tumen, the great divisions of ten thousand men. Every soldier had a rank and a place in the army, just as Yamun planned. Under his command the men of the steppe were transformed from raiding bands into a tightly disciplined army.
The khahan reined in his horse, bringing it to a stop just in front of a small group of soldiers gathered around their fire. The entourage with him clattered to a stop, too. The squad of ten men who sat around the fire leaped to their feet.
"Who is the leader of this arban?" Yamun demanded, tapping his horsewhip on his thigh. The khahan's horse pranced uneasily, agitated by Yamun's energy.
One man hurriedly ran forward and flung himself to the ground at the mare's hooves. In the warm spring day, the man wore only his woolen trousers and kalat, a stained blue tunic trimmed with red. A conical bearskin cap, decorated with goat-hide tassels, identified the man as a common trooper of Chanar's tumen.
Satisfied with the trooper's response, the khahan waited for his horse to quiet down. "Rise, brother soldier," he said, trying to put the nervous trooper at ease.
"Yes, Great Lord," mumbled the man, pushing himself up from the dirt. Even sitting upright, the man kept his eyes downcast. Yamun could tell the man was a tough and seasoned soldier by the large scars on his cheeks.
"Fear not, warrior," Yamun spoke soothingly. "You're not to be punished. I've some questions, that's all. The commander of your jagun recommended your bravery and skill. What's your father's ordu?" Yamun whisked away the flies from his mare's mane.
"Illustrious Emperor of the Tuigan, my father was born into the Jebe clan." The trooper bowed again on completing his words.
"Jebe's ordu has many tents, and he's served me well in the past. What's your name?"
"Hulagu, Khahan," the trooper answered, bowing again. "Very well, Hulagu. Stop bobbing up and down and be a soldier." The man sat up straighter, obedient to the words of his khahan. "Jebe Khan keeps his ordu to the east, near the Katakoro Mountains, doesn't he?"
"Yes, Great Lord, in the summertime when the pastures are rich there."
"Have you heard of the Khazari? I'm told they live in those mountains." He stroked the neck of his horse, keeping it calm.
"This is true, khahan. We sometimes take their sheep and cattle," the trooper answered with pride.
Yamun smiled. Raiding and rustling were old and honorable traditions among the Tuigan. As khahan, he could barely keep the different ordus of the Tuigan from stealing each other's horses. Any Tuigan caught stealing from another was executed on the spot, but the law did not apply to non-Tuigan. Yamun tucked his horsewhip into his boot-top. "Are they easy to raid?"
"My father says it was not as hard as raiding the ordus of Arik-Boke and Berku-or so he was told; my father never did this," Trooper Hulagu added hastily, remembering the penalties Yamun had set. "The Khazari aren't horsemen and don't chase us very well, so it is easy to get away. But they live in tents of stone and keep their sheep in pens at night, so we could only raid them when they took their flocks out to pasture."
"Are they a brave people?" Yamun asked, dropping his horse's reins to let it graze.
"Not as brave as the Jebe," the man answered with a trace of boastfulness. "They would fight, but were easy to trick. Many times they did not send out scouts, and we could fool them by driving horses ahead of us to make our numbers seem much larger." The trooper wriggled a little, trying to keep his toes warm in the cold mud.
Yamun stroked the fine beard on his chin. "Are there many of them?"
The man thought for a bit. His eyes glazed as he started imagining numbers larger than twenty.
Finally, the trooper spoke. "They are not so numerous as the tumens of the khahan nor do they fight as well," he said, breaking into a big smile at what he thought was his own cleverness.
Yamun laughed at the man's answer. What he really needed, as he had known from the start, was solid information on who and what the Khazari were like. Trooper Hulagu's memory was certainly not going to be enough. "What's the distance to Khazari?" he asked. Again the man thought, although this time Yamun suspected he knew the answer.
"Illustrious Emperor of the Tuigan, when I left my ordu to join the magnificent Son of Teylas's armies, I rode for three weeks, but I did not hurry and stopped many days in the yurts of my cousins along the way. The trip could be made faster."
"Undoubtedly," Yamun said, half to himself. The squat warlord paused, although he already knew what needed to be done. Leaning on the pommel of his saddle, Yamun turned to General Chanar beside him. "Chanar Ong Kho, this man and his arban are to ride with all haste to the Katakoro Mountains with as many men as you think wise to send. I want to know the numbers, strengths, and weaknesses of the Khazari. See that the scouts have fresh horses and passes. They must return in five weeks, no later." Chanar nodded in understanding.
Just as he was about to go, Yamun turned back. "And send someone from my Kashik who can count. Make him their commander. Let all who disobey you know this is by the word of the khahan." Yamun added the last automatically, a formula that signified his orders.
"By your word, it shall be done," responded Chanar mechanically, according to the formula of etiquette. "Is that all my men are to do?" the general asked.
Yamun stopped his horse and stared back at Chanar. "You, General Chanar, will ride to the ordu of my son, Tomke, and observe his camp. I want to know if his men are ready. Take the men you need and go immediately. Teylas will protect you."
"By your word, it shall be done" Chanar responded. The discussion finished, Yamun tugged his mount's reins and galloped off.
The trooper still cowered at the feet of Chanar's horse.
"Get going!" the general bellowed. The terrified Hulagu leaped to his feet and scrambled back toward his camp. With his boot, the trooper roused the men of his arban, sending them tumbling after their gear.
"See to the details," Chanar ordered an aide nearby. With his own preparations to make, General Chanar wheeled his horse around and galloped away, headed toward his own yurt.
In his tent, Koja brought out his papers and began to make notes of the day's events and sights. He had only added a few pages since his arrival in Quaraband. Looking at the meager letters only reminded him of how little he knew of the khahan. Undiscouraged, he took up the writing brush and with quick practiced strokes started another letter.
My lord, Prince Ogandi of the Khazari. Greetings from your most humble servant, Koja, envoy to the Tuigan court.
For two days I have awaited the word of the khahan of the Tuigan. There has been no communication from him. He has received your offers, but gives no sign of his opinion toward a treaty. I can do little but wait.
During this time, I have ridden about Quaraband, as the Tuigan call this city of tents, attempting to learn more about their numbers and their way of life. Using the paitza given me by the khahan, I have been able to go where I wish, with one exception-the royal yurt.
Koja stopped to ink his brush and lay out another sheet of paper. He paused before touching the brush to paper again. That morning he had gone to Yamun's tent. There he was stopped by the Kashik dayguard stationed by the gates. Showing his paitza had had no effect on the man and all his protests had been in vain. The guard, in his black kalat, made it clear that Koja was not to be admitted, since the priest's pass bore only the tiger seal. This was apparently the pass used by low-ranking offic
ials. Koja thought about penning the story down, then decided against it.
Perhaps no one was allowed within the royal palace except by invitation.
Traveling elsewhere in the camp, I had no such difficulty, though I have been in the constant company of an armed escort, a precaution of the khahan. I carefully counted tents, making a knot in a string for every ten. By now the cord is short, twisted with little knots. There are more than one hundred knots on the cord, and I still have not ridden the extent of the camp. The Tuigan are a numerous people, O Prince.
In crafts and arts, the people are more than mere barbaric savages. They have men skilled in working gold and silver, and from the wool of sheep make a wondrously warm and soft fabric called felt. At the same time, they are among the smelliest and most abhorrent people for their personal habits.
Koja set aside his brush and pondered what he knew of the Tuigan so far. What seemed like ages ago, when he had first learned he was to visit the Tuigan, Koja had assumed that they were all uncultured savages. Chanar's appearance at the Council of Semphar-dirty, foul-smelling, rude, and arrogant-certainly confirmed that impression.
The ride to Quaraband had been no better. The entire force had traveled at a killing pace, sometimes covering sixty to eighty miles in a single day. He had joined this rank, unwashed group at their meals of near-indigestible dried meat and powdered milk curds mixed with water. For three weeks the men never changed their clothes. It was not a pleasant journey.
The Tuigan, Lord, will eat anything, nor does this give them indigestion. They are great eaters of mutton and horsemeat. They eat much game, for they are most excellent shots with the bow. Mare's milk is used at every meal, made plain, curdled, fermented, and dried. A powder made from the curds is mixed with water or, I am told, mare's blood, to make a drink the soldiers use while they travel.
Koja stopped writing when he realized that his description was incomplete. In Quaraband, he had finally been exposed to another facet of his hosts. To be sure, they still seemed to be barbarians-cruel, dangerous, and impulsive-but Koja could no longer say they were simply uneducated and unskilled. There was a surprising variety to Tuigan life.
