‘No,’ Batu muttered.
‘Not in a thousand years, boy. Guyuk is a follower, not a leader. There was a time when even you had him trotting around in your wake. That is not a weakness in a carpenter or a man who makes tiles for a roof. The world cannot be full of lead dogs, or the pack would pull itself apart.’ He rubbed his dog behind the ears and the animal grunted and slobbered at him. ‘Wouldn’t it, Temujin?’ he said to the hound. ‘They can’t all be like you, can they?’ The dog settled onto its stomach with a grunt, its front legs outstretched.
‘You named your dog after Genghis?’ Batu asked in disbelief.
Tsubodai chuckled ‘Why not? It pleased me to do so.’ The old man looked up again. ‘A man like Guyuk cannot change. He cannot simply decide one day that he will lead and be good at it. It is not in his nature.’
Batu rested his hands on the wooden spar. The sun had begun to set while they talked, shadows thickening and merging all around them.
‘But if I resist him, I will be destroyed,’ he said softly.
Tsubodai shrugged in the darkness. ‘Perhaps. Nothing is certain. It did not stop your father taking his men out of the nation. There was no middle path with him. He was another in the same mould.’
Batu glanced at the old man, but he could barely see his features in the gloom.
‘That did not work out too well.’
‘You are too young to understand,’ Tsubodai replied.
‘Try,’ Batu said. He could feel the old man’s gaze on him.
‘People are always afraid, boy. Perhaps you must live a long time just to see it. I sometimes think I’ve lived too long. We will all die. My wife will die. I will, you, Guyuk, everyone you have ever met. Others will walk over our graves and never know we laughed or loved, or hated each other. Do you think they will care if we did? No, they will have their own blind, short lives to live.’
‘I don’t understand,’ Batu said in frustration.
‘No, because you’re too young,’ Tsubodai said with a shrug. Batu heard the old man sigh to himself. ‘There’s a good chance there are bones in this valley, men and women who once thought they were important. Do we think of them? Do we share their fears and dreams? Of course not. They are nothing to the living and we don’t even know their names. I used to think I would like to be remembered, to have people say my name in a thousand years, but I won’t care if they do, because I’ll be dust and spirit. Maybe just dust, but I’m still hoping for spirit as well. When you’re older, you will realise the only thing that matters, the only thing, is that you had courage and honour. Lose those things and you won’t die any quicker, but you’ll be less than the dirt on our boots. You’ll still be dust, but you’ll have wasted your short time in the light. Your father failed, yes, but he was strong and he tried to do right by his people. He didn’t waste his life. That’s all you can ask.’ The effort of speaking seemed to have tired the old man. He cleared his throat and spat carelessly on the ground. ‘You don’t get long in the world. These mountains will still be here after me, or you.’
Batu was silent for a long time before he spoke again.
‘I never knew him, my father. I never even met him.’
‘I am sorry I ever did,’ Tsubodai replied. ‘That’s how I understand about honour, boy. It’s only when you lose it that you realise how valuable it is, but it’s too late then.’
‘You are a man of honour, if I understand anything at all.’
‘I was once, perhaps, but I should have refused that order from your grandfather. To kill his own son? It was madness, but I was young and I was in awe of him. I should have ridden away and never sought out Jochi in the Russian plains. You wouldn’t understand. Have you killed a man?’
‘You know I have!’
‘Not in battle; up close, slow, where you can look into his eyes.’
Batu nodded slowly. Tsubodai grunted, barely able to see the movement.
‘Were you right to do it? To take all the years he would live?’
‘I thought so at the time,’ Batu replied uncomfortably.
‘You’re still too young. I thought once that I could make my mistake a good thing. That my guilt could be the force that made me better than other men. I thought in my strong years that I would learn from it, but no matter what I did, it was always there. I could not take it back, Batu. I could not undo my sin. Do you know that word? The Christians talk of a black stain on the soul. It is fitting.’
‘They also say you can remove it by confessing.’
‘No, that’s not true. What sort of a man would I be if I could just wipe out my errors with talking? A man has to live with his mistakes and go on. That is his punishment, perhaps.’ He chuckled then, recalling an old memory. ‘You know, your grandfather just forgot his bad days, as if they had never happened. I used to envy him for that. I still do, sometimes.’ He saw Batu looking at him and sighed. ‘Just keep your word, boy, that’s all I have for you.’
Tsubodai shivered as a breeze rushed past them.
‘If that’s you, Genghis, I’m not interested,’ he muttered, so low that Batu could barely hear the words. ‘The boy can look after himself.’
The old man pulled his old deel robe closer around him. ‘It’s too late now to ride back to your men,’ Tsubodai said a little louder. ‘You have guest rights here and I’ll send you on your way in the morning after breakfast. Coming?’
He didn’t wait for Batu to answer. The moon was showing over the horizon and Batu watched the old man walk back to the ger. He was pleased he had come and he thought he knew what he had to do.
The yam station was a surprising building to see in the middle of nowhere. Three hundred miles north of Karakorum, it had a single purpose: to work as a link in messenger chains that stretched as far as the lands of the Chin, west into Russia and as far south as Kabul. Supplies and equipment came along the same route, on slower carts, so that it could thrive. Where there was once a single ger with a few spare mounts, there was now a building of grey stone, roofed in red tile. Gers still surrounded it, presumably for the families of the riders and the few maimed soldiers who had retired there. Batu wondered idly if one day it would become a village in the wilderness. Yam riders could not move with the seasons as their ancestors had.
He had avoided the way stations on his journey from his new lands. Just the sight of his tuman would have sent a rider galloping down the line. No one travelled faster than the yam riders over rough ground and news of his movements would have been in Karakorum days ahead of him. Even for this message, he had left his warriors in a forest of pine and birch, too far away to be discovered. He had ridden ahead with just two of his scouts until they came to a ridge where he could tether his horse and send them on without him.
Batu lay on his stomach in the sunshine, watching their progress towards the yam station. There was smoke coming from its chimney and in the distance he could see the tiny figures of horses cropping at the grass. When he saw his scouts enter the building, he turned over on his back and stared up at the blue sky.
There had been a time when he wanted to be khan. If he had been offered it in those days, he would have grasped the thorn without hesitating. Life had been simpler then, riding west with Tsubodai. The death of Ogedai had done more than halt the Great Trek into the western nations. The khan had gone out of his way to raise Batu from poverty, forcing him through promotions until he gave orders to ten thousand picked men. It should not have been a surprise that Ogedai had included him in his will, but it had been. Batu had not expected anything. When he had ridden to his new lands, he had found traces of a Mongol camp, with gers falling in on themselves and rough wooden buildings. He had searched them all, and in one he came across a rotting saddle stamped with the mark of his father’s tuman. Ogedai had given him the lands his father had chosen when he ran from Genghis. Batu had held the saddle then and wept for a man he had never known. He knew something had changed in him from that point. As he looked up into the perfect blue, he searched himsel
f for the itch of desire, of ambition, but there was nothing. He would not be khan. His only purpose was to be sure the best of them took command of the nation. He worked his hand into the earth he lay on and tore out a handful of grass and dirt. In the peace of a warm day, he crumbled it into dust and let the breeze carry it away.
Above him, a distant hawk wheeled and then hovered, perhaps interested in the man who lay supine on the grass of the plains. Batu raised a hand to it, knowing the bird could see every detail even from such a height.
The sun had moved in the sky by the time his scouts returned. Well trained, they gave no sign that they saw him as they reached the ridge, not until they were out of sight of anyone watching from the yam station. They walked their ponies past him and Batu followed, checking behind occasionally. He did not need to ask them if the message had gone. The yam stations were famous for their efficiency. A rider would already be galloping towards the next one, some twenty-five miles towards Karakorum. Torogene would hold his sealed letter in her hands in just three days.
Batu was thoughtful as he trotted across the rich green grass. He knew Guyuk would lose face when the gathering fell apart. Batu’s other message would reach Baidur around the same time and if he acted on the promise of support, many things would change. Baidur would be a better khan than Guyuk, Batu was certain. For an instant, Batu felt a whisper of the old voice, telling him that he would also be a good khan, the first-born of Genghis’ first-born. It would be fitting, as if the nation had been wrenched back on the right path after too long. He shook his head, crushing the voice in him. His father had wanted to find his own path, far from khans and herds. Speaking to Tsubodai had given Batu a sense of vast reaches of time, a glimpse of decades, even centuries, through the old man’s eyes. He struggled to hold on to it.
Batu tried to think of all the possible futures, then gave it up. No man could plan for everything. He wondered if his pony rode over the bones of long-dead men and shivered slightly at the thought, despite the warmth of the sun.
CHAPTER THREE
Karakorum had not seen such a gathering for many years. As far as the eye could see, the land was covered in gers and horses, the families of the nation come to see the oath-taking for the new khan. Baidur had brought two tumans of warriors from the west, twenty thousand men who made a camp by the Orkhon river and kept their boundaries secure. The camp of Sorhatani’s four sons was close by, with another thirty thousand families. The green plains were hidden by them, and gers perched high into the hills as latecomers searched for good ground.
There was no quiet to be had in such a host. Great herds of bleating sheep, goats, camels and yaks drifted around the city, moving out each morning to open land where they could graze and drink their fill. The river banks had been churned into brown mud over the previous weeks and the routines established. Already there had been fights and even murders. It was impossible to gather so many in one place and not have someone draw his sword. Still, the days passed in relative peace and they waited patiently, understanding that the world was large. Some of the nation’s senior men were coming home from as far as Koryo, east of the Chin territory. Others had ridden from new settlements in Persia, drawn by the summons from Karakorum. First to last, the quiriltai would take almost three months to form. Until the day of the oath-taking, the nation was content to live on the food that flowed out of the city to feed them.
Torogene could hardly remember when she had last slept. She had stolen a few hours the day before, or perhaps the one before that. Her thoughts were slow and her body ached in all its joints. She knew she would have to sleep soon or become useless. At times, she thought only her excitement kept her going. Years of work had gone into the gathering and yet there were still a thousand things to do. Simply feeding the nation from the vast stores took an army of servants. Grain and dried meat were allocated to each prince or family leader, more than four hundred of them.
She wiped a hand across her brow, looking fondly at Guyuk as he stared out of the open window. The walls of the city were higher than they had once been, but he could see the sea of gers stretching away into the blurred distance.
‘There are so many,’ he murmured to himself.
Torogene nodded. ‘We wait for just a few now. Chulgetei has yet to arrive, though I think he had the furthest to travel. Batu cannot be far off. Perhaps a dozen smaller names are still making their way here, my son. I have scouts out to urge them on.’
‘There were times when I thought it was never going to happen,’ he said. ‘I should not have doubted you.’
Torogene smiled, affection and indulgence lighting her face.
‘Well, you learned a little patience. It’s a good quality for a khan.’ Torogene felt a wave of dizziness and realised she had not eaten that day. She sent servants running to find something to break her fast.
‘Baidur is the key,’ Guyuk said. ‘I am sure it was his presence that changed Batu’s mind for him. Will you tell me now what you promised my dear cousins?’
Torogene thought for a moment, but then she nodded.
‘When you are khan, you will have to know it all,’ she said. ‘I offered Baidur ten thousand bars of silver.’
Guyuk turned to her, his eyes wide. Such a sum represented the entire output of all the mines they knew about, possibly for years.
‘Did you leave me with anything?’ he demanded.
Torogene shrugged. ‘What does it matter? The silver will continue to come out of the earth. It does no good sitting in locked rooms beneath the palace.’
‘But ten thousand bars! I did not know there was so much in the world.’
‘Be polite when he gives you his oath then, Guyuk,’ she replied with a tired smile. ‘He is a richer man than you are.’
‘And Batu? If the treasure rooms are empty, what did he want to buy his precious oath?’
Torogene saw the sneer on her son’s face and she frowned.
‘You will have to have dignity when you meet him as well. Let him see nothing in your eyes, my son. A khan does not show small men they mean anything to him.’
She sighed as he continued to stare at her, waiting.
‘We exchanged letters by yam riders. He could not refuse when I told him Baidur had pledged to give his oath to you. I did not have to offer him anything, I think. I did so only to save his pride.’
‘He has too much pride, but it does not matter. I will see him broken in front of all the nation.’
Torogene raised her eyes to the ceiling, suddenly frustrated. How many times would she have to explain to her son before he began to understand?
‘If you do that, you will have a subject and an enemy.’ She reached out and took him by the shoulder as he began to turn away. ‘You must understand this, unless you think I ruled Karakorum by good luck alone. When you are khan, you must court the men of power. If you break one but leave him alive, he will hate you to the end of his days. If you steal his pride from him, he will not miss a chance to take revenge when he can.’
‘Genghis cared nothing for this sort of politics,’ Guyuk replied.
‘Your father did. He understood far better than Genghis how to rule a nation. Genghis could only win an empire. He could never have been the safe hand it needed once it was formed. I have been that hand, Guyuk. Do not dismiss so easily what I tell you.’
Her son looked at her in surprise. Torogene had ruled the nation for more than five years, ever since the death of his father. For two of those, she had been almost on her own with Sorhatani, the army in distant lands. He had not given much thought to her struggle.
‘I am listening,’ he said. ‘I assume you promised again that I would respect the territory Batu was given, or was it to offer him the position of orlok in the army?’
‘I offered both, but he refused the second. I knew then that he would not be khan. He does not burn with ambition, my son, which is why he is no threat to us. I do not know whether it is from weakness or cowardice, but it does not matter. When you have his oa
th, you can send him back with costly gifts. We will not hear from him again.’
‘He is the only one I fear,’ Guyuk said, almost to himself. It was a moment of rare honesty and his mother gripped his shoulder.
‘He is the direct line of Genghis, first-born to first-born. You are right to fear him, but no longer, do you understand? When the last of them come in, you will summon the princes and generals to your tent on the plain, Batu among them. You will take their oath and for the following week you will visit each camp and let them all kneel to you. There are half a million people who will see you then. Too many to bring into the city. That is what I have given you, my son. That is what you have earned with your patience.’
Sorhatani let herself down carefully from the saddle behind her eldest son. Mongke stretched down his arm to help her and she smiled up at him. It was good to see Karakorum again. Her home in the Altai mountains was far from the seat of power, but that did not mean she had not followed every twist and turn as Torogene and Guyuk bargained for power. When she looked at Mongke, she could wish he had not given his oath so early, but that river had run its course. Her eldest son had seen his father Tolui keep his word, even at the point of death. Mongke could not be an oath-breaker after that; it was not in him. She watched as he dismounted with dignity, seeing again the traditional Mongol warrior in everything he did. Mongke looked the part, with his wide face and heavy shoulders. He dressed in simple armour and he was already known as a man who had no patience for Chin things. There would be no rich foods in the gers that night, Sorhatani thought ruefully. Her son made a fetish of simplicity, seeing a nobility in it that she could not understand. The irony was that there were many in the nation who would have followed such a son, especially the older generals. Some of them whispered that Guyuk was not a man amongst men, that he acted the woman in his father’s palace. Still more spoke with distaste of the way Guyuk continued his father’s practice of surrounding himself with perfumed Chin scholars and their incomprehensible scribblings. If Mongke had lifted a hand, he could have had half the nation under his banners before Guyuk even knew he was threatened. Yet her son’s word was iron and his oath had been given years before. He would not even discuss the issue with his mother any longer.
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