“Then rest,” I said, although I knew her snores—louder than an ill camel’s—would keep me from my own sleep all night. I’d manage so long as she didn’t wake Alaqai.
Khogaghchin lay next to me, but I drifted to sleep first. I woke not to the rumble of her snores but to utter silence, not even the gentle crackle of the fire, which had burned out in the night. My hand brushed hers, but this time it was cold.
“Mother Khogaghchin?” I leaned closer to feel her cheek, but it, too, was cold. Only the smile on her lips was still warm, reminding me of the day I’d first met her as a new bride.
I was mother to a nation and I would never let my people see me cry, but I raised my voice to guide her spirit to the sacred mountains, then broke down and sobbed in the darkness of my own tent, pulling Alaqai to my chest and crying for the second mother I’d lost.
We bleached Mother Khogaghchin’s bones in the sun and buried them with the honor of a woman who had birthed fifteen children. I erected her ger near my mother’s, one stark white and the other dulled by the sun, both providing me solace. It was there that Alaqai took her first steps, and for a moment I imagined both my mother and Khogaghchin smiling down on us. Time raced ahead without us, whether we wished it to or not.
Alaqai grew out of her fussiness and weaned herself, giving us a glimpse of the independent streak that none of my sons possessed. My only daughter was a terror, racing about camp on her pony and flashing the most adorable smile while stealing cups of salted milk. I trembled to think of the havoc she would wreak once she was older.
With no child at my breast, I quickly fell pregnant again, much to my husband’s horror. The clans watched my stomach swell, scheming amongst themselves as to which woman might replace me as khatun if I died in the birthing tent, and each night Genghis and Hoelun prayed to the Eternal Blue Sky for my safe delivery.
I was determined to enjoy these months of what I knew would be my final pregnancy, even going so far as to dry extra goat meat until the rafters creaked from the added weight, all in preparation for what might be the last months I would spend with my family. It was a difficult pregnancy, with my swollen ankles and growing inability to sleep, and I grew more terrified of entering the birthing tent with each passing day, although I tried to put on a brave face before Genghis and the children.
When my time came, I struggled even more than I had with Alaqai, for my body had not yet fully healed. After the first full day, I begged Hoelun to cut me open and remove the child, but instead she pressed on my stomach so hard I screamed, turning the child lodged there.
My last child was born amidst my cries, tearing me apart inside as Alaqai had done outside.
A son.
“There will be no more children,” Hoelun commanded me as the afterbirth emerged. This time I could only nod. We named our son Tolui, after the three stones that make up the hearth at the center of our gers. Tolui would be our Prince of the Hearth, who would care for us in our final years.
I hadn’t the strength to feed my son, so a Merkid slave whose babe had died was brought to give him suck. At the time, I envied the girl her youth and round breasts as my milk dried up in a final punishment of excruciating pain, but I wondered later if she had made him weak, if perhaps my milk would have made him as strong as his brothers. Still, Genghis treated me as a precious bride, feeding me bits of sheep fat with his own fingers as I struggled to recover.
“You’ve given me four sons and one demon of a daughter,” Genghis said, wiping away my tears as I focused my eyes on the dried horse and goat meat hanging above my head. It was two weeks since the birth and still the world spun underfoot when I tried to rise. I’d scarcely managed to bathe my son today and, exhausted, had left the fouled water in its iron basin, where a spotted goat now lapped it up. “I order you to rest and recover,” Genghis said. “For I need my khatun.”
Yet what kind of khatun could no longer welcome her husband into her bed, to join with him and create new life? I struggled to find a new role for myself, and finally it was Hoelun who gave me the words I needed.
“You are mother of the People of the Felt,” she said. “You told me that once, before the Field of Cauldrons, and now you must act the part. Eat and rest to regain your strength.”
“But Genghis—”
Hoelun waved away my concern. “Surely you are not so dull a wife that you cannot think of ways to please my son without opening your legs to him.”
My face burned the same fire as the flames in my hearth then. “I’ll think of something,” I mumbled, not wanting the conversation to continue.
Hoelun cackled and patted my leg. “That’s my girl,” she said. “Now, drink your calf’s blood and I’ll bring you more sheep fat. I’ll get some color back in your face if it’s the last thing I do.”
* * *
Slowly, I regained my strength, but Tolui had already been fitted for a saddle by the time I felt well enough to resume all my duties, and I still grew short of breath and required frequent rests to keep my head from spinning.
As the willow buds unfurled their fuzzy heads and sent out yellow sprigs of pollen, we finally garnered enough support from the clans to declare war against the Tatars, the mountain clan that Jamuka had allied himself with before Jochi’s birth. Our soldiers mounted their horses with the men of Ong Khan, the great leader who still wore the black sable furs I’d brought to my marriage. Together, the men attacked the Tatar fortress in the Ulja River valley, nestled amongst the birch and larch.
The men were gone for days while we women performed our chores and tended the children. We should have been used to the long waits and constant doubts, but we scarcely slept by night, and by day, our tempers frayed as eyes darted constantly to the horizon.
Finally, the thunder of hooves and cloud of dust heralded their return. Tasting the familiar tang of fear and excitement as we waited to hear what the battle had brought, I untethered Tolui from the rope that kept him from the hearth fire and herded the children like goats to meet their father. Ogodei yawned into his hand—there was little in this world that could interest that son of mine outside food and wrestling—but Jochi held Alaqai on his shoulders. My sweet boy was now a gangly youth who had begun to braid his hair like a man, and my heart stalled to realize he would soon ride out with the men.
We heard the men’s songs and whoops of joy before we could make out their expressions, and the sound of sweet victory rolled across the camp, the women and children calling to the men like summer cranes.
Flanked by his younger brother, Khasar, and his general Belgutei, my husband rode his warhorse at the front of the men, his cheeks ruddy and his smile like a beacon of sunshine. Before I could stop her, Alaqai squirmed down from Jochi’s shoulders and darted forward, her little legs pumping and black hair streaming out behind her. I thought she might be trampled and lunged after her, but she dodged between the horses, chortling with golden laughter that made me want to nuzzle her close and never let go. The daughter I thought would be only mine grew more like her father with each passing day, making me proud and lonely at the same time.
Genghis joined her laughter and scooped her into the saddle before him. He galloped close, then dismounted and pulled me into a hug so tight I could scarcely breathe.
“By the Earth and Sky, I missed you,” he whispered into my ear.
I peered at the river of wagons making itself seen behind the men, creaking loudly with the weight of the spoils of war. “You were too busy raiding to have time to think of me.”
“This is the first time I’ve known you to be wrong,” he said. “For I always think of you, Borte Ujin.” He kissed me then, a kiss that broke every rule about propriety and made the men around us whoop and holler, bringing fire all the way to the tips of my ears. Still, I kissed him back, glad to have my sweat-stained, dusty wolf of a husband home.
Genghis finally released me and bowed to his mother, then
swept her off her feet with a roar of laughter. Hoelun laughed with him, her white braids tied with blue string flying behind her. All around us, mothers and wives were pulled into similar embraces, and triumphant fathers tossed squealing children into the air.
Genghis climbed onto a boulder and silence fell like a hammer as every face turned to him. “People of the Felt,” he cried. “The Tatars have been routed and their dust scattered into the wind. Never again shall they raid our horses, steal our women, or murder our children.”
I hugged Tolui tight and squeezed Alaqai’s shoulder, but she stared at Genghis with the rapt attention she reserved only for him.
“Today your men bring you the spoils of war,” my husband continued, “but tonight we feast!”
The people let out a deafening cheer so loud the mountains might have trembled, and Genghis sprang from the boulder and wrapped his arm around my waist, as giddy as if he were wooing me. “Come see the treasures I’ve brought home.”
He led us to the carts, lifting Alaqai onto his shoulders. A brown wool blanket covered the first wagon like a mound of earth.
“This is it?” I asked, a smile dancing on my face. “You fight the Tatars and all you have to show is an old horse blanket and a cart?”
“I let the men divide the spoils.” As leader, Genghis was entitled to all the booty, but giving it to his soldiers was his common practice, making his men love him even more. He grinned, then whisked off the blanket in a cloud of dust. “But I kept a little something for us.”
I coughed, then gasped. Gleaming in the sunshine was a giant silver cradle carved with flowing willow branches and intricate flowers, more delicate than a spider’s web. Genghis reached inside and retrieved a silk blanket, as pale as the morning sky and covered with tiny seed pearls gleaming like tears. “They belonged to the Tatar chief,” Genghis said. “To his son, actually.”
I didn’t ask what had happened to the child.
The second gift was a Tatar boy-child, tied in the corner of the cart and cowering like a lamb about to be slaughtered. Gold rings glinted in his nose and ears, and a band of yellow silk lined with sable still shone proudly around his waist. Hoelun joined us then, and reached out her hand to touch the child’s shoulder. The boy flinched. “A nobleman’s son,” she said. “Does he have a name?”
Genghis shook his head. “None that we know. He spent most of his nights in camp writing in the dirt in the Tatar script, but he doesn’t speak, or if he did, he has forgotten how. I thought you might care for him, seeing as you excel at raising wild boys.”
“He shall be called Shigi,” she said, waving my children over. They poked the gold ring in his nose and admired his belt. “Give him a few days and he’ll be tearing about like the rest of your herd.”
Our children giggled and ran off with the Tatar boy, more interested in his people’s stolen horses than in a cradle of silver gleaming in the sunshine or the fact that he could write. That was a skill none of my children possessed, and already I saw this child and his talent as more valuable than any cart of gold or silk.
“There’s still one more treasure,” Genghis said, chuckling as Hoelun shuffled after them, hollering.
“You have another Tatar child hidden in the sleeve of your deel?”
“No.” A smile teased his lips. “A new title. Ja’ud Khuri. Ong Khan finally decided to ally with us, and he promised to award me the title Jautau as well once this war is over.”
The Pacifier. And perhaps one day, the Peacemaker.
I looked askance at my husband and saw the pride in his face, the happiness reflected in his eyes.
Peace and happiness.
But I knew my husband. Genghis had surpassed his father and almost every other man in living memory, no mean feat for the abandoned son of what had once been the weakest clan on the steppes. This war had shown him his talent for commanding men and directing battles, had whetted his appetite for conquest and power.
For the first time, I realized that conquering Jamuka might not be enough for him.
“There’s something else,” Genghis said, but the smile had faded from his face.
I traced the intricate flowers on the cradle with my fingertip, marveling at the workmanship. “Is this something as grand as a silver cradle or a new title?”
“Not exactly.” My husband heaved a great sigh. “We captured two Tatar noblewomen—Yesui and Yesugen—the daughters of the Tatar chief. Yesui was recently married—her husband tried to return for her, but I ordered his head cut off after my men captured him.”
I waited for him to continue, cocking my head when he didn’t speak. “I take it these women are slaves now?”
“Not precisely.” Genghis clasped his elbows over the leather armor he still wore. “I married them.”
I stared at him, aghast. “You married them?” I wanted to sputter or rage at him, but my mind reeled and I forced myself not to scream, not here where people might overhear. “Without even consulting me?”
“They’ve requested to share a single tent, far removed from camp.” My husband reached out as if to touch my hands, but one look at my face and his arms dropped at his sides. “I encourage my men to intermarry with those we’ve conquered,” he said. “There is no better way to bind the Tatars to me—”
“Than to take their women as wives.” I recoiled in disgust at the image that rose in my mind, my husband entwined with two beautiful sisters while I boiled mutton over a hot fire to feed his sons and daughter. “And just how many other women do you plan to take to your bed?”
“They’re my wives in name only, Borte,” he said. “I made a promise to you, but I could no longer ignore my generals’ urgings.”
“They told you to do this?”
He nodded. “My Four Dogs of War have never understood why I have only one wife, but I was able to put them off until . . .”
“Until I could no longer be your wife.” My anguish was so thick it almost choked me. My ruined body had brought this upon me, proclaiming my uselessness to the world. Painful moments passed and I touched my scarred lip, thinking of all I’d endured for this man.
I’d endured much, but I’d also been given much. I squared my shoulders, ignoring the roar of blood in my ears. “Then I release you from your promise.”
“I don’t wish to be released from my promise. You are the only wife of my heart,” Genghis said, bringing my hand to his chest so I could feel his heartbeat. “You and no one else, Borte Ujin. I’ll set the women aside if you ask it.”
How I longed to demand it at that very moment, yet I knew I could never speak the words. I was khatun, not the wife of a petty herder, and I’d known there were sacrifices I’d have to make.
If only I’d realized how painful those sacrifices would be.
“Keep your wives,” I finally said. “But you’ll swear now, and again before your Four Dogs, that only the children of my womb shall be your heirs. I am your khatun, not some old crone to be pushed aside by these Tatar princesses.”
“I’ll gladly swear it,” Genghis said. The silver fire in his eyes was banked now, as if something between us had been irrevocably destroyed. We would always be man and wife, but our relationship now would be forever changed. “I could never have asked for a better wife, or mother of my people.”
And then my husband bowed to me, a gesture of such reverence and respect that tears sprang to my eyes. “Go,” I said. “Bring your women to me tomorrow before your generals and I will welcome them as a khatun should.”
And I would clutch that title and my dignity with my last shred of strength, so that they could never be wrested from me as my husband had been.
Chapter 11
1201 CE
YEAR OF THE WHITE ROOSTER
Yesui and Yesugen were fair skinned, with gleaming black hair and waists unthickened by the future children my husband would surely get on them. I
t was petty, but I contented myself with the fact that Yesui’s nose resembled a hawk’s beak and Yesugen squinted as if she were an old woman losing her vision. I wore my boqta, the towering khatun’s headdress made of willow branches and covered with green felt, bedecked with a male mallard’s feathers and strings of polished jade beads. With a false smile, I welcomed my husband’s wives to the clan with a ceremony of salt tea and hearth smoke, although the fires were built with dung, as I refused to sacrifice precious pinewood for the women. Genghis kept his word, so I rarely saw the Tatar sisters, allowing me to almost forget their presence in the face of more pressing matters. We gained strength and numbers after decimating the Tatars, but shortly after the New Year, Jamuka summoned a khurlatai, a conference to decide the new khan. Men voted with their presence, and Jamuka’s followers cleaved to him in droves. We woke one morning to discover that the Tayichigud, the clan of Genghis’ birth, had deserted us, just as they had after Yesugei had been poisoned by the Tatars. They and Jamuka’s other clans sacrificed a mare and a stallion, then bestowed upon him the title Gur-Khan.
Khan of Khans.
It was the ultimate risk and it played out precisely as I knew Jamuka had hoped. Furious at his newly declared rival, Ong Khan sent a messenger to Genghis. The man’s horse was drenched with streaks of white lather and was half-dead by the time he reached us.
“We attack Jamuka’s forces on the day of the full moon,” the messenger exclaimed, panting. His face was stained with soot in preparation for battle and his braids threaded with black string.
Black, the color of vultures and rotting flesh.
Jamuka had grown too powerful, so once again, Ong Khan sought to balance the power between the two anda. My husband consulted with his Four Valiant Warriors—the four most daring and courageous of his many generals—and agreed to join Ong Khan in this final battle against Jamuka. If Genghis and Ong Khan won this battle, they would likely win the war and my husband would one day wear the headdress of the Great Khan.
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