Bortai's head throbbed; a wave of dizziness caught her, then passed. She had hoped she was recovering from the last beating, when Chilger had been too drunk to hit her that hard. The wind howled; white veils of flakes whirled around her, blinding her. She huddled against the sheep, welcoming its warmth. Ice floes had clogged the Uda when Toghtoga Beki left the other two Merkit chiefs to lead his men back to this camp. By the time they had moved closer to the mountains, nearly a month ago, the river was frozen and the larches in the foothills had dropped most of their needles; winter came even more quickly to these northern lands.
The wind subsided. Bortai stood up and cleared away more snow. She could not recall much about the ride from Burkhan Khaldun. Perhaps Chilger's beatings had driven the memories from her. She knew that she had resisted him, and dimly recalled a blow to her head that had blinded her for a moment; pinpricks of light had danced in the darkness before her vision returned. She had learned not to fight him, afraid to be hurt yet again, but sometimes angered him without knowing why. He punched her with his fists or hit her with a stick, and lashed out at Khokakhchin whenever the old woman tried to protect her.
One of her ribs ached. Khokakhchin had bound her torso with a wide sash after Chilger had broken the rib. She had been his prisoner for nearly three months.
His captive—that was how she viewed herself, not as his wife. Whatever happened to a woman during her life, her soul would join that of her first true husband in death; she would escape Chilger-boko then. During the early days of his assaults, she had thought this escape might come soon, but her body was not so willing to free her spirit.
Bortai swayed, then doubled over, thinking she might be sick. An arm caught her; she gazed into the heavy-lidded eyes above Khokakhchin's woollen veil.
“I'm all right.” Bortai swallowed and leaned against the old servant. Two women near them whispered to each other as they peered at Bortai. Another woman waded through the snow, chasing a stray lamb that had somehow evaded the dogs. Bortai freed herself, made her way to the animal, and grasped it by its thick wool.
The woman, bulky and awkward in her heavy coat, stumbled to her side; a familiar pair of dark eyes stared out from the slit between her scarf and hat. Bortai had known Sochigil was in this camp, but had not spoken to her during their captivity.
“Greetings, Sochigil-eke,” she said.
“Bortai—it is you.” Sochigil knelt by the bleating lamb and patted its head. “I've wanted to talk to you, but—” She paused. “I heard that your Merkit husband's a hard man. I didn't want to make trouble for you.”
“Chilger-boko—” Bortai's throat tightened, as it always did whenever she said his name. “He doesn't like to see me talking to anyone, even the women.” She looked around instinctively, almost expecting him to appear near her suddenly. “And his mother often carries false tales about me to him.” The old woman would be gossiping with Chiledu's wife inside a warm tent while Bortai and Khokakhchin watched the sheep. “How have you fared, Sochigil-eke?”
“My master's first wife is forever scolding me, and his children are shrieking brats, but he's kind enough. Unlike some men, his anger cools when he's drunk, and he can sometimes be moved by my tears.” The other woman's voice was calm. Most would call her wise for accepting her fate.
Rage and longing burned inside Bortai, then flickered out. Better to be numb, to thrust aside any thought of Temujin. He had no army great enough to ride against these people; hundreds of men would defend this camp, and thousands more could come to their defence. Years would pass before Temujin could take his revenge. Even if he found her then, he would hardly honour her again as his wife.
“Then your life isn't so bad,” Bortai said.
“It's bearable,” Sochigil replied. “Wretched as this Merkit is, he's often kinder than my first husband.” The older woman adjusted the collar of her shabby sheepskin coat. “It's an easier life than the one I had when the Taychiuts abandoned us.” Sochigil shook herself. “I must go.” She stumbled away, clutching the lamb.
Bortai returned to her flock. The women sang and chattered as they cleared away snow, working steadily until the sky grew darker and the wind rose. Bortai prayed silently for another storm and more snow, even though that would only make feeding the animals harder tomorrow. A storm might keep the hunters from returning; she would have another night without Chilger.
Towards evening, Bortai and Khokakhchin separated their sheep from the others, then drove them back to Chilger's camping circle. His black dog raced around the flock, keeping them together. His tent, which sat with those of his family at the eastern end of the camp, was one of the smaller dwellings, its felt panels part of the loot Bortai had been forced to bring from Temujin's camp. Khokakhchin settled the animals in a space between the dwelling and the cart as Bortai took the two smallest sheep inside.
The lambs huddled by the entrance. The fire was burning low; Bortai stood by the hearth, warming herself before removing her thick fur coat. The two animals bleated weakly; she might have to feed them some of her stored wild millet to strengthen them. Chilger would surely beat her if they died, but might also punish her for wasting the grain. The pain in her head suddenly sharpened, and nausea made her gorge rise.
“Bortai!” Khokakhchin stepped through the entrance and lowered the flap behind her. “I see your sickness is upon you again.” She took Bortai's arm and led her to the bed at the back of the tent. “Sit—I'll tend to the fire.”
Bortai put her hand on her belly, waiting for the dizziness to pass. “My head rings, and the ground moves under me. It must be the beatings.” She had thought she would be used to them by now.
“Don't be foolish, child.” Khokakhchin put some argal on the fire, then came back to her. “You know what this sickness is—I saw it some time ago. A child's inside you—don't keep denying it.” The old woman sat down near the bed. “Perhaps part of Temujin lives in you.”
“Now you're being foolish, Khokakhchin-eke. This child cannot be his.” Khokakhchin was only trying to console her. She had not bled since her capture, but that meant little; the horror of her first days among the Merkits might have dried up her womb's blood. If this child were Temujin's, the sickness would have come to her sooner, and her breasts would have swelled earlier; the old woman had to know that.
“One thing's true,” Khokakhchin murmured. “It will be your child. You'll grow to love it, and your Merkit husband would only make your life harder if you gave him no sons.” Khokakhchin patted her arm. “Maybe he'll be gentler with you now.”
Bortai rested on the bed until she heard the voices of men above the wind, then got up and moved towards the entrance. Chilger would expect her to greet him.
His big body, made broader by his two heavy coats, filled the doorway. He hung up his weapons, shook the snow from his hat, then motioned to her. “We took an elk two days ago,” he muttered. “My share's outside—fetch it.”
“I'll get it,” Khokakhchin said.
“Is my wife unable to work?”
“She has a spell of the sickness that comes to women when they're with child.” Chilger's small eyes widened. “It cannot be such a surprise, Master,” the old woman continued. “I'll fetch the meat before your dog feasts on it.”
Khokakhchin crept through the doorway. Chilger took off his outer coat; the one under it was turned skin-side out, so that the fur could rest against him. He warmed his hands, then shed the second coat, handing the garments to Bortai.
She laid the coats on a chest, then brought him a horn of kumiss. Chilger sat on his bed, ignoring Khokakhchin as she dragged the skinned haunch inside and knelt to cut it up. Bortai seated herself at Chilger's feet.
“It's true?” he said at last. “You're going to have a child?”
“Yes.” She stared at his felt boots. “I wanted to be sure before I told you.”
He waved a few drops of kumiss from his fingers, then said, “Is it mine?”
She lifted her head and gazed into his e
yes. “It is,” she answered, certain this was true and knowing he would see that in her face. He always knew when she was hiding her thoughts from him; she had learned not to look directly at him unless she was being honest with him. “Women know these things. The child is yours.”
His faint moustache twitched as he smiled. “Things will be better between us. You'll give me my first son.”
She kept her face still as she looked down. “I hope it is a son,” she said, whispering the words so that he would not hear the bitterness in her voice.
“I wanted you,” he said, “as soon as I pulled you from that cart. After I took you, after I beat you for trying to refuse me, I thought you'd learn how matters must be between us, but I feel you resisting me still.”
She averted her eyes, not wanting him to see how much she despised him. Obedience was not enough for him; he wanted something she could never give to him. He sounded like a boy demanding his due, a boy pretending to be a man. She had heard such words from him before, always offered in the same regretful, pleading tone, and had thought him a fool for saying them, but he was not as foolish as he seemed. He knew how much Temujin still haunted her thoughts.
“I wouldn't beat you so often,” he said, “if I knew you were truly mine.” He had also said that many times. She might have set aside what he had done to her at the foot of Burkhan Khaldun; that was part of war, the victor claiming his prize. No place existed under Heaven where men, even the kindest, did not surrender to the spirits of war. She might have endured him if he had demanded less of her.
“I'm yours,” she said. “I carry your child. What can bring us closer than that?”
He gulped down more drink. “You think I don't deserve you.” He wiped his mouth. “You belonged to a chief, and now you scorn the little I can give you.”
These words were unexpected; she wondered how to reply. Surely he knew that Temujin's wealth had not been great. “I am grateful for what we have,” she said, “and you're certain to win more in battle. You're young yet, not much older than my husband—”
She saw her mistake immediately, just before his boot caught her in the ribs. She cried out and rolled away, clawing at the felt.
“I am your husband!” Chilger roared, then hauled her to her feet. “You're my woman now, not his!” He seized one of her braids, forcing her head back. Khokakhchin lunged towards him; he knocked her aside, then threw Bortai to the floor.
“Stop!” the old woman shouted. “Think of your child! Do you want her to lose it?”
Chilger stepped back. Bortai sat up; Khokakhchin shielded her with her body. “You force me to this,” Chilger muttered. “You bring it on yourself with your words.” Bortai leaned against the old woman, afraid she would retch; he would beat her anyway, in spite of the child. “Get me my supper.”
She got up and staggered towards the hearth. This was only a respite, until unguarded words or the wrong expression roused him once more. Maybe the beatings would stop after the child was born. Temujin had joked with her that summer, saying he should pretend to beat her so that his brothers and comrades would know he was a man; she buried the memory quickly. Chilger grew most enraged when he guessed she was thinking of the past, and it was becoming easier to push her former life aside. One day she would have trouble remembering it at all.
45
The dark forest was thick with the scent of pine. Jamukha could barely hear the breathing of the riders near him as they slowly advanced towards the Merkit camp. His legs hugged the barrel of his favourite horse, a charger with a black stripe along its back. He inhaled the cold, piny air. This was what he lived for, the preparations for battle, the anticipation of victory. He had known, when Khasar and Belgutei came to him to plead for his help, that he would have to fight.
The last of the torches used to signal to his men flickered out. A full moon shone above the trees, casting pale beams through the branches along the trail. Toghril Khan and his Kereits would be approaching from the east, while Temujin's followers moved up the centre; Jamukha's army was the left wing of their force. Temujin, to his surprise, had gathered nearly a thousand men. With the two thousand commanded by Toghril and the Kereit Khan's brother Jakha Gambu, and Jamukha's three thousand, they had more than enough soldiers to wound the Merkits deeply.
He swayed as his horse stepped over a thick root. In spite of the cold, rhododendrons were flowering on shrubs, and the ground was already thick with the budding orchids of spring. The Merkits would not expect an attack during this season, which was why Jamukha had decided to ride against them now. His men had objected that the horses would be too lean; he had replied that they would have grazing along the way. Temujin wanted to fight now, so Khasar had claimed; he had sworn to rescue his Bortai before the year passed.
But this war was not for a woman's sake. The theft of his wife had given Temujin a reason to reach for more than he had, to demand that Toghril and Jamukha honour the pledges they had made to him. Khasar had spoken movingly about the wound to his brother's heart, but Temujin's pride bore the injury. Bortai's name might be useful in rallying the men, but the woman herself did not matter.
The rider ahead of him slowed; Jamukha's hands tightened on his reins. His anda had ridden to Toghril first, securing his promise of aid before sending Khasar and Belgutei to Jamukha's camp. It was clever of Temujin to get a promise from his stronger but less reliable ally first, and Toghril had promised to fight only if Jamukha joined them and agreed to lead the armies. Temujin must have had difficulty persuading the Khan, but Toghril would have shown weakness by refusing to honour his oath. He could, however, have backed away from his promise if Jamukha refused to act, while Jamukha would bear most of the blame if the campaign ended in failure.
He had known all this, but had told Khasar he would summon other chiefs and come to Temujin's aid. His friend's misfortune was regrettable, but also gave Jamukha more power over his anda. A victory would strengthen their bond, and earn Temujin's gratitude.
The trees were thinning. The advance scouts had learned that Toghtoga Beki's camp was now on the Uda's south bank. Khagatai's camp lay to the west, while Dayir Usun was in the south-west, where the Selenga and Orkhon Rivers met. They would strike at Toghtoga's camp first, then sweep towards the others, cutting them off from a retreat north to the lake of Baikal.
Jamukha was happy, his senses alert. While planning the campaign, he had seen these soldiers and their movements as if looking at them from above; now he was a falcon prepared to swoop down on his prey.
Only one delay had marred his plans. He had waited at the head of the Onon, where the Kereits and Temujin's forces were to meet his, for three days past the appointed time. His first sight of Temujin's men had shown him the cause. They were little more than young herdsmen who had joined a new leader in the hope of winning more wealth; Jamukha doubted they had fought many battles. But seeing his anda once more had cooled his wrath, and whatever Temujin's men were, they obeyed him readily. They had crossed the Kumirs, undaunted by a late snowstorm, before separating into smaller groups to cross the Kilga River on makeshift rafts of thick reeds. A few had fallen along the way, but not one had deserted; Temujin had forged his men into an army.
Someone whispered up ahead. The man riding in front of Jamukha turned towards him. “Bahadur,” the warrior said quickly, “the enemy's been warned. The Merkits are fleeing their camp.”
Jamukha cursed. “Let me pass.” He rode past the man to the edge of the wood, followed by his drummer. Above him, the full moon hung in the sky, and bright coloured bands of light flickered, spirits dancing at the Gate of Heaven. Tiny figures raced from the dark humps of yurts; a band of riders was fleeing west along the Uda. Jamukha ground his teeth. His men had chased down and killed the few fishers and trappers they had seen, but others must have ridden here to warn the enemy.
Temujin and the Kereits were awaiting his signal. He had planned to come upon the Merkits while they slept, and surround the camp before they could flee or mount a defen
ce; Temujin did not want his wife harmed if she was here.
It was too late to worry about the woman. Jamukha lifted his lance; the drummer near him beat on his naccara. Another war-drum echoed the sound, as Jamukha howled and lashed at his horse. Riders burst from the trees. The drumbeats were swallowed by the steady, rolling sound of hooves and the shrieks of warriors.
Chilger lifted Bortai into the cart as Khokakhchin secured the ox. People ran past them towards the horses; others were making their way to the river on foot. Out on the plain, Bortai saw the standards of Toghtoga Beki and Dayir Usun bobbing above one band of riders; the two chiefs were abandoning the camp. Dayir Usun had ridden there with some of his men only that morning; he would have to warn his own camp now.
“Go west, towards the birches,” Chilger shouted. “Cross the river there and make for Baikal—I'll find you later.”
His solicitude was for his child, not for her. Bortai felt a kick inside her and covered her belly with one hand.
Khokakhchin scrambled into the cart. Chilger's mother was screaming near one wagon. Chilger turned, elbowed two women aside, and ran towards the horses. “Run for your lives!” his brother Chiledu shouted, although all the camp had to be awake by now.
Old Khokakhchin lashed at the ox. The cart creaked forward, following others towards the river. A woman on foot stumbled past them, then looked up; the moonlight caught Sochigil's face.
“Sochigil-eke!” Bortai cried. The sound of thunder could now be heard above the shouts of frightened Merkits. “Sochigil-eke! Come with us!” The other woman darted away and was soon lost in the crowd.
Bortai clutched at her swollen belly and shivered in the cold. Her long tunic was tight across her abdomen; there had been time to grab only a cloak after Khokakhchin helped her on with her boots. She was suddenly terrified for herself, afraid of what might happen if her child came too soon.
The cart bounced over a rut; she groaned. The thunder was louder; war-cries rose above the noise of the crowd. The spirits of light leaped overhead; to the south, bright flames streaked towards the camp.
Ruler of the Sky: A Novel of Genghis Khan Page 26
