Jamukha rode past a burning yurt. Merkits shrieked as men on horseback herded them to one side; other soldiers were looting the tents. A woman screamed as a Jajirat threw her to the ground, then fell across her. The dead lay on the ground, still clutching bows and knives.
His horse reared as an arrow whistled past and struck a man behind him. A shadowy form lowered a bow and ducked inside a yurt. Jamukha motioned to a warrior near him, threw him his reins, then leaped from his horse and ran towards the yurt.
He had his sword out as he came through the entrance. “Spare us,” a voice said. A girl stood near the hearth, her hand around a bow, an empty quiver hanging from her belt. A boy was next to her, his eyes slits; he held a knife.
Jamukha smiled. “Spare me and my brother,” the girl said. He smelled her fear; his heart was beating as hard as a war-drum. “I beg you for mercy.”
Something throbbed deep inside him, seeking release. “Throw down your weapons,” he said softly, still smiling. The girl let go of her bow; the boy hesitated, then threw his knife down. Jamukha's grip tightened on his hilt. The girl stepped back and clutched at her coat; he knew what she expected.
He swung with his sword, severing the girl's neck with one sweep. Blood poured from the headless torso as it toppled forward. The boy scrambled for the knife; Jamukha grabbed him, threw him face down, pulled down his trousers and thrust inside him.
The boy squirmed under him, fighting the assault. Jamukha's spasm passed quickly; he withdrew, then buried his knife in the boy's back. When the small body was still, Jamukha closed his trousers, wiped his knife and sword on the dead boy's coat, then moved towards the hearth.
He was calm, his mind clear, his body subdued. A glance around the tent told him that he would find little here. He knocked the metal hearth to the ground, then left as the flames spread across the felt.
A line of carts rattled along the river-bank. Bortai could no longer see the Merkits who had fled on horseback. A cart suddenly stopped in front of hers, its right wheel trapped in a rut.
Khokakhchin whipped the ox; Bortai looked south. Several yurts were engulfed in flames, silhouetting the riders who circled the camp. Other soldiers galloped towards the river. A few women leaped from their carts and raced upriver on foot.
Bortai knew that she could not outrun the enemy. The horsemen shrieked as they fanned out around the fugitives; more carts shuddered to a halt. Warriors galloped after those on foot. A few arrows flew from the carts; Merkits screamed as the horsemen responded with a volley.
“Bortai!” The voice calling her name was hoarse, as though the man had been shouting for some time. “Bortai!”
“Surrender!” another man cried. “Give up now, and we will spare you! Resist, and all of you will die!”
The attackers pressed in around the carts. “Bortai!” Her head shot up; she knew the voice now, ravaged as it was. “Bortai, are you here? Bortai!”
“Temujin!” She rose in the cart, then spotted his grey horse; its flanks were white in the moonlight. “Temujin!”
He rode towards her, heedless of the riders around him. Khokakhchin climbed out quickly, then helped Bortai down. They stumbled towards him and grabbed at the reins of his horse.
“Temujin,” Bortai whispered. He dismounted and caught her; she buried her face against his bloodstained coat. “Temujin. I didn't know—I thought—”
“I swore I'd find you,” he gasped.
“But how—”
“I have an army now. Jamukha and Toghril Khan rode here with me. I told them I wouldn't rest until I found you.”
She reached up and felt his face with trembling hands, assuring herself he was really there. “Temujin.” He pressed her to him; she was suddenly aware of her swollen belly. As he glanced down, the glow in his eyes faded. Around them, she heard the despairing cries of women and children as Temujin's men pulled them from the carts.
“Jelme!” he shouted. The Uriangkhai trotted towards them. “I've found what I came here to find,” Temujin continued. “There's no need to go further tonight. We'll camp here, secure the prisoners, and rest.”
“But others will escape,” Jelme said.
“We can capture them later. Give the order.”
Jelme disappeared into the throng. Bortai swayed as a cramp seized her, and gasped. “What is it?” she heard Temujin ask. “Is your time upon you?”
“It can't be,” Khokakhchin replied, “not yet.” They lifted her to the cart. “She has to rest.”
Temujin had gathered an army to rescue her. His arm tightened across her belly as he settled her in the cart, and she wondered dimly if he would regret finding her.
46
Bortai awoke, the pain was gone, the child still inside her. The grey light of dawn was visible beyond the opening in the back of the covered cart. The soldiers would be sorting out their loot and deciding which captives would live.
The cart shook as someone climbed into it. “Khokakhchin-eke,” Temujin murmured.
“Speak softly,” the old woman said. “The Ujin is still asleep.” Bortai did not move as Khokakhchin crept forward. “Poor child. She endured much after you were so cruelly parted—but that's past.”
“Yes.” Voices keened in the distance, mourning the dead and dying. “You will tell me what's happened to my wife.”
Khokakhchin was silent for some time, then said, “They gave her to a man called Chilger-boko.”
“That I was told.” His voice was toneless.
“He treated his horses and sheep more kindly than he did the Ujin. He beat her often. There were times I was afraid he might kill her and the child.”
“May he be cursed,” Temujin said.
“He was a buzzard, thinking he could feed on crane instead of rats, but he's lost his crane now.”
“He'll suffer a slow death when I find him,” Temujin said. “Anyone who shelters him will die, and I'll see that all his kindred pay for what he did.”
“They deserve to suffer,” the old woman said, “and I rejoice at seeing you and the Ujin reunited. You've won her back in time to have your first child born under your tent. We learned she was with child soon after we were captured. I think that made her able to endure that cruel man.”
Would Temujin believe that? Bortai wondered. Would he be joyous enough at winning her back to accept it? Tears welled up under her lids.
“I have much to be thankful for,” Temujin said. “It's good that you were with her, Khokakhchin-eke.” He sounded strangely unmoved. “When my wife wakes, you'll tell her that those who mistreated her will never trouble her again. Now that Heaven has restored my Bortai to me, we'll speak no more of this.” His words had the sound of a command.
Bortai was afraid to call out to him, to look into his face and see what truly lay in his heart. She kept her eyes closed until she knew he was gone.
When the sun was higher in the east, Temujin rode to Bortai's cart with a few of his men; the soldiers guarding the two women cheered him. Temujin's anda, a handsome man with sharp cheekbones and dark, piercing eyes, was with him. Jamukha smiled and spoke of his joy at finding his comrade's wife safe, but his words sounded false.
Temujin gave her a head-dress heavy with stones and beads of gold, draped her in a sable coat, then led the cart towards the ravaged camp. Bodies lay in the grass as black birds circled overhead; their fluttering shadows made Bortai think of curved swords. Prisoners, their arms bound, sat in groups, many still weeping for those they had lost. Soldiers shouted her name and Temujin's as they passed, and held up the heads they had taken; she did not see Chilger's among them.
Temujin left her with her guards, then rode off with his anda to meet with Toghril. The army would search for those who had escaped from Toghtoga's camp before striking at Khagatai's people. Captive Merkits, most of them women and children, were already being forced to take down tents while horsemen rounded up the herds. Bortai and the captured people and herds would soon begin the trek south with part of the army while the res
t of the force launched its attack on Khagatai. She would return to Temujin's camp with Merkit slaves to serve her.
The men sang of their victory. Bortai sat with Khokakhchin in the cart, grateful that the heavy fur coat hid her belly. Her husband had gathered this army for the sake of a tainted prize, a wife carrying an enemy's child. Yet this victory would also give him more power and make him feared; perhaps that was why he had fought.
“My sister!” Belgutei rode towards her; Bortai longed to crawl into the cart and rest. He panted and his horse gleamed with sweat. “I've searched for my mother,” he said, “and can't find her. I was told she was in this camp. Can you tell me what's become of her?”
Bortai glanced at Khokakhchin; the old woman was silent. She was suddenly certain that Belgutei would never see Sochigil-eke again, and wondered what to say.
“I haven't slept,” Belgutei continued. “I've searched everywhere.”
He would not want to hear the truth. Bortai recalled the foolish, accepting look in Sochigil's eyes when the woman had spoken of her Merkit captor. Sochigil had been content in her captivity.
“Your mother's a proud woman,” Bortai said. “She was ashamed to face you after being forced to lie with a Merkit. She preferred to flee rather than have you see her in her dishonour.”
Khokakhchin peered at her. Belgutei shook his fist. “Those who took her will die. The blood of every Merkit who attacked our camp will be shed.”
“So be it,” Bortai murmured.
Belgutei left them. Bortai leaned towards the old servant. “I give his mother more honour with my words,” she whispered, “than I have myself.”
“Ujin! No dishonour stains you. Your husband's revenge shows how much he honours you.”
Women were screaming in the camp as the soldiers celebrated their victory and Bortai wanted to muffle her ears in the sable coat. Her abdomen knotted; her belly had dropped a little. The child might be expelled too soon, and be too weak to survive. Perhaps Temujin would be grateful if it died.
It was her child; he would have to accept it. She covered her abdomen with one hand, willing the child to live.
Bortai's labour began after they had left the Kumir range behind, skirting the mountains on the journey south. By the time Temujin's camp below the massif of Burkhan Khaldun was in sight, her water had broken, wetting her thighs. The pains were coming quickly when Khokakhchin and a few other women had finished raising a tent for her.
Khokakhchin stayed with her. The child was born in the night. “A son,” she heard Khokakhchin whisper. A shaman was chanting outside, marking the position of the stars.
Bortai did not look at her son when the old woman brought him to her, knowing that she would see nothing of Temujin in him. The baby wailed lustily; the small body she held was strong, even though the child had entered life too soon. The camp would soon be alive with the news of Temujin's firstborn, another cause for rejoicing.
She clutched her son to her breast and he began to suck. He would always remind her of her captivity; she wondered if she could truly love him but knew that she must do so. The boy would need her even more if Temujin's heart did not warm to him.
47
Hoelun searched the forest of lances moving towards her. A man on foot, a yoke around his neck, had been bound to a long row of roped captives, who were being driven ahead of the mass of mounted men. Messengers had ridden to the camp a few days earlier with news of her son's latest victory. Merkits were dead, captured, or scattered, their tent frames broken, their tughs desecrated. The yoked man was the Merkit chief Khagatai Darmala, who had been forced to lead the triumphant army back to the lands near Burkhan Khaldun.
At last she spotted Temujin; his uncle Daritai rode at his side. Daritai had brought his men to fight with his nephew when Jamukha had summoned him. Yesugei's brother had only seen a chance to gain something for himself, but Temujin would tell her there was nothing to be won by holding a grudge against Daritai.
Several children, Temulun and Temuge among them, rode towards the returning men, shrieking a welcome. Hoelun turned away, moved past the women preparing the feast, and entered her yurt. Temujin would wait before he visited her, to remind her that she had been wrong to doubt him. He might allow her to offer him counsel again, but she did not think he would heed her advice. Her joy at her son's achievement would always be dampened by knowing that he no longer needed her.
Khasar and Belgutei came to Hoelun's tent with a few of their comrades to share her feast. The young men settled on cushions as Hoelun's three Merkit slaves set out lamb and kumiss.
Khasar lifted his horn. “I drink to my brother's first son!” The others held up their horns and jugs. “I was told he was born a month ago, as soon as my sister Bortai was safely among you.”
Hoelun nodded. She had counted the months in her head; the boy might be Temujin's.
“Temujin is preparing to thank the spirits of the great mountain for his victory,” Khasar continued. “Toghtoga and Dayir may have escaped us, but Khagatai will suffer for their deeds. Temujin means to sacrifice him on the mountain. He may show him respect by letting the horses trample him instead of taking his head.” The other men chuckled. “Toghril Khan is leading his men back to their lands, and Jamukha will camp near us. Temujin doesn't want to be separated from him, and we'll be stronger if we stay together.”
“Indeed,” Hoelun said, wondering which of the two would be the stronger leader. Her son's victory would bind him even more closely to his anda; he would ignore her doubts.
Belgutei stared morosely into his horn. Hoelun leaned towards him. “I'm sorry,” she murmured, “that you didn't find your mother.”
“The Merkits have answered for that.” Belgutei took a breath. “We did find most of the men who attacked us last summer. I saw that each of them died, along with their sons, but we kept the fairest of their women for ourselves. Khasar and I will have wives now, Hoelun-eke.” He smiled briefly, then frowned again. “I only wish we'd found the wretch who claimed Temujin's wife, but he'll die soon enough, wandering the forests with no one to help him. We found his brother, a coward who called himself Yeke Chiledu. I shot an arrow into his chest myself, after his two sons died before his eyes.”
Hoelun started, then sighed. “One of those who raided our camp had asked for mercy if he pointed out his comrades,” Belgutei continued. “He told me that this Chiledu had an old grudge, that he was one of the first to urge the enemy to attack us. I let the informer think he would live, then killed him after the others were dead. That cursed Chiledu begged for the lives of his sons, but I—”
Khasar was motioning at his half-brother. Belgutei looked away and gulped his kumiss. Hoelun's hand tightened around her golden goblet. She had never spoken the name of her first husband to her sons, but Khasar must have discovered who he had been.
It was just, she told herself. Temujin was a better man than Chiledu; her son had won back his stolen wife. She should not mourn the man who had lost her, for that part of her life had ended long ago. Chiledu had brought his death on himself; better if he had forgotten her. Yet she still grieved for the man she had once loved.
Two men came through the entrance with a small boy. “I almost forgot,” Khasar said quickly. “This boy is a present for you—his name is Guchu.”
Hoelun studied the Merkit boy. His hat and coat were sable, and he wore doeskin boots. He could be no older than five, but he held himself erect and gazed steadily at her.
“We found him in Toghtoga's camp,” Khasar went on. “You can see by his clothing that he's a Noyan's son. The men wanted to make a gift of him to you, and Temujin agreed.”
She beckoned to the boy. He walked towards her and peered boldly into her face. “I am Temujin's mother,” she said.
“I know, Lady, but you don't look it. You seem so young.”
The men laughed. “The boy knows what to say,” one man muttered.
“He was alone,” Khasar said. “We didn't find any of his family.”
/> “They ran away,” Guchu said softly. “Mother had me by the hand, and then she fell, and I hid behind a cart, and then—” He blinked and wiped at his eyes. “A man came at her. She ran into a yurt, and then it was burning, and I heard her scream, but she didn't come out.”
Hoelun took his hand, thinking of how much he had lost. This campaign was over; wounds had to heal. “You'll stay with me, Guchu.” She saw the boy struggling to hold back his tears. “I have four sons. You shall be the fifth. Think of me as your mother now.”
“I'm not to be your slave?” Guchu asked.
“You'll be my son. This battle's over for you. I'll care for you in place of the mother you lost, and my other sons will be your brothers.”
The boy pressed her hand to his cheek. Let it end, she thought fiercely, knowing such a prayer was futile, that more wars would inevitably be fought.
Temujin came to Bortai's tent three days after his return. His eyes did not meet hers as he gazed at the cradle that held her son. The men with him laughed and praised the sturdy boy as the infant wailed.
“Your son should be named,” Jamukha said. His glance fell on Bortai. She disliked the way he looked at her, as if she were only a slave.
“I have a name for him,” Temujin said. A thin moustache like Jamukha's had begun to grow above his mouth; his face was taut with fatigue, his eyes the colour of flames. “His name will be Jochi.” He draped one arm over his anda's shoulders. “We'll drink to my son together.”
Jochi, she thought—the Visitor, the Stranger, the Guest. The men seated themselves as the three Merkit women she had been given brought jugs to them. Bortai rocked the cradle, soothing the baby when he cried, saying nothing as the men drank and talked of the Merkits they had killed, the captives and herds they had won.
Ruler of the Sky: A Novel of Genghis Khan Page 27
