No, he told himself. Temujin's anger flared readily whenever anyone spoke against Jamukha. Temujin argued with him only when they were alone, and their disagreements never lasted for long.
But this winter, Temujin's patience and steadiness had begun to irritate him. His anda's judgement always seemed to prevail. Temujin chose their camp-sites, led the hunts, and decided which men should have more authority, while making sure he had Jamukha's consent. Taychar had said only what others thought.
The summer wind rose, lifting dust, as Jelme's younger brother Subotai stepped up to take his turn. The wind and the dust would make the shot more difficult, but Subotai, at the age of ten, showed Khasar's skill with the bow. Subotai aimed; his arrow sped towards the tree and pierced the trunk.
“Ha!” Jelme shouted. Khasar slapped the boy on the back. Jamukha motioned to Temujin; his anda trotted towards him, trailed by Jelme and Borchu.
“A Khongkhotat messenger is here,” Jamukha said, “sent by your old friend Munglik.” Temujin's eyes narrowed. “I think Munglik means to join his camp to ours.”
Temujin nodded. The Khongkhotat chieftain, in spite of his old ties to Temujin's family and his alliance with Jamukha, had been careful not to do anything that might anger the Taychiuts; Munglik was a cautious man. Now he might join them openly, a sign he was aware of their growing strength.
Borchu frowned. “Munglik did little for you before.”
“He did what he could,” Temujin said, “and if he binds himself to us, I'll welcome him.”
Temujin, Jamukha thought, was always so reasonable. He would never allow an old grudge to deprive him of an ally.
“We'll have to speak to the Khongkhotat together,” Jamukha said. “He'll have passed between the fires by now—perhaps Borchu and Jelme can ride ahead to tell him we're on our way.”
Temujin motioned to his comrades. The two galloped towards the camp; Jamukha and Temujin followed at a trot. Jamukha glanced at his anda. Hearing of a message from Munglik had clearly put Temujin in a better mood; maybe he would listen to Jamukha's request.
“My kinsman Taychar has spoken to me.” Jamukha swatted at the large black flies that buzzed around his head. “He feels he should have command of a mingghan.”
“I know,” Temujin replied. “He complains often enough about it.”
“I wish to grant his request, or at least promise him a thousand men later.”
“He commands one hundred now.”
“He wants a mingghan,” Jamukha said. “You gave such commands to Borchu and Jelme, and promised them to Khasar and Belgutei. You told them they would each command a tuman when you had the ten thousand men to give them. I agreed, and now I want my cousin to be their equal. He proved himself against our Merkit foes.”
Temujin scowled. “He's too rash. He rushes into raids and loses more men than he should. Let him show he can command his hundred before he's promised a thousand.”
Jamukha's face flamed. “You raise two who aren't your kinsmen, then refuse—”
“Why do you say that?” Temujin's voice was low. “Can I refuse anything to one who's my anda and my equal?” Their horses slowed to a walk. “If you want to honour Taychar, I can't stop you. I was only saying that he may not be ready for such a command.”
Jamukha struggled to control himself. Temujin would let him do as he liked, but everyone would know that his anda had doubts about Taychar. How clever Temujin was, and how steadfast, so anxious to show that their bond was unbreakable, so quick to turn aside any complaints about Jamukha. He knew there were such complaints, that others spoke to Temujin of his temper and unpredictability before Temujin silenced them. They did not understand that fear of a leader was useful, that uncertainty about exactly what his chief might do could keep a man obedient. How just Temujin was, and how ready to let others believe that their successes were his, while their failures were Jamukha's.
“I can't fault Taychar's courage,” Temujin continued, “and a man should look out for his kin. But you won't serve him well if you raise him before he's ready.”
Whatever he said, however kindly he meant it, Temujin could make him feel he was in the wrong. Temujin would go along with him, then remind him of his error if Taychar failed as a Mingghan-u Noyan and general.
“I'll tell my cousin,” Jamukha said, “that we haven't refused him outright. Perhaps later—”
“You might also tell him that a man should trust his leader's judgement about such things. Taychar is impatient. Jelme and Borchu didn't plead for commands.”
His hands tightened around his reins. Temujin had both insulted his cousin and implied that his own judgement was sounder than Jamukha's.
His anda smiled suddenly, looking like a boy for a moment. “You're like a brave stallion,” Temujin murmured, “with so much spirit that it sometimes gets the better of you. You lend me some of that spirit, and I temper yours with my caution. Without each other, we would both be less.”
These words nearly roused his anger once more. A stallion was curbed by the man who trained him; Temujin was calling himself Jamukha's tamer. He swallowed hard, then forced himself to smile back.
The Khongkhotat made a speech vowing friendship, then presented gifts of scarves and furs. When the men Temujin and Jamukha had summoned arrived, the envoy delivered his message. Munglik wanted to bring his people to their camp, and hoped to join them for the great hunt that autumn. Jamukha ordered that a bone be burned, then passed it to Khorchi, who nodded; the Bagarin chief was a shaman.
Temujin made a speech welcoming the Khongkhotats; Jamukha followed it with a few phrases of his own. His wife Nomalan and her serving women set out jugs of kumiss and slivers of lamb with salt water.
The men were soon drunk. Nearly thirty were crowded into Jamukha's yurt; the women brought them more jugs, then sat on their side of the dwelling to eat. Nomalan was silent as the other five women gossiped; one of Jamukha's Merkit women was with them. Useless creatures, he thought, who could not give him one son between them. Still, he preferred gathering with his men here, even if it meant enduring Nomalan's presence, rather than going to Temujin's yurt, where Bortai and that old woman Khokakhchin would listen to every word.
Temujin murmured to the Khongkhotat, who already looked too drunk to sit up. “Charakha, the father of your chief, was always faithful,” Temujin said. “He was my father's shadow. He stood by us, and paid for his loyalty with his life.”
Jamukha glanced at Daritai, who had not been so faithful to his nephew. “I've regretted Charakha's death all these years,” Temujin went on. “I'll always honour his courage, but perhaps he would have done better to shepherd his people so he could return to me now.” Daritai's tense face relaxed; his nephew had forgiven him long before.
“Maybe,” Khasar muttered to his brother, “that dream you had last night foretold this. You saw a great camp, and now ours will grow greater.”
“What dream is this?” Belgutei shouted. Khorchi lifted his brows; two men stumbling towards the entrance looked back. “Tell us your dream, my brother.”
Temujin drank, then rested an arm on his knee. “I was flying above the earth,” he began. “Below, I saw a camp with many circles, so many that they covered the earth as far as I could see. I spread my wings, and the wind carried me north. I flew over so many yurts that I couldn't count them, and came to the last, the greatest dwelling of all. Its panels were of gold, and a hundred oxen would have been needed to pull the platform on which it sat. I hovered over the smoke-hole and smelled the fat of roasting meat, then alighted by the doorway. The men guarding the dwelling bowed low before me, and it came to me that this was my tent and that those inside were waiting for me to join their feast.”
“And what did you find inside?” Daritai asked.
Temujin said, “I awoke before I could enter.”
Jamukha clenched his jaw so tightly that it hurt. Temujin's eyes met his. “But surely,” Temujin continued, “my anda was inside, awaiting me.”
“Ye
t you didn't see him there,” Belgutei said.
“As I told you, my spirit returned to me before I went inside, but how could it be otherwise?”
He means to lead alone, Jamukha thought; he dreams of being Khan. This dream was a challenge, as all the men would see. No one spoke; even Khorchi, who was usually so quick to interpret any dream, said nothing.
“Whatever else this dream means,” Belgutei muttered, “it foretells great things for you.” Jamukha gulped more kumiss; Temujin's dull-witted half-brother could be counted on to speak when a wiser man would have kept silent.
“I would have nothing without Jamukha,” Temujin said. “Whatever I have is his.” His hand touched Jamukha's shoulder lightly. “Would the spirits have to show me what I already know to be true?”
The knot in Jamukha's chest loosened. Whatever Temujin thought his dream foretold, he was saying that he was not yet ready to challenge him.
The men went on drinking. Daritai recited the tale of his ancestor Bodonchar and the woman he had captured, the woman from whom Jamukha was descended. Men left the yurt to urinate, then returned. When the Khongkhotat passed out, Daritai and Khorchi dragged him to one side and covered him with a blanket. Jamukha passed another jug to his anda; perhaps Temujin would get drunk enough to stay in his tent tonight. Nomalan might suspect that they sometimes shared more than sleep, but was too cowed to speak of that.
He thought of their first night together under the great tree. Temujin had given no sign afterwards that anything had changed, and at last Jamukha had realized that drink had drowned his anda's memories. So little had passed between them since that night nearly a year and a half ago; how carefully his anda guarded himself, refusing to admit the true nature of their bond. He shared so little, and then only when he was too drunk to care what was happening. Jamukha had never spoken of his deeper and more violent longings to him.
“You're silent, brother Jamukha.” Temujin shifted on his cushion. “Munglik will soon know that he's welcome here. The Taychiuts will hear of it by summer's end, and wonder about our intentions.”
Jamukha shrugged. “Perhaps we should send a message to them. They may decide it's in their interest to ally themselves with us.”
“Targhutai and Todogen forgot their oath to my father,” Temujin said softly. “How can I trust any promise they might make?”
“You'll welcome Munglik.” Jamukha glanced towards the Khongkhotat; the envoy slept on, snoring loudly.
“Munglik didn't yoke me and have me beaten.”
“And Targhutai didn't kill you outright when he might have.” Jamukha nudged Temujin in the ribs. “Things have changed. Your Taychiut cousins aren't foolish men—what can they gain by standing against us?”
“It might be well to strike at them before they can.”
“Munglik is their ally,” Jamukha said. “He may not be so willing to turn against them. Why fight men we may win over without a battle? I think we can bring them to swear an oath to us.”
“They might swear it, then try to set us against each other. I have no faith in any promises they might make.”
A few men whispered to one another. First Temujin had spoken of his dream, and now he was disagreeing with Jamukha openly. His anda wanted war, and the bitterness he had expressed was unlike him. Temujin had many reasons to hate the Taychiuts, but had always put his grudges aside when he could gain from forgetting them.
He doesn't want the Taychiuts with us, Jamukha thought, because he knows they'll be my allies and not his, that they would rather have me as leader here than him.
The Khongkhotat snorted, started up, then lay down again. A few men got up, bowed to Jamukha and Temujin, then left. The others soon followed them from the yurt; Jelme was the last to leave.
“Stay a little,” Jamukha said to his anda. “We'll share another jug.”
Temujin shook his head. “I've drunk enough.”
Jamukha waved at his Merkit woman, dismissing her; she hurried from the tent with the servants. He gazed bitterly at his wife as she got up to dump scraps into the kettle. Nomalan had given him only a stillborn girl; his seed had not grown inside her since. Bortai was pregnant, and Temujin could be certain he was the father this time. He had also promised a Merkit he had recently claimed as a bedfellow that she would be his second wife when she gave him a child. With a wife able to give him children, it was easy for Temujin to be kind to his Merkit, who rewarded him with her mindless devotion.
Jamukha drank; a plan was forming in his mind. Temujin had disagreed with him openly and if he did nothing, his men would see him as weak. The others did not want war with the Taychiuts; of that he was sure. Even Temujin's close comrades would have doubts about a battle that did not have to be fought.
Taychar would be angry at being denied the command he wanted. He was impulsive enough to strike at Temujin himself if Jamukha encouraged him. Jamukha would have to see that his anda was not harmed, only subdued.
“We must move on soon,” Jamukha said at last. “This land is nearly grazed bare.”
“So we must, and celebrate midsummer elsewhere.” Temujin rose; Jamukha followed him to the entrance. They waited outside as a boy led Temujin's mount to him.
“Go in peace,” Jamukha said, then caught Temujin's arm. “When we move on, if we camp by the mountains, those who tend the horses and cattle will have food. If we camp by the river, those who herd the sheep will feed their flocks.” He waited for his anda's answer. Tell me what I want to hear now, he thought, and I will forget what's happened today. Tell me you wish to camp by the river, and let me send my message to the Taychiut chiefs.
“You confuse me, Jamukha.” Temujin shook off his hand, then embraced him. “We'll talk of where to camp another time.” He swung himself into his saddle. “I leave in peace, my brother.”
Jamukha watched him ride away. If Temujin chose war, his own men would know he did not. The fire of Taychar's anger had to be stoked. The others would support Jamukha if he brought them an alliance with Todogen and Targhutai. A pain caught him around the heart; he suddenly wished that he and Temujin were only boys again.
50
Jochi clung to the sheep as his legs hugged the animal. “Hang on,” Bortai shouted to her son. Temulun kept near, ready to catch the little boy.
At last Hoelun lifted Jochi from the sheep. Temujin was dismounting near the wagons. He strode towards Bortai, alone for once; even Jelme was not with him. Jochi ran to him, and he grinned and hugged the child. He was no longer as cool to Jochi as he had been, and Bortai knew why. He was certain the child she now carried was his own.
Her husband came to her and put his hand on her belly; Jochi clutched at Temujin's coat. Guchu, aided by two dogs, herded more sheep towards the tents. “Greetings, Older Brother,” the boy called out. “We should break camp soon—we have to go further every day to graze the sheep.”
“You tell me what I know,” Temujin replied. “We'll take down our yurts in two days.” He motioned to his mother; his smile faded. “I want to speak to you and to my wife.”
Bortai knew by his tone that he wished to talk to them alone. “Temulun,” she said, “watch Jochi.” She beckoned to Hoelun's foster son. “Guchu, gather some fuel.”
She followed her husband into her tent. Two women laid the blankets they had beaten clean over her bed; Bortai sent them out to milk the sheep. Khokakhchin was about to follow them when Temujin held up a hand. “You may stay, Khokakhchin-eke.”
The old woman fetched a jug as Temujin sat down in front of the bed. Hoelun eased Bortai to a cushion, then settled at her son's left. Khokakhchin sprinkled kumiss over the ongghons hanging by the bed before handing Temujin the jug. The servant's eyes were as watchful as ever, her ears still sharp, but her bent body moved slowly, as if her bones ached. She retreated to the hearth and sat down; even in summer, Khokakhchin craved the fire's heat.
Bortai picked up two pieces of leather, threaded her needle with a strand of sinew, and drew it through one of the holes she ha
d made with her awl. Jochi was growing, and needed a new shirt, “Say what you wish to tell us, son,” Hoelun said. “We have the milking to do before we can eat.”
“I gave you slaves for your work, Mother.”
“They can't do it all, and a lazy mistress is a bad example.”
Temujin sighed and drew his brows together. “Both of you have always been honest with me,” he said. “I'm bound to Jamukha, yet some of those closest to me say he can't be trusted. Once no one dared to tell me this, but Borchu and Jelme now repeat such things to my face. They say that some who have given me their oaths are unhappy and may leave our camp.”
Bortai had heard such talk; his words did not surprise her. That he was speaking of this to her and Hoelun-eke did. Temujin had sought no advice from them since pledging himself to Jamukha. Now she heard doubt and uncertainty in his voice.
“Your anda must be aware of these complaints,” Hoelun murmured. “Maybe you should talk to him. You've always said you have no secrets from him.”
Bortai pulled her needle through another hole. Her husband would not listen to evil words about his anda. Bortai had told him only once that Jamukha's sudden rages disturbed her, that without Temujin to restrain him, he would make an inconstant leader. He had struck her before she could say more; the blow had thrown her back into Chilger's tent, surrounding her with the terror she thought she had escaped. She had guarded her tongue after that.
“What do your closest comrades advise?” Bortai asked.
“I don't have to ask them,” he said. “I know what they'll say.”
He would not have come to them unless his own doubts about Jamukha had deepened. The two had disagreed in front of their men; Jamukha's servants had spread that news. Temujin might want only reassurance, comforting words that would restore his trust in his friend, but she could not utter them. Yet she might only drive him further from her if she spoke against Jamukha.
Bortai set down her sewing. “I have heard,” she said, “that you spoke of a dream you had to your men. In your dream, you flew over a great camp, then came to the tent of the Khan who ruled it all, and saw that this great tent was your own.”
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