The court had dined on platters of lamb and drunk the strongest wines, those left outside in bottles so that the pure spirits would separate from the frozen water. Lute-players had entertained them, and Han slaves had danced and juggled for them, but Yisui had seen more cheer at funeral banquets. Mukhali's war stories had barely roused the Khan from his sullen silence. The laughter of Borchu and Jelme was forced, while Ogedei and Tolui were drinking even more than usual.
Temujin had summoned his four Khatuns to the feast. Yisui sipped her wine. Perhaps someone else would speak first; she had watched the others glance from the Khan to his sons, as if waiting to ask him the same question. Temujin might listen to Ogedei or Tolui; he had always shown more affection to them than to his other sons. Khulan might have said the words without offending him, but the Merkit wore her usual calm and distant expression. Subotai or Jebe would soon start reciting old stories, and then there would be no chance to speak. The Khan leaned towards Mukhali from his throne; Yisui took a breath.
“May I speak, my husband?” she asked.
He turned towards her. “You may.”
“The Khan will cross lofty mountains and wide rivers,” she said. “Those who have offended him will be drowned in blood, and the weeping of their wives and daughters will be a song to his ears.” She could stop there, and say no more. He was smiling, but his eyes had narrowed.
“Yet every man,” she continued, “even the greatest of men, is mortal.”
The murmurs died; the lute-players lapsed into silence. Yisui could not turn back now. “I can hardly bear to speak of this,” she said, “but if the great tree falls, what will happen to the birds nesting in its limbs? Where will they fly if there's no one to lead them? You have four noble and brave sons, but which of them will be your heir? This question isn't mine alone, but that of all your subjects. We beg to know your will.”
His eyes were like stones. He would punish her for speaking of his death, for casting such a shadow over the coming campaign.
“I don't welcome these words,” he said softly.
The blood drained from her face. He would not punish her here, but would let her wait, fearing what he might do.
“But you have spoken bravely, Yisui,” he went on. “My brothers, my sons, even Borchu and Mukhali haven't dared to ask me this.”
Yisui swayed dizzily. She would be spared.
“My Yasa decrees that a kuriltai must choose the next Khan,” Temujin said, “but my Noyans should know my will.” Jochi and Chagadai watched him intently. “You are my oldest son, Jochi. What do you have to say?”
Jochi opened his mouth; Chagadai suddenly jumped to his feet. “Why are you turning to him?”
“Father asked me to speak!” Jochi shouted.
“What's Jochi?” Chagadai bellowed. “Only a bastard you found in Merkit lands. He doesn't deserve the throne!”
Bortai's large brown eyes filled with shock and rage. Jochi leaped up and grabbed Chagadai by the collar. “You have no right to call me a bastard!” Jochi shouted. “You're no better than I am — I challenge you now! Show me you're a better archer, and I'll cut off my own thumb! If you can pin me in wrestling, I won't rise from the ground!”
Chagadai sneered. “How well you fight with words. You're no braver than the piss-scented jackal who sired you, who ran from Father's armies—”
Jochi's fist caught him on the jaw. Chagadai fell across a table, scattering dishes, then rolled to his feet. His hands were around Jochi's throat as Mukhali bounded towards him and seized his arms. Borchu climbed on to another table and launched himself at Jochi, knocking the big man to the floor. The Khan's two sons bellowed curses as the generals struggled to restrain them. Yisui watched as the four wrestled amid shattered plates and spilled food.
“Stop!” Mukhali shouted; his arms were locked around Chagadai. “Chagadai, you've always upheld the law. Does it tell you to fight with your brother?”
“Does the law say a bastard should rule?”
Jochi hissed. Borchu gripped Jochi's big shoulders tightly. “Listen to me!” Borchu cried. “I rode with your father when we were boys, when all the tribes fought one another and there was no safety anywhere. Jochi, will you bring those times back? Chagadai, will you demean the mother who gave you life?”
Jochi stopped struggling. Chagadai glared at him, his lips drawn back from his teeth. Bortai's face was pale as she gazed up at her husband; Temujin was silent. He would punish his sons, Yisui thought, and then her for bringing this about.
“Your father shed blood for us,” Borchu continued, “and fought for us, even when he had no pillow but his arm and nothing to drink except his own spittle. And your mother stayed at his side, and gave you food when her own belly was empty. Didn't you and Jochi come from the same womb? How can you insult the noble woman who gave birth to you?”
Temujin lifted his hand; everyone turned towards him. “Chagadai,” he said softly, “Jochi is my oldest son, and I forbid you to say otherwise.”
Chagadai's lip curled. “He is my brother—I'll admit that much, but no more.”
Jochi got up and started towards him; Borchu held him back. “This is a fine display of brotherly feeling,” Mukhali shouted as he grabbed one of Chagadai's braids. “I've seen more love among jackals fighting over a rotting carcass.”
“Silence,” Temujin said then. “It seems I have to tell you again what you should know. A shaft of arrows tied together can't be broken. An arrow by itself is easily bent. If you ever raise your hands against each other again, you will lose your strength,” He was still speaking softly, but his voice filled the great tent. “When I was alone and friendless, and had only my brothers at my side, one of them stole from me, fought with me, and claimed my place for his own. Jackals soon gnawed his bones.”
Chagadai tensed; Jochi's big body trembled. Yisui knew the Khan meant it, that he would kill even his own sons if they threatened the unity of his ulus. A man who would not shrink from that could easily crush a wife whose question had brought such violence to his court.
Chagadai glanced at his older brother, then drew himself up. “We are your oldest sons,” Chagadai said, grimacing as he spoke. “It's clear now that the Noyans couldn't choose either of us. I couldn't offer my vow to him, and he'll never offer his to me, but we are bound to serve our father the Khan and whoever follows him.” He looked towards Ogedei and Tolui. “Ogedei is your third son. Let us agree on him.”
“Is this also your wish, Jochi?” Temujin asked.
Jochi hung his head. “My younger brother has spoken for me. If I can't be Khan, at least I won't have to bow to him.” He shuddered as he gazed towards the throne. “I meant to say that I'll serve Ogedei willingly.”
“You'll both offer your oaths to him?” the Khan said. The two brothers nodded. “Take care that you don't forget them. I am going to give you both the people who once served Altan and Khuchar. When you look at them, I want you to remember what happened to their chiefs when they forgot their oaths to me.” He leaned back against his throne. “The earth is vast. Your pastures will be wide, and your camps far apart—you'll have no need to fight among yourselves. Honour Ogedei as the Great Khan, and you may rule the lands I'll win for you.”
Chagadai and Jochi stumbled back to their cushions. The Khan's face softened as he gazed at Ogedei. Yisui could rest more easily; the soft-hearted Ogedei would see that she and Yisugen were not parted if the Khan fell in Khwarezm.
“Well, Ogedei,” Temujin said, “your brothers want you as Khan, and I find myself in agreement with them. What do you have to say for yourself?”
Ogedei straightened. His strong face and pale eyes were much like his father's, but his smile was quicker, his eyes gentler. “What can I say?” He lifted his cup, spilling a few drops of wine. “Can I refuse to obey my father? I'll do the best I can. If my sons and grandsons grow so lazy that their arrows can't hit the broadside of an elk, then another of your descendants can succeed them.” A few men chuckled. “I've got nothing
more to say.”
“Then it's my wish that the Noyans choose you.” The Khan paused. “Tolui, you'll speak now.”
“I'll stay by Ogedei,” Tolui said in his loud, boyish voice. “I'll be the whip that reminds him of what he forgets. I'll fight at his side in every battle.”
“Very well,” Temujin muttered. “All of you will remember what's been said today.” He glanced at Yisui; he was still watching her when the others resumed their feasting.
“Ogedei was always your favourite,” Bortai said as she thrust a garment into a chest. “You might have made your choice right after Yisui spoke.” She picked up a robe. “She was brave to say what she did.”
“Her concern for herself fed her courage,” Temujin said from the bed. “Yisui is a bit too quick to anticipate my end—I must pay her back for that sometime.” He propped a cushion under his head. “My advisers have told me of wise men in Khitai who know the secret of prolonging life. I plan to summon one such sage. Let us hope a long time passes before my son follows me to the throne.”
Bortai reached for another robe. “Put that aside,” he said, “and come to bed.”
She closed the trunk and walked towards him. “I'm angry with you, Temujin.” She said it softly, so that the slaves sleeping by the doorway would not hear. “You could have kept Jochi and Chagadai from fighting by making your decree earlier. You let Chagadai shame me, to say openly what others only whisper. You might have said you wanted Ogedei on the throne. You wanted that all along. I saw that when you agreed to it so quickly.”
“It was better for Chagadai to say it.” He folded his arms across his chest. “I knew he'd object when I turned to Jochi. I couldn't choose Chagadai without showing that what people whisper about Jochi is the truth, and to choose either of them would only have divided my ulus. But now it's settled, and it was Chagadai who offered to give up his claim, and Jochi agreed with him.” He squinted up at her. “I knew that they might also settle the argument with a fight, and Jochi's burly enough to have broken Chagadai's back. He would have had to die for killing one of my sons. That would have settled it, too.”
“How wise you are, Temujin,” Bortai said. “I wonder how your people could manage without you.”
“Perhaps they won't have to if that sage of Khitai yields his secrets to me, but Ogedei will do well enough. He's well liked by the men and has his wife Doregene to advise him—she's ambitious enough for herself to see that he holds the throne. And Tolui will protect his brother from any who try to take advantage of Ogedei's kindliness.”
He thought he would outlive them all; that was why he had forgiven Yisui for her question. But the mighty oak would fall in time, however many nations sat under its leafy limbs.
“I'll tell Temuge and Khasar to consult you often while I'm away,” he said, “and to listen to your advice.”
“They would do well enough without it.”
“They'll do better with it. Are you hoping I'll take you with me on this campaign?”
“I have no such hopes.” She took off her robe and let it fall to the floor. “I'm content to be as far from this war as possible.” She turned away to remove her head-dress, grateful for the dim light. A loose grey braid fell over her chest; her long tunic hid her sagging breasts and the belly and hips marked by thin white lines. “I'd rather you stayed here, and let your generals fight for you, but you aren't yet an old man who could be happy sitting by the fire and telling stories.” She finished undressing and climbed into bed, pulling the blanket to her chin. “You're looking forward to this war.”
“I did everything I could to avoid it.”
“I know the truth. You held back only to see what the spirits willed. Now you're forced to fight this war, and will have to wait before you ride against the Kin, but you don't truly regret that. Wars against new enemies renew your life.”
He said, “A man savours life more when all his enemies are dead.”
“Of course. Once you had so many against you that I didn't know how you could survive. Now I don't think you could live without enemies to fight.”
His arm slipped around her. “You sound like an old woman, Bortai.”
She sighed. “I am an old woman.”
104
Kulgan's horse streaked ahead of hers. Khulan brushed her whip against her horse's neck as her son raced towards the riverbank. The boy skidded to a halt; his white gelding reared.
Khulan slowed to a trot and rode towards him. The horses danced under them as she reached out to touch her son's cheek; he shied away from her.
They turned away from the river. Riders were moving towards the camp, the Khan among them. On the flat grassland beyond Khulan's camping circle, two teams of boys flailed at an animal carcass with poles. The carcass flew from one pole and landed several paces from the battling boys; they raced after it. Kulgan had wanted to spend the day with them, even though he had been away grazing the horses for nearly a month.
She thought of how he had trailed after her when he was small, how he had beamed at her when he brought her fuel. The slaves would treat him to bits of freshly baked bread made of wheat from Khitai; their affection for the boy had mirrored her own. The women were wary of him now, with his loud demands and threats of beatings for disobedience. He spent more time with his half-brothers and friends, away from her.
Kulgan reached up to adjust his head-band. He was short for his age, and would never be as tall as his father, but many said he was one of the most handsome of the Khan's sons. His cheekbones were sharp, his skin a golden brown; two thick black braids hung down from under his scarf. He had large amber eyes and broad shoulders; he often bragged that he could beat bigger boys at wrestling.
The Khan and the men with him had halted to watch the boys at their game. Temujin had not let her know he was coming to her ordu. Usually she was told that he would be with her; at other times, he simply appeared, occasionally when she was already asleep. In her bed, they did the things he had learned from some of his women. Khulan knew that he would enjoy having her resist him, so she did them without complaint. Sometimes he hurt her, speaking of his love for her even as she cried out from the pain.
She had told herself that he would tire of a wife who could neither respond to him nor give him the pleasure of overpowering her. It had not turned out that way.
“Father must have come to say farewell,” Kulgan said. “Everyone says he may be fighting in Khwarezm for years. I wonder—”
The Khan skirted the boys and rode towards them, leaving his men behind. Kulgan set off at a gallop; Khulan followed more slowly. Temujin stopped under a lone tree, and Kulgan reined in at his father's side. Their two white horses, both sired by the Khan's favourite stallion, circled each other; Temujin had given one to Kulgan a few months ago.
The two dismounted and sat down under the tree as Khulan approached. Temujin draped an arm over the boy's shoulders; her son's eyes were wide with awe.
“Are you better with the bow?” Temujin said to Kulgan.
“I shoot well enough.”
“My sons should be the best archers. You might be a better one if you spent more time practising instead of at your mother's side.”
Kulgan's cheeks reddened. “I was out herding until yesterday. I only went riding with Mother because she asked.”
Once, he had gazed at Khulan with that wide-eyed admiration; such looks were only for his father now. “I'll leave you to talk,” she said. “I should see to the cooking, so that you and your men are well fed this evening.”
“You have servants and slaves for that,” Temujin said. “You do enough of their work as it is. Sit with us.”
She dismounted and sat next to her son. “You're thirteen, Kulgan,” the Khan said.
“Nearly fourteen.”
“I want you to come with me to Khwarezm.” Kulgan gaped at his father. “You'll help herd the spare horses,” Temujin continued. “You'll have a taste of war.”
Kulgan grinned. “I'll show you how well I can fight
.”
Khulan lowered her eyes. She had known this day would come, but he did not have to look so happy at leaving her, at going off to kill and fight. He might be a man by the time she saw him again, hardened by battle. She had wanted to believe it could be otherwise, but those hopes were nearly gone. She had seen the Khitan scholars, who preferred their scrolls to weapons, and had thought her son might become such a man. If she could have kept him from war a little longer —
She touched Kulgan's arm; he shook off her hand. “You had better prepare yourself,” Temujin said, “by practising your archery. Ride to my men and show them what you can do. I want to hear them praise your aim by supper time.”
“I'll do well.” Kulgan jumped up and hurried to his horse. “I promise I won't miss the target once!” he shouted as he rode away.
Temujin rested his back against the tree. “He'll keep that vow,” he said. “He has a strong spirit. Even his mother's reins haven't overly tamed him.”
“He's your son, Temujin.” He would follow the Khan anywhere, as all the men would, as Nayaga did.
He drew away her scarf and cupped her face in his hands. “My beautiful Khulan.” Whenever she sat next to him at court, he would reach for her hand or draw her closer to him. The men sang songs and recited poems about the Khan and his beloved Khulan, and of how her love for him was as great as his for her. How could it not be, since he was the greatest of men?
“I'll miss Kulgan,” she said.
“You won't miss him. I won't be deprived of my favourite wife during a war that may be long. You'll come with me, Khulan.” He smiled at her, but there was a trace of malice in his eyes. “What do you say? Aren't you pleased?”
“I've always obeyed you,” she said. “I have never asked you for anything.”
Ruler of the Sky: A Novel of Genghis Khan Page 63
