Men fanned out around her, riding under the arches that bordered the square. Plumes of smoke rose above the roofs; Khojin gripped the arms of the throne as people were dragged before her. A baby dangled from the end of a curved lance, then fell at her feet, its blood spurting over her boots. A man's knife sliced at the throat of a red-haired woman; her body, nearly stripped of clothing, crumpled to the ground. A group of turbaned men wailed as swords slashed through them, streaking their garments with red. Soldiers hurled themselves upon shrieking women, pushed up their robes, and took them, one after another, until the women lay still and silent. Dogs and cats were spitted on spears and thrown against roofs and walls. Knots of people were herded into the square, forced to tie one another's wrists together, and then beheaded.
The man whose arrow had found Toguchar might be among them. Khojin prayed that he was, that he had seen his wife violated and his children gutted by swords, that he had suffered before meeting his own death.
The slaughter was still going on at nightfall. Tolui moved among the men, shouting orders. Torches were brought into the square, now filled with heaps of bodies and the stink of blood and rotting flesh. Khojin did not sleep, but remained on the throne, ignoring the aches of her body, listening to the useless pleas for mercy that sounded in the streets.
Towards dawn, when the distant screams were fainter, she slept, her head against the back of the throne, her hand in Tolui's. She awoke to see soldiers clearing bodies from the square, severing the heads before they cast the torsos aside. Tolui would make certain that no one escaped by lying down among the dead, as it was rumoured some had done at Merv.
The men laughed as they arranged the heads in the square. One mountain was made up of men's heads, another of women's, the third of children's. Khojin gazed at thousands of eyes, at faces frozen in horror or contorted in grisly grins, at cheeks streaked with the pale marks of tears. Toguchar would have many to serve him in the next world.
Khojin rose unsteadily to her feet; Tolui got up and took her arm. She leaned against him as the stiff muscles in her legs cramped. The men were still clearing the streets and dragging out those who had hidden in houses; one group was herded through an arch and forced to stand against a wall as men took aim with their bows. A little boy's scream was cut short as an arrow entered his mouth; the archers roared their praise for this feat of marksmanship.
“This will go on for some time,” Tolui said. “Do you wish to leave the city?”
“No,” Khojin said.
“The bodies will clog the streets soon.”
“When they do, you'll bring the ones still alive outside. We'll cover the land with them—nothing will live here again.”
Tolui bowed, took out his sword, and moved towards some of the men holding captives. Khojin sat down again; a man brought her a jug of wine. She suddenly recalled Khulan's words, that all of this could not bring her husband back. She hated the Khatun for saying it; the words were cords squeezing her heart, bringing her pain and despair instead of the joy she should have felt.
She shook off the thought. When Nishapur was a graveyard, she would have peace.
109
Ch'i-kuo had summoned Ch'ang-ch'un to her tent. The Taoist master had been in Bortai's camp for two days, sent on from Temuge Odchigin's camp in the Khalkha River valley. The Odchigin, knowing that the Khan wanted Ch'ang-ch'un to travel in comfort, had given him an escort and nearly a hundred oxen and cattle. The Khan might respect this Taoist greatly, but was demanding an arduous journey of him. The monk had been summoned to an audience with the Emperor Shih-tsung over thirty years ago, and he had not been a young man then.
“Liu Wen claims that the monk is nearly three hundred years old,” Lien murmured. Ch'i-kuo did not believe it, but the Khan did. Liu Wen had told him that Ch'ang-ch'un was said to be the wisest man in Khitai, that the Taoist would surely have an elixir, and Genghis Khan was only too willing to believe that.
She expected nothing from this monk herself, but was curious to see a man reputed to be so wise. After his arrival, she had sent him sour milk, curds, millet, warm clothing, and silver for himself and his followers; the Tangut princess Chakha had done the same. The lamas who surrounded Chakha had brought the Khan's Tangut wife little solace; perhaps this Taoist would. Chakha's soul was a desert thirsting for rain. This world had failed Chakha; she had turned her thoughts to the next.
A guard announced the visitors. Two men entered, followed by a third, all of them clothed in the woollen robes Ch'i-kuo had given them; the midsummer heat could quickly change to cold. The men pressed their hands together, but did not kneel. The third man raised his head and gazed at her.
She knew this man had to be Ch'ang-ch'un. His dark eyes were clear and untroubled; the pale gold skin above his thin white beard glowed with health. She thought of how the Khan's eyes seemed to pierce men's souls, seeing what was hidden there, and how cold they often grew, as though he despised what he glimpsed. This monk had such a look, but his eyes were kind and forgiving. All the speeches she had prepared fled from her mind; she was suddenly uncertain of herself.
The man at the monk's right murmured a formal greeting. His name was Yin Chih-ping, his companion's Chao Chin-ku, and they had been disciples of their master for many years.
“I am pleased you were willing to honour us with your presence,” Ch'i-kuo said when Yin Chih-ping was finished. She motioned to some cushions; the three monks seated themselves, but took none of the tea and food her women set before them. The Master, Chao Chin-ku explained, took no tea or meat; the dish of millet he had eaten that morning would be enough. The Master was grateful for her gifts.
“I have longed to see you ever since I heard you were travelling here,” Ch'i-kuo said. “When I was young, I was told of the wise man whom my great-grandfather summoned to his court. It's said that your wisdom gave him solace in the last year of his life.”
Ch'ang-ch'un nodded. She knew then that he saw her true thoughts—that he had not succeeded in prolonging the Emperor Shih-tsung's life, that he was only another man who pretended to knowledge he did not have.
She flushed and looked down. “You honour my husband the Khan by undertaking this journey at last,” she murmured.
“I could not refuse such a summons,” Ch'ang-ch'un said. His voice was gentle, but not weak; he did not sound like a man who would have obeyed out of fear.
“Yet you waited before starting on your journey.”
“There were disciples to see before I left,” he said, “and festivals to attend. After that, Liu Wen, the honourable servant of the great Mongol Emperor, asked me to travel with the girls he was collecting for his master, but of course I had to refuse. Such company would not have been fitting.”
“I am surprised that the Khan was not more insistent.”
“He has been most gracious, Highness, and has told me not to tire myself too much on my way to him. His servant A-la-chien, who travels with me now, led me to the camp of the Prince Temuge, and from here I will go to the ordu of the Khan's honourable servant Chinkai. I'm told that many craftsmen from our land dwell in that camp.”
“There are ladies there, too,” she said, “taken from the palace when Chung Tu surrendered. They'll surely wish to see you.” She could not keep the bitterness from her voice.
“I see what you suspect, Imperial Lady,” the old man said. “You think I am an old man who travels to the Mongol Emperor out of fear, or that I am a crafty one who seeks some advantage. I am neither of those things.”
His frankness stunned her. She could not deceive him; her carefully prepared phrases would be useless.
“It's true that a refusal would have gained nothing for the followers of the Way,” Ch'ang-ch'un continued, “and that I may win some favour for us. Our land has suffered at the hands of the Prince Mukhali's soldiers, and many have learned to fear that prince and his master. But I do not fear the great Genghis Khan. When I delayed my journey, he assented to my requests. Had I told the men he sent to me tha
t I would have to wait until he could travel to me, he would have agreed to that, too.”
“Forgive me, Wise and Learned Master,” Ch'i-kuo said, “but you are wrong. He won't tolerate disobedience. You have seen what his armies did, and he gave those commands.”
“Soldiers are much the same, whatever commanders they follow. The Khitans swept down on us, and then their iron was overcome by the golden Kin. Now the Emperor of Gold retreats from the Mongols. It may be the turn of the Mongols to rule us, and if their Emperor wishes to hear of the Way, then there must be nobility in him.” He pressed the tips of his long fingers together. “I have seen that his people help one another in their camps, share what they have with those in need, and keep the promises they make. In their own way, they may be closer to Man's earlier natural state.”
So that was what he saw. The Mongols, knowing that the Khan wanted him well treated, would go out of their way to please him. He was only passing through these lands. He would not have to endure years of howling winds and sudden ice storms under the vast sky that revealed how indifferent Heaven was to their fate. He would not have to spend the rest of his life trembling before the emptiness beyond the camps. That was what she painted now — the wide blue sky, a steppe of yellow grass bowing to the wind, a lone tree with twisted limbs, a tent near a hillside, a herd of horses grazing under a mountain of black granite. She could no longer envision what lay beyond this land.
“My husband the Khan,” she said, “is a curious man. He has surrounded himself with learned men and wants them to yield their wisdom to him as the cities have their treasures. But it isn't only wisdom he wants from you, Adept Master. He wants an elixir that can prolong his life.”
Ch'ang-ch'un smiled. “But I have no such elixir.”
“You are called an alchemist, Master.”
“There is much knowledge to be gained in such study, but not the secret of prolonging life. My alchemy is of the soul. I can only guide the Emperor to nurture the heavenly elements in himself and to check those that are closer to Earth. He must rid himself of desire in order to allow this transmutation—only then can he prolong his life.”
Ch'i-kuo's mouth twisted. “He will be most disappointed to hear that.”
“I must tell him what is true,” the monk said. “Perhaps when he puts such desires aside, he will be ready to hear of the Tao.”
She leaned forward. “I will tell you what others have told me,” she said. “Once, a shaman served the Khan. This man knew many powerful spells, but when the Khan had no further use for him, he allowed the Prince Temuge to break his back. I pray that you won't suffer such a fate.”
“I do not fear death. Change comes to all things, and death is only another change. From decay, life grows, and the soul becomes a flame rising to Heaven.” The old man stroked his beard. “You say that this shaman was destroyed. That tells me that the man's magic may not have been so great as some believed, and perhaps also that the Mongol Emperor is not easily deceived. All the more reason to speak the truth to him. If he is to rule us, then I must speak to what is best in him. Do you not do so, Honourable Lady?”
Ch'i-kuo did not reply.
“But I see you do not,” he said. “Highness, you cannot know peace unless you see the world as it is, and stop measuring it by your own needs, desires, and disappointments. You cannot see men as they are until you know that something of the nobler element lies inside them all. You must become like water, which feeds the ground over which it flows and takes the shape of the container into which it is poured.”
“I am that now,” she said.
“Then why do you have no peace? Perhaps instead of accepting the bright flame that lies inside others, you've allowed what is base in them to corrupt you.”
“I can't let you speak to me in that way, Master.”
“Then perhaps you will allow me to leave your side.” Ch'ang-ch'un stood up. “I thank you again for the generous gifts you sent to me and my followers. I shall look forward to my audience with the Emperor.”
She gazed after him as he left. Lien had told her years ago that the Khan was a man with two natures. It had been easier to forget that, to see only the cruelty and nothing else, to have some of the pleasure of her own small cruelties and look for little else in the world. The Master's way was harder.
The flame had died in her; Ch'ang-ch'un had seen that. Perhaps it was too late for him to rouse whatever noble spirit might lie inside her husband, as it was too late for her, yet he would try, and remain untouched by what was base.
Ch'i-kuo waved a hand at Mu-tan. “Bring us some wine.”
“You aren't going to paint?” Lien asked.
“Not today. It's so much more pleasant to drink and imagine the lovely pictures I might render.” It had been for many days now. Ch'i-kuo flexed the fingers that had grown less supple, then reached for her cup.
110
Five soldiers met Khulan and her guards. Above them, in niches carved in the cliffs, monstrous carved figures many times a man's height, their lips frozen in gentle smiles on granite faces worn away by the wind, stared out at the nearby ruins of a high citadel.
Chagadai's son Mutugen had fallen here, one of the soldiers told her; her own son was badly wounded. The Khan had decreed that she stay with Kulgan.
Most of the army had moved on, but Khulan saw Temujin's work in the valley. The citadel's high rocky walls were blackened by fire and riven by breaches; heads covered the rocks below. Colourful shards of pottery glittered among the rocks, and in the river valley, vast charred stretches marked what was left of the town of Bamiyan. The fields were rutted, trampled, and grazed bare; black birds perched atop countless hills of heads.
A cold wind fluttered the scarf over her face. The peaks of the Snowy Mountains loomed above the valley. The mountains were covered with ice even in summer; winds howled through the high stony passes, and dragons were said to live in the cliffs, ready to hurl rocks at those passing below. Temujin might have left her in the base camp south of Balkh, but had promised she would never be far from his side, and he would not forget that promise, whatever the risks of the journey. She would sit with him, as she had at Balkh during the last day of the slaughter, masking the pity and despair that would only drive him to greater cruelty.
The men riding with her were silent as they passed stumps of willows and poplars and mounds of severed heads. The streams running from the river were clogged with bodies, masses of twisted limbs and gashed bellies; the sickly odour of rotting flesh filled the air.
“The Khan ordered us to take no prisoners and no plunder,” one man said at last. “He commanded that every living thing—people, babies still in their mothers' wombs, birds, even the dogs and cats—be killed. We took nothing from Bamiyan, and the Khan has decreed that nothing will live here again. These people paid for the death of the Khan's grandson, and for wounding your own son, Lady.”
Her son might be hovering between life and death. Khulan searched the distant field tents in the south of the valley, expecting to see a black-ribboned spear near one of them. The Khan had punished his enemies. If Kulgan died, she could have her revenge only on the father who had so eagerly led him to war.
Khulan was taken to the tent where her son lay. She lifted his blanket and saw deep scars on his thighs and along his ribs; a makeshift splint was around his right calf. He would live, but his scars would mark him.
She nursed him for two days, sleeping at his side. By the third day, he had recovered enough to hold the jug she handed to him. The kumiss wetted his thin moustache; she wiped his mouth with her sleeve, as she had when he was a child.
“Mother,” he said.
“If I had lost you—” She could not say it; even wishing for her husband's death was treason.
“I'll limp,” he said, “but a man doesn't have to walk far, and as long as I can mount a horse - “ He gave a choked laugh. “Better my leg than my sword arm, and my hands can still use a bow.”
“You're not going to fight
for some time.”
He finished the kumiss and handed her the jug. “Chagadai got here in time for the executions,” Kulgan said. “I'd been carried from the field, but Suke told me about it later. Father ordered the men not to tell Chagadai his son was lost, and then he questioned Chagadai, saying he had doubts about how obedient he was. Maybe Father was thinking about Urgenj.”
“Perhaps,” she said quietly. With Ogedei in command, Temujin's three oldest sons had finally taken that city last spring, but had divided the plunder without offering a share to the Khan. Ogedei had wanted to ease the hard feelings between his brothers by giving them most of the loot, but his act had enraged her husband. Only the pleas of Temujin's generals had saved the three from punishment. Since then, Jochi had remained in the regions around Urgenj, claiming they needed to be secured.
“Anyway,” Kulgan continued, “Chagadai said he would rather die than disobey Father. Father asked him if he'd keep that promise, and Chagadai swore that Father could kill him if he ever broke it. Father told him then that his son had fallen, and forbade him to show any grief. Suke said Chagadai kept his promise—he didn't weep until he was out of Father's sight.”
It was like the Khan to test a man, even a son, at such a time. She wondered when he might demand a show of loyalty from Jochi, still sulking in the north, securing a realm in place of the throne his father had refused to give him.
Khulan touched the braids coiled behind her son's ears; he pushed her arm away. “I have to heal,” he said. “There's more fighting to do.”
Khulan returned to the base camp in autumn; the Khan reached it in early winter. Word had come earlier about his successes in the south, where the Shah's son Jalal-ed-din had mounted a fierce resistance. The Khan himself had ridden to the aid of Shigi Khutukhu after his foster brother's defeat, and had managed to push Jalal-ed-din across the Indus.
Ruler of the Sky: A Novel of Genghis Khan Page 66
