Kulgan came to her tent that evening. Khulan had come to dread his visits. He was usually with comrades who drank heavily while bellowing their most gruesome war stories.
Kulgan was alone this time. He pinched Zulaika on the cheeks until she whimpered, then moved towards the couch where Khulan sat. One of the slaves brought him some wine and cooked game; he picked at his food in silence.
“Your father didn't hunt for long today,” Khulan said.
He glanced at her with a wide-eyed, fearful look she had not seen for years. She touched his cheek; he covered her hand with his, then gently pushed her away.
“Father had a warning today,” Kulgan said. “That's what the Master called it.”
“A warning?”
“When we were hunting in the foothills,” he said, “Father wounded a boar. He rode after it, and we followed, and then Father's horse threw him. Before he could get up, the boar charged him, then suddenly halted.” He swallowed. “If it hadn't, we couldn't have reached Father in time to keep him from being gored. We brought him another horse, and the boar was still standing there when we rode away.”
Kulgan gulped down some wine. “Heaven stopped the animal,” he continued. “That's what the Master said when Father told him about it. He said it was a warning, that to Heaven all life's precious, that it would be as wrong for Father to take the boar's life as for the boar to take his. He advised him not to hunt, now that he's grown older.”
“He might as well tell the Khan not to breathe,” Khulan murmured, “or to stop making war.”
“Father called it good advice. He explained to the Master that we hunt as children, and can't easily put such habits aside, but said he'd try to follow his counsel.” He touched her hand. “Mother, when I saw him there, helpless for that moment, I was terrified. I've never been so frightened before, even when I was wounded and thought I might die myself. I can't imagine the world without him.”
“You mustn't fear for your father. Sometimes I think that, whatever happens, he'll outlive all of us in the end.”
“Why don't you go to him?” he said. “What did you do to offend him? You were his favourite—he'd forgive you if—”
“I can't go to him,” she said, “and you are never to ask why.”
He finished his food, then said, “I want Zulaika to leave your tent before my child is born.”
Khulan did not look at the girl, knowing she would see only despair in Zulaika's eyes. “She'll be with you by then,” she said.
114
A month after Heaven had saved the Khan from death, the Taoist monk and his followers said their farewells. Khulan gazed at the Khan's pavilion from behind a wagon as Temujin embraced the old man and horses were brought to the Master and his disciples. A-la-chien would guide them to Khitai, and many of the Khan's officers would ride with the monks as far as the foothills.
Two days after the sage's departure, the people took down their yurts; teams of oxen were harnessed to the platforms holding the great tents. Tolui and Ogedei rode on ahead with their men; the Khan, who had refrained from hunting since his encounter with the boar, would hunt along the way.
That evening, when they stopped to rest, Khulan saw how pale Zulaika was and made her lie down in her own covered cart. Her sleep was disturbed by the girl's stifled moans; by morning, Zulaika's face was beaded with sweat. Khulan lifted the girl's blanket and saw a red stain spreading over the crotch of her woollen trousers.
She climbed out of the cart, sent one of her guards for a shaman, then beckoned to nine of her servants. “You'll stay with me,” she said. “The others will go on.” Khulan said the words firmly, hiding her fears.
The women drew up wagons in a half-circle and raised a tent. The men riding past on horseback and the women and children in their carts glanced towards the yurt and the shaman sacrificing a sheep in front of it, but did not stop. If the spirit afflicting the girl inside proved too strong for the shaman, it was better to be far from the evil.
The shaman cut out the sheep's heart, carried it inside the tent, and set it on the small altar that held some of Khulan's ongghons. Zulaika was screaming by the time the sheep was butchered and cooked; two of the women held her down as the shaman fed the tail to her.
The girl drifted into a trance. Khulan sat with her while the shaman chanted and beat his drum. He leaped and circled the hearth; his shadow fluttered on the walls of the tent. By dawn, Zulaika was bleeding again. The shaman shook his head, then sent everyone outside.
The guards, their horses tethered, sat around a fire just beyond the wagons. Khulan's women gathered fuel and made another fire. Khulan glanced back at the tent as the shaman came outside; he took a spear from one wagon, wrapped a piece of felt around it, and stabbed it into the ground.
She hurried to him. The shaman thrust out an arm. “You can't go inside,” he said. “I've done all I can. An evil spirit is upon her, and she does nothing to fight it.”
She went back to the fire. More riders passed, following the great tents; clouds of dirt billowed around them. They would see the spear, and know what it meant. Khulan called out to one of her guards and told him to ride to Kulgan.
The shaman stood by the tent, chanting. Towards evening, he went inside. The girl might live, Khulan told herself; the child could survive. Others had given birth before their time, and their babies had lived. The shaman emerged from the doorway clutching a small, wrapped bundle. She got to her feet and held out her arms.
“Your grandson, Lady,” he said. “He came out with the cord around his neck, robbing him of breath. He—”
Khulan cried out; the other women wailed. “He must be buried,” the old man went on. “There's no hope for the girl. Put her outside the tent and leave this accursed place.”
“No,” Khulan said.
“Lady - “
“No.”
They buried the baby under a mound of rocks, then spent the night outside, huddled around the fires. In the morning, the shaman went into the tent. Khulan got up to follow him; he blocked the entrance before she could go inside.
He said, “Her soul has left her.”
Khulan shrieked. The women ran to her. She tore herself from them, took out her knife, and slashed at her arms. Her grief was mingled with rage; Zulaika had struck back at her in the only way she could, by robbing her of her grandson, the boy who might have mastered the wisdom Khulan longed for, who might have shared some of that knowledge with her.
She stumbled around the tent, weeping and slashing at herself until a woman took the knife from her. She sank to the ground and sat there listlessly as the shaman bandaged her bleeding arms.
Someone was riding towards them. The figures of the riders were blurred by her tears; they had dismounted and handed their reins to her men before she recognized her son.
The shaman went to Kulgan, then led him to her. “She didn't want to live,” Khulan said hoarsely, her throat raw. You brought her to this, she wanted to say; you made her long for death.
“Mother, was it—” He reached for her; she recoiled, then got to her feet. Kulgan looked towards the stones that marked the grave. “Was it a son?”
She nodded. He tensed, then said, “Don't mourn too much, Mother. I'll have other sons.” He gripped her shoulders. “When you knew she was failing, you should have left her. Now the wagons and the tent and everything here will have to be purified.”
She pulled free and flew at him, clawing him with her nails, slapping him hard across the face. He took the blows without flinching, then pinned her arms to her sides.
“Stop it,” he said. “We must bury my son's mother now.”
She pressed her face against his coat and wept.
They buried the girl next to her son so that her spirit would be near when he needed her. The tent was set over the grave; the two would have a dwelling in the next world.
When the wagons were purified, they followed the trail north. Kulgan and his comrades rode ahead of Khulan's guards and were soon out
of sight. They would be anxious to rejoin the others, to put this death behind them.
Khulan stopped before the sun had set, and slept alone in one cart. In the morning, she ignored the worried looks on the faces of her guards and told them she did not wish to travel that day. The others set up shelters of hides and sticks to shade them from the hot sun and slept under them the following night. Khulan thought of when she had first found Zulaika. It came to her that the girl had been dead since then, that she had left her soul with the dead in her city.
They moved on at dawn. The trail now led east, towards more mountainous land. When they stopped to rest their oxen and horses, Khulan saw how the others drew aside to whisper about her. They would be saying that an evil spirit had entered her, that only a madwoman would mourn for a slave so deeply.
The next morning, after they had harnessed the oxen to the carts, two riders appeared over the crest of a distant hill. Khulan watched them approach, saw who they were, then climbed into her cart and crawled under the covering.
Her guards shouted greetings to the Khan and Kulgan. She huddled in the darkness, listening as her husband answered them. The cart shook slightly as someone climbed aboard.
Temujin peered in at her, swung his legs over the seat, and crept to her side. “All this fuss over a slave,” he muttered.
“She carried your grandson.” Khulan covered her face with her scarf. “You're breaking your word, husband. You decreed that you would never look upon my face again.”
He pulled the scarf from her. “I no longer see the face of my Khulan. Look more closely at yourself in one of the mirrors I gave you. Even here, in the shadows, I see what you've become. Age is setting its mark on you—the face I loved didn't have those hollow cheeks.”
“You shouldn't have come here,” she said.
“I told my men to wait up ahead. I wanted to spare them the presence of a woman driven mad by evil spirits. I have more to grieve for now than a girl and a grandson who never drew breath. A message reached me from Khitai only a short time ago, just before I rode out to look for you. My greatest general has fallen, the man who would have helped me take all of Khitai. Mukhali has flown to Heaven.”
Khulan whispered, “You mustn't say his name so soon after—”
“I'll say it—I'll see that it lives. What can it matter to him now if I say it again and again?” He put a hand over his eyes. His grief would be deeper than that of other men; he did not believe that he would ever meet his old comrade in the next world. “He won so much for me, yet I'm told his last words were an apology, that he regretted not being able to take K'ai-feng for me.”
“I am sorry,” she said.
“If the Master were with me, maybe he could have eased my grief. Sometimes, when he spoke, I felt I could look beyond this world, but he's gone, and the voice I once heard grows fainter.” He sighed. “I can even wonder if he spoke the truth, or only misled me. He accepted few gifts when he left me, only horses and cotton clothing, but I gave him something more precious than that. I told him that the Taoist Masters in Khitai wouldn't be taxed, and set my seal on the proclamation. Perhaps the old man wanted that all along when he agreed to travel to me.”
Temujin doubted Ch'ang-ch'un already; he would never be free of his doubts. “I saw the Master only once,” she said softly, “but I know he's worthy of such a favour.”
“Let us hope so. The wise Ch'u-ts'ai didn't object, but warned me that the Master's followers might take unfair advantage of the privilege. As he says, I must rule lands where people believe many different things, and it won't serve me to have one group turn on another. I may be a better ruler if I believe in none of their teachings.”
He was silent for a while before he spoke again. “There is disorder in your tents, Khulan. The women mutter that you've lost my favour, even that I may cast you aside. Soon, the bolder ones may refuse to obey you, and that will make trouble for me. Things can't go on this way. You have a duty to supervise your household, and I refuse to be distracted by such matters. You will sit at my side, and we'll pretend things are as they were.”
“Very well,” she replied, knowing she had no choice.
“It shouldn't be hard for you. It was always a pretence for you anyway, and I'm free of your spell at last. Perhaps when you understand what you've lost, you'll come to regret that.” He got up and made his way to the front of the cart.
115
“Hold on,” Sorkhatani said as her youngest son settled behind her on her saddle. Arigh Boke hooked his fingers around her blue sash. Children and young women were streaming from the camp on horseback to greet the returning army.
Mongke mounted his horse; Sorkhatani trotted after her oldest son. Tolui had been pleased to learn she had come to the western edge of the former Naiman lands to wait for him.
She rode past the lines of wagons that surrounded Doregene's great tent and the smaller ones of her servants. Ogedei's chief wife had also decided not to wait for her husband in Karakorum. Doregene would have preferred to stay in the great camp along the Orkhon, but clearly wanted to appear as devoted as Sorkhatani.
A slave girl called Fatima stood near one of Doregene's wagons. Doregene and the girl had been inseparable ever since Fatima arrived from Khwarezm. Perhaps there was no harm in a wife's amusing herself with such a girl while her husband was away, although such pleasures had never appealed to Sorkhatani. The girl lifted her head and gazed directly at her; one would have thought she was a Khatun rather than a slave.
Beyond the camp, yellow grasslands, with hills of drifting dunes, stretched along the banks of the Black Irtysh River. Above clouds of sand, a wall of horsemen carrying lances, standards, and banners advanced across the plain. Riders galloped towards the returning army, shouting the names of fathers, husbands, and brothers.
Sorkhatani reined in her horse and waited with Mongke by a dune. Several riders had come to the camp three days ago, saying that the Khan would soon be among them. Khubilai and Hulegu had ridden out the next morning to meet their father. Arigh Boke clutched at her; Tolui had never seen his youngest son. She glanced at Mongke, who had the strong-boned, broad face of his father. He would soon be old enough to ride to war with Tolui.
“I see Father's tugh,” Mongke said, “and the Khan's.”
She lashed her horse lightly; her mount quickly moved into a gallop. When she saw the men clearly, she drew on her reins, then raised her hand. Khubilai and Hulegu broke away from the army and galloped towards her on their grey geldings, their father just behind them. Tolui's moustaches were longer, his body broader under his padded silk coat. He shouted to Mongke, then halted a few paces from Sorkhatani.
She dismounted, then reached for her youngest son. “I greet you, husband,” she said. “This is Arigh Boke, the son you left inside me before you went away.”
Tolui leaped from his horse and embraced the boy. Arigh Boke squirmed in his arms. Tolui laughed; he still had his wide, boyish grin. She had expected a more solemn man, one marked by the hardships of the long campaign. Perhaps he was a bit sorry to be back. He had left Khwarezm nearly a year ago, and had not hastened from his father's side to her.
She approached him warily; he caught her in his arms. “Sorkhatani,” he murmured. “You haven't changed—what magic do you have?”
She warmed with pleasure at his words. “Magic from Khitai,” she replied, “a lotion the women of that land use to protect their faces from the sun and wind.”
He chuckled. “My honest Sorkhatani. My other women don't admit their secrets, but pretend only God gave them beauty.” He hugged her again. “Have you missed me?”
She nodded; she had missed him, but in a placid, distant way. He would be content to stay at her side for only a little while, until he rode out to his next war.
Their other sons gathered around them. “We hunted on our way to Father,” Khubilai said. “I killed a hare, and Hulegu took a small stag.”
“We told Grandfather it was the first game we'd taken alone,” Hule
gu said. “He anointed our fingers with fat himself, and said the blessing for us.”
Tolui beamed at his sons. “Hulegu's more skilled with the bow than Khubilai,” Mongke said, “but Khubilai reads the Uighur script better than either of us.”
More men rode towards them. A tall man with coiled, greying braids hanging below his hat was in their midst; Sorkhatani tensed as she recognized the Khan. The dark, reddish hairs of his thin beard were mingled with grey, the copper turning to silver.
Sorkhatani bowed. Tolui grabbed Arigh Boke and lifted him high. “Here's a grandson you haven't seen,” he shouted.
The Khan halted; a smile flickered across his face. The lines around his pale eyes were deeply etched, his lids heavier, his face more leathery. Sorkhatani had not thought he could age so much in a few years. What would become of them without him?
The Khan's weary eyes met hers. “Your husband did well, daughter,” he murmured. “Some would tell you that he's the greatest of generals, a man against whom no enemy can stand.”
“He's your son, Temujin-echige,” she said. “He could be no less.”
“I rejoice that he's returned safely to you.” The Khan rode away, his men a shield around him.
People sat around fires and wandered from tent to tent. Children and slaves darted through the spaces between yurts and wagons, fetching food and drink. Tomorrow, the Khan would preside over a more formal banquet, when Khulan Khatun and the rest of his entourage reached this camp.
The Khan moved from fire to fire, a wall of men around him. Sorkhatani watched as he stopped by one family, accepted a cup from the men while the women and children gaped at him, and then walked on. He had to be tired from his travels, yet he had ridden throughout the camp to greet his people.
Mongke and Khubilai were showing off at wrestling for their father. Mongke suddenly flipped the younger boy on to his back, nearly throwing him into a platter of meat. “Good for you, Mongke,” Tolui bellowed. “Maybe if your brother spent less time reading, he could beat you.” He belched; he had been drinking heavily all afternoon. “I'll have to see if you boys can beat me at chess.”
Ruler of the Sky: A Novel of Genghis Khan Page 69
