Ruler of the Sky: A Novel of Genghis Khan

by Pamela Sargent

  He was already looking forward to the next wars. Sorkhatani had expected him to dwell on his exploits in Khwarezm, but instead he was anticipating future battles. The Tanguts were becoming more troublesome; the Khan would have to deal with them. Tolui had also spoken to the boys about the lands Jebe and Subotai had found far to the west on their long ride. Beyond the rugged plateaus of Persia and the mountains of the Caucasus lay forests and green steppes, grazing lands richer than their own. The people there, according to Tolui, were divided, tribe against tribe, nomad against city-dweller, ripe for conquest. He had laughed while telling of how Subotai and Jebe had used one tribe, the Kipchaks, against the mountain peoples there. The two generals had made allies of the Kipchaks by promising them loot, then had turned on the Kipchaks after the battles in the mountains were won. It was the sort of tactical treachery that appealed to Tolui.

  “Father,” Mongke said, “will we go hunting together soon?”

  Tolui grunted. “Maybe. I doubt the hunting will be as good as we had this past winter. Your uncle Jochi had herds of game driven from his grounds towards ours, and there were so many wild asses among them that every man claimed three or four for himself after Father took his share.”

  “Why didn't Uncle Jochi come back with you?” Hulegu asked. Tolui scowled; Khubilai shot Hulegu a warning look.

  “Jochi wants to stay in the grazing lands Father allotted to him,” Tolui muttered, “and keep them secure. So he claims in his messages. Your grandfather prefers to leave him there, because his camps will be useful as a base when we strike further west—at least that's what Father says.” He cleared his throat and spat to one side. “But the fact is that the bastard's still bitter about being passed over for Ogedei. I think he dreams of setting up his own Khanate apart from Father's. If he does, Father will crush him.” He stabbed the air with his knife.

  Sorkhatani shook her head. Tolui would not have dared to say that had he been sober.

  “You insult your brother,” she said, “and set a poor example for your sons. Jochi fought for the Khan, and was granted those lands—you shouldn't speak of him in that way.”

  “My wise Sorkhatani,” Tolui said. “I take back my words. Maybe it's better for Jochi to stay where he is—he may be more loyal at a distance.” He got to his feet and staggered past the wagons towards the back of the tent. Arigh Boke crawled to his mother's side; the other three boys were suddenly on their feet.

  “I greet you, Sorkhatani Beki,” the Khan said.

  He was alone. She stood up, pulled her youngest son to his feet, and bowed. “I welcome you, Khan and Father. I would be greatly honoured to have you dine with us.”

  “The wives of Chagadai and Ogedei filled me to bursting outside their tents, but I'll share a drink with you.” He looked around. “My son must be relieving himself of his wine. At an ordinary meal, he drinks what most would at a festival, and at a feast, he and Ogedei drink more than any ten men.”

  “Drink eases my husband,” Sorkhatani replied. “Much as he's missed his sons and his homeland, he's a soldier, and grows restless apart from battle.”

  “Don't make excuses for him.” They seated themselves by the fire; a woman brought a jug of kumiss to Sorkhatani. She sprinkled a blessing, made the sign of the cross over the jug, and handed it to the Khan. “The Muslims say their laws forbid them strong drink,” he continued, “and that made me think Tolui should practise that faith. But such laws don't keep those men from their wine any more than Ogedei's promise to Chagadai restrains him.”

  Sorkhatani lifted a brow. “What promise was that?”

  “Last autumn, we were feasting after a hunt. Chagadai grew so angry with Ogedei's excesses that he made him promise to take no more than a goblet of wine a day, and Ogedei was drunk enough to swear such an oath. He's kept the promise, in his fashion.” The Khan's mouth twitched. “Ogedei had a craftsman make a goblet so large that he can barely lift it.”

  Tolui stumbled towards them and sat down by his father; a woman quickly brought him more wine. Night was coming, and the wind was colder. Around other fires, people danced; the wailing of flutes and the sighs of fiddles drowned out the baying of the dogs. Those passing by were not stopping at Sorkhatani's fire to drink and talk now; they glanced at their Khan respectfully, then moved into the shadows.

  “I have a question for my grandsons,” the Khan said. “I wish to see what they've learned. All the laws of my Yasa must be kept, but which do you think is the most important?”

  “That no Mongol shall take another Mongol as a slave,” Mongke answered, “since that keeps us from fighting among ourselves.”

  Hulegu shook his head. “Maybe that every man must obey his commander without fail,” he said, “since an officer has to count on his men.”

  Arigh Boke frowned; at four and a half years of age, he was still memorizing the Yasa. “Never make peace—” The little boy scratched his head. “It's forbidden to make peace with anyone who hasn't submitted to us.”

  “That,” Tolui muttered, “would be my answer.”

  “And you, Khubilai?” the Khan asked. “What do you say?”

  Khubilai lifted his head. “All the laws must be kept,” he said, “but I think that for a Khan, the most important is to respect and honour the learned and just, and to despise the evil and unjust.”

  His grandfather nodded. “And that would have been my answer. But I'll tell you this, lad—that's often the most difficult part of the Yasa to obey. The unjust can disguise themselves in the cloak of virtue, and the just and wise can be tainted by the words of evil men.”

  A few boys lurked beyond the fire, apparently waiting for a chance to approach the Khan's grandsons. Tolui suddenly toppled to one side. The Khan leaned over him, shook him, then got up and hauled Tolui to his feet. “I'll take him inside,” the Khan muttered.

  “That isn't necessary, Temujin-echige,” Sorkhatani said. “I've put him to bed before.” The Khan was already leading Tolui towards the steps, supporting him with one arm.

  “You may stay out here with your friends,” she said to her sons, then followed the men into the tent. The women inside knelt as the Khan dragged Tolui past the hearth and towards the back. He lowered his son to the bed, put Tolui's hat on a table, then pulled off his son's coat and boots.

  Sorkhatani sent the women outside. Tolui snored softly; the Khan covered him with a blanket. “It won't be much of a reunion for you, daughter,” Temujin said.

  “I'm content to have him with me.”

  He came to the hearth and stretched his roughened hands over the fire. “We've won much,” he said, “my sons and I. They and their sons and grandsons will wear the finest damasks of Khwarezm and silks of Khitai, eat the most delicious of meats, mount the strongest horses, and claim the most beautiful of women, but they'll forget the one who led them to all of that.”

  “You will never be forgotten, Father and Khan,” she said. His words were unlike him; he was speaking of his own death. “God will see that you are remembered.”

  “God is as indifferent to us as we are to the insects.” Sorkhatani crossed herself. “But you're a Christian,” he continued, “and believe that God loves men.”

  “He must love you, to have given you so much.”

  He turned towards her. “You've been a good wife to my son, and your boys show me you've been a good mother. They all have the makings of Khans.”

  She bowed her head. “I don't deserve such praise.”

  “I've said my third son will follow me,” he said, “but Ogedei himself declared that if his descendants proved unworthy, others would have to succeed them. I know you'll always obey my wishes, Sorkhatani. A time may come when one of your sons will have to hold my ulus, and you'll be wise enough to know if my people need him. You won't be disloyal to my spirit if you encourage his ambitions.”

  “May that day never come,” she whispered.

  He sighed, then touched her face lightly. Despite the fire's warmth, his fingers were cold. “How l
ike my Bortai you are,” he said. “When I saw you by the fire with your four sons, I was reminded of our early years, when all I have now was only a dream.”

  Tolui moaned; she looked towards the bed. When she turned back, the Khan was walking towards the doorway, his back bowed, as if he carried an invisible burden.

  116

  Bortai handed her hawk to a guard. Another man took Khasar's hawk as he held out his arm. Bortai ached from the riding; she was getting too old for such pursuits, but had wanted some time outside Karakorum.

  Thousands of tents now stretched from the banks of the Orkhon to the mountains that bordered the valley. Merchants with camel trains came to Karakorum from the oases to the south-west, bringing goods from Khitai and Khwarezm; envoys with petitions for the Khan were sent there from Temuge's camp in the east. News travelled swiftly through her husband's realm, carried by riders who had only to show an official seal at the posts where they stopped in order to be given food, rest, and a fresh mount.

  Bortai had never seen a true city, but the vast encampment of Karakorum seemed much like one. The smoke of thousands of fires often hung over the tents until the strong winds dispersed it. The noise of men and women bartering with merchants, of craftsmen beating metal into tools, goblets, plates, and small sculptures, and of smiths hammering at their forges, could even drown out the sound of the wind. The lowliest soldiers had the wealth of Bahadurs, and captains owned as much as Khans had in the past. Yet she felt that the spirits that had once roamed this valley had fled from the river and steppe to the mountains and forests beyond.

  Ogedei's wife Doregene had often told her that the Great Khan should have a great city, since all the world would send ambassadors to pay homage to him. Bortai sensed that the younger woman was thinking of Ogedei and not Temujin whenever she spoke of her ambitions for Karakorum. Doregene dreamed of palaces, perhaps even of walls.

  Khasar squinted at her from his horse. His once-sharp vision was not as keen; he could still spot a mouse at a distance, but often narrowed his eyes to peer at anything near him. “We should ride back,” he said. Bortai's guards and the young women who had ridden out with them were already trotting towards the encampment. “That messenger from your brother will be waiting to speak to you.”

  Anchar's envoy would have a personal message for her, as well as a report that would have to be passed along to Temujin. Her brother was with the army in Khitai, defending territory Mukhali had taken from encroachments by the Sung, while the King of Gold continued to resist in K'ai-feng.

  Bortai sighed; she did not want to return to the bustle of Karakorum just yet. There would be others wanting to see her—merchants seeking permission to trade, reports from Temuge with requests for advice, a commander with more beautiful girls selected as tribute for the Khan. Temujin, still camped in the west near the Altai Mountains, was not rushing to her side.

  “Temujin should come back soon,” she said. “He's left too much in the hands of women for too long.” She was not the only woman tending to the Khan's affairs. The Lady Yao-li Shih, the widow of their Khitan ally the Liao Wang, had ruled her husband's northern domain for the past three years in the absence of the Liao Wang's oldest son, who had gone west with Temujin. The Khan's daughter Alakha was still holding the territory of their Ongghut allies. Both women had the respect of their subjects, but it was time the heirs of those lands assumed their responsibilities.

  “Don't fret over my brother,” Khasar said. “He can handle things where he is as easily as he could anywhere else.”

  That was true enough. Their greatest worry in the Khan's absence had been the Tanguts, who had been bold enough to encourage a few subject tribes to attempt a raid on the borders of the Mongol homeland. They had clearly believed the armies left there could not put up much resistance, but Temujin, directing the campaign from his camp in the west, had ordered a counter-attack. The Tangut raid had failed, and a new king on the throne of Hsi-Hsia had sued for peace and promised to send Genghis Khan a son as a hostage. The Tangut envoys had met with Khasar on their way to Temujin's camp; her husband, for now, had an uneasy peace with the Tanguts he had sworn to punish.

  “He should make more haste,” Bortai murmured. “The Khan's wives yearn for him. Khadagan Ujin is weaker, the Lady Gurbesu grows old waiting for him, and his Kin princess and her ladies drown their loneliness in drink. Yisui and Yisugen have children unborn when he left who long for a glimpse of their father.”

  Khasar's grey moustache twitched; the wrinkles in his brown face deepened as he grinned. “Why, Bortai—I might almost think you're jealous of the beauties he's acquired during his absence.”

  “There are many wild geese and swans in the lake. The master may take those birds he chooses.” Perhaps Temujin did not want to return to an old woman, one who would only remind him of his lost youth.

  “I heard talk in the market-place,” Khadagan said. “A man was saying that the Khan's forgotten us, that he prefers to while away his days hunting with his comrades and enjoying his spoils. A merchant whispered to one of my women that the Tanguts begged for peace only to gain time to plot more treachery.”

  Bortai had her own doubts about the Tanguts. Vassals who had refused to send her husband troops for his war in the west could not easily be trusted. But such matters were not for her to decide.

  “It's foolish talk,” Khadagan continued, “and hardly worth repeating. Still, I hear such talk more often.” The other woman glanced at Bortai's slaves, but the women were murmuring among themselves as they worked their hides. “Bortai, if you summoned Temujin, he would come.”

  “Perhaps.” She would have to swallow her pride to do it; the Khan, like Khasar, might assume she had grown jealous. “Winter is almost upon us—spring would be soon enough.”

  “For him to return,” Khadagan said, “but perhaps not for the message. I think you should summon him now—send a message before we move to our winter grounds. He'll know you won't expect him to travel here in winter, so he'll wait until spring. That way, it won't look as though he's hurrying back because he fears your wrath.”

  Bortai smiled. “Sometimes I think you're much wiser than I am.” She patted Khadagan's hand. “Temujin has given me much, but I value you more than anything he's brought to me. When he took you as a wife, he gave me a true friend.”

  Khadagan's wrinkled face softened. “You've been a good friend to me, Bortai, and that was more than I expected in the beginning.” They often spoke that way lately, reminiscing about the past and assuring each other of their friendship, as if sensing that they might have little more time to do so.

  Khadagan slowly rose to her feet. Bortai picked up the other woman's walking-stick and handed it to her. “I'm going to take your advice,” Bortai said. “Please tell the men outside that I wish to see the captain of the night guard.”

  “I shall.” Khadagan's head-dress bobbed as she nodded. “Good night.” She hobbled towards the entrance and went outside.

  The captain entered the great tent a few moments later. “I have a mission for you,” Bortai said after he had greeted her. “Tomorrow, I want you to carry a message from me to the Great Khan.”

  “I am ready to deliver it.”

  “One of the scribes will give you a tablet with a seal, and this is my message. The great eagle makes his nest at the top of a high tree, but while he lingers in other lands, other birds may come to prey upon his fledgelings.”

  The young man repeated the message, then said, “Some may worry, Most Honourable Lady, but surely they can't believe our Khan has forgotten us.”

  “There are always a few with doubts and faint hearts. They'll be reassured when they know I've sent him this message. You may also tell the Khan that I pine for him, but that he may return at his pleasure.”

  The captain bowed. “I'll ride at dawn.”

  Temujin would see more in her words than concern for his realm and a longing for his presence. Fly back to me, rest at my side, grow old with me and do not leave your p
eople again. He would hear that in her message, and would not welcome it.

  117

  Shouts awoke her. Bortai sat up, her mind still fuzzy with sleep. The night rang with voices. Genghis Khan had returned; Temujin was among them once more.

  Her slaves were awake, moving through the shadows. Bortai beckoned to one woman, who quickly brought her a robe as a man called out from the doorway.

  “You may enter,” Bortai said.

  A guard came inside. “The Khan has ridden here,” he said. “He's passing between the fires, Most Honourable Khatun, and begs permission to—”

  “Of course my husband may come here.”

  The guard vanished. A woman helped her on with her boots; another brought her a small bowl of water. Bortai dipped her fingers into the water, dabbed at her face, then smoothed down her braids.

  “I shall fetch a mirror, Honoured Lady,” one slave said.

  “I need no mirror.” She was suddenly furious with Temujin. There would be no time to paint her face, to hide the ravages of age.

  A woman looped her braids, oiled them with sap, then secured Bortai's favourite plumed head-dress on her head. She had slept in a tunic and trousers against the cold; a slave adjusted her robe and tied a sash around her waist.

  “My husband will need refreshment,” she said. “You'll serve the kumiss in my porcelain goblets.”

  “And some wine also?” a young girl asked.

  “The Khan disapproves of too much wine-drinking. I doubt that he—” Bortai steadied herself; he might have changed during the six years he had been gone. “You may set some out,” she said at last. No time to prepare a feast, or to clothe herself in richer garments—she cursed under her breath. The messenger he had sent had told her he would be near Karakorum five days from now.