Kublai sat down and accepted his own bowl, finishing it quickly. When he was ready, Yao Shu read him the tallies of dead and maimed as well as the loot they had taken, his voice droning on in the thick air. After a time, Kublai waved him to a stop. His eyes felt gritty and swollen and his voice was hoarse.
‘Enough. I’m not taking it in. Come back in the evening, when I’ve rested.’
Yao Shu rose and bowed. He had trained Kublai from boyhood and he was uncertain how to show his pride in him. They had destroyed an army twice as large, on foreign ground. The news was already heading back to Karakorum with the fastest scouts. They would race to the yam lines in Chin territory and then the letters would move even faster, reaching Karakorum in just a few weeks. Yao Shu paused at the door to the ger.
‘Orlok Uriang-Khadai is waiting for your word on the prisoners, my lord. We have …’ He consulted a scroll thick with tally marks, holding it at the full extension of his arm so he could read it. ‘Forty-two thousand, seven hundred, many of them wounded.’
Kublai winced at the figure and rubbed his eyes.
‘Feed them with their own supplies. I’ll decide what to do with them …’ He broke off as Zhenjin re-entered the ger. The boy’s face was incredibly pale and he was panting.
‘What is it?’ Chabi asked. Zhenjin only looked at her.
‘Well, boy? What is it?’ Kublai said. He reached out and rubbed his son’s hair. The action seemed to break his trance and Zhenjin spoke as if gulping words between ragged breaths.
‘They’re killing the prisoners,’ Zhenjin said. He looked ill and his eyes strayed to the bucket by the door as if he might need it.
Kublai cursed. He had given no such order. Without another word, he pushed past his son and went outside. General Bayar was there, striding towards the ger. He looked relieved to see Kublai. At a gesture, servants brought horses and both men mounted quickly, trotting away through the camp.
Yao Shu eyed his own horse with misgiving. He had never been much of a rider, but Kublai and Bayar were already gone. Zhenjin came out of the ger and pelted off after them without looking back. Sighing, the old man called a young warrior across to help him mount.
Kublai began to pass ranks of bound prisoners long before he saw Uriang-Khadai. In lines that vanished into the distance, forty thousand men knelt on the ground with their heads down, waiting. Some of them talked in low tones or looked up as he passed, but for the most part, they were dull-eyed, their misery and defeat clear in their faces.
Kublai cursed under his breath as he saw the orlok gesturing to a group of young warriors. There were dozens of headless bodies in neat rows already and as Kublai rode closer, he saw the swords swing and more men fall to the ground. He could hear a low moan of terror from those closest to them and the sound filled him with rage. He checked himself as Uriang-Khadai looked up. He could not humiliate his orlok in front of the men, no matter how much he wanted to.
‘I have not given an order for the prisoners to be slaughtered,’ he said. Kublai remained in the saddle deliberately, so that he could look down at the man.
‘I did not want to trouble you with every detail, my lord,’ Uriang-Khadai said. He looked faintly puzzled, as if he could not understand why the khan’s brother should interrupt him in his duties. Kublai felt his anger rise and strangled it again.
‘Forty thousand men is not a detail, orlok. They have surrendered to me and their lives are now mine to protect.’
Uriang-Khadai clasped his hands behind his back, his mouth tightening.
‘My lord, there are too many. You surely can’t allow them all to walk away? We will be facing them again …’
‘I have told you my decision, orlok. Have them fed and have their wounded looked at. Then release them. After that, I will see you in my ger. That is all.’
Uriang-Khadai stood in silence while he digested the news. After a moment too long, he bowed his head, just ahead of Kublai relieving him of his authority in a rage.
‘Your will, my lord,’ the orlok said. ‘I apologise if I have given offence.’
Kublai ignored him. Yao Shu and Bayar had both arrived and he glanced at Yao Shu before speaking again. In fluent Mandarin, then broken Cantonese, Kublai addressed the prisoners within earshot.
‘You will be allowed to live and return home. Pass the word. Take news of this battle with you and tell whoever will listen that you were treated with mercy. You are subjects of the great khan and under my protection.’
Yao Shu nodded to him in satisfaction as Kublai turned his horse and dug in his heels. He could feel Uriang-Khadai’s glare on his back for a long way, but it did not matter. He had plans for the Sung cities, plans that could not begin with a slaughter of unarmed men.
On his way back to the ger, he saw his son running along, head down and puffing. Kublai reined in and reached down. Zhenjin took the arm and his father swept him up into the saddle behind him. They rode on together and after a time Kublai felt his son shift uncomfortably. Zhenjin had seen horrors that day. Kublai reached behind him and patted the boy’s leg.
‘Did you stop them killing the men?’ Zhenjin asked in a small voice.
‘Yes. Yes, I stopped them,’ Kublai replied. He felt the weight increase against his back as his son relaxed.
Alamut was a place of quiet and calm. In his life, Hulegu had found little to love in cities, but there was something about the spartan fortress that appealed to him. He was surprised to feel a pang of regret at the idea that he must destroy it. He stood on the highest wall in the sunlight and looked down across a landscape of mountains, stretching many miles into the distance. He even wondered briefly if he could leave a hundred families to keep the place for the khan, but it was just a fantasy. He had seen the tiny meadow behind the main buildings. The animals there could not support more than a few. The fortress was so completely isolated that he could not imagine trade ever taking place, or anything in the way of contact with the world. Alamut guarded no pass, held no strategic worth. It had been the perfect spot for the Assassins, but it was not suited to anything else.
As he walked on, Hulegu stepped over the body of a young woman, careful not to tread in the pool of sticky blood around her head. He looked down and frowned. She had been beautiful and he assumed the archer who had put a shaft into her throat had done so from a distance. It was a waste.
It had taken a day to get two hundred men into the fortress, each warrior trudging up the narrow path in single file, then holding the door for the next. Rukn-al-Din could do nothing and he had not had the courage to throw himself off the cliff. Not that they would have let him, but it would have been a fine thing to attempt. They had spread into Alamut’s rooms and corridors with calm deliberation and the Ismaili Assassins had only stood and watched, still looking to Rukn-al-Din for authority. When the killing began, they scattered, trying to protect their families. Hulegu smiled at the memory. His warriors had scoured the castle, room by room, floor by floor, stabbing and shooting anything that moved. For a time, a group of the Assassins had blockaded themselves into a room, but the door fell to axes and they were overwhelmed. Others had fought. Hulegu looked over the battlements into a courtyard far below, seeing the bodies of his men laid out. Thirty-six of them had been killed, a higher toll than he might have expected. Most of those had died from poisoned blades, when they would otherwise have survived with a gash. By dawn, only Rukn-al-Din was still alive, sitting in the courtyard in dull despair.
It was time to finish it, Hulegu realised. He would have to leave men behind, but to destroy rather than to live. It would take months for them to break down the fortress, and he could not wait while Baghdad resisted his army. It had been a risk, even a luxury, to seek out the Assassins, but he could not regret it. For a short time, he had walked in the steps of Genghis.
It took an age to descend the stone stairs running inside the walls. Hulegu finally came out into the bright sunshine, blinking after the gloom. Rukn-al-Din was sitting with his knees drawn up into hi
s arms, his eyes red. As Hulegu came out he looked up and swallowed nervously, certain he was about to die.
‘Stand up,’ Hulegu said to him.
One of his warriors kicked the man hard and Rukn clambered to his feet, swaying slightly from exhaustion. He had lost everything.
‘I will be leaving men here to destroy the fortress, stone by stone,’ Hulegu said. ‘I cannot stay longer. In fact, I should not have taken so much time to come here. When I return this way, I hope there will be a chance to visit the other fortresses your father controlled.’ He smiled, enjoying the utter defeat of an enemy in his power. ‘Who knows? Only rats live on in Alamut and we will burn them out when it falls.’
‘You have what you wanted,’ Rukn said hoarsely. ‘You could let me go.’
‘We do not shed the blood of royalty,’ Hulegu replied. ‘It was a rule of my grandfather and I honour it.’ He saw a gleam of hope come into Rukn’s eyes. The death of his father had broken the young man. He had said nothing while the Mongols tore through Alamut, hoping that they would spare him. He raised his head.
‘I am to live?’ he said.
Hulegu laughed. ‘Did I not say I honour the great khan? No blade will cut you, no arrow will enter your flesh.’ Hulegu turned to the warriors around Rukn-al-Din. ‘Hold him down.’
The young man cried out as they laid hands on him, but there were too many and he could not resist. They took his arms and legs and stretched them out, so that he lay helpless. He looked up and saw only bright malice in the Mongol general.
Hulegu kicked Rukn in the ribs as hard as he could. He heard them crack over Rukn’s scream. Twice more he kicked out, feeling the ribs give way.
‘You should have cut your own throat,’ Hulegu told him as Rukn-al-Din panted in agony. ‘How can I respect a man who wouldn’t even do that for his people?’ He nodded to a warrior and the man began to stamp on the broken chest. Hulegu watched for a time, then walked away, satisfied.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Yao Shu was filled with strange emotions as he rocked back and forth on the cart taking him into Sung lands. As a young monk, he had known Genghis even before he had become the first khan of the Mongol nation. Yao Shu had put aside the natural course of his life to observe that extraordinary man as he united the tribes and attacked the Chin empire. Even in those days of youth, Yao Shu had hoped to influence the khan, to bring a sense of civilisation to his court.
Somehow, as the years passed, Yao Shu had lost sight of his first ambitions. It was strange how a man could forget himself in the thousand tasks of a day. There was always some new problem to solve, some work that had to be done. Yao Shu had seen his life slip through his fingers, so that he looked up from the details less and less often with each passing year. There had been a time when he could have written his ambitions and desires on a single parchment. He was still not sure whether he had lost the ability to think so clearly, or whether he had just been naive.
Still, he had kept hope alive. When Genghis had died, Yao Shu had worked with Ogedai Khan, then Torogene as regent. He had remained in Karakorum as chancellor during Guyuk’s short and bitter reign. Ogedai had shown promise, he thought, looking back. The third son of Genghis had been a man of great vision, until his heart failed and allowed a weak son to rule the nation. Yao Shu sighed to himself as he stared out at the massed ranks riding all around him. He had grown old in the service of khans.
Mongke’s rise had been a terrible blow. If ever there had been a man in the mould of Genghis, Mongke was the one. Genghis had been ruthless, but then he had been surrounded by enemies bent on his destruction. He had been formed in conflict and spent his entire life at war. Yao Shu smiled ruefully at the memories of the old bastard. The philosophies of Genghis Khan would have shocked his Buddhist teachers, almost to the point of unconsciousness. They had never met anyone like that cheerful destroyer of cities. In Genghis, all things had come together. He had kept his fledgling nation safe by slaughtering their enemies, but enjoyed himself enormously while doing so. Yao Shu remembered how Genghis had addressed a council of Chin lords on the subject of ransom. He had told them solemnly that a captured Mohammedan could buy his freedom for forty gold coins, but the price of a Chin lord was a single donkey.
Yao Shu chuckled to himself. Mongke had not inherited that sense of joy. It had drawn men to Genghis as they sensed a vibrant life in him that Yao Shu had never seen anywhere else. Certainly not in the grandson. In Mongke’s earnest efforts to be a worthy khan, he showed no true understanding. Thinking back through the generations, Yao Shu worried that he had wasted his life, drawn like a moth to a lamp, throwing his years of strength away for nothing.
The lamp had been extinguished when Genghis died. Yao Shu had thought many times since then that he should have gone home at that moment, the dream over. He would have counselled a stranger to do just that. Instead, he had waited to see what would happen, taking tasks upon himself until Ogedai trusted him with everything.
Yao Shu stared out at the massed ranks of horsemen in all directions. He had made the decision at last to leave the court. No, Mongke had made it for him when he whipped Chin scholars out of Karakorum and showed it was no longer a place where civilised men would be welcome. It had been almost a relief to begin his preparations for the long trip home. Yao Shu owned very little and had given most of his wealth away to the poor in Karakorum. He did not need much and he knew there were monasteries which would take him in as a long lost son. The thought of regaling Buddhist monks with stories of his adventures was appealing. He could even read from the Secret History to them and give them a glimpse of a very different world. He doubted they would believe half of what he had seen.
Back in Karakorum, Yao Shu had been looking sadly at his collection of books when a messenger had arrived with news of Kublai’s destination. The old man had smiled then at the vagaries of fate. It had solved his problem of how to travel safely for thousands of miles east. He would go with Kublai to Chin lands and then one night he would get up from a fire and walk away from all his memories. He was not bound by oath to any living man, and there was a kind of balance in having the Mongols take him home, as they had once brought him out of the lands of his birth.
It had not happened. Over the months of conversation and travel, he had become fascinated again by Kublai, his interest sparked by the other man as he toured new estates in Chin lands and talked. Oh, how the man talked! Yao Shu had always known Kublai was intelligent, but his ideas and limitless curiosity had fired Yao Shu’s imagination. Thousands of new farms had been surveyed and marked out in just a few months. Kublai would be a landlord who took only a reasonable share and let his people prosper. Yao Shu hardly dared to believe he had finally found a descendant of Genghis who might love Chin culture as much as he did. On a spring evening, Yao Shu had reached a point where he knew an old monastery was barely thirty miles off the road and yet he had sat on his cart all night and not taken a single step towards it. One more year would not make too much of a difference to his life, he had told himself.
Now he was on the road to Ta-li, a Sung city, and once more, there was hope in his heart. He had seen Kublai spare forty thousand prisoners, and Yao Shu doubted the younger man even understood what an extraordinary event it had been. The orlok, Uriang-Khadai, still sulked in his ger, unable to understand why he had been shamed in front of his men. Yao Shu shook his head in wonder at the thought, desperate not be disappointed once again. Genghis had destroyed cities to send a message to anyone who might resist him. Yao Shu had despaired of finding anyone in his line who did not model themselves on the great khan.
Now he could not leave. He had to see what Kublai would do at the city. For the first time in decades, Yao Shu felt a sense of purpose and excitement. Kublai was a different animal from his brothers Hulegu and Mongke. There was still hope for him.
The region of Yunnan was one of the least populous in Sung lands. Just one city connected the distant territory with the rest of that far-flung nation, supp
orted by a few thousand farms and barely a dozen villages and small towns. There had been no growth there in living memory, perhaps for centuries, and the benefits of peace were obvious. Kublai’s army passed through millions of acres of rich ground, given over to rice paddies or dry crops and a rare breed of long-horned cow that was said to produce the best beef for a thousand miles.
Ta-li city was girded around by high walls and gates, though a suburb of merchant houses gripped the inner city like moss on a stone. That part of Sung territory was a world away from the lands Genghis had conquered. No one there had ever seen a Mongol warrior, or any armed force beyond the soldiers of their own emperor.
Kublai stared across a scene of stillness and tranquillity, his vast army out of place. He could see the smoke of a thousand chimneys over the city, but the farmers had all left their crops and gone to its protection. The fields and outer suburbs lay abandoned, stretching as far as he could see.
The ground was dry and they were close enough to the city for those within to be watching in terrified silence. Kublai spoke an order to Bayar at his side and stayed where he was while it was relayed down the line of authority. The Mongol host dismounted and began to make camp.
Kublai watched his ger being assembled, beginning with the sections of wooden lattice bound together. Everything was done for him by a group of warriors, routine making them quick. They raised a central column and slotted slender roof poles into it, taking lengths of moist sinew from pouches to tie them all off. Finally, thick mats of felt were layered and bound, the small door fitted and a cooking stove carried inside. In just a short time, it was one of thousands appearing on the land, waterproof and warm. Chabi and Zhenjin came trotting up on the same pony, the boy’s arms clasped around his mother. Kublai held his arms wide and Chabi guided the mount close enough for Zhenjin to leap at his father.
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