Conqueror (2011)

by Conn Iggulden

  When he returned to the tumans, Kublai paid Ong Chiang well, giving him a fat pouch of silver that had the man beaming. The farmer used two of the coins to buy the old mare he had been lent and was soon on his way, without looking back. Kublai smiled as he watched him go. The silver was an investment that would repay itself many times over, if he could win the mine.

  The morning was fine and clear as he gathered his generals. Uriang-Khadai had lost some of his usual sourness at the prospect of a battle. Bayar too was pleased, hanging on every word Kublai uttered as he described the scene in incredible detail.

  ‘So many soldiers must be fed,’ Kublai said, ‘and the farms in the area cannot possibly support such an army. Bayar, send a minghaan out in a wide line around the site. Find their supply line, or wherever they cache their food. Destroy it all. They will not fight so well on an empty stomach.’

  Bayar nodded, but stayed where he was.

  ‘They outnumber us,’ Kublai went on, ‘but if they have been told to protect the mine, they will fight defensively, rather than coming out when they are attacked. That is to our advantage. Uriang-Khadai, you will place our cannon in tight ranks, to pour fire into them. Begin with a ranging shot from the ridge, then move the cannon quickly to where we can reach their position. If anyone comes against our cannon, they must be destroyed. It will allow me to remove almost all the men behind and use them to charge the flanks.’

  Uriang-Khadai nodded grudgingly. ‘How many horsemen do they have?’ he asked.

  ‘I saw at least ten thousand horses. I do not know how many were remounts. It could be five thousand cavalry. They must not be allowed to pin us from the sides, but we have enough good archers to keep them back.’ Kublai took a deep breath, feeling his stomach tighten in anticipation and nervousness.

  ‘Remember that they have not known war for generations, whereas our warriors have fought all their lives. That will make a difference. For now, your task is to get the tumans into strike range as quickly as possible, bringing the cannons up as fast as we have ever moved them before. The families will remain here with heavy carts and supplies. I need rapid movement, to appear against them before they know we are coming. I need that solid front if I am to hammer them on the wing.’ He looked at his two most senior men and knew they were both different characters, but men on whom he could depend. ‘I will give you new orders as we engage. Until then, pray it does not rain.’

  As one, they looked up, but there were few clouds and those were high above, white wisps in a spring sky.

  Mongke threw a sheaf of reports onto a pile almost as large as his chair and rubbed his eyes wearily. He had put on weight since becoming khan and he knew he was no longer as fit as he had once been. For years he had taken his body’s massive strength for granted, but time stole away all things, changing men in such small ways that they hardly noticed until it was too late. He pulled in his stomach as he sat there, telling himself for the hundredth time that he would have to practise more with the sword and bow if he were not to lose all traces of his strength and vitality.

  The problems of a vast khanate were nothing like those he had known as an officer. The Great Trek west with Tsubodai had been a simpler life, with more basic obstacles to overcome. He could not have dreamed back then that he would be trying to settle a complicated dispute between the Taoists and Buddhists, or that silver coins would become such an important part of his life. The yam lines kept him informed in a flood of information that almost overwhelmed him, despite the cadre of Mongol scribes who worked in the city. Mongke would deal with a hundred small problems each morning and read as many reports, making decisions that would affect the lives of men he would never see or know. In the sheaf he had thrown down was a request from Arik-Boke for funds, a few million silver coins that had to be dug out and smelted from the mines. Mongke might envy his youngest brother the simple life in the homeland, but the truth he had discovered about himself was that he loved the work. It was satisfying to solve problems for other men, to be the one they came to with their questions and catastrophes. As far away as Syria and Korea, they looked to Karakorum, as Ogedai Khan had once hoped they would. Bankers could cash drafts for silver in different countries because of the peace Mongke had fostered. If there were bandits or thieves, he had a wide net to catch them, thousands of families devoted to running the khan’s lands, in his name, with his authority backing them. He patted his stomach ruefully. As with all things, peace had its price.

  His knees cracked as he stood up. He groaned softly as his chief adviser, Urigh, came trotting in with more papers.

  ‘It is almost noon. I will see those when I have eaten,’ Mongke said. He would enjoy an hour with his children when they had run home from their school in the city. They would speak Mandarin and Persian as well as their own language. He would see his sons as khans when they were grown, just as his mother had worked to raise her eldest over the rest.

  Urigh put down most of the papers he carried, a bundle of scrolls bound in twine. He held just one and Mongke sighed, knowing the man too well.

  ‘All right, tell me, but be quick.’

  ‘It is a report from your brother Kublai’s domain in Chin lands,’ Urigh said. ‘The costs of his new city have become immense. I have the figures here.’ He handed over the scroll and Mongke sat down again to read it, frowning to himself.

  ‘When he runs out of money, he will have to stop,’ he said with a shrug.

  Urigh looked uncomfortable discussing the brother of the khan. Mongke’s feelings for Hulegu, Arik-Boke and Kublai were complex and no man wanted to come between them, no matter how Mongke complained.

  ‘You can see he has spent almost all you gave him for the campaign, my lord. I have reports that he has been seeking out silver mines on Sung land. Could he have found one and not declared it to you?’

  ‘I would know,’ Mongke said. ‘I have men close to him who report every movement. The last message was a week ago on the yam lines and he had not found a mine yet. It cannot be that. What about these new farms of his? He leased thousands of plots two years ago. They will have been ploughed and planted twice by now, more if they are growing rice in the flood plains. In Chin markets, that will have brought in enough silver to keep building his palaces.’ Mongke frowned as he considered his own words, checking through the details of the accounting in Xanadu. Huge stocks of marble had been ordered, enough to build a palace to equal his own in Karakorum. He felt a seed of distrust grow in him.

  ‘I have not interfered with his campaign, or Hulegu’s.’

  ‘Hulegu has sent back vast revenues, my lord. Baghdad alone has brought in gold and silver to keep Karakorum for a century.’

  ‘And how much have we had from Kublai?’ Mongke asked.

  Urigh bit his lip. ‘Nothing so far, my lord. I assumed it was with your permission that he put the funds into his new city.’

  ‘I did not forbid it,’ Mongke conceded. ‘But the Sung lands are wealthy. Perhaps he has forgotten he acts for the khan.’

  ‘I am sure that is not true, my lord,’ Urigh said, trying to walk a careful line. He could not criticise the khan’s brother, but the lack of proper accounting from Sung lands had troubled him for months.

  ‘Perhaps I should see this Xanadu myself, Urigh. I have grown fat in peace and it may be my brothers have grown too sure of themselves without feeling my eye on them. Kublai has done enough, I think.’ He fell silent and thought for a time. ‘No, that is unfair. He has done well with what I gave him, better than I dared to hope. By now, he will have discovered he needs me to finish the Sung. He may even have learned a little humility, a little of what it takes to lead tumans into battle. I have been patient, Urigh, but perhaps it is time for the khan to take the field.’ He patted his belly with a rueful smile. ‘Send your men to me when they come back with their report. It will do me good to ride again.’

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  Kublai watched as the Chin regiments ran from their tents, forming up into well-disciplined
lines. He could still hardly believe how close his tumans had got to the mine before the alarm horns sounded. At less than two miles, a distant blare of brass had begun to wail, muffled by the fall of the land. The Sung officer should have had more scouts further out, regularly relieved by men from the main camp. Kublai prayed silently for it to be the first of many mistakes they would make.

  Kublai took strength from the long line of horsemen on either side of him as they trotted forward. Bayar’s minghaan had cut the Sung supply lines four days before, then waited to ambush whoever they sent. Not a single man of a hundred had made it back to the Sung camp. Kublai hoped they were getting hungry. He needed every edge he could find.

  The bowl of land that led down to the mine ended on a flat field some miles across. Kublai tried to put himself in the place of the Sung general. The site was not a good one for a defensive battle. No leader would choose a spot where he could not command the closest heights. Yet it was exactly the sort of battle that came when an emperor thousands of miles away ordered one of his senior men to hold a position, no matter who came against it or how strong they were. There would be no retreat, Kublai was certain. He raised his fist and the Mongol ranks halted, curving slightly as they met the line of the valley ridge. The sun was high above them and the day was warm. He could see a long way, beyond the mine itself to the shantytown that fed it with workers each morning. The air itself shimmered over part of the sprawling site, revealing the location of the smelting furnaces. Kublai took heart from the fact that they were still working. Perhaps there would be silver in the warehouses after all. He could see a stream of workers leaving the site and as he waited for his cannons to come up, the distant shimmering ceased. The mine shut down and the air was very still.

  Behind him, the cannon teams whipped horses dragging the heavy cannon, straining for the last burst of speed up the ridge. Kublai and Bayar had experimented with oxen and horses, even camels, trying to find the best combination of speed and stamina. Oxen were painfully slow, so he had left them in camp with the families and used teams of four horses. Once the guns were rolling, they could triple the speed to the front, though the cost in horses was enormous. Hundreds of them would be lame or have had their wind broken pulling the guns, as well as the carts full of shot and gunpowder.

  Kublai readied his orders in his head. The Sung had formed quickly on the valley plain and he saw the dark shapes of their own cannons dragged to the front, ready with braziers to light the black powder. To charge that camp would be to ride through a hail of shot, and Kublai felt his gut tighten in fear at the thought. He scowled as he saw that the Sung regiments were holding their ground, certain that he had to come to them.

  Kublai sent single warriors out ahead of the tumans. Thousands of eyes on both sides watched them walk their mounts down the gentle slope. The Mongol warriors waited to see if they found hidden trenches or spikes in the grass, while the Sung regiments tensed at what could have been the first outriders of a suicidal charge. The braziers by the Sung cannon smoked furiously as their tenders fed in fresh coal, keeping them hot. Kublai could feel his heart thumping as he waited for one of the riders to fall. His emotions were mixed when they reached the bottom safely and rode on to the edge of arrow range. They were young men and he was not surprised when they stopped to jeer at the enemy. It was more worrying that the Sung commander had not set traps. The man wanted them to ride in fast and hard, where he could destroy them. It was either justified confidence or complete foolishness and Kublai sweated without knowing which. His riders returned to the ranks amidst shouts and laughter from those that knew them. The tension had been unbearable, but with a glance Kublai saw four of his own cannon were ready, their braziers lit and smoking, well clear of the piles of powder bags and shot balls. The rest were still hitched to the teams that dragged them, poised to move closer once they saw the range. He told himself the Sung could not have expected so many of the heavy weapons.

  He still hoped to surprise them. The Persian chemists working in Karakorum had produced a finer powder, with more saltpetre than the Chin mixture. Kublai understood little of the science, but smaller grains burned faster and threw the ball with more force. The concept was clear enough to anyone who had ever fried a slab of meat, or seen it cut into small pieces for cooking. He watched anxiously as the four cannon were hammered loose from their mountings and fresh wooden blocks put in to raise the black muzzles to the maximum elevation. The blocks often shattered on firing and the teams drew them from sacks of spares, each one hand-cut from birch. Powder bags were shoved down the iron tubes and on each team a powerfully built man lifted a stone ball, straddling it as if he were giving birth. With a massive heave, the balls were raised to the lip and another of the team made sure it did not fall back. For an instant, Kublai had almost ordered a second powder bag, but he dared not risk the guns exploding as they fired. He would need every one.

  Three-quarters of a mile below and across the valley floor, the Sung regiments waited in perfect, shining ranks. They could see what was happening on the ridge, but they stood like statues, their flags and banners flapping. Kublai heard his gun teams shout instructions, using those same flags to judge the wind. They began to chant, with an emphasis on the fourth beat. Almost as one, the iron weapons were heaved around, lifted by main force and groaning men. The shots would fire straight until the wind changed.

  Kublai raised his hand and four tapers were lit and shielded from the breeze as the officers readied themselves to touch the reed filled with the same black powder, the spark that pierced the bag within and slammed the balls out into the air.

  Kublai dropped his arm, almost flinching in anticipation. The sound that followed had no comparisons. Even thunder seemed less terrible. Smoke and flame spurted from each of the iron holes and blurs vanished upwards. Kublai could see the curving lines and his heart raced faster as he saw they would surely reach the Sung. His mouth fell open as the cannonballs soared over the regiments, striking too far back for their damage to be seen.

  There was a moment of stillness, then every man who could see suddenly roared and the rest of the cannon teams lashed their horses with fresh urgency, bringing them up. They could hit the enemy. Either the Sung had misjudged the benefit of the ridge, or the Mongol gunpowder was much better than their own.

  Kublai shouted fresh orders, overcome with a sense of urgency to use his sudden advantage. He watched the painfully slow adjustment as the teams grabbed up heavy hammers and began to bang out the blocks while others lifted the iron barrels to make a space.

  On the valley floor, horns wailed and conflicting orders were given in sudden confusion. Kublai could see that some of the Sung officers thought they merely had to pull back closer to the mine. Others who had seen the balls pass right overhead were shouting angrily and pointing up at the ridge. There was no safe spot for them to stand. They would either have to attack or abandon the mine and move out of range, in which case Kublai decided he would take the tumans in quickly and capture their guns. He tensed as his gun teams readied all the cannon for a massive volley.

  When it came, the balls of polished stone skipped and bounced their way through the Sung ranks. Horses and men crumpled as if a point of hot iron had been laid onto them. Two of the Sung cannon were struck, flipping over and crushing men underneath. Kublai exulted and his teams worked on, pouring with sweat.

  The shots came faster, rippling along the line as they sought to outdo each other. Kublai looked round in shock when one of the iron weapons burst its barrel, killing the men at the muzzle. Another man was killed when his companion failed to cool the barrel quickly enough with the long rammer and sponge. The powder bag went up while he was still pushing it down, tearing it open in his enthusiasm. The rush of flame could only find a path past him and he burned in an instant. The mad pace slackened slightly after that, the lesson not lost on the other teams.

  Kublai was too far away to see Bayar’s expression, though he could imagine it. He had weapons designed to pulver
ise a city wall and the chance to use them against standing enemy ranks. The warriors around him were still stunned by the damage the cannons could inflict and Kublai wondered if they would be as fast to ride against the Sung weapons, now that they had seen in daylight what cannons could do.

  The Sung lines re-formed over their dead, but Kublai did not think they would stand for long in the face of such murderous fire. He did not envy the Sung commander, whoever he was. He waited for the Sung to pull back, but they stood their ground while red claws sank into their ranks. Kublai glanced at the pile of stone balls nearest to him and bit his lip as he saw it was down to barely a dozen. Sheer weight made it as difficult to move the shot as the guns themselves and some of the carts had broken on the trip. He watched almost mesmerised as the pile dwindled until the final ball lay on its own. The barrel was sponged out for the last time. A billow of steam hissed and crackled over the men around them, part of a greater cloud that hid the entire ridge. It irritated Kublai by drifting across his sight, making him blind for long moments until the air cleared. He heard the cannon team fire the last shot, and by then most of the thundering guns had fallen silent, their teams standing proudly to attention. A few more shots sounded from slower teams and they were done at last, suddenly useless after the carnage and destruction.

  Kublai felt the wrench to his emotions as his power to reach out and strike suddenly vanished. The air was thick with sulphur and steam and he had to wait while the breeze tore it into wisps and he could see again.