The Earth Is the Lord's

by Caldwell, Taylor;

  He said aloud: “I agree with Temujin that unity is necessary among the warring tribes. But it need not be a unity forged by force and violence, but by trust and honor, and the voluntary consent of all, seeking only pastures and peace, and not conquest and tribute.”

  Chapter 9

  Targoutai-Kirltuk and Todoyan-Girte, brothers and Taijiut chiefs, held a consultation together, filled with alarm and fury.

  “That young red-haired dog, our kinsman, hath become wondrously arrogant and powerful. It is said that Toghrul-Khan, the old plotting fox, is aiding him. Before he groweth more in power, we must destroy him.”

  Targoutai, as he spoke, rubbed the old aching wound in his thigh, which Temujin had inflicted.

  Todoyan-Girte scowled. “It is We who are old, and have not seen an opportunity. Why did we not seek support from the traders and townsmen and merchants, and offer to protect their caravans? We lacked wit, Targoutai. Let us, as thou dost say, destroy Temujin, and make treaties with the cities, as he hath done. We are still stronger than he. Oh, Targoutai, thou art to blame, thyself, for not slaying him when thou didst have the chance.”

  Targoutai gritted his teeth. “Let us go. I ask only that Temujin be left for mine own hand, and I promise thee he shall not escape again!”

  Todoyan-Girte bit his lip reflectively. “We could, mayhap, secure him as a vassal, for he hath intelligence and valor, and knoweth how to rule men. Well, scowl at me not so fiercely, brother. He shall be thine to do with as thou wilt.” He added: “But will not Toghrul-Khan then become our enemy, if we murder his loving foster-son?”

  Targoutai laughed harshly. “I know the pious old wolf! He will greet us as brothers, no matter what we do, if we are all-powerful, and can protect his caravans!”

  The Yakka Mongols now consisted of fourteen thousand warriors, powerful and single-hearted and devoted with idolatry to Temujin. Never had a chieftain inspired such love, such superstitious worship, such profound obedience. For he was just if cruel, and they knew his word could be trusted. And he had made them believe that at the last he was only their servant, and lived only for their welfare.

  Within a short space of time he had attacked, conquered and absorbed small weak clans belonging to the Merkit, the Naiman, the Uighur, the Ongut, the Turkomans, and even the Karait and the Taijiut tribes. Resistance had been slight, for his energy, his ruthlessness, his courage and ferocity travelled before his horde, like the scent of a beast travelling on the wind. There had been little sullenness, little rebellion and hatred because of his conquest of these small clans. For he was kind and just to those who swore allegiance to him, and he frequently assured them that he had conquered them not to enslave them, but to unite them in one formidable and resistless whole. Generous, never breaking his word, chivalrous when the purpose served him, meting out punishment and reward with equal impersonalness, handsome and vigorous and sleepless, the new members of his increasing ordu soon came to regard him with idolatry. Here was a strong leader who always knew what he wanted, and feared no man. Here was a man who made promises, and fulfilled them. Soon they felt overwhelming pride that they belonged under the banner of the yaktails. Soon they boasted arrogantly that their new lord was a lord indeed, who had conquered them because of his love for them, and his solicitude for their security and fatness. They would have died for him, and constantly sought out occasions to prove their faithfulness and affection.

  Too, his system of the nokud served, by removing him from intimate contact with his people, to endow him with a remote and superstitious aura. He came among them each day, but surrounded by the lances and swords of his military bodyguard, a king moving among bronze-faced princes, his glance like that of an eagle, his bearing like that of a great conqueror. He knew that familiarity dulled the edge of the strongest sword, that when a king laughs with his people they end by laughing at him. So he was aloof from them, and never laughed with them, never joined in a common feast. And therefore, they adored him. Even their knowledge that he would not hesitate to order their death for the slightest infraction of tribal rules merely served to intensify their awe and worship. He knew that above all other things the simple must have an idol, and it must be an idol they can see and hear, and not some abstract and invisible spirit which their childish imaginations could not encompass.

  He knew now that Jamuga’s belief in the innate integrity and sanctity of each man was the dream of one removed from reality, and without the understanding of men. He told himself that only a fool believed that the simple man had a deep human pride and independence and inaccessibility, and was possessed of reasoning virtue. Experience had convinced him that men wished a stronger man to decide all things for them, to command them and not consult them, to say “Thou shalt,” and not “Shall we?” He knew that individual responsibility irked and confused and frightened the simple mass of men, and that all they wished was guidance, protection, duty and an idol. The leader who consulted his people was a leader who is not respected, but even regarded with contempt. His reasonableness marked him among his people as a weak creature, not deserving of honor and fidelity. Law and not reason was this dais upon which the real king set his throne, knowing that the sword has more power when it is wielded without explanation.

  Years later he said to a Persian historian: “I was but a youth when I realized that capriciousness is the fatality of a ruler. At all times his people must know that his laws are undeviating, and that a certain action will bring a fixed and certain result. This doth bestow upon them peace of mind and tranquillity. Like children, the capriciousness of an unpredictable ruler doth afflict them with bewilderment and fear, and by demanding of them the act of thinking, doth make them feel that they stand on shifting sands covered with treacherous water. Let a ruler despise the souls of his people, and drive them with his whip into good pastures, and they will bow down before him and call him lord indeed.”

  Kurelen continually marvelled and smiled at the amazing prescience of this youth of little experience. Finally, he spoke about it to the Shaman. Kokchu inclined his head, and smiled also.

  “Kurelen, I must thank thee much, in truth, that thou didst persuade me to remain and enjoy thy conversation. For I have discovered that Temujin is a man of power and destiny, as thou once didst say. But thou hast asked me how he knew all the things he must do, and in return I can only answer that mayhap there are gods in reality, and that they whisper their wisdom to him. Once a Persian priest told me: ‘God doth decree the tides that sweep over the souls of men, and doth set on those tides the soul of one great man, like a ship that rideth on mighty waters to some predestined land.’”

  Kurelen said: “Thou didst prophesy what he would do. And now thou dost believe thy prophecy.”

  Kokchu, with a straight face, replied: “Mayhap the spirits put the prophecy in my mouth.”

  Kurelen ordered wine, and they drank a toast to the young khan.

  Kurelen then said: “Once I told Temujin that he had the light of destiny in his eye. He believed me. Mayhap opportunity is merely the handmaid of belief. He who believeth in himself hath won the first and the last battle.”

  “He is master of men and priests,” remarked Kokchu, with malice. “Nay, do not believe that I am resentful because I am the first of his servants, and he doth tell me the decree of the spirits of the Blue Sky. When a priest is master of a people, then that people is both treacherous and impotent. I prefer to serve rather than to be served. It doth bring me more peace of mind, and at the end, more pleasure.”

  Kurelen, smiling, said: “The first desire of man was pleasure. And, if he is wise, that is always his desire.”

  One morning Temujin was breaking his fast with Kasar, Subodai, Chepe Noyon and Jamuga, whom men called “the four Knights of Temujin, the four silver hounds.” A messenger, spent and bleeding and panting, was admitted to his yurt, and threw himself, breathless, at Temujin’s feet. When he could speak, he cried:

  “Lord, the Taijiut, led by the two brothers, Targoutai and To
doyan, with thirty thousand horsemen, are moving down upon thee, swearing that this day thou shalt die!”

  The four knights paled, sprang to their feet. Then instinctively, they glanced at Temujin, awaiting orders. But Temujin had tranquilly resumed the breaking of bread. He held out his cup to Chepe Noyon, who, amazed, filled it. Then Temujin gave the cup to the fainting messenger, and forced him to drink. He said at last: “How far are they from us?”

  The messenger wept. “Before the sun is high in the heaven, but near the zenith, they will be upon us.”

  Temujin shrugged, lifted his eyes, and smiled palely at his disturbed nokud.

  “Then, why do we not finish our meal?”

  One by one, still pale, they resumed their places about him. He gestured to them, and they forced themselves to be quiet, and to continue their meal. He helped himself to more food, and seemed engaged in peaceful thought. Finally, he looked at them again, and said:

  “Last night it was unseasonably cold. We must move faster to our winter pastures, lest the snow and ice be upon us like wolves. Though this valley is sheltered, there was a web of ice upon the stream even when the sun was high yesterday.”

  No one spoke. They exchanged perturbed looks. But the discipline of their lord had eaten into their souls, and they waited. Jamuga was whiter than any of the others, and the eye he fixed upon Temujin was sad but resolute and calm.

  The meal finished, Temujin rose and went out under the high colorless sun. The grass of the long valley was already turning brown. Thousands of horses, sheep, goats, and cattle, and a few camels, were pasturing upon the grass. Morning campfires burned before the city of tents. The cries of the herdsmen rose in the clear air to the clear wan sky. As far as the eye could see, there were only the peaceful herds, the peaceful women, the playing children, and the busy warriors sharpening their swords, wrestling, grooming their stallions and mares, and practising marksmanship with their bows, and laughing boisterously. Temujin looked at it all, and reflectively cleaned his teeth with a straw. Behind him stood his four knights, composed but ready, and awaiting his orders.

  No one knew what he was thinking. But in reality his brain was roiled with sharp thoughts. At first he contemplated flight, knowing how he was outnumbered. But to fly meant the abandoning of the herds, the treasures of the clan, the women and children—the loss of everything he had gained. To remain and fight would probably result in being completely surrounded, his warriors murdered, and himself taken prisoner for a worse fate. He faced almost inevitable destruction, however he decided. He glanced at the sun. Within a short time, now, the Taijiut would be upon him, and he must act at once. Instantly, his tall composed figure seemed imbued with fiery life. He turned to the nokud and issued a brief command.

  The nokud inclined their grave heads, ran from him, calling commands in loud peremptory shouts. He then went quickly, but without particular haste, to the yurt of his mother. There he found Houlun supervising the preparation of the morning meal for her women servants and the young wife, Bortei. For Bortei was experiencing the wretched nausea of her condition; too, she cared little for household affairs, and believed that she must reserve the energies of her mind for more important matters. At this moment, she was still in her yurt, next to Houlun’s, fast asleep.

  Houlun, seeing her son, frowned at him coldly, and said: “Thy wife is still aslumber, while I prepare what thou wilt eat, and thy haughty nokud. If thou wert not still enamored of her body, thou wouldst go to her and deal with her severely.”

  Temujin smiled slightly, and laid his hand with affection on his mother’s arm, admiring, even in that moment, her queenly carriage, her beautiful head and smooth face, and neatly braided gray-and-black hair. Widow and mother of a lord of a barbarian horde, she conveyed the impression of noble bearing and blood and great dignity. When Temujin touched her, she winced a little, and withdrew from him, remembering Bektor who had been killed for no reason which seemed valid to her.

  “What wouldst thou have with me, Temujin?” she asked. Never again would she call him son, and never again would her eyes warm with love for him. But her astuteness warned her that he came to her now on no trivial mission.

  “Mother, we face the gravest crisis of our life. Within an hour the Taijiut and my loving kinsmen will be upon us. Before the sun doth slope to the west, we shall be conquerors, or conquered, and I shall be dead. Listen carefully to my commands, and do thou gather up the women and tell them what to do.”

  She bowed her head in haughty submission, and then listened attentively. But even while one part of her alert brain listened, she thought with another, and with fear: My brother! This thought made her face pale, her eyes distend and her lips dry.

  When Temujin had done, she fixed her gaze intently upon his face, which the strong pale light of the morning seemed to illumine. He had loosened the neck of his coat, and she saw, below the skin bronzed by sun and wind, the milk-white flesh which had been sheltered from them. She saw how his eyes, usually gray and opaque, had turned to the green-blue color of a winter sky. And she marvelled at his calm expression, his calm unhurried voice as he issued his commands. Involuntarily, she thought: This is no ordinary man to which I have given birth! And she saw how his red hair flamed beneath the round fur hat, and how like dark stone were his broad cheekbones, and the harsh planes of his strong face, and how firm and vital was his slender tall body.

  “What thou dost command shall be done at once,” she said, and though her words were humble, her tone was not. She watched him walk away, and bit her lip.

  He sprang up upon the platform of his wife’s yurt, and entered. Bortei slept on her fur-strewn couch, her little hand under her cheek, her hair streaming over her shoulders and over the bed. She smiled as she slept, wantonly, and with a sort of voluptuousness. He stood beside her and looked down at her for a long moment, watching how her high and rounded breast moved with her breath, and how lovely was the curve of her small thigh, and how thick were her black lashes as they lay on her childish cheek. And then he looked away from her and sighed, remembering a woman who had never left his thoughts, a woman with golden hair and red lips and misty eyes.

  He withdrew his dagger and held it in his hand. Then he gently awakened his wife. She woke simply, and completely, like a child. She smiled at him, languorously lifted her arms. He knelt beside her and kissed her throat, and then her mouth. But seeing his eyes, she ceased to smile, and sat upright

  “What ailest thee, my lord?”

  He told her. And as she listened, she turned white, even to the lips. He laid the dagger beside her, and she looked at it, as though fascinated.

  “If I am killed, and thou and the other women are made captive, thou must give me thy promise now that thou wilt sink this dagger into thy heart, and that thou, my wife, shalt never occupy another’s bed, and that my child, which thou dost carry in thy womb, shall never be the slave of the Taijiut.”

  Her eyes widened; she paled even more. She could not look away from the dagger.

  He took her into his arms with a passionate movement, and kissed her wildly. “Bortei, my love, my wife!” And yet, under his lips he dreamt that he kissed another woman. After a moment, she returned his kisses abstractedly, looking sideways at the dagger.

  He released her. “Bortei! Thy promise!”

  She smiled at him, rested her arms on his shoulders, and looked clearly and candidly into his eyes.

  “My lord, didst thou think I would do otherwise, even if thou hadst not commanded me?”

  “Thou hast spoken like the wife of a khan, Bortei, and I love thee!”

  He picked up the dagger and put it into her hand. Her fingers winced from the touch of it, but she assumed a brave and resolute expression, and gazed at him fearlessly.

  He kissed her again, then left her abruptly. She sat alone for some moments after he had gone, smiling fixedly. Then she glanced at the dagger. Her face changed, became cruel and contemptuous. She flung the weapon from her and it fell at some distance; s
he grimaced.

  “I am the wife of a fool!” she exclaimed aloud. She lay back on her bed, and stared at the rounded roof of the yurt. Through its opening she could see the fierce blue sky, shining with the sun. She smiled. She moved voluptuously on her bed. She twined a strand of her hair about her fingers. Her smile widened, became languid and wanton. She smoothed her hands over her beautiful young breasts, and wondered if Targoutai would admire her, and whether he would make her the chief of his wives.

  In the meantime, Temujin had gone to the yurt of his uncle, Kurelen. The Shaman was with him. They seemed excellent friends these days. They were enjoying breakfast, and chaffing each other. When Temujin entered swiftly, they looked up at him, and smiled, but seeing his face, they smiled no longer.

  He told them the story. Kurelen’s face seemed to wither; his lips twitched. He laid his hand on his dagger. The Shaman paled; his eyes dropped before Temujin’s. But neither he nor Kurelen spoke.

  Then Temujin said to his uncle: “If I never see thee again, Kurelen, remember that I have loved thee.”

  Kurelen replied gently, looking at him steadfastly: “Thou shalt see me again, Temujin. Never have I regretted so much until this day that I can give thee nothing but my blessing. It is not worth much, but thou hast it.”

  Temujin knelt before him and took his hand, pressing it. “I know I have it, mine uncle.” And he lifted the dark and twisted hand to his lips. Kurelen’s contorted mouth quivered. He had not shed tears since his childhood, but now tears rose to his eyes, like liquid fire. He felt like a father whose only son was about to face death. And he thought: In spirit, he is indeed my son.

  Temujin rose to his feet again, and turned to Kokchu. “Do thou come with me at once.”

  The Shaman, still without speaking, rose and followed Temujin out of the yurt into the blazing sun of approaching noonday.