“I am Temujin’s anda. He hath great respect for oaths. He may discipline me, but that is all. I can swear this to you.” He paused, then added: “If I meet them, they may not even come here. After all, I am the one who defied Temujin, not you. I shall return with the officers, for my discipline. In the meantime,” and he turned to the old man, “I leave thee in my place. If I do not return, and this is improbable, administer my laws with justice and mercy, and do nothing that I would not do. Save this: teach the young men the arts of war. Beat your ploughshares into swords. Prepare to defend that which is dear to you.”
He went to his wife’s yurt. There, he knelt before her, and kissed her hands. “Forgive me, my beloved,” he said, “for not being able to defend thee.”
She knelt beside him and kissed his forehead and his lips.
He dared not tell her of the approaching enemy, and that he was going out to meet them, and surrender. But he called for his children, and he kissed them with consuming and despairing passion. He was devoured with remorse.
He went out and called for his horse, and, without arousing attention, he rode quickly away.
He reached the brow of a low hill, and looked back at what he was leaving, probably forever. He saw the golden river and the golden grain, and the peaceful village of the tents. He saw the distant herds grazing tranquilly. He saw the men and the women going about their work, unthreatened.
“It is little I am doing,” he said aloud, and now there was joy on his face. “It is little enough, to give my life for them. If I can do this, perhaps I have not lived in vain.”
Chapter 20
Jamuga rode in the direction from which the enemy would come. He rode without haste, and his countenance was full of an austere peace, like that of a man who had died. For he had renounced everything, even life itself.
The vast ruined landscape of the desert enhanced his calm, his feeling that he had already departed the world of the living. All about him, in awful loneliness and immobility, stood cream-colored crumbling walls, cliffs, terraces, plateaus and enormous pedestals, upon which giant statues might have stood. He thought to himself, in a dreamlike meditation, that perhaps, ages past, giants had indeed inhabited these regions, and that these hills, shaped like temples, with faint outlines of disintegrating columns upon them, might have been their dwelling-places. Above him, the sky was the color of pale silver; under the feet of his horse, the earth was rutted and rippling, formed of mingled dust and sand and dry bleached earth. Nothing grew here but thorns and tamarisk bushes, covered with a whitish deposit. Nothing warm and living ran here, or moved, except Jamuga, a quietly-moving insect wandering through the tremendous ramparts of a dead world. He heard no sound; even the wind was still. He crept through silence; as through a tomb.
On the second day, towards sunset, he thought he saw the thin distant file of approaching horsemen. He reined in his horse. The bleached hills were a clear pink, and the sky was a brilliant polished blue. Jamuga waited; his hood lay on his shoulders. He waited without fear or despair, following the movement of the far horde with his calm blue eyes, and the fiery sunset light carved his face.
It was quite a while before he was certain that this was the enemy he expected. He spurred his horse, and rode towards them. He heard a faint horn blowing, and knew that he had been seen. He saw the banner of the nine yak-tails curving in the wind. Now, as he approached the army, he was amazed at its number, and smiled drearily to himself, and thought of his defenseless people. Would Temujin be here? Was he leading this regiment?
A horseman rode out to meet him, and he saw that it was Subodai. The Mongol then reined in his horse, and waited for Jamuga. He was a beautiful sight on his horse, though he was no longer very young. There was an ageless quality in his beauty which nothing would ever destroy. For it was compounded of nobility and dignity and pride, of virtue and steadfastness. He stood, sharp and vivid, against the red sky, his face turned towards Jamuga.
Seeing him, Jamuga’s heart rose on a wave of joy. Here was one without ferocity or cruelty, without vengeance and hatred. It was a good omen that he had come!
He rode up to Subodai, lifting his hand in greeting, and Subodai gravely returned the salute. They looked at each other in an intense silence, facing each other. Then Jamuga extended his hand to his old friend, and Subodai, without a moment’s hesitation, took that hand.
“Greetings to my lord, Subodai,” said Jamuga.
“Greetings to thee, Jamuga Sechen,” responded Subodai. His voice was so low that it was almost inaudible. And then for the first time Jamuga became conscious of the heavy pallor on Subodai’s face, and the troubled look in his eyes.
“I have come to surrender myself to Temujin,” said Jamuga, “and to return with thee.”
Subodai was silent. Then he glanced at the sky. “It is evening,” he said. “We shall camp here for the night.”
One of his officers rode up for orders, and received them. Jamuga looked curiously at the great army which had come to capture one helpless man. He saw their dark and threatening faces; he saw that when he looked at them, they turned their eyes away.
Jamuga’s nostrils distended; his heart rolled in his chest. A sudden wind of terror and foreboding blew over him. He turned to Subodai, and saw that the other was seemingly intensely preoccupied in unsaddling his horse. There was no sound of any voice as the army prepared to camp for the night.
Panic and fear clutched Jamuga. He could hardly breathe. He approached Subodai, and said:
“Why camp here? We have an hour or two of daylight left. And the way back is much easier.”
Subodai looked at him for a long moment, and his expression softened.
“My men are tired. I think it best we sleep before proceeding.”
Their gaze held. Subodai’s pallor appeared to increase, and for an incredible instant, Jamuga thought that there were tears in his eyes. But this could not be; it was but the reflection of the burning sunset!
Subodai laid his hand gently on Jamuga’s shoulder. “Thou wilt dine with me, Jamuga, and we shall sleep in the same tent. I have much to tell thee.”
Jamuga took hope again; his vague wordless terror blew away. Quiet comfort came to him. Subodai was his friend, and his trust in him was implicit.
Neither of the two men could eat much when it was brought to them. But Subodai drank, and Jamuga followed his example. The bitter cold of the desert night was about them. But the campfire was warm, and beyond its light lay the dark cloaked shapes of the sleeping men, and beyond them, the tethered horses. Of all the men and the beasts, Jamuga and Subodai were the only ones awake, except for the sentries, who could not be seen in the darkness.
The wine, and the presence of his friend, made Jamuga more voluble than usual. He told Subodai of his people, his wife and his children. And then, as he talked, he was like a man pleading before a judge for all that he held dear. Subodai listened, his wine cup in his hand, his head bent a little so that Jamuga could see only a portion of his handsome face.
“I believe I have found a way of life which is true and beautiful,” said Jamuga. “I have given my people peace and contentment. They are harmless and faithful and generous. They desire nothing of their neighbors but friendship. I am sorry, Subodai, that thou wilt not see them.”
Subodai stirred. “Didst thou speak?” asked Jamuga, bending forward, trying to see the other’s face.
Subodai lifted his cup and drank. Then he looked at Jamuga, and his expression was grave and gentle. “I said nothing, Jamuga.”
Jamuga continued to speak of his people, and Subodai listened. At moments, Jamuga’s voice broke with emotion, and he involuntarily wrung his hands. His was the only sound under the moon, and it seemed that all the earth listened to him.
After a while he ceased to speak. He was inexpressibly weary, but again, peace was on him. For, with the telling of what he loved, he felt again the loveliness of self-sacrifice and renunciation.
Still, Subodai said nothing. And afte
r a little, Jamuga inquired of news from his former people. But he had asked nothing yet of Temujin, and Subodai had not spoken of the khan.
Subodai seemed overwhelmingly relieved at Jamuga’s question. He said: “A few days ago, I am sorry to tell thee, Kurelen died, and also Houlun.”
Jamuga was stricken with grief and regret. And then, simply, he spoke of his old anda: “Temujin will have a heavy heart, now, for Kurelen was like a father to him, and in spite of many things, he loved his mother.”
He waited, eagerly, for Subodai to speak of Temujin. He could not understand, himself, why his pulses began to pound like those of a man who awaits the name of someone overwhelmingly precious.
But Subodai said nothing. The strangest look was on his face. Jamuga could not understand this look. Despite himself, he spoke again of Temujin: “He is well, is he not?”
“He is well,” replied Subodai, almost inaudibly.
Then another silence fell upon them. The campfire was low. The moonlight lay over the whole gloomy landscape, like spectral water. The air became colder, and a horse or two neighed uneasily near-by. And the two men sat side by side, plunged in melancholy meditation, the faint crimson light lying in the folds of their coats and on their features.
Then Jamuga became mysteriously conscious that some enormous struggle was taking place in Subodai, something which was like a convulsion of his whole being. Not by a look nor a motion did he give Jamuga this impression, but in his soul Jamuga was aware of this struggle. His own spirit sprang up, trembling, as if seeing relentless enemies. His flesh became rigid as iron; he could not have moved even if he had desired it. But a horrible sweat burst out over him, and there was a poisonous taste in his mouth.
And Subodai, sitting beside him, his head bent and averted, might have been asleep.
Several times, Jamuga tried to speak, but each time his voice died in his throat. Finally, in a faint voice, and through stiff and icy lips, he said: “Subodai, there is something thou hast not told me!”
Subodai sighed. He seemed to shrink in his garments. Then he lifted his head and looked full at Jamuga. Nothing could have been more despairing, more grief-stricken than his expressions.
“Thou art right, Jamuga, I have not told thee all.”
Jamuga clenched his hands so that the nails tore into his flesh. But he said calmly: “I am not a woman. Tell me what thou hast to say.” The tint of death itself spread over his face.
Subodai said gently: “I have come to take thee prisoner, Jamuga, to deliver thee, unharmed, to Temujin, for punishment.”
Jamuga nodded. He felt that he was smothering. “I know that!” he cried. “But, what else?”
Subodai wet his shaking lips. “And this, Jamuga: I have been bidden to kill all thy people, except the young women, and the children no taller than the wheel of a cart, and to bring these back, with thee.”
Jamuga’s face withered and collapsed visibly, so that it was corpselike. Then all at once, he uttered a frightful cry, incoherent, the cry of an animal wounded mortally. At that sound, the horses near-by awoke, and neighed frantically, and several men rose to their elbows, blinking, and fumbling for their weapons.
Jamuga seized Subodai by his arm, and shook him violently.
“Thou art lying! Even Temujin would do no such monstrous thing! Thou art lying, Subodai!”
Subodai looked at the hand on his arm, and, after a moment, he placed his own over it. He felt its deathlike sweat, its. straining tendons, which were like those of a man in extremis.
“Jamuga, I am not lying,” he said, in a pitiful tone. “I would to all the gods that I were.”
Jamuga bent his head, and burst into loud weeping, most dreadful to hear. Subodai put his arm about him. Compassion and sorrow ran through him like a knife. He had no comfort to offer; he could only embrace his friend dumbly.
Then, with a sudden violent movement, Jamuga shook off his arm. Again, his fingers gripped Subodai’s flesh.
“Surely, thou art no monster, Subodai! Surely thou couldst not, in cold blood, murder these defenseless people!”
Subodai sighed. “I have my orders. I must obey. I must always obey.”
“But not in this!” cried Jamuga, feverishly, clutching his friend with both his hands, and shaking him. “Thou canst tell Temujin that when thou didst come to the place where my people were, thou didst discover they had fled, and left no trace behind!”
Subodai felt the grip on the other’s hands, which were like tendons of biting iron. But he could only look at Jamuga with bitter sorrow in his face.
“I have mine orders, Jamuga, and thou knowest I have lived only to obey.”
Jamuga stared at him, madness in his eyes. Then he lifted his hand and struck Subodai savagely across the face. He struck him again and again. And Subodai did not move. He merely gazed at Jamuga with grief and gentleness, though his cheek turned scarlet, and blood appeared at the corners of his lips. Finally, he caught Jamuga’s hand by the wrist, and held it firmly.
“Jamuga,” he said sadly, “thou knowest this will do no good.”
Jamuga, crushed and collapsing, wept again. His head fell on his chest. Subodai released his hand, and listened to that awful weeping. Emotion of various kinds raced over his bruised and bleeding face. He sighed deeply, again and again. Once he put up his hand and wiped the blood from his lips, and stared at it, on the back of his hand, as though wondering what it was.
Then Jamuga was still, overcome with his tragic despair. He sat motionless, his head on his breast. Subodai glanced about him cautiously. He hesitated. Then he put his lips to Jamuga’s ear and whispered:
“Harken unto me, Jamuga: Thou hast said thy people are defenseless. They do not expect us; they would be slaughtered like lambs. I will allow thee to send a messenger unto them, this night, warning them of our approach, and imploring them to prepare to defend themselves. At least, then, they will die like men, fighting for themselves and their families.”
Jamuga lifted his head. He looked at Subodai with dying eyes.
“They have few weapons,” he said, his voice broken.
“Nevertheless, they will fight, with whatever weapons they have.” He paused, and added wearily: “This is all I can offer thee. It is no joy to me to kill unarmed men.”
He stood up and went to a sleeping man, and kicked him with unaccustomed savagery, then bade him rise and saddle his horse. Then he returned to Jamuga, and sat beside him again. He opened his pack, and withdrew a coarse sheet of Chinese paper, and a pen. These he laid on Jamuga’s knee. Jamuga stared at them blindly, not moving.
“I have but one request, Jamuga,” said Subodai gravely, “and that is this: that when we approach the camp of thy people thou wilt not attempt to aid them. For I have mine orders to bring thee safely to Temujin. Thou must give me thy word; otherwise, I withdraw my offer.”
Jamuga picked up the pen in his numb fingers. All life and substance seemed to have left his face. He said: “I give thee my word.” He began to write. The characters were fumbling and tremulous.
He urged his people to prepare to defend themselves to the death, for the murdering enemy was approaching.
“I know ye have little with which to defend yourselves; but I implore you to fight like men for all we have held dear, for all we love. This is all I can do for you. And I implore you to forgive me for my part in your tragedy. On my knees, I implore you, asking you not to think of me with bitterness, but with the knowledge that I share your grief and your death.”
He lifted the pen. It almost slipped from his fingers. But it was evident that he had not yet finished.
He resumed his writing, and now his hand shook so that the characters were barely legible:
“To my wife, Yesi: My heart’s beloved, forgive me for thy fate. I know that the women of our people, and the children, are to be carried back, as slaves, to the camp of Temujin. And I implore thee now, not to let this happen to thee and my children. We shall meet again, beloved. Thy Christian faith hath taug
ht thee so. Beyond this darkness, I shall embrace thee once more, and my children. Until tomorrow, my sweet, my wife.”
He handed the paper to Subodai, who read it without hesitation.
The illiterate warrior now presented himself for orders. Subodai handed him the letter, and fixing his eyes on him, he said slowly and clearly:
“This is a message to the people of the tarkhan, Jamuga Sechen, urging them to surrender without a struggle. Do thou ride with the wind, and present this message to the old men who can read.”
The warrior saluted, wheeled, and left them. In the profound silence, they heard his horse gallop away into the night.
Chapter 21
Because of his great pity, Subodai decided not to allow Jamuga to accompany him and his warriors to the camp of the Naiman. He knew the sight of what would take place would be too much for this wretched man.
So, he left Jamuga with a small number of warriors, to await his return.
Jamuga wept no more. He listened to Subodai’s last pitiful words, but gave no sign that he heard. He seemed already dead. A great dull calm was upon him. Subodai thought that his soul had died, and only the feeble flesh remained, in its last agonies of unconscious dissolution. His eyes were glazed; he breathed slowly and irregularly. He sat in the midst of the group of warriors, his gaze fixed on the ground, his hands hanging lifelessly on his knees.
Subodai gave orders that Jamuga was to have any comfort he desired. But he knew, as he rode heavy-hearted away, that Jamuga would eat no more, nor would he ever rest again.
The warriors left behind with him were disgruntled, and complained among themselves, casting resentful looks at Jamuga, who was the cause of their loss of anticipated sport. They feared that they would receive only the remains of the loot, and the ugliest of the women. But finally his aspect made them uneasy. It was like guarding a corpse, they muttered to each other. Some of them whispered that his spirit was gone, and perhaps a strange and malevolent spirit would take its place. So they looked at him with fear.
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