Köten saw the line of men, no, the crowd of men, stalking down the muddy street in the darkness towards him. He jerked back round the corner in two quick steps, but they had seen him outlined against the setting sun. The howl went up instinctively as they saw a frightened figure run from them.
Köten moved as quickly as he could. He had lived long enough to know he was in real danger. Whatever had brought the men out as a mob could end with his head being crushed or his ribs broken in with their boots. He heard their roar of excitement and he ran, heading back towards the dark river. Their boots sounded on the wooden walkway, thumping ever closer.
He slipped, his mired boots skidding on the wet ground. His sword vanished from his hand, falling on mud so soft that it made no sound at all. Someone crashed into him as he rose and then they were on him, taking out their rage on the shadowy stranger who had shown his guilt by running. He struggled, but they kicked and stabbed with short knives, pressing him down into the filthy mud until he was almost part of it, his blood mingling with the blackness.
The men stood clear of the lifeless body on the bank of the river. Some of them clapped others on the back, chuckling at the justice they had meted out. They had not known the name of the broken thing that lay there. In the distance, they heard the shouts of the king’s officers and almost as one they turned away and began to disappear into the shadows of the merchants’ quarter. The nomads would hear and be afraid. It would be a long time before they walked without fear through the cities of their betters. Many of the men were fathers and they went home to their families, taking the back alleys so that they would not come across the king’s soldiers.
The army that assembled in front of the city of Pest was vast. King Bela had spent days in a sort of frenzy as he came to appreciate what it took to field so many men. A soldier could not carry food for more than a few days at most before it slowed him down and made it harder to fight. The baggage train had taken every cart and workhorse in the country and it spread across almost as much land as the massed ranks before the Danube. King Bela’s heart filled in his chest as he surveyed the host. More than a hundred thousand men-at-arms, knights and foot soldiers had responded to the bloody swords that he had sent racing the length and breadth of Hungary. His best estimates were of a Mongol army half the size or less than the one he had been told to expect. The king swallowed yellow bile as it surged into his throat. He may have been facing just half the Golden Horde, but the reports coming to him from the north were of destruction beyond belief. There would be no armies coming to his aid from Boleslav or Henry. From everything he had learned, they were hard-pressed to survive the onslaught of the tumans raiding there. Lublin had certainly fallen and there was a single report that Krakow had followed it into flames, though Bela could not see how such a thing was possible. He could only hope that the reports were exaggerated, composed by frightened men. It was certainly not information to share with his officers and allies.
At that thought, he looked to the Teutonic Knights on his right, two thousand of them in their finest battle array. Their horses showed no sign of the mud churned up by the army. They shone in the weak sunlight and blew mist from their nostrils as they pawed the ground. Bela loved warhorses and he knew the knights had the very best bloodlines in the world for their mounts.
Only the left wing caused him to pause in his proud assessment. The Cumans were good horsemen, but they were still seething about the death of Köten in some grubby river brawl. As if such a thing could be laid at the king’s feet. They were an impossible people, Bela acknowledged to himself. When the Mongols had been sent back over the mountains, he would have to give more thought to the practicalities of settling so many Cumans. Perhaps they could be bribed to find a new homeland where they would be more welcome and less of a drain on the royal purse.
King Bela cursed under his breath as he saw the Cuman horsemen move out of place in the line. He sent a runner across the field in front of the city with a terse order to hold position. He scratched his chin as he watched the runner’s progress. In the distance, he saw the Cuman riders coalesce around the single man, but they did not stop. Bela let his hand fall in growing amazement. He turned in the saddle gesturing to the closest of his knights.
‘Ride to the Cumans and remind them of their oath of obedience to me. My orders are to stay in position until I give the word.’
The knight dipped his lance in answer and cantered with dignity after the first messenger. By that time, the Cumans had ruined the neat symmetry of the lines, their horses spreading over the field in no obvious formation. Bela sighed to himself. The nomads could barely understand discipline. He tried to remember the name of Köten’s son, who was meant to have command over them, but it would not come to mind.
They did not halt for the knight’s arrival, though by then they were close enough for Bela to see him holding his arms out. He might as well have tried to stop the tide, for they simply flowed around him, trotting with no urgency. Bela cursed aloud as he saw they were making for his own position. No doubt they wanted to renegotiate some part of their oath, or ask for better food and arms. It was typical of the filthy breed to try and squeeze an advantage from him, as if he were a grubby merchant. Trade was all they understood, he thought savagely. They’d sell their own daughters if there was gold in it.
King Bela glared as the Cuman horsemen rolled out, moving slowly across his army. His messengers were still coming in with the latest reports on the Mongols and he deliberately busied himself with them, showing his contempt. By the time one of his knights cleared his throat and Bela looked up, it was to see Köten’s son staring at him. The king struggled again for the younger man’s name, but it would not come. There had just been too many details in the previous days for him to remember everything.
‘What is so important that you risk the entire formation?’ Bela snapped, already red in the face from suppressed irritation.
Köten’s son bowed his head so briefly it was almost a jerk.
‘My father’s oath bound us, King Bela. I am not bound by it,’ he said.
‘What are you talking about?’ Bela demanded. ‘Whatever your concern is, this is not the place or the time. Return to your position. Come to me this evening, when we have crossed the Danube. I will see you then.’
King Bela deliberately turned back to his messengers and took another sheaf of vellum to read. He jerked his head up in amazement when the young man spoke again, as if he had not just been given his orders.
‘This is not our war, King Bela. That has been made clear to us. I wish you good fortune, but my task now is to shepherd my people out of the way of the Golden Horde.’
Bela’s colour deepened and the veins stood out on his pale skin.
‘You will return to the lines!’ he roared.
Köten’s son shook his head. ‘Goodbye, your majesty,’ he said. ‘Christ bless all your many works.’
Bela took a deep breath, suddenly aware that the Cuman horsemen were all staring at him. To a man, they had their hands on swords or bows and their faces were very cold. His thoughts whirled, but they were forty thousand. If he ordered the son killed, they could very well attack his royal guards. It would be a disaster and only the Mongols would benefit. His blue eyes grew still.
‘With the enemy in sight?’ Bela roared. ‘I call you oath-breakers! I call you cowards and heretics!’ Bela shouted at Köten’s son as he trotted away. Christ, why could he not remember the man’s name! His words might as well have been empty air. The king could only froth and rage as the Cumans peeled off in a mass of riders after their leader. They took a path that led around the great army of Hungary and back to the encampment of their people.
‘We did not need goatherders in the ranks, your majesty,’ Josef Landau said, with distaste. His brother knights growled their affirmation on all sides. The Cumans were still streaming across the main lines and King Bela struggled to master his fraying temper. He forced a smile.
‘You are correct, Sir J
osef,’ he replied. ‘We are a hundred thousand strong, even without those…goatherders. But when we have triumphed, there will be a reckoning for such a betrayal.’
‘I would be pleased to teach the lesson, your majesty,’ Josef Landau replied, his expression unpleasant. It was matched or exceeded by Bela’s own.
‘Very well. Spread the word that I sent the Cumans from the field, Sir Josef. I do not want my men dwelling on their betrayal. Let them know that I chose to fight alongside only those of good Hungarian blood. That will raise their spirits. As for the nomads, you will show them the price of their betrayal. They will understand it in those terms, I am sure.’ He took a deep breath to calm his anger.
‘Now I am weary of standing here listening to the plaintive voices of cowards. Give the order to march.’
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
Tsubodai watched the army of King Bela begin to swarm across the river, the bridges black with men and horses. Batu and Jebe sat their mounts and stared out with him, judging the quality of the men they would face. Their horses whickered softly to themselves, munching at the grass. On the plains, spring had come early and it showed green through the last patches of snow. The air was cold still, but the sky was pale blue and the world was bursting with new life.
‘They are good enough horsemen,’ Jebe said.
Batu shrugged, but Tsubodai chose to answer.
‘Too many,’ he said softly. ‘And that river has too many bridges. Which is why we are going to make them work for it.’
Batu looked up, aware as always that the two men shared an understanding from which he was excluded. It was infuriating and clearly deliberate. He looked away, knowing they could both read his anger all too easily.
All his life he had been forced to scramble for everything he had achieved. Then the khan had dragged him up, promoting him to command a tuman in his father’s name. Batu had been honoured publicly, and instead of his habitual hatred for the world, he had been forced to a new struggle, almost as painful as the first. He had to prove he was able to lead, that he had the skills and discipline men like Tsubodai took for granted. In his desire to prove himself, no one could possibly have worked harder or done more. He was young: his energy was almost infinite compared to the old men.
Batu felt torn as he looked at the orlok. One small, weak part of him would have given anything to have Tsubodai clap him on the shoulder and approve, just approve of him as a man and leader. The rest of him hated that weakness with such a passion that it spilled out, making him an angry companion for quieter souls. No doubt his father had looked up to Tsubodai once. No doubt he had trusted him.
It was part of growing-up to crush that sort of need in yourself, Batu knew very well. He would never gain Tsubodai’s trust. He would never have his approval. Instead, Batu would rise in the nation, so that when Tsubodai was withered and toothless, he would look back and see he had misjudged the young general under his care. He would know then that he had missed the only one who could take the legacy of Genghis and make it golden.
Batu sighed to himself. He was not a fool. Even the fantasy of an old Tsubodai realising his great error was a boy’s dream. If he had learned anything in manhood, it was that it didn’t matter what other people thought of him – even the ones he respected. In the end, he would patch together a life, with its sorry errors and its triumphs, just as they had. He tried not to listen to the inner need that wanted them to hang on his every word. He was too young for that, even if they and he had been different men.
‘Let them get about half their number across the Danube,’ Tsubodai was saying to Jebe. ‘They have…what? Eighty thousand?’
‘More, I think. If they’d hold still, I could be certain.’
‘Twice as many horsemen as we have,’ Tsubodai said sourly.
‘What about the ones who rode away?’ Batu asked.
Tsubodai shook his head, looking irritated. He too had wondered why tens of thousands of riders would suddenly break from King Bela’s army before the march. It smelled of trickery, and Tsubodai was not one who enjoyed being fooled.
‘I don’t know. They could be a reserve, or part of some other plan. I don’t like the idea of so many soldiers out of sight as we pull back. I’ll send a couple of men out to look for them, have them cross further downriver and scout around.’
‘You think they are some sort of reserve?’ Batu asked, pleased to be part of the conversation.
Tsubodai shrugged dismissively. ‘If they don’t cross the river, I don’t care what they are.’
Ahead of them, King Bela’s army trotted and marched across the wide stone bridges of the Danube. They came in clear units, the movements revealing much about their structure and offensive capability, which was why Tsubodai watched with such interest. The different groups linked immediately on the other side, establishing a safe bridgehead in case of attack. Tsubodai shook his head slightly at seeing their formations. King Bela had almost three times as many trained soldiers as he did, if you didn’t count the ragged conscripts Tsubodai had brought with him. For three tumans to achieve victory over such a host would take luck and skill and years of experience. The orlok smiled to himself. He had a wealth of those things. More importantly, he had spent almost a month scouting the land around Buda and Pest for the best spot to bring them to battle. It was certainly not on the banks of the Danube, a line of battle so vast and varied that he could not control it. There was only one response to overwhelming numbers: remove their ability to manoeuvre. The largest army in the world became just a few men at a time if they could be squeezed through a narrow pass or across a bridge.
The three generals watched with grim concentration as the army of Hungary formed up on their side of the river. It took an age and Tsubodai noted every detail, pleased that they showed no more discipline than any of the other armies he had encountered. The reports from Baidur and Ilugei were good. There would be no second army coming from the north. In the south, Guyuk and Mongke had razed a strip of land as wide as Hungary itself, throwing back anyone who looked as if they could be a threat. His flanks were secure, as he had planned and hoped they would be. He was ready to drive through the central plains, against its king. Tsubodai rubbed his eyes for a moment. In the future, his people would ride the grasslands of Hungary and never know he had once stood there, with their future in the balance. He hoped they would throw a drop of airag into the air for him when they drank. It was all a man could ask for, to be remembered occasionally, with all the other spirits who had bled into the land.
King Bela could be seen riding along the lines, exhorting his men. Tsubodai heard hundreds of trumpets sound from the massed ranks, followed by streaming banners raised above their heads on lance-poles. It was an impressive sight, even to men who had seen the armies of the Chin emperor.
Batu watched them in frustration. Presumably Tsubodai would share his plans with him at some point, perhaps when he was expected to risk his life to break that vast host of men and horses. His pride prevented him from asking, but Tsubodai had revealed nothing during day after day of cautious manoeuvring and scout reports. The tumans and conscripts waited patiently with Chulgetei, just two miles back from the river.
Already, the Magyar scouts had spotted the generals leaning on their saddle horns and observing. Batu could see arms pointing at their position and men beginning to ride out towards them.
‘Very well, I’ve seen enough,’ Tsubodai said. He turned to Batu. ‘The tumans will fall back. Slow retreat. Keep…two miles between us. Our footmen will have to run alongside the horses. Pass the word that they can hang on stirrups, or ride the spare mounts if they begin to fall behind and think they can stay in the saddle. The king has foot soldiers. They will not be able to force a battle.’
‘Fall back?’ Batu said. He kept his face calm. ‘Are you going to tell me what you have planned, Orlok Bahadur?’
‘Of course!’ Tsubodai said with a grin. ‘But not today. Today, we retreat from a superior force. It will be good for the me
n to learn a little humility.’
Sorhatani stood on the walls of Karakorum, looking along their length as the sun rose. For as far as she could see, teams of Chin labourers and warriors were building them higher, adding courses of limestone slabs and lime cement, before slathering more lime over it all in layer after hardening layer. There was no shortage of willing labour and they started early and finished only when it was too dark to see. Everyone with a stake in the city knew that they must expect Chagatai Khan to come. He would not be allowed to enter and there was no doubt then what would follow. His tumans would begin an assault on the walls of their own nation’s capital.
Sorhatani sighed to herself in the morning breeze. Walls would not stop him. Ever since Genghis had faced his first city, the tumans had been perfecting catapults and now they had the gritty black powder capable of extraordinary destruction. She did not know if Chagatai’s artisans had followed the same paths, but it was likely he knew every detail of the latest cannons and barrel-throwers. To her left, a platform for a field gun was being constructed, a squat tower capable of taking the weight and force of such a powerful weapon as it recoiled.
When he came, Chagatai would not have it all his own way, she had made sure of that. The city would belch fire at him and perhaps a tongue of righteous flame would end the threat before he broke the walls and entered the city.
Almost from habit, Sorhatani counted the days since the khan’s death. Twelve. She had closed the yam station in the city as soon as her own message had gone out to Guyuk, but the system was flawed. Another chain of way stations stretched west from Karakorum to Chagatai’s khanate, fifteen hundred miles or more. A rider from the city had to reach only one link in the chain and the resources of the precious yam could be used to send Chagatai word of the khan’s death. She thought over the distances again in her head. At the best speed, he would not hear for another six days. She had gone over the figures with Yao Shu as they began to fortify the city. Even if Chagatai set out immediately, if he ran to his horse and had his tumans standing by, he could not bring his tumans back for another month after that, more likely two. He would have to follow the yam route around the edge of the Taklamakan desert.
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