‘I will need all the tumans, Orlok Tsubodai. All.’
‘You do not need the ragged conscripts. Leave me but those and two tumans and I will go on.’
Slowly, Guyuk reached out his hand and gripped Tsubodai’s shoulder. The gesture was one he would not have dreamed of making a month before.
‘How could I leave you behind, Tsubodai? The general of Genghis Khan, at the time I need him most? Come home with me. You know I cannot allow you to stay. You will come back another year, when there is peace.’
Tsubodai stared at Baidur and his pain was visible to all. Baidur looked away rather than see. When the orlok’s gaze swept over Batu, his eyes blazed.
‘I am an old man,’ Tsubodai said. ‘And I saw the beginning of it all, when Genghis himself was young. I will not come back here again. I have spoken to prisoners. There is nothing between us and the ocean, nothing. We have seen their knights, Guyuk, do you understand? They cannot stop us. If we go on, the land is ours to take, sea to sea, for ever. Sea to sea, general. Ours for ten thousand years. Can you imagine such a thing?’
‘It is not important,’ Guyuk said softly. ‘The homeland is where we began. I cannot lose all that for lands here.’ He brought his hand back and his voice was steady.
‘I will be khan, Orlok Tsubodai. I need you with me.’
Tsubodai slumped slowly in his chair, the energy draining from his face. Even Batu looked uncomfortable at the changes they had wrought in him.
‘Very well. I will make them ready to ride home.’
Chagatai stood looking out at the river as the sun came up. The room was bare of furniture, the palace itself empty, beyond a few servants who would clean the rooms. He did not know if he would ever come back there again and he felt a pang of loss at the thought. He heard footsteps approaching and turned to see his servant Suntai enter the room. The man’s scarred face was welcome, while Chagatai’s heart soared with visions.
‘It is time, my lord khan,’ Suntai said. His gaze fell to the crumpled parchment in Chagatai’s hand, read and reread a thousand times since it had come just days before.
‘It is time,’ Chagatai echoed. He took a last look at the sun rising, lighting the backs of a flight of geese rising from the still waters. In such a mood, he stared straight at the ball of gold on the horizon, daring it to burn him.
‘I can be in Karakorum months ahead of him,’ Chagatai said. ‘I will take the oath of our people as khan, but there will be war when he returns. Unless I take the example of my beloved brother, Ogedai. What do you think, Suntai? Would Guyuk accept my khanate here in exchange for his life? Come, give me your counsel.’
‘He may, my lord. After all, you did.’
Chagatai smiled, at peace with the world for the first time in years.
‘Perhaps I would be storing up trouble for the future, or for my son, Baidur. I must think of his life now. By the spirits, if Guyuk would just die in his sleep, my path would be clear! Instead, I have sent him a hostage to my goodwill.’
Suntai knew his master well and he smiled as he came to stand behind him.
‘Guyuk may believe so, my lord, even Orlok Tsubodai, but will such a hostage truly stay your hand?’
Chagatai shrugged. ‘I have other sons. The prize is too great to turn aside for just one. Baidur will have to fight his own way out. After all, Suntai, I gave him my best warriors for his tuman. They have no equal in the nation. If he falls, I will grieve for him, but his fate is in his own hands, as always.’
Chagatai had not noticed Suntai’s soft boots in place of his usual sandals. He did not hear the final step. He felt a sting at his neck and choked in surprise, reaching up to his throat. To his astonishment, there was a terrible wrongness there. As he pulled his hand away, he saw it was covered in blood. He tried to speak, but his voice was lost to him and only creaked through the line that striped his skin.
‘It is said that the kirpan dagger is so very sharp that little pain attends a death,’ Suntai said. ‘I have never had the opportunity to ask. Its name translates as “hand of mercy” for that reason.’
The servant leaned closer as he saw Chagatai’s lips move, though a low gargling was the only sound he could make. Suntai stood well back as his master sank to one knee, still clutching his throat.
‘The wound is mortal, my lord. Try to be calm. Death is coming swiftly.’
Chagatai’s head sank slowly to his chest. His right hand came away bloody and reached for the sword on his hip, but he did not have the strength to draw it beyond the first gleaming line of steel.
‘I was told to pass on a message to you, my lord, if there was a chance to do so. I have memorised the words. Can you still hear?’
Suntai watched as Chagatai fell forward in a clatter. Someone shouted nearby and Suntai frowned at the thought of what must come.
‘The message is from Ogedai Khan, my lord, to be given at the moment of your death: “This is not vengeance, Chagatai. It is for my son. I am no longer the man who let you live. By my hand striking far, you will not be khan.”’ Suntai sighed. ‘I have never been truly your servant, my lord, but you were a fine master. Go with God.’
Chagatai’s hands fell limp and his guards came storming into the room, drawing their blades as they saw Suntai kneeling and whispering into the ear of their master. He stood as they rushed towards him, his face peaceful as the swords swung.
On a cold, clear morning, Tsubodai mounted his horse and looked back. There were no clouds and the sky was a perfect blue. Seven tumans were waiting in formation, the best warriors of his nation. Behind them, the baggage and carts stretched for miles. He had taken generals, some of them almost boys, and he had shown them their strengths. Despite his flaws, Guyuk would be a better khan because of what he had learned on the great trek. Baidur would be more of a man than his father before him. Mongke would make his father’s soul proud. Tsubodai sighed. He knew he would never see such an army again. Old age had crept up on him and he was tired. For a time, he had thought he could ride for ever with the young men, the lure of the sea bringing him further from home than he could once have dreamed. When Guyuk had called a halt, it was like a whisper of death in his ears, an ending. He stared into the distance, imagining cities with spires of gold. He knew their names, but he would never see them: Vienna, Paris, Rome.
It was done. He knew he would take arms if Chagatai challenged for Ogedai’s khanate. Perhaps he would see battle one last time. With the princes, he would take the field in glory and show Chagatai why Tsubodai Bahadur had been the general of Genghis Khan.
The thought lifted him for an instant, enough to raise his hand and drop it. At his back, the Mongol tumans began the journey of five thousand miles that would take them home at last.
EPILOGUE
Xuan looked out of the windows in a long cloister as he walked. Each one revealed a view of Hangzhou, with the river leading out into the bay. He had been moved often since coming into Sung lands, as if they could not think what to do with him. On rare occasions, he was even allowed to sail on the river, and he saw his wives and children twice a year, in strained meetings, with Sung officials watching on all sides.
The cloister ran along the spine of yet another official building. Xuan amused himself by timing his steps so that his left foot hit the stone at the centre of each pool of sunlight. He did not expect great news from the summons. Over the years, he had realised the Sung officials delighted in demonstrating their power over him. For too many times to count, his presence had been demanded in some private office, only to find the official had no connection with the court. On two occasions, the men involved had brought their mistresses or children to observe as they fussed with permissions and the allocation of his small income. The meeting itself was irrelevant. They had just wanted to parade the Chin emperor, the Son of Heaven himself, for their wide-eyed dependents.
Xuan was surprised when the small group of officials did not stop at the usual branching corridors. The apartments of more important men la
y beyond, and Xuan controlled the first stirring of excitement as they went further and further still. More than one door was open, as dedicated scholars and bureaucrats laboured inside, peering out at the footsteps they heard. Xuan took a grip on his hopes. They had been dashed too many times to expect his letters to have been answered at last, though he still wrote every day.
Despite his forced calm, he felt his heart beat faster as the bowing servants brought him to the door of the man who administered the examinations for almost all the posts in Hangzhou. Sung Kim had taken the name of the royal house as his own, though Xuan suspected he had been born a commoner. As one who controlled the funds Xuan was given to maintain his small household, Sung Kim had received many of his letters over the years. Not a single one had been answered.
The servants announced him and then stood back with their heads bowed. Xuan walked into the room, pleasantly surprised to see how it opened up before him. The administrator lived in luxury, amidst sculpture and art of better than average taste. Xuan smiled to himself at the thought of complimenting Sung Kim. In such a way, he could force the odious little man to make him a present of whatever he admired, but it was just a spiteful thought. His upbringing would not allow him to be rude, despite his circumstances.
While other servants trotted away to announce his arrival, Xuan wandered from one painting to another, taking care not to linger too long on each. Time was something he had in abundance and he knew Sung Kim would make him wait.
To his intense surprise, Sung Kim himself came out of the inner rooms almost immediately. Xuan inclined his head and accepted an equally brief bow from the other man. He endured the polite observances with his usual restraint, showing no sign of his mounting impatience.
At last, he was guided into the inner rooms and tea was brought for him. Xuan settled himself comfortably, waiting.
‘I have extraordinary news, Son of Heaven,’ Sung Kim began. He was a very old man, with white hair and wrinkled skin, but his own excitement was visible. Xuan raised an eyebrow as if his heart did not beat harder with every moment. It was all he could do to remain silent.
‘The Mongol khan is dead, Son of Heaven,’ Sung Kim went on.
Xuan smiled, then chuckled, confounding the older man. ‘Is that all?’ he said bitterly.
‘I thought…I must offer my apologies, Son of Heaven. I thought the news would bring you great joy. Does it not signal the end of your time of exile?’ Sung Kim shook his head in confusion and tried again. ‘Your enemy is dead, your majesty. The khan has fallen.’
‘I meant no offence, Sung Kim. I have outlived two Mongol khans and that is indeed welcome news.’
‘Then…I do not understand. Does it not fill your heart with happiness?’
Xuan sipped the tea, which was excellent.
‘You do not know them as I do,’ he said. ‘They will not mourn the khan. Instead, they will raise one of his sons and they will look for new enemies. One day, Sung Kim, they will come here, to this city. Perhaps I will still be a prisoner here when that time comes. Perhaps I will stare down from these very corridors as they bring their armies to the city walls.’
‘Please, Son of Heaven. You are the guest of the emperor, never a prisoner. You must not say such things.’
Xuan grimaced and set his cup down gently.
‘A guest can walk away when he pleases. A guest can ride without guards. Let us be honest with one another, Sung Kim.’
‘I am sorry, your majesty. I had hoped to bring you joy, not sadness.’
‘Be assured, you have done both today. Now, unless you wish to discuss my written requests, I will return to my rooms.’
The administrator bowed his head. ‘I cannot grant your desire to see your soldiers, Son of Heaven. Such things are far beyond my small powers.’
Xuan rose from his seat. ‘Very well, but when the new khan comes, they will be needed, strong and fit. You will need every man then, I think.’
It was Sung Kim’s turn to smile. The city of Hangzhou was ancient and powerful. It lay far from the border with the old Chin lands. The idea of an army ever coming close enough to cause concern was amusing.
HISTORICAL NOTE
The third son of Genghis was great khan for just twelve years, from AD 1229 to 1241. At a time when the Mongols were sweeping west into Europe, Ogedai’s death would be one of the crucial turning points of history. Western Europe could not have stood against them. The medieval castles there were no more daunting than walled Chin cities, and in the field, the Mongol style of fast-striking tactical warfare would have been practically unstoppable. It is no exaggeration to say the future of the West changed when Ogedai’s heart failed.
We know Ogedai was still young and died only fourteen years after his father. We do not know why he built Karakorum – the son of a khan who not only despised cities, but who had spent his entire life demonstrating how weak a defence they actually were. Yet Ogedai built a city as the throne of empire. Contemporary descriptions of it do survive – for example the words of a Christian friar, William of Rubruk. The silver tree was historical fact, as was it having shamanist temples, Islamic mosques and at least one Nestorian Christian church.
It is hard to explain why Ogedai would build such a thing at all. One explanation that fits the facts is that he was a little like Cecil Rhodes, a man whose heart pain began as young as sixteen. Before a heart attack finally killed Rhodes at forty-eight, he had built an empire for himself in Africa: a man driven to leave a mark, always knowing that he had little time to do it. Ogedai may well have had the same sense of urgency.
The second question is why he might build a city so influenced by those of the Chin – cities he had often seen burn. There, the influence of Yao Shu can be seen. Though Yao Shu was a real adviser to Ogedai, the character I have rendered is in fact an amalgam of two Chinese Buddhists from the period. I have not yet finished his tale. Worried by the khan’s heavy drinking, Yao Shu showed Ogedai how wine corroded an iron bottle. It is also true that Ogedai agreed to halve the number of wine cups he drank each day, only to have cups made that were twice the size. Buddhist advisers brought a sense of Chinese civilisation to the Mongol court, subtly influencing each of the khans. As a result, cities would one day open their gates to Kublai as they never would have to his grandfather.
The Three Games of Men (Naadam) in Mongolia are wrestling, archery and horse racing. The Naadam festival is indeed much older than the time of Genghis, though in previous centuries it was also a chance for tribes to horse-trade, mix bloodlines, gamble and be told the future in divinations. The modern Naadam festival has women taking part in archery and the races, though not wrestling, which is still the men’s sole preserve. The description of the archery wall is accurate. Shots are taken from around a hundred paces and archers compete in groups of ten, the smallest unit of Genghis’ army. Each archer has four arrows, and rather than judge individual shots, they must hit a certain number of targets to succeed. It is interesting that the archery tradition is one of teams, bearing in mind the martial nature of the sport and the vital role it played in the armies of Genghis Khan.
The horse races of the festival, which take place over three days, are all endurance races. In comparison to the West, endurance was the quality that made the khan’s armies mobile and again it is interesting to see how that has remained the pre-eminent quality of equine greatness, rather than a burst of speed from a horse bred and built like a greyhound.
I have taken a small liberty with history in including a foot race. There’s no record of it, but it would have been a possibility. I have no doubt other events have come and gone before the current form, just as the modern Olympics used to include a tug-of-war competition from 1900 to 1920, won twice by Britain.
It is sometimes believed that Genghis left a will. If such a document ever existed, it has not survived. If it was an oral will, we do not know if it was given at the point of death, or long before. Some versions of history have Genghis dying almost instantly, while others
have him lingering for days after a fall or a wound, where he could easily have arranged his own legacy. Either way, it is generally accepted that it was Genghis Khan’s desire to have Chagatai inherit a vast khanate, while Tolui received the Mongol homeland. As the official heir, Ogedai inherited the northern Chin territories and whatever else he could win for himself. I have put that distribution in Ogedai’s hands, in part because it would have been his final choice, no matter what his father intended. If Ogedai had executed Chagatai then, the bloodlines of that part of the world would have been very different, down to the present day.
Instead, Chagatai Khan died just a few months after Ogedai in 1242. The exact manner of his death is unknown, though the incredibly fortuitous timing allowed me to write and indeed suspect that he was killed.
The earliest written formula for gunpowder is Chinese, from around 1044. It was certainly used in siege warfare during the period of Ogedai’s khanate. Hand-held cannon of the sort I have described have been found dating back to Kublai Khan’s period. One of the earliest recorded uses was by the Mongols in the Middle East in 1260, but they certainly went back further than that.
They were the cutting edge of military technology for the period, effectively a hugely powerful hand weapon that fired stones or even a metal ball. Iron vessels filled with gunpowder and lit with a fuse would have made effective shrapnel grenades. We do know the Mongols encountered them first against the Chin and Sung – and were quick to adopt such terrifying weapons. In fact, it was the vast territory covered by Mongol armies that led to the proliferation of such weapons across the land mass.
That said, the formula for Chinese gunpowder was poor in saltpetre, so lacked some of the explosive punch we associate with the material. A rush of flame would have been more common, with batches of the mixture varying enormously between makers, regions and periods.
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