As if in echo of his thoughts, Tsubodai looked over the tuman from Karakorum.
“I was sorry to hear of your father’s death,” Tsubodai said. “He was a fine man. We can certainly use you here.” The orlok was obviously pleased at the sight of so many additional warriors. It brought his tumans up to six, with almost as many again in his auxiliaries. Surely the sky father smiled on this campaign.
“You have a month or two yet before we move,” Tsubodai went on. “We must wait for the rivers to freeze solid. After that, we will ride against the city of Moscow.”
“In winter?” Mongke said, before he could stop himself. To his relief, Tsubodai only chuckled.
“Winter is our time. They shut up their cities for the cold months. They put their horses in stables and sit around great fires in enormous houses of stone. If you want a bearskin, do you attack in summer when it is strong and fast, or cut its throat as it sleeps? We can stand the cold, Mongke. I took Riazan and Kolomna in winter. Your men will join the patrols and training immediately. It will keep them busy.”
Tsubodai nodded to Kachiun, who bowed as the orlok clicked in his cheek and trotted the red horse away.
“He is … impressive,” Mongke said. “I am in the right place, I think.”
“Of course you are,” Kachiun said. “It is incredible, Mongke. Only your grandfather had his touch on campaign. There are times when I think he must be possessed of some warlike spirit. He knows what they will do. Last month he sent me to the middle of nowhere to wait. I was there just two days when a force came galloping over the hill, three thousand armored knights riding to relieve Novgorod.” He smiled in memory. “Where else would you rather be? Safe at home? You were right to come out here. We have one chance to knock the world back on its heels, Mongke. If we can do it, there will be centuries of peace. If not, everything your grandfather built will be ashes in just a generation. Those are the stakes, Mongke. This time we will not stop until we reach the sea. I swear, if Tsubodai can find a way to put horses on ships, perhaps not even then!”
Chagatai rode along the cliffs of Bamiyan with his eldest son, Baidur. Northwest of Kabul, the red-brown crags ran outside the lands granted him by Ogedai, but then, his family had never truly recognized borders. He grinned at the thought, pleased to be riding in the fading heat, in the shadow of dark peaks. The town of Bamiyan was an ancient place, the houses built of the same dun stone that formed its backdrop. It had suffered conquerors and armies before, but Chagatai had no quarrel with the farmers there. He and his men patrolled areas outside the Amu Darya river, but there was no cause to leave the villages and towns as smoking ruins.
With the khan’s shadow stretching over them, they were actually thriving. Thousands of migrant families had come to live in the lands around his khanate, knowing that no one would dare move an army in reach of Samarkand or Kabul. Chagatai had made his authority clear in the first two years, as he took control of an area populated by wild bandits and aggressive local tribes. Most were slaughtered, the rest driven away like goats to take word to those who did not hear. The message had not been lost and many of the townspeople believed that Genghis himself had returned. Chagatai’s men had not bothered to correct the error.
Baidur was already tall, with the pale yellow eyes that marked the line from the great khan, ensuring instant obedience among those who had known Genghis. Chagatai watched him closely as he guided his mare across broken ground. It was a different world, Chagatai thought, a little ruefully. At Baidur’s age, he had been locked in a struggle with his older brother, Jochi, neither willing to give up the prospect of being khan after their father. It was a bittersweet memory. Chagatai would never forget the day when their father had denied them both and made Ogedai his heir.
The air had been baked all day, but as the sun sank it grew cooler and Chagatai could relax and enjoy the sights and sounds around him. His khanate was a huge area, larger even than the homeland. It had been won by Genghis, but Chagatai would not scorn the gift of his brother. The cliffs were looming closer and he saw Baidur look back at him to see where he wanted to go.
“To the foot of the cliffs,” he said. “I want you to see a wonder.”
Baidur smiled and Chagatai felt a burst of affection and pride. Had his own father ever felt such an emotion? He did not know. For a moment, he almost wished Jochi alive so he could tell him how different things were, how his world had grown larger than the small inheritance they had fought over. The horizons were wide enough for them all, he realized now, but the wisdom of age is bitter when those you have failed have gone. He could not bring back the years of his youth and live them with greater understanding. How impatient he had been once, how foolish! He had vowed many times not to make the same mistakes with his own sons, but they too would have to find their path. He thought then of another son of his, killed in a raid by some ragged tribesmen. It had just been his bad luck that he had come across them as they camped. Chagatai had made them suffer for the death of that boy. His grief swelled and vanished just as quickly. There had always been death in his life. Yet somehow Chagatai survived where other, perhaps better, men had fallen. His was a lucky line.
At the base of the cliffs, Chagatai could see hundreds of dark spots. From his previous trips, he knew they were caves, some natural, but most hewn from the rock by those who preferred the cool refuges to a brick-built house on the plain. The brigand he sought that day had his base in those caves. Some of them went back into the earth for a great distance, but Chagatai did not think it would be too hard a task. The tuman that rode at his back had brought firewood to bank at the entrance to every cave, smoking them out like wild bees from their nest.
In among the dark fingernail smudges of the cave mouths, two fingers of shadow rose above them, immense alcoves cut into the rock. Baidur’s sharp eyes picked them out from a mile away, and he pointed excitedly, looking to his father for an answer. Chagatai smiled at him in response and shrugged, though he knew very well what they were. It was one reason he had brought his son out on the raid. The dark shapes grew before them as they came closer, until Baidur reined in his mare at the foot of the largest of the pair. The young man was awestruck as his eyes made out the shape inside the cliff.
It was a huge statue, larger than any man-made thing Baidur had ever seen before. The drapes of robes could be seen cut into the brown stone. One hand was held up with an open palm, the other outstretched as if in offering. Its partner was only slightly smaller: two smiling figures looking out onto the fading sun.
“Who made them?” Baidur asked in wonder. He would have walked even closer, but Chagatai clicked his tongue to stop him. The cave dwellers were sharp-sighted and good with a bow. It would not do to tempt them with his son.
“They are statues of the Buddha, some deity of the Chin,” he said.
“Out here? The Chin are far away,” Baidur responded. His hands opened and closed as he stood there, obviously wanting to walk up and touch the enormous figures.
“The beliefs of men know no borders, my son,” Chagatai said. “There are Christians and Moslems in Karakorum, after all. The khan’s own chancellor is one of these Buddhists.”
“I cannot see how statues could be moved … no, they were cut here, the rock removed around them,” Baidur said.
Chagatai nodded, pleased at his son’s sharp wits. The statues had been chiseled out of the mountains themselves, revealed with painstaking labor.
“According to the local men, they have stood here as long as anyone can remember. Perhaps even for thousands of years. There is another one in the hills, a huge figure of a man lying down.”
Chagatai felt an odd pride, as if he were somehow responsible for them himself. His son’s simple pleasure was a joy to him.
“Why did you want me to see them?” Baidur asked. “I am grateful—they are … astonishing—but why have you shown them to me?”
Chagatai stroked the soft muzzle of his mare, gathering his thoughts.
“Because my fathe
r did not believe in building a future,” he said. “He used to say there was no better way for a man to spend his life than in war with his enemies. The spoils and land and gold you have seen came almost by accident from those beliefs. He never sought them for themselves. Yet here is proof, Baidur. What we build can last and be remembered, perhaps for a thousand generations to come.”
“I understand,” Baidur said softly.
Chagatai nodded. “Today, we will smoke out the thieves and brigands who inhabit the caves. I could have hammered the cliffs with catapults. In months or years, I could have reduced them to rubble, but I chose not to because of those statues. They remind me that what we make can survive us.”
As the sun set, father and son stood and watched the shadows move across the faces of the huge stone figures. Behind them, minghaan officers shouted and whistled to their men until the khan’s ger was up and the fires lit for the evening meal. The men in the caves would wait another night. Some of them would escape in the darkness, perhaps, though Chagatai had warriors hidden on the other side, waiting for anyone who tried.
As they sat down to eat, Chagatai watched as Baidur crossed his legs and took salt tea in his right hand, the left cupping the elbow automatically. He was a fine young warrior, coming into his prime years.
Chagatai accepted his tea and a plate heaped with pouches of unleavened bread and mutton, well spiced and fragrant.
“I hope you understand now why I must send you away, my son,” he said at last.
Baidur stopped chewing and Chagatai went on.
“This is a beautiful land, ripe and rich. A man could ride all day here. But this is not where the nation will make its history. There is no struggle here, even if you count a few rebels and cattle thieves. No, the future is being written in the sweep west, Baidur. You must be part of that.”
His son did not reply, his eyes dark in the gloom. Chagatai nodded, pleased that he did not waste words. He reached into his deel robe and withdrew a sheaf of bound parchments.
“I sent messages to the khan, my brother, asking that you be allowed to join Tsubodai. He has given me that permission. You will take my first tuman as your own and learn all you can from Tsubodai. He and I have not always fought on the same side, but there is no better teacher. In years to come, the fact that you knew the orlok will be worth much in the eyes of men.”
Baidur swallowed his mouthful with difficulty, bowing his head. It was his greatest wish and he did not know how his father had understood. Loyalty had kept him in the khanate, but his heart had been with the great trek, thousands of miles west and north. He was overcome with gratitude.
“You honor me,” he said, his voice tight.
Chagatai chuckled and reached over to ruffle his son’s hair. “Ride fast, boy. If I know Tsubodai, he will not slow down for anyone.”
“I thought you might send me to Karakorum,” Baidur said.
His father shook his head, his face suddenly bitter. “There is no future being written there. Trust me in this. It is a place of stagnant water, where nothing moves and no life stirs. No, the future is in the west.”
NINETEEN
The wind moaned and then whispered like a living thing, biting into their lungs as they breathed. Snow fell constantly, though it could not obscure the path. Tsubodai and his men walked their horses along the line of the frozen Moskva River beneath them. The ice was like bone, white and dead in the dark. The city of Moscow lay ahead, its cathedrals and churches rising high on the horizon. Even in the darkness, lights gleamed behind wooden shutters in the walls: thousands of candles lit to celebrate the nativity of Christ. Much of the city was shuttered and closed for the heart of winter, the terrible cold that stole away the old and the weak.
The Mongols trudged on, heads down, hooves and reins muffled in cloth. The river they walked ran right through the center of the city. It was too wide to guard or block, a natural weakness. Many of the warriors looked up as they passed under a bridge of wood and stone, spanning the icy road in arches that were anchored in huge columns. There was no outcry from the bridge itself. The city nobles had not considered any invading army could be insane enough to walk the ice into their midst.
Only two tumans followed the course of the river into Moscow. Batu and Mongke roamed to the south, raiding towns and making certain there were no forces on their way to intercept the Mongol armies. Guyuk and Kachiun were farther north, preventing a relief army from force-marching to save the city. It was not likely. The tumans seemed to be the only ones willing to move in the coldest months. The chilled air was brutal. The cold numbed their faces, hands, and feet, leaching away their strength. Yet they endured. Many of them wore deel robes as cloaks over their armor. They slathered thick mutton fat on exposed skin and wrapped themselves in layers of silk and wool and iron, their feet frozen despite the lambswool stuffed into their boots. Many of them would lose toes, even so. Their lips were already raw, gummed shut with frozen spit. Yet they survived, and when the rations ran short, they took blood from their mounts, filling their mouths with the hot liquid that could sustain them. The ponies were thin, though they knew to dig through the snow to crop frozen grass beneath. They too had been bred in a harsh land.
Tsubodai’s scouts moved faster than the main force, risking their mounts on the icy ground to bring back the first warning of any organized defenses. The city seemed eerily silent, the snow lending such a stillness to the air that Tsubodai could hear hymns being sung. He did not know the language, but the distant voices seemed to suit the cold. He shook his head. The ice road was strangely beautiful in the shadows and moonlight, but it was no place for sentiment. His aim was to crush anyone with the strength to stand before him. Only then could he move on, knowing his flanks and rear were safe.
The city itself was not large. Its cathedrals had been built on high ground above the river, and around them clustered the houses of churchmen and wealthy families. In the moonlight, they could be seen spreading down the hills into a town of smaller buildings, haphazard across the landscape. The river fed them all, gave them life as it would now bring death. Tsubodai’s head jerked up as he heard a voice call nearby, high and broken. The panic was unmistakable. They had been seen at last. He was only surprised it had taken so long. The voice yelled and yelled, then was choked off as one of the scouts riding along the banks used the sound to guide himself in. There would be bright red blood on the snow, the first of the night. Yet the watcher had been heard and it was not long before bells began to sound in the distance, tolling a warning through the still darkness.
• • •
The cathedral was silent, the air heavy with incense issuing from the censer in a trail of white smoke. Grand Duke Yaroslav sat with his family in the pews reserved for him, his head bowed as he listened to the plainsong words of a prayer written eight centuries before.
“If He was not flesh, who was laid in a manger? If He is not God, whom did the angels who came down from heaven glorify?”
The duke was not at peace, no matter how he tried to put the cares of the world aside and take comfort from his faith. Who could know where the damned Mongols would strike next? They moved with incredible speed, making children of the armies he had sent. Three thousand of his finest knights had been slaughtered at the beginning of winter. They had ridden out to find the Mongol army and report their position, not to engage them. They had not come back. All he had were rumors of a bloody streak in the hills, already covered in snow.
Duke Yaroslav twisted his hands together as the heavy incense filled his lungs.
“If He was not flesh, whom did John baptize?” Father Dmitri intoned, his voice strong and resonant in the echoing church.
The benches were full and not just to celebrate the birth of Christ. Yaroslav wondered how many of them had heard of the red-mouthed wolf hunting through the hills and snow. The cathedral was a place of light and safety, though it was cold enough to need the heavy furs. Where better to come on such a night?
“If He is
not God, to whom did the Father say: This is my beloved Son?”
The words were comforting, summoning an image of the young Christ. On such a night, Yaroslav knew he should be focusing his thoughts on birth and rebirth, but instead he thought of crucifixion, of pain and agony in a garden, more than a thousand years before.
His wife’s hand touched his arm and he realized he had been sitting with his eyes closed, silently rocking like the old ladies at prayer. He had to keep up a calm front, with so many eyes watching. They looked to him to protect them, but he felt helpless, lost. Winter did not stop the Mongol armies. If his brothers and cousins had trusted him, he could have put a force in the field to destroy the invaders, but instead they thought he schemed for power and ignored his letters and messengers. To be surrounded by such fools! It was hard to find peace, even on such a night.
“If He was not flesh, who was invited to the marriage in Cana? If He is not God, who turned the water into wine?”
The priest’s voice echoed, rolling in a rhythm of its own that should have been comforting. They would not read the darker verses on the night of Christ’s birth. Yaroslav did not know if the Mongol host would attack his cities of Vladimir and Moscow. Would they reach even Kiev? It was not so many years since they had struck so deep into the forests and tundra, killing at will and then vanishing again. There were many stories and legends of the fearsome “Tartars.” It was all they had left behind the last time. Like a storm, they had struck and then vanished.
He had nothing that could stop them. Yaroslav began to wring his hands again, praying with all his heart that his city, his family, might be spared. God had mercy, he knew. The Mongols had none.
Far away, thin shouts could be heard. The duke looked up. His wife was staring at him, her expression confused. He turned at the sound of running feet. Surely he would not be called out at this hour? Could his officers not handle one night without him, while he found solace in the Mother Church? He did not want to rise from the hard-won warmth of his seat. As he hesitated, more running steps could be heard as someone raced up the stairs to the bell tower. Yaroslav’s stomach clenched in sudden terror. No, not here, not this night.
The Khan Series 5-Book Bundle: Genghis: Birth of an Empire, Genghis: Bones of the Hills, Genghis: Lords of the Bow, Khan: Empire of Silver, Conqueror Page 152
