Salsanan did not respond at first. He was a man used to authority and comfortable in a chain of command. With the khan dead, it was as if a vital support beam had been removed and his habitual certainty was gone. He stammered slightly as he tried again, unnerved under the pale stare of the khan’s brother.
“My lord, I was given the task of escorting you home. Those are my only orders. Are you saying you will not come?”
“I am saying I cannot,” Kublai snapped, “until I have brought the Sung to heel. The sky father has sent you to me, Salsanan. Your tumans are a gift, when I thought there could be none.”
Salsanan saw Kublai’s assumption and spoke quickly to head him off before he gave orders that could not be undone.
“We are not reinforcements, my lord. My orders were to bring you home to Karakorum. Tell me where your camp is and I will begin the preparations. The khan is dead. There will be a gathering in Karakorum …”
Kublai had flushed again as he spoke, this time in anger.
“Are you deaf? I have said I will not come back until my work is finished. Until I have the Sung emperor’s head. Whatever your orders were, I countermand them. You are my reinforcements, sorely needed. With you, I will complete the khan’s wishes.”
Salsanan clenched his jaw, seeking for calm and finding it difficult to grasp. He found his own anger rising and his voice hardened as he replied.
“With respect, I am not yours to command, my lord. Neither are the tumans under me. If you will not come home, I must leave you here and make my way back. I will carry whatever messages you want me to take to Karakorum.”
Kublai turned away, taking a moment to wrap his reins around his hand. He could see Salsanan’s tumans in silent ranks stretching into the distance. He hungered to have them with him, doubling his forces at a stroke. At his back, his veterans were waiting in good spirits, certain that this new army had come to bolster their strength. To see them march away would be a small death, abandoned at the moment of triumph. Kublai shook his head. He could not allow it. Every mile to the east had brought a greater density of towns, better roads, and teeming people. Hangzhou was barely five hundred miles on, but already he could see the wealth and strength of the outlying cities. He needed Salsanan’s men. They were the answer to prayers, the sign of benevolent spirits bringing him aid when he needed it most.
“You leave me no choice, General,” Kublai said, his eyes glinting with anger. He mounted his horse easily, leaping into the saddle. “General Bayar, Orlok Uriang-Khadai, bear witness.” Kublai raised his voice, making it carry to both sides of waiting warriors.
“I am Kublai of the Borjigin. I am grandson to Genghis Khan. I am eldest brother to Mongke Khan.”
“My lord!” Salsanan said in shock, as he realized what was happening. “You can’t do this!”
Kublai went on as if he had not spoken.
“Before you all, in the lands of my enemies, I declare myself great khan of the nation, of the khanates under my brothers, Hulegu and Arik-Boke, of the Chagatai khanate and all others. I declare myself great khan of the Chin lands and the Sung. I have spoken and my word is iron!”
Deep silence followed his words for a beat, then his tumans bellowed in joy, raising their weapons. On the other side, Salsanan’s men responded in a great roar of acclamation.
Salsanan tried to speak again, but his voice was lost in the tumult. Kublai drew his sword and held it high. The noise seemed to double in volume, crashing against them.
Kublai looked down at Salsanan as he sheathed his sword.
“Tell me again what I can’t do, General,” he said. “Well? I have the right. I claim it by blood. Now I will take your oath, or I will have your head.” He shrugged. “It is nothing to me.”
Salsanan stared, slack-jawed at what he had witnessed. He looked around at his cheering men and the last of his resistance faded. Slowly, he knelt on the grass, looking up at the khan of the nation.
“I offer you gers, horses, salt, and blood, my lord khan,” he said, glassy-eyed.
THIRTY-ONE
AT DAWN, ARIK-BOKE STOOD ON THE PLAINS BEFORE KARAKORUM. Mongke’s two oldest sons had been granted a place close by their uncle. Asutai was sixteen and Urung Tash fourteen, but in their wide shoulders they showed signs of what would become their father’s massive strength. They were still red-eyed from grief. Arik-Boke had been kind to them in the days after the terrible news had come home and both young men looked up to him in simple hero worship.
Hulegu stood at his brother’s right hand, still darkly tanned from his time in Persia and Syria. He had left only a small force behind with General Kitbuqa to guard the new cities, the new khanate he had won there. Arik-Boke could practically feel his brother’s pride. Hulegu had done well with Baghdad, but the region was far from pacified. He could not stay long in Karakorum.
Arik-Boke rubbed the scar across his ruined nose. He caught himself in the habit and took his hand away, determined to be dignified on this of all days. He looked out at the massed tumans of the nation, the princes who had crossed half the world to be there when they heard of the khan’s death. They had come a long, long way from the fledgling nation Genghis had created from far-flung tribes. It showed in their numbers and in their obvious wealth.
The body of Mongke Khan lay hidden in a huge covered cart, specially built for that task, for that day. It was to be drawn by forty white horses and followed on foot by thousands of men and women. Their tears would salt the ground as they returned to the last resting place of Mongke’s grandfather. Proud princes would walk in its wake, putting aside the signs of their rank as they mourned the father of the nation.
Arik-Boke watched as the sun began to set. In the dark, torches would be lit along a path that stretched away from the city and they would begin. Before that, they waited for him. He turned to Hulegu and his brother nodded to him. Arik-Boke smiled, recalling the first tense meeting after Hulegu’s return. For the first time in years, they had walked out of the city like a pair of poor herdsmen, bearing skins of airag on their shoulders. There were many fires around the city, many men and women huddling around them against the cold. Hulegu and Arik-Boke had sat down to join the vigil, talking all the while of the khan and brother they had lost. They had honored Mongke with mouthfuls of airag spat into the air and both of them had drunk themselves into a bleary stupor.
Hulegu had been burned dark under a harsh sun. He even smelled different, an odor of cloves and strange spices coming off his skin. As that first night had gone on, his eyes were bright as he described the lands he had seen, with sunlit mountains and ancient secrets. He told Arik-Boke of kohl-eyed Persian women he had seen dance to exhaustion, flinging sweat like bright jewels in the light of feast fires. He spoke of the great markets; of snakes and magicians, of brass and of gold. His voice had grown hoarse with recollection and awe.
Before the sun had risen, Arik-Boke had understood that Hulegu did not want the empire of the great khan. His brother had fallen in love with the desert lands and itched even then to return to them, begrudging every day spent on the cold plains of home. In the morning, they had risen to their feet with groans and creaking joints, but they were at peace with each other.
Arik-Boke breathed slowly, forcing himself to relax. It was time: The nation waited for him to speak. He took a deep breath, filling his lungs with the incense that lay strongly on the air.
“My brother Mongke entrusted the homeland to me, the plains where Genghis himself was born. In his absence, he entrusted Karakorum to my hands. I will continue his work, his ambitions, his vision for the small khanates. The nations cannot be left unattended, this we have agreed.” His heart pounded and he took another breath.
“I will be great khan, in the line of Genghis, in the line of Ogedai, Guyuk, and my brother Mongke. Speak your oaths to me and honor my brother’s wishes.”
Hulegu knelt first at his side and Arik-Boke rested a hand on his shoulder. Mongke’s sons followed, for all to witness. Arik-Boke had offer
ed them lands and wealth and had hardly needed to explain the alternative. After such a public display, there would be no one whispering to them that they could have taken the khanate.
As far as the eye could see, the tumans followed suit. In a ripple like a rock dropping into a still pond, the assembled princes knelt and offered gers, horses, salt, and blood. Arik-Boke shuddered slightly, closing his eyes. Only Kublai was missing from the great host before Karakorum. His brother would hear the news from the yam riders waiting to gallop away, but by then the whole world would know there was a new khan. At least Kublai was not a man of great ambition, or he would surely have challenged Mongke when they were all still young. Arik-Boke tried to ignore the itch of his doubts. Kublai should have come home when he heard Mongke had died, but he had not. He was a dreamer, more suited to libraries and scrolls than leadership of the nation. If his older brother chose to challenge him, Arik-Boke would answer with all the force of the risen nation.
Arik-Boke smiled at the thought of the scholar riding to war. Kublai had sent home the women and children of his tumans. They too had given their oaths to him, kneeling in the dust before Karakorum. As Mongke’s sons had chosen their path, Kublai would be forced to accept the new order. He sighed with pleasure at the sight of so many tens of thousands on their knees before him. The youngest son of Tolui and Sorhatani had dared to stretch out his hand when the people needed a khan. It was Arik-Boke’s day and the sun was still rising.
THIRTY-TWO
THE IMPERIAL MEETING CHAMBER AT THE HEART OF HANGZHOU was in uproar. Sung lords had gathered without being called, as the sense grew that they must not miss whatever was happening. As the morning wore on, runners and servants constantly reported to those in their city houses outside the grounds. More and more made the decision and summoned their bearers and palanquins. Younger lords came on horseback, wearing swords on their waist and surrounded by loyal guards. There was no sense of peace or security in the hall. The tension and noise rose by the hour.
They had traveled in from their estates to the old emperor’s funeral, but when it was over, they remained in their city houses, waiting to be summoned to council. The Mongol armies had come within striking distance of the capital city. There was fear in Hangzhou, a febrile tension in the air. Soldiers on the walls strained their eyes into the distance as if Mongol outriders could appear out of the morning mist with no warning at all. Information changed hands for strings of silver coins as the rumor-mongers parlayed small knowledge into the highest profits.
The conclave that day had begun from a rumor that the new emperor was ready to call them. No one knew who had begun it, but the news spread to every noble house before dawn. Daylight brought no formal summons and barely a dozen lords had come to the imperial precinct and taken places. Word went out that they were there and as the morning passed the number doubled and then doubled again, as senior lords worried they were being excluded from some important event. The tipping point came in the early afternoon. Independently, the last eight heads of Sung houses decided they could wait no longer for the new emperor to call them. They entered the meeting hall together with swordsmen and servants, so that every seat and balcony was packed as the sun began to ease toward the west.
Lord Sung Win was at the center of it all, tall and thin in robes of mourning white. Many of the others wore less traditional dark blue to mark the passing of the emperor, but there was no sense of funereal calm. The gong that usually rang to announce the conclave was silent and many eyes glanced toward it, still expecting the booming note that would restore order. It could not be struck without the emperor’s command to gather, yet they were there, waiting for some act or voice. No one knew how to begin.
As the day waned, Lord Sung Win had taken a central position on the open floor, letting others come to him. Through his servants and vassal lords, he brokered information, observing the factions that gathered briefly and then drifted apart like silkworm husks in the wind. He showed no sign of weariness through the long hours and in fact seemed to grow in energy, his height and confidence commanding the room. The numbers swelled around him and the level of noise became almost painful to the ear. Food and drink were brought and consumed without anyone leaving their place.
There was tension and even fear in the faces of those who came. It was forbidden for them to assemble without the emperor’s order and for many the decision to do so risked their names and estates. They would not have dared to come if Emperor Lizong still lived. The heir to the dragon throne was unknown to them, a boy of only eleven years. It was that fact above all else that allowed them to join the throng in the hall. The light of heaven had been extinguished, the empire left suddenly adrift. In the face of such an omen, there was a fragile consensus. They could not ignore the enemy any longer.
Lord Sung Win felt the chaos like strong drink in his blood. Everyone who entered could see him there, representing one of the oldest houses in the empire. He spoke softly to his vassals, a center of calm and tradition in a growing gale. The smell of opium was pungent and he watched in amusement as lords set out ornate trays, soothing their nerves with the ritual process that began with rolling soft pills on bronze vessels and ended with them sitting back, drawing deeply on the pipes and wreathing themselves in bitter smoke. His own fingers twitched with the urge, but he controlled it. The meeting was a new thing and he dared not lose even some part of his wits.
As the sun began to set, many of the lords present lowered themselves onto porcelain pots carried in by their servants. Their robes hid everything from view as they emptied long-held bladders and bowels, the steaming contents borne away quickly so that the lords could stay in place. Sung Win waited for the right moment. There were at least two other groups who might yet open the conclave. One could be dismissed as lacking support, but the young man at the center of the other faction was flushed with his own sudden rise to power. Lord Jin Feng’s brother had been killed in the most recent attack on the Mongol forces. It should have left his house weak for a season, but the new lord had taken on the responsibilities with skill.
Sung Win frowned at the memory of a trade agreement he had tried to force through with the family. It had looked like the support of a friend, a financial gift with few conditions to tide them through difficult times until the house was stable. A single clause would have allowed him to annex part of their land if they had defaulted. It had been perfect, both subtle and powerful. They would have given him insult if they had refused and he had waited for the sealed document to be sent back to him. When it had arrived, he had been delighted to see the perfect lines of the house chop on the thick parchment. He had let his eyes drift down to the single line that made the agreement a weapon as sharp as any dagger. It had not been there.
Sung Win shook his head in irritated memory as Lord Jin Feng clapped some supporter on the shoulder. To copy a document and its seals so perfectly, even to the handwriting of Sung Win’s own scribe, was ingenious. He could hardly complain. The choice had been his to accept the altered agreement or let it accidentally be destroyed in a fire and send his regrets. He had accepted, acknowledging a fine stroke.
Sung Win watched his neighbor from under lowered lids, wondering if it would be best to let Jin Feng bear the brunt of imperial disapproval. The first to speak formally took the greatest risk, but it was not an advantage he felt he could give up. Sung Win smiled to himself, enjoying the tension across his shoulders and the way his pulse beat in his veins. All life involved risk.
He stood slowly in the tumult and his vassals fell silent, turning toward him. In such a tense crowd, that simple action was enough. The pool of stillness was noticed and spread quickly across the hall. Men broke off from whispers or open arguments, craning their necks without dignity to see who would dare to speak first without the emperor’s formal command.
Lord Sung Win glanced at the entrance arch for the last time that day, looking for the emperor’s herald, or his chancellor. He did not doubt the boy Huaizong had heard of the conc
lave by then. The old emperor’s spies would be in that room for their new master, ready to report every word and who had said them. Lord Sung Win took a deep breath. Nonetheless, the moment was upon him and silence had spread across the hall. More than a hundred lords watched him with eyes that gleamed in the light of the evening lamps. Most were too weak to affect the outcome of the day, but there were thirty-two others who held power in the nation, Lord Jin Feng among them. It may have been Sung Win’s imagination, but they seemed to stand out from the crowd. Though every man there wore white or dark blue, he could almost sense the points in the room where power lay.
“My lords,” he said. The silence was so profound he hardly needed to raise his voice at all. “Your presence reveals your understanding. Let us go forward in the knowledge that Emperor Lizong would not have wished us to sit idly while our lands are savaged and destroyed by an invader. We are in the crucible, my lords, knowing that we face a terrible enemy. Great and ancient houses have been lost to us. Others have passed to new heirs while the true bloodlines are broken.”
Whispers could be heard and he spoke louder, holding them. He had planned every word during the long hours of that day.
“I accept my part of the guilt we share, that we have indulged ourselves in games of power while the empire suffered. I have watched lords leave this chamber and seen their names cut into the honor stone as men who have fallen to protect our freedoms.”
He looked to Lord Jin Feng and the young man nodded reluctantly to him.
“Through our weakness, through our mistrust of one another, we have allowed an enemy to creep closer to the imperial capital than anyone has ever come. We have thrown mere straws into the wind to stop him and wasted our energies on politics and personal vengeance. The price has been high. My lords, the favor of heaven has been withdrawn from us. The emperor has gone from this world. At this moment of weakness, of chaos, the enemy comes, the wolf with bloody jaws. You know this.”
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 204
