Casca 22: The Mongol

by Barry Sadler

  On the dawn of the third day they rode out. As he had forecasted, the Tatars had seen the wisdom of becoming part of his force. And with Sarjan Khan to lead them, there was little grumbling. In truth, many of them were happy to be on the move again. The life of a city dweller was not for a nomad. The open lands were in their blood, and their fathers' fathers had been sired in the same wild lands that had bred the Mongol. They were, if not brothers, then at least first cousins.

  Casca, Temujin, and Sarjan Khan stood mounted outside the gates of Khalkak as the array passed by. Temujin had never looked better. The years had been kind to him. He was healthy and fit for his thirty-five – or was it thirty-six – years. Casca didn't know for certain.

  Even though he had acquired wealth, he kept his personal dress simple, though it was always the best to be had. Now, instead of robes of half-cured goat hide, he had the soft, rich furs of the northern weasel draped around his shoulders to keep out the winds. For a helmet he wore a simple steel-spiked, bowl-shaped helm with a neck guard of chain mail. His weapons were much the same – simple but of the best quality.

  As the army passed by, Casca could tell that Temujin was becoming one of the great ones. At least that is what history would call him, as it had Julius Caesar and Alexander the Great. The families of the thousands who would die to gain him that title might have a different name for him. Casca knew that he had been especially merciful to Khalkak. That would not always be the case. There was still a wildness in him that no amount of talking to could take out of him. He was a Mongol, and a Mongol he would die, though surely he was one of the most exceptional men that the world, for good or evil, would ever see.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  That was the true beginning. As he forecast, the Quonqurat came to him, adding their strength to his. He gathered to him all the poor clans and families of tribes of no import and in the gathering made both them and him stronger. The outcasts of Chin, India, and the West who had no tribe became part of his, each adding his portion to the power of Temujin.

  Those who came thinking they would only pay service with their lips soon paid with their heads. After several more battles Ong Khan finally fell. He had lost the faith of his own people, and as Temujin had said, this took place in the spring of the following year.

  Casca saw the old man surrounded by his dead, knowing that all which was his was now gone – his tribes, retainers, wives, and daughters were now the property of Temujin. Ong Khan, mounted on his horse, stood still, head downcast. He had lost. The deaths of his warriors meant nothing compared to the loss of his pride.

  Temujin had beaten him. He knew now that the prophecies were true. He should have just handed over his tribe and pledged fealty to the young man, and all this would have been avoided and he'd still be a great man.

  The cries of his wounded being put to the sword did not penetrate to the depths of his own personal sorrow and grief. Only when his two sons, Jirchi and Barlas, were dragged before him did his eyes raise from the bloodied and stinking earth. Temujin stood with them.

  Around them were the brothers of Temujin, Temuge and the scar-faced Old One. He had always meant to ask Temujin why he called him that. For assuredly Casca-bahadur was younger in years than he. Now he knew he would never have the time to ask the question – not that it mattered anymore.

  It was a sickness of the spirit to know that he had been used, and used badly. Jemuga had poisoned the hearts of his sons, and they had passed the disease on to him. Now they would all pay. All save Jemuga. And that was another question to which he would never know the answer. Would Temujin finally have his revenge on him? He hoped so.

  All of his warriors had been disarmed and were being bound by the victors, who had by Temujin's command treated them gently enough. Only the badly wounded were put to the sword. Temujin would need replacements for the men he'd lost. But first he would have to make an example for the captives so they would believe him.

  "Greetings, Ong Khan, This has been a long day for the both of us. If you will dismount, please – we still have a few things to take care of before we all can rest."

  Ong Khan summoned up the last of his pride and strength, dismounted with grace, and stood erect, facing his captor squarely. "Yes, it has been a long day, Temujin, though there have been longer. But before we finish this thing, tell me truly: Did you plot to take that which was mine?"

  Temujin moved closer to the old Mongol khan. "Ong Khan, I have always planned to take all of the tribes of the steppes under my standard. Yours was no different. Sooner or later you would have had to submit to me as your liege or be destroyed. There were, and are, no other options for anyone who opposes me.

  "But know this: I bear you no personal ill will. All that I do is necessary. I do nothing out of hate. I can understand why you came against me, and if the situation had been reversed, I would have done the same."

  Turning away from Ong Khan, he gave a command to Temuge, who relayed it to their Noyans. All the captives were made to turn and face Temujin, Ong Khan, and his sons. "Because I respect you, Ong Khan, and you did show honor to me in the past, I shall make this quick but no less certain. I shall at least spare you the sight of your sons dying."

  With that he struck, driving his sword deep into the belly of the older man, twisting the blade up to where it would cut open the pumping muscle of his heart. Ong Khan died near the shores of Lake Baikal, and Temujin, true to his word, made certain that Ong Khan would not live to see his sons die. Jirchi and Barlas followed him in the next few seconds.

  He had them beheaded, for they were the instigators of this day's events. He had to give their due. They died well enough – with pride, extending their necks with dignity to await the blows from the headsman's ax. If they had not listened to Jemuga, he might have had a chance to bring Ong Khan into his fold without blood being spilled. But what was done was done, and kismet is ever at the head of and at the end of life's trail.

  After Ong Khan fell, Temujin rolled over the other tribes. One by one they came to him, either in battle or by their desire to be part of his nation. The Oirats and Buryats had to be subdued.

  Temujin next struck into Hsi Hsian against the Tanguts, then he crossed into the Chin against the Jurchen. All the time he gathered peoples to him. Those that would not come to him voluntarily were destroyed, for Temujin, true as ever to his word, offered only that to resist was to die, to submit to prosper.

  Sarjan Khan gathered to his standards many of the Tatar tribes, extending the boundaries of Temujin's power to the west where he was now on the borders of the Empire of the Black Khitans.

  His sons grew into manhood. Tashi, the eldest, he made master of the hunt, which was a post of high esteem. To Chagatai, the next eldest, fell the administration of the laws, and the Yasa was written. Ogedei he chose for administering the growing kingdom, and to Toli, who always had the taste for battle in his mouth, went the command of the organization of the troops and their equipment.

  Among his sons he divided the tribes and armies. They would command these as well as perform their other duties. He built his foundation from the bottom to the top, never forgetting that the wild warriors who rode the steppes without the knowledge of book or bath were the true source of his power.

  Casca saw it all and wondered if he had done right. Or would it have made any difference? The wild blood of Temujin was not to be denied, at least not very often. There were times when Casca was able to convince him to show mercy to any city or tribe who resisted, but it was not very often. Still, perhaps that in itself was better than nothing, for he knew that Temujin would have reached this point without him. It might have taken a bit longer, but that was all.

  It was hard for him to recall all the names of all the tribes and peoples that came under his standard. They were legion, and all were treated equally; that is to say, not overly gently. But one could ride across his lands with bags of gold and no guard, for such was the power of the Yasa, and the punishments for breaking his laws were alwa
ys kept to the letter.

  Stations were established, running the length and breadth of his kingdom, where fresh riders and horses were always kept. Travelers could resupply themselves there at costs determined by the law. To steal was to die. To rob was to die. And in the beginning, the dead were as cordwood stacked along the trails to testify to the law. The wise learned and the ignorant perished.

  It was in the time after Temujin had absorbed the rest of the Kereits and the Oirats that the shaman Kokchu, whom some called Teb-Tengri, meaning "most heavenly," which he certainly was not, came onto the scene. Casca and Temuge disliked him from the first. But Temujin welcomed him, for he had been one of the qams who read the signs on the night of his birth and had forecasted his rise to glory.

  Temujin began to listen to him about too many things. The shaman would read the stars and the burned, cracked bones of sheep, and always he told Temujin that which he wished to hear and not the truth as it really was. The only thing he did that Casca agreed with was to say that soon Temujin would become the Ghengiz Khan. Universal, oceanic, the khan of all khans.

  Teb-Tengri had other problems. He was inordinately fond of wine. To this end, Temuga and Casca decided at first opportunity to end the influence of this half-crazed alcoholic holy man, who had a tendency to fondle either young girls or boys, whichever happened to be around at the moment.

  It was during a banquet when Teb-Tengri began to provoke Temuga. Of course, he used terms and frames of reference that could have been interpreted several ways. In this manner, if Temujin called him to account, he could say that he was misunderstood. At any rate, he and Temuge came to blows, and Temujin ordered them both out of the banquet. Once outside, Casca grabbed Teb-Tengri and quickly and efficiently snapped his spine. He could not permit a mad shaman to influence one such as Temujin.

  Temujin was furious, but who was he to punish? The Old Young One? Unthinkable – and he wasn't certain he could. His own brother, who had never been anything but loyal and willing to give all to him? Impossible. It was therefore best just to forget the whole matter.

  As Temuge had said, "The shaman started it, and being the brother of Temujin, I finished it." Casca said nothing, feeling it was wiser to let Temuge handle things. At any rate, Teb-Tengri went to his ancestors, whatever kind of slimy creatures they were, leaving behind him a title for Temujin. Perhaps he was a great shaman and able to forecast the future. But if that was the case, then he missed reading about his death.

  In the spring of A.D. 1206 at Qura-Qurom, a great quraltai, a gathering of the tribes of the steppes, was held. There Temujin was proclaimed the Ghengiz Khan. Casca stood at his left side and Temuge to his right as he ascended to what was to be the first throne of the Mongol Empire.

  And the different tribes no longer said they were Kereits or Oirats, Tatars or Uighars. They were the Mongols. A nation.

  Casca looked upon Temujin, remembering him as the thin, half-starved boy who had freed him from his chains, then thought of what he was now: the master of a great nation. In just a few years he had begun to change his people into more than what they were, as he had promised years ago.

  But for Casca he knew the wars were just beginning. Soon Temujin, the Ghengiz Khan, would move to the west and on to Persia, Arabia, and Iraq. And he was weary of the killing. It was not that the Mongols were any worse or better than the more civilized peoples behind the wall.

  He, for instance, remembered that one case centuries earlier when the Chin has massacred the army of Chao. Nearly four hundred thousand captive warriors were put to the sword. A fine and sensitive culture does not always breed the best in man.

  He had seen it too many times: Scratch the thin veneer of what man called culture or civilization and in most cases you would find a barbarian waiting to be set free.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  The Ghengiz Khan was ready to move to the west. The Sultan of Khorasan had destroyed the Black Khitans, saving him the trouble of doing it, and by doing it, the sultan had unwittingly removed the only buffer between his empire and that of the Mongols.

  All of his internal enemies had been disposed of at last. It had taken some time, but as the Old Young One said, "Never leave an enemy behind you." Now that he was secure, he would turn his attention to Muhammad Sultan of Khotan and to vassal Inalchuq, the governor of Otrar, who was kinsman to Terken. Khatun, the sultan's mother, and called himself Ghayir Khan, the mighty khan. The sultan and Inalchuq had killed his emissaries. That would be avenged, they would pay for their crimes, and according to the Yasa, the punishment was death.

  "Bring me the Old Young One," he commanded Qubulai, who as always was in attendance of his master's words. "After I have finished with him, bring to me my son, emirs and Noyans. For we have much to prepare for. This mighty khan and his master, the sultan, have at their disposal a well-trained force. But it will not be sufficient to resist us, and the streets of Otrar will run with blood for the insult they have given us. They force this war upon us, and there can be no road but that of justice and vengeance.

  "All must believe in the laws of the Mongols, without which all we wrought will be as sand between a drunkard's fingers, and our enemies will come upon us, and our families as desert jackals, feeding on the bodies of those better than they!"

  The Ghengiz paused in speech. He liked the sounds of the words. The Old Young One had taught him that also: that all power and wealth begins with the ability to communicate, to make your needs and orders known and clear, to convince by words and save the sword. Both to destroy and to make well was in the power of the word, but when that failed there was always the sword and the torch. "Once you have picked up the sword, never put it down while your enemy lives or refuses to submit."

  "As you command, my lord."

  Qubulai lowered his graying head, the two long braids hanging and swinging over his shoulders as he paid obeisance and turned to stride from the tent with the rolling gait of a horseman.

  Qubulai found Casca inside his yurt, squatting cross-legged on a carpet of soft hides of weasel and fox. At first Qubulai thought he might have been indulging in that strange practice of the magi, called meditating. But no, he was just bent over, gnawing on a particularly tough but tasty portion of roasted camel haunch.

  "Welcome and be seated, Qubulai. Would you care for a piece of this unfortunate beast, which most assuredly died of meanness to be so tough?"

  Qubulai smiled, showing the gap in his teeth where three front teeth had been knocked out by a morning star swung at him by a Turkoman eight years before. He liked the Old Young One but was not comfortable around him. He had known him now for many years, and he had never changed. At least not to one who watched him closely as he had. The Old Young One had let his hair grow long to his shoulders, and a beard covered much of his face, leaving only those strange eyes that reminded him of the master's. Perhaps the Old Young One was older than even he thought might be possible, Qubulai thought.

  As it was easier than searching for answers, he shook the uneasy questions about Casca out of his mind. He was a good warrior and over the years had advised the master well and never asked anything for himself. He could have been the lord of a great domain. This Qubulai knew for certain, for he had heard the master offer him such more than once. Each time this Old Young One called Casca would just shake his hairy head and reject the offer.

  This simple yurt, of a cherig with his few personal retainers were all it appeared he wished for and would have had even less if the master had not insisted that he maintain at least a minimally proper image for one in command and in favor. "The master wishes for you to come to him, Casca-bahadur."

  Tossing the half-gnawed haunch of recalcitrant camel into a corner, Casca wiped his fingers in his beard to cleanse them of the grease and rose to his feet, groaning. "Just as well. I think the camel was going to win the fight, anyway. He was just too strong for me."

  Gathering his weapons to him, he belted on his sword and dagger and followed after Qubulai to the barag
ah of the Great Khan Ghengiz. As they left, two of his household guards waiting outside fell in behind them as they made their way through the encampment, passing by the fires that provided warmth for the sixty thousand warriors from a dozen tribes. One was the personal guard, which attended the master on his travels.

  He was hailed a few times by those who had fought at his side from time to time, with comradely calls of "Come sit and tell us of your travels, Casca-bahadur." "Take wine with us, Old Young One," another would call.

  But to all Casca only replied, "I have to attend the master.”

  And that was enough. For none would dare to even dream of interfering with obeying the commands of the master of the Mongols.

  Around the baragah of Ghengiz, the kebeul, his night guard, had just taken up their positions. A hundred chosen warriors stood guard around the tent. Bared weapons glinted in their hands. Their commander, a Noyan of one thousand, greeted Casca and Qubulai with a sweep of his blade as he stood under the standard of the Khan of Khans. The yak tails swung limply in responding without care to the evening breeze.

  Casca's two-man escort stopped outside the outer perimeter of the night guards. To go one step farther was to die. Going on ahead to the entrance of the baragah, Casca did not leave his weapons, and neither was he searched. He, as was Qubulai, was tarkhan, one of the privileged.

  Lowering his head, he entered the huge tent, which was large enough for a hundred men to stand in ranks without discomfort. There was no majordomo to announce his entry, replete with titles and honors, of which he had many.