Mongke stood and watched his father. The other minghaans were senior men who had seen battle a thousand times. Next to them, he felt young and inexperienced, but they could not look at him. They were quiet with respect for Tolui, and Mongke knew he had to maintain the cold face for his father’s honour. It would have shamed the general to have his son weeping, so Mongke stood like a stone, his face hard. Yet he could not take his eyes off his father. Tolui had told them his decision and they were all bruised by it, helpless in the face of his will and the khan’s need.
One of them gave a low whistle when they saw Khasar ride out from another part of the camp. The general had earned their respect, but they were still willing to block him from the river as he came close. On that day, they did not care that he was the brother of Genghis.
Tolui had been standing with blank eyes as his hair was tied. The whistle brought him out of himself and he nodded to Mongke to let Khasar through, watching as his uncle dismounted and came to the bank.
‘You will need a friend to help you in this,’ Khasar said.
Mongke’s stare bored into the back of Khasar’s head, but he did not notice.
Tolui looked up in silence from the river and finally dipped his head in acceptance, striding out of the water. His slaves came with him and he stood patiently as they rubbed him down. The sun warmed him and some of his tension seeped away. He looked at the armour that lay waiting, a pile of iron and leather. He had worn something like it for all of his adult life, but suddenly it seemed an alien thing. Of Chin design, it did not suit his mood.
‘I will not wear the armour,’ he said to Mongke, who was standing ready for orders. ‘Have it bundled up. Perhaps in time you will wear it for me.’
Mongke struggled with his grief as he bent and gathered the pieces into his arms. Khasar looked on with approval, pleased to see how Tolui’s son kept his dignity. The father’s pride was shining in his eyes, though Mongke turned away without seeing it.
Tolui watched as his women yanked on clothes to cover their nakedness. He sent one barefoot over the grass with instructions to find a particular deel and leggings from his ger, as well as new boots. She ran well and more than one of the men turned to watch her legs flash in the sun.
‘I am trying to believe this is really happening,’ Tolui said softly. Khasar looked at him and reached out to grip his bare shoulder in silent support as he went on. ‘When I saw you coming, I hoped that something had changed. I think some part of me will expect a shout, a reprieve, up to the last moments. It is a strange thing, the way we torture ourselves.’
‘Your father would be proud of you, I know that,’ Khasar replied. He felt useless, unable to find the right words.
Strangely, it was Tolui who saw his uncle’s distress and he spoke kindly. ‘I think I will be better on my own for the moment, uncle. I have my son as a comfort to me. He will take my messages home. I will need you later on, at sunset.’ He sighed. ‘I will need you to stand by me then, without a doubt. Now though, I still have words to write and orders to give.’
‘Very well, Tolui. I will come back as the sun sets. I tell you one thing: when this is over, I am going to kill that shaman.’
Tolui chuckled. ‘I would expect nothing else, uncle. I will need a servant in the next world. He would do very well.’
The young slave returned bearing an armful of clean, woollen clothes. Bare-chested, Tolui pulled rough leggings up his thighs, concealing his manhood from view. The slave tied the thong at his waist while Tolui stood with his arms out, staring into the distance. His women had begun to weep and neither man rebuked them for it. Tolui was pleased to hear the crying of women for him. He dared not think of Sorhatani and how she would react. He watched as Khasar mounted his horse once more, the older man silent with misery as he held up his right hand and turned to ride away.
Tolui sat on the grass and the slaves knelt before him. The boots were new, soft leather. The women bound his feet in untreated wool and then pulled the boots over them, tying them with quick, neat movements. Finally, he rose.
The deel robe was the simplest he owned, a lightly padded cloth with almost no decoration beyond buttons shaped like tiny bells. It was an old piece that had once belonged to Genghis and it was marked with the stitching of the Wolf tribe. Tolui ran his hands over the coarse design and found he could take comfort from it. His father had worn it and perhaps there was a hint of his old strength left in the cloth.
‘Walk with me for a time, Mongke,’ he called to his son. ‘There are things I want you to remember for me.’
The sun dipped on the last day, spreading a cool light that slowly lost its colours, so that the plains softened into grey. Sitting cross-legged on the grass, Tolui watched the sun touch the hills in the west. It had been a good day. He had spent some of it rutting with his slaves, losing himself for a time in the pleasures of the flesh. He had appointed his second in command to lead the tuman. Lakota was a good man and loyal. He would not shame Tolui’s memory, and in time, when Mongke had more experience, he would step aside for the son.
Ogedai had come to him in the afternoon, saying that he would appoint Sorhatani the head of Tolui’s family, with all the rights her husband had known. She would retain his wealth and the authority over his sons. On his return home, Mongke would be given Tolui’s other wives and slaves as his own, protecting them from those who would take advantage. The khan’s shadow would keep his family safe. It was the least Ogedai could offer, but Tolui felt lighter after hearing it, less afraid. He only wished he could speak to Sorhatani and his other sons one last time. Dictating letters to his scribes was not the same and he wished that he could hold his wife, just once, that he could crush her to him and breathe in the scent of her hair.
He sighed to himself. It was hard to find peace as the sun went down. He tried to hold on to every moment, but his mind betrayed him, drifting and coming back to clarity with a start. Time slipped like oil through his hands and he could not hold a single instant of it.
The tumans had gathered in ranks to witness his offering. Ahead of him on the grass, Ogedai stood with Khasar and Mohrol. Mongke waited slightly apart from the other three. Only he looked directly at his father, a constant gaze that was the sole sign of the horror and disbelief that he felt.
Tolui took a deep breath, enjoying the scent of horses and sheep on the evening breeze. He was pleased he had chosen the simple garb of a herdsman. Armour would have choked him, confined him in iron. Instead, he felt loose-limbed, clean and calm.
He walked towards the small group of men. Mongke stared at him like a stunned calf. Tolui reached out and drew his son into a brief embrace, releasing him before the shuddering he felt against his chest turned into sobs.
‘I am ready,’ he said.
Ogedai lowered himself to sit cross-legged on one side of him, Khasar on the other. Mongke hesitated, before sitting to one side.
There was a certain shared animosity as they all watched Mohrol set a taper to brass pots. Thin trails of smoke dragged their way across the plain and the shaman began to sing.
Mohrol was bare-chested, his skin marked in stripes of red and dark blue. His eyes looked out from a mask that seemed barely human. The four men faced west, and as the shaman worked his way through six verses of the song of death, they stared at the setting sun, slowly eaten by the horizon until there was just a fat line of gold.
Mohrol stamped the ground as he finished his verse to the earth mother. He jabbed a knife into the air as he called on the sky father. His voice grew in strength, a double tone from his nose and throat that was one of the earliest sounds Tolui could remember. He listened distractedly, unable to look away from the golden thread that bound him to life.
As the verses to the four winds ended, Mohrol passed a knife into Tolui’s cupped hands. Tolui stared at the blue-black blade in the last light. He found the calm he needed. Everything around him was sharp and defined and he breathed deeply as he pressed the blade against his skin.
Ogedai reached out and clasped his left shoulder. Khasar did the same with his right. Tolui felt their strength, their grief, and it steadied the last of his fear.
He looked at Mongke and saw the young man’s eyes were brimming with tears. There was no shame in it.
‘Look after your mother, boy,’ Tolui said, then looked down and took a deep breath. ‘It is time,’ he said. ‘I am a fitting sacrifice for the khan. I am tall and strong and young. I will take the place of my brother.’
The sun vanished in the west and Tolui pushed the knife into his chest, finding the heart. All the air in his lungs came out in a long, rasping breath. He found he could not breathe in and struggled to control his panic. He knew the cuts that had to be made. Mohrol had explained every detail of the ritual. His son was watching and he had to have the strength.
Tolui’s body had gone tight and hard, every muscle straining as he sipped air back in and wrenched the blade between his ribs, cutting his heart. The pain was a burning brand in him, but he pulled out the knife and looked in astonishment at the rush of blood that came with it. His strength was fading, and as he began to fall forward Khasar reached out and took his hand in fingers that were impossibly strong. Tolui turned his eyes to him in gratitude, unable to speak. Khasar guided his hand higher, holding the grip closed so he could not drop the blade.
Tolui sagged as Khasar helped him draw the edge across his neck. He was frozen, a man of ice, as his warm blood drained into the grass. He did not see the shaman hold a bowl to his throat. His head lolled forward and Khasar gripped him by the back of the neck. Tolui could feel the warm touch as he died.
Mohrol offered the brimming bowl to Ogedai. The khan knelt with his head down, staring into darkness. He did not let go of Tolui’s body, so that it remained upright, held between the two men.
‘You must drink, my lord, while I finish,’ Mohrol said.
Ogedai heard and took the bowl in his left hand, tipping it back. He choked on the warm blood of his brother and some of it dribbled down his chin and neck. Mohrol said nothing as the khan steeled himself and fought the urge to vomit. When it was empty, Ogedai tossed the bowl away into the gloom. Mohrol began to sing the six verses once again from the beginning, drawing the spirits close to witness the sacrifice.
Before he was halfway through, Mohrol heard Ogedai vomiting onto the grass. It was already too dark to see and the shaman ignored the sounds.
Sorhatani rode hard, calling ‘Chuh!’ and forcing her mare to gallop across the brown plains. Her sons galloped with her and, with the remounts and pack animals, they made a fine plume of dust, rising behind them. Under the hot sun, Sorhatani rode bare-armed in a yellow silk tunic and deerskin leggings, with soft boots. She was grubby and she had not bathed in a long time, but she exulted as her horse flew across the ancient land of the tribes.
The grass was very dry, the valleys thirsty. Drought had drained all but the widest rivers. To refill the waterskins, they had to dig into the river clay until water seeped into the hole, brackish and full of silt. Silk had proved its value yet again to strain muck and wriggling insects out of the precious liquid.
As she rode, she saw the pale bones of sheep and oxen, the white shapes cracked to shards by wolves or foxes. To anyone else, it might not have seemed a great reward for her husband to be given such a dry land. Yet Sorhatani understood there were always hard years there, that such a land made strong men and stronger women. Her sons had already learned to eke out their supplies of water and not gulp it as if there would always be a stream within reach. The winters froze and the summers burned, but there was freedom in its immensity – and the rains would come again. Her childhood memories were of hills like rippled green silk, stretching away to the horizon on all sides. The land endured the droughts and the cold, but it would be reborn.
In the distance, she could see the mountain of Deli’un-Boldakh, a peak of almost mystical significance in the legends of the tribes. Genghis had been born somewhere near that place. His father Yesugei had ridden with his bondsmen there, protecting his herds from raiders through the coldest months.
Sorhatani kept her eyes on a different crag, the red rock that Genghis had climbed with his brothers when the world was smaller and all the tribes were at each other’s throats. Her three sons kept pace with her and the red hill grew before them. There, Genghis and Kachiun had found an eagle’s nest and brought down two perfect chicks to show their father. Sorhatani could imagine their excitement, even see their faces in the features of her own sons.
She only wished Mongke could have been there, though she knew that was a mother’s foolishness. Mongke had to learn to lead, to campaign with his father and uncles. The warriors would not respect an officer who knew nothing about terrain or tactics.
She wondered if Genghis’ mother had loved Bekter as she loved her own first born. As the legends told it, Bekter had been solemn in spirit, just as Mongke was. Her eldest son was not easily given to laughter, or the lightning flashes of insight and humour that characterised a boy like Kublai.
She watched Kublai ride, his Chin tail of hair whipping in the wind. He was slim and wiry like his father and grandfather. Her boys raced each other through the dust and she gloried in their youth and strength as well as her own.
Tolui and Mongke had been gone for many months. It had been hard for her to leave Karakorum, but she knew she had to prepare a camp for her husband, to scout the land. It was her task to raise gers in the shadow of Deli’un-Boldakh and find good grazing on the river plains. Thousands of men and women had come with her to the homeland, but for the moment they would wait on her pleasure while she rode to the red hill.
Perhaps one day Mongke would command an army like Tsubodai, or become a man of power under his uncle Chagatai. It was easy to dream on such a day, with the wind making her hair flow back in a river of silk threads.
Sorhatani glanced behind her, checking on the presence of her husband’s bondsmen. Two of the most ferocious warriors at his command rode within easy reach of the family. As she watched them, she saw their heads turning to the left and right, looking for the slightest danger. She smiled. Before he left, Tolui had given very clear orders about keeping his wife and sons safe. It might have been true that the hills and steppes of their homeland were practically empty of nomadic families, but still he worried. He was a fine man, she thought. With just a fraction of his father’s ambition, he would have risen far. Sorhatani’s mood did not sink at the thought. The destiny of her husband had never been hers to shape. He had always been the youngest son of Genghis and from the earliest age he had known his brothers would lead and he would follow.
Her sons were a different matter. Even her youngest, Arik-Boke, had been trained as a warrior and a scholar from the moment he could walk. All could read and write the court script of the Chin. Though she prayed to Christ and his mother, they had been taught the religion of the Chin and Sung, where true power lay. Whatever the future held, she knew she had prepared them as best she could.
The small group dismounted at the foot of the red hill and Sorhatani cried out in pleasure as she saw the circling specks of eagles high above. Part of her had thought the rumour of their presence was just a herdsman’s boasting, a way of honouring the story of Genghis. Yet they were there and their nest would be somewhere in the crags.
Her husband’s bondsmen came up and bowed deeply before her, waiting patiently for her orders.
‘My sons are going to climb for the nest,’ she said, as excited as a girl. She did not need to explain. Both of the warriors had squinted up at the circling birds. ‘Scout the area for water, but do not go too far.’
In moments, the men had leapt back into the saddle and were cantering away. They had learned that Sorhatani expected the same sort of instant obedience as her husband. She had grown up around men of power and had married into the great khan’s family at a very young age. She knew that men prefer to follow, that it takes an effort of will to lead. She had that will.
Kublai
and Hulegu were already at the base of the red hill, shading their eyes against the sun for the location of the nest. It was later in the year than the ideal. If there were chicks there, they would already be strong, perhaps even able to leave the nest and fly on their own. Sorhatani did not know if her sons would be disappointed, but it did not matter. She had made them part of a tale from Genghis’ life and they would never forget the climb, whether they brought down a chick or not. She had given them a memory they would tell to their own children one day.
The boys removed their weapons and began to scramble up the easy section as Sorhatani pulled a bag of soft curds from under her saddle. She had hammered the chips of hard cheese herself, breaking them small enough so that they would not gall the mare’s skin as they softened in water. The thick yellow paste was bitter and refreshing, a particular favourite of hers. She licked her lips as she dipped her hand inside, then sucked her fingers clean.
It did not take long to fetch water from the packhorses and water the animals with a leather bucket. When the chore was done, Sorhatani rummaged further in her saddlebags until she found some sweet dried dates. She looked guiltily at the hill as she nibbled one, knowing that her sons loved the rare delicacy. Still, they were not there. She could see them rising higher, climbing easily on strong, thin legs. It would be sunset by the time they returned and for once she was on her own. She hobbled the pony with a length of rope so it would not wander far, then sat on the dry grass, spreading a saddle blanket for herself.
Sorhatani dozed through the afternoon, enjoying the peaceful solitude. At times, she took up a deel robe she was embroidering in gold thread for Kublai. It would be very fine when it was finished and she worked with bowed head over the stitches, cutting lengths of thread with strong, white teeth. In the sun’s warmth, it was easy to nod over the cloth and she dozed for a time. When she came awake again, it was to find the afternoon had faded to coolness. She rose and stretched, yawning. This was a good land and she felt at home here. She had dreamed of Genghis as a young man and her face was flushed with perspiration. It had not been a dream to share with her sons.
Khan: Empire of Silver Page 17
