‘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 chiselled out of the mountains themselves, revealed with painstaking labour.
‘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 father 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 honour 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.’
CHAPTER 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 centre 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 further 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 armour. 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 organised defences. 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 rumours 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 baptise?’ 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 realised 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 bell began to toll above his head. Half the congregation looked up as if they could see it through the wooden beams. Yaroslav saw Father Dmitri walking towards him and stood quickly, struggling to master his fear. Before the priest could reach him, he bent down and spoke into his wife’s ear.
‘Take the children now. Take the carriage to the barracks, for your life. Find Konstantin; he will be there, with my horses. Get out of the city. I will come when I can.’
His wife was white-faced with terror, but she did not hesitate as she gathered his daughters and sons, herding them like sleepy geese. Duke Yaroslav was already moving, leaving his pew and striding down the central aisle. All eyes were on him as Father Dmitri caught up with the duke and dared to take his arm. The priest’s voice was a harsh whisper.
‘Is it an attack? The Tartars? Can you hold the city?’
Duke Yaroslav stopped suddenly, so that the elderly man stumbled into him. On another night, he might have had the priest whipped for his insolence. Yet he would not lie in the presence of the born Christ.
‘If they are here, I cannot hold them, father, no. Look to your flock. I must save my own family.’
The priest fell back as if he had been struck, his mouth open in horror. Above their heads, the bell tolled on, calling despair across the city and the snow.
The duke could hear screaming in the distance as he raced outside, his riding boots skidding on the icy cobbles. His family’s coach was already moving, a black shape slipping into the darkness with the driver’s whip-crack echoing on either side. He could hear his son’s high voice fading into the distance, unaware of the danger as only a child can be.
Snow had begun to fall again and Yaroslav shivered as he stood there, his mind racing. For months he had heard reports of the Mongol atrocities. The city of Riazan had been reduced to smoking rubble, with wild animals tearing at bodies in the streets. He had ridden there himself with just a few of his guards and two of them had vomited into the snow at what they saw. They had been hard men, used to death, but what they had encountered was utter desolation, on a scale they had never known. This was an enemy with no concept of honour, who fought wars and destroyed cities to crush the will of an enemy. The duke stepped towards the snorting mount of his aide. It was a stallion, uncut, fast and black as night.
‘Dismount,’ he snapped. ‘Return to the barracks on foot.’
‘Yes, your grace,’ the man said immediately, swinging his leg over and jumping down to the snow.
As the duke mounted in his place, finding the saddle still warm, the aide stood back and saluted. Yaroslav didn’t look at him, already turning the animal and digging in his heels. The hooves clattered on the stone road as he trotted away. He could not gallop on the ice without risking a fall that could kill both him and the horse. He heard shouting voices nearby and then a single clash of steel on steel, a sword blow that carried in the frozen air from God alone knew how far away.
Around him, the sleeping city was waking up. Candles and lamps appeared in the windows and swung in the hands of men as they came out to stand in the street and shout questions to each other. None of them knew anything. More than once, they stumbled and fell as they tried to avoid the black horse and its rider.
The barracks were not far away. He half-expected to see his family’s coach up ahead. The driver could force his horses to more speed, held steady by the weight of the carriage and those within. Duke Yaroslav prayed under his breath, asking the innocent virgin to take care of his little ones. He could not hold the city against the wolves that came in the snow. All he could do was escape. He told himself it was the correct tactical decision, but the shame of it burned him even against the cold.
As he rode, he ignored the voices calling behind him. There would be few survivors, not now the enemy had come in the depths of winter. No one could have expected it, he told himself. He had gathered his main army near Kiev, ready for the spring. They sat in a winter camp behind vast wooden palisades, almost three hundred miles to the south-west. He had just two thousand men in Moscow and they were not his best troops. Many were injured soldiers wintering in the comfort of the city rather than the army camps, where dysentery and cholera were a constant threat. The duke hardened his heart to their fate. They had to fight, to give him time to get free. He could only hope that the Mongol army had not yet blo
cked the roads out of the city. One of them must still be open, for his family.
Moonlight gleamed through the falling snow above him as he crossed a wooden bridge, the frozen Moskva river below. He glanced at it as he clattered over the ancient wood and stiffened in the saddle at the sight of the white river covered with horses and men. They were already spreading onto the banks like spilt blood, black in the night. He could hear more screaming as they tore into homes near the river. He put his head down and rode on, drawing the ornate dress sword on his hip. In terror, he saw dark figures clambering over the wooden bridge railings: two, no four, men. They had heard his horse, and as he saw them, something buzzed by his face, too fast even to flinch from it. He hoped the black horse made a difficult target and dug in his heels again, suddenly heedless of the slippery ground. A man loomed up on his right flank and Yaroslav kicked, feeling a spike of pain up his leg as the impact twisted his knee. The man fell away in silence, his chest crushed from the blow. The duke was through then, the white road opening before him as the bridge came to an end.
He felt the arrow strike as a shudder in his mount. The animal whinnied in pain, snorting harder and harder with every step. The gallop slowed and Yaroslav kicked and leaned forward, trying for the last burst of speed. His hands had held reins from a young age and he could almost feel the life drain out of the stallion as it struggled on, panic and duty keeping it going. He rounded a corner, leaving the bridge behind, but the animal’s great heart could take him no further. The stallion went down hard, without warning, the front legs collapsing. Yaroslav tumbled, tucking in his head and trying to roll as he hit. Even with the snow, the ground was like iron and he lay winded and stunned, knowing he had somehow to regain his feet before they came looking. Dazed and helpless, he struggled up, wincing as his knee crackled and shifted under him. He would not cry out. He could hear their guttural voices just around the corner.
Khan: Empire of Silver Page 23
