Empire of Silver (16 page)

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.

In the distance, the movement of a rider caught her eye. It was an instinctive talent, born of generations for whom spotting an enemy was the key to survival. She frowned and shaded her eyes, then made her hands into a tube to focus her sight further. Even with the old scout’s trick, the dark figure was just a speck.

Her husband’s bondsmen had not slept in the afternoon and already they were galloping to intercept the lone rider. Sorhatani felt her sense of peace dwindle and fade as they reached the man and the single point became a larger knot.

‘Who
are
you?’ she muttered to herself.

It was hard not to feel a twinge of worry. A single rider could only be one of the yam messengers who criss-crossed thousands of miles for the khan and his generals. With fresh horses, they could ride a hundred miles in a day, sometimes even further if it was a matter of life and death. The khan’s forces in Chin territory were only ten days away by the reckoning of such men. She saw the three riders begin to approach the red hill together and her womb clenched in sudden premonition.

Behind her, she heard the sound of her sons back from their climb. Their voices were light and cheerful, but there were no calls of triumph. The fledgling eagles had left the nest, or flown from their grasping hands. Sorhatani began to pack away her supplies, folding her precious needles and spools of thread back into their roll and tying the knots with unconscious expertise. She did it rather than stand helplessly waiting and she took her time with the saddlebags, stowing the waterskins carefully.

When she turned back, her hand flew to her mouth as she recognised the lone rider flanked by the bondsmen. They were still some way off and she almost cried out to them to go faster. As they drew nearer, she saw how Mongke swayed in the saddle, close to utter exhaustion.

He was coated in dust and the sides of his horse heaved with caked muck from where he had emptied his bladder without dismounting. She knew the scouts did that only when the news had to be brought home with all speed and her heart skipped with dread. She did not speak as her eldest son dismounted and staggered, almost falling as his legs betrayed him. He clung to the saddle horn, using his strong right hand to rub out the cramps. At last their eyes met and he did not have to speak.

Sorhatani did not weep then. Though some part of her knew her husband was gone, she stood tall, her mind racing. There were so many things she had to do.

‘You are welcome in my camp, my son,’ she said at last.

Almost in a trance, she turned to the bondsmen and told them to make a fire and salt tea. Her other sons stood in silent confusion at the sight of the small group.

‘Sit with me, Mongke,’ she said softly.

Her son nodded, his eyes red-rimmed with weariness and grief. He took his place on the grass beside her and nodded to Kublai, Hulegu and Arik-Boke as they made a tight circle around their mother. When the salt tea was ready, Mongke drained the first bowl in a few gulps to cut the dust in his throat. The words still had to be spoken. Sorhatani almost cried out to stop him, her emotions in turmoil. If Mongke did not speak, it would not be completely true. Once the words were out, her life, her son’s lives, would all change and she would have lost her beloved.

‘My father is dead,’ Mongke said.

His mother closed her eyes for a moment. Her last hope was torn away. She took a long breath.

‘He was a good husband,’ she whispered, choking. ‘He was a warrior who commanded ten thousand for the khan. I loved him more than you will ever know.’ Tears made her eyes large and her voice roughened as her throat closed on grief. ‘Tell me how it happened, Mongke. Leave nothing out.’

Tsubodai reined in at the edge of a cliff, leaning out of his saddle to peer down on the valley below. It had taken him a day of following goat trails to reach the place, but from such a height he could see for twenty miles, his gaze encompassing hills and villages, rivers and towns. The wide Volga river ran to the west, but it was not a serious obstacle. He had already sent men wading across its sandbars to scout islands and the banks beyond. He had raided these lands years before. He smiled as he remembered taking his men across the frozen rivers. The Russians had not believed anyone could withstand their winter. They had been mistaken. Only Genghis could have called him back then. When the great khan had ordered him home, Tsubodai had returned, but it would not happen again. Ogedai had given him a free hand. The Chin borders were secure to the east. If he could crush the lands of the west, the nation would hold the central plains from sea to sea, an empire so vast it beggared the imagination. Tsubodai hungered
to see the lands beyond the Russian forests, all the way to the legendary cold seas and the ghostly white peoples there who never saw the sun.

With such a view, it was easy to imagine the threads of his influence stretching back to him. Tsubodai stood at the centre of a web of messengers and spies. For hundreds of miles around the spot where he stood, he had men and women in every market, village, town and fortress. Some of them had no idea the coins they were paid came from the Mongol armies. A few of his scouts and informants were from the Turkic tribes, who lacked the eye-folds that marked his warriors. Others came from those Tsubodai and Batu had already recruited or taken by force. They staggered out of the ashes of every town, homeless and desperate, ready to accept whatever their conquerors asked in exchange for their lives. The khan’s silver flowed like a river through Tsubodai’s hands and he bought information as much as meat and salt – and valued it more.

The general turned his head as Batu came around the last turn and brought his pony onto the ridge crest before dismounting. Batu stared at the valleys below with an expression of bored resentment. Tsubodai frowned to himself. He could not change the past, any more than he could challenge Ogedai Khan’s right to raise a sullen young man to command ten thousand. A green adolescent with an army could do a great deal of damage. The strange thing was that Tsubodai persisted in training him to be the most efficient destroyer he could be. Time alone would give him perspective and wisdom, all the things Batu currently lacked.

They sat for a long time in silence before Batu’s patience frayed as Tsubodai had known it would. There was no calm at the centre of the angry young warrior, no internal peace. Instead, he simmered with constant rage and all those around him sensed it.

‘I have come, Tsubodai
Bahadur.
’ Batu pronounced the
general’s nickname with a sneer, making ‘the valiant’ sound like mockery. ‘What is it that only your eyes can see?’

Tsubodai replied as if it was nothing, his voice as infuriatingly relaxed as he could make it.

‘When we move on, your men will not be able to see the terrain, Batu. They might become lost, or be stopped by some obstacle. You see those low hills, there?’

Batu peered where Tsubodai pointed.

‘From here, you can see how they run almost together, leaving a central ground free for…a mile, perhaps two. Four or five
li
, as the Chin measure distance. We could hide two minghaans on either side in ambush. If we bring the Russians to battle a few miles further on, a false retreat will drag them back to those hills and they will not get out.’

‘This is nothing new,’ Batu said. ‘I know about the feigned retreat. I thought you would have something more interesting to make it worth dragging my horse up here.’

Tsubodai kept his cold eyes on the younger man for a moment, but Batu held his gaze with insolent confidence.

‘Yes, Orlok Tsubodai?’ he asked. ‘Is there something you wish to say to me?’

‘It is important to choose the ground, then scout it well for hidden obstacles,’ Tsubodai replied.

Batu chuckled and stared down again. For all his bluster and arrogance, Tsubodai saw he was taking in every detail of the land, his eyes flickering back and forth as he memorised it. He was an unpleasant student, but his mind was as sharp as anyone Tsubodai had known. It was hard not to think of his father at times, the memories robbing the general of his irritation.

‘Tell me what you see in our tumans,’ Tsubodai went on.

Batu shrugged. Down below, he could see five columns moving slowly across the land. It took just a glance for him to read them.

‘We march apart and attack together. Five fingers covering
as much ground as possible. The messengers keep them in contact for quick response to any show of force. I believe my grandfather began the practice. It has worked well enough since then.’

He grinned without looking at Tsubodai. Batu knew the general was responsible for the formation that allowed a small army to sweep across huge areas, clearing towns and villages before them so that they left a smoking landscape behind. They came together only when the enemy appeared in strength, when the arrow messengers would bring the tumans racing, a fist to smash the resistance before they moved on.

‘Your eyes are strong, Batu. Tell me what else you see.’

Tsubodai’s voice was maddeningly calm and Batu rose to the bait, determined to show the older man that he needed no lessons from him. He spoke quickly and used his hand to chop the air.

‘For each column, there are scouts at the front in groups of ten. They ride up to eighty miles out, looking for the enemy. The centre is the families, the baggage, gers, oxen, camels, drummers and collapsed gers by the thousand. There are mobile forges on carts with spoked wheels, iron-reinforced. I believe you are responsible for those, general. Boys and foot warriors march there, our final defence if the warriors are ever overrun. Around them are the herds of sheep, goats and of course remounts, three to a man or more.’ He spoke faster, enjoying the chance to show his knowledge: ‘Beyond
those
are the heavy tuman cavalry in minghaan ranks. Further still, we have the light cavalry screen, the first to meet any attack with arrows. Finally, we have the rearguard, who plod along and wish they were closer to the front instead of riding through everyone else’s shit. Shall I begin naming the officers? You are the orlok, in overall command, I am told. You have no bloodline worth mentioning, so I am the prince whose name appears on the orders, the grandson of Genghis Khan. It is an odd arrangement, but we
will discuss it another time. I lead a tuman, as do generals Kachiun, Jebe, Chulgetei and Guyuk. The minghaan officers, in order of seniority are…’

‘That is enough, Batu,’ Tsubodai said quietly.

‘Ilugei, Muqali, Degei, Tolon, Onggur, Boroqul…’

‘Enough,’ Tsubodai snapped. ‘I know their names.’

‘I see,’ Batu said, raising an eyebrow. ‘Then I do not understand what you wanted me to learn by losing half a day riding up this rock with you. If I have made mistakes, you must feel able to bring them to me. Am I in error, general? Have I displeased you in some way? You must tell me, so I can remove the fault.’

His eyes bored into Tsubodai, allowing his bitterness to show for once. Tsubodai controlled his temper, felt it rise in him and took a firmer grip before he ruined a young man guilty of nothing more than spite and arrogance. He looked too much like Jochi for Tsubodai not to know he had reason.

‘You have not mentioned the auxiliaries,’ Tsubodai said calmly, at last. In response, Batu chuckled, an unpleasant sound.

‘No, and I will not. Our ragged conscripts are good for nothing more than soaking up the missiles of our enemies. I am going to rejoin my tuman, general.’

He began to turn his mount and Tsubodai reached out and took his reins. Batu glared at him, but he had the sense not to reach for the sword that hung at his waist.

‘I have not yet given you permission to leave,’ Tsubodai said.

His face was still emotionless, but his voice had hardened and his eyes were very cold. Batu smiled and Tsubodai could see he was on the point of saying something that would tear down the strained courtesy between them. This was why he preferred to deal with more senior men, who had some idea of consequences and would not throw their entire lives away on a bad-tempered moment. Tsubodai spoke quickly and firmly to head him off.

‘If I have the slightest doubt about your ability to follow
my orders, Batu, I will send you back to Karakorum.’ Batu began to take a breath, his face twisting as Tsubodai went on relentlessly. ‘You may take your complaints to your uncle there, but you will no longer ride with me. If I give you a hill to take, you will destroy your entire tuman rather than fail. If I tell you to ride to a position, you will break your horses to reach it in time. Do you understand? If you fail me in
anything
, there will be no second chance. This is not a game, general, and I do not care what you think of me, not at all. Now, if you have something to say to me, say it.’

At almost twenty, Batu had matured in the years since winning the horse race at Karakorum. He took command of his temper with a swiftness that surprised Tsubodai, reining in his emotions and shuttering them away so that his eyes were blank. It showed he was more man than boy, but it made him a far more dangerous adversary.

‘You may put your faith in me, Tsubodai Bahadur,’ Batu said, this time without the sneer in his voice. ‘With your permission, I will return to my column.’

Tsubodai inclined his head and Batu trotted his mount back down the goat path that led to the base of the hill. Tsubodai stared after him for a time, then grimaced to himself. He should have sent him back to Karakorum. With any other officer, he would have had him whipped and strapped to a horse to be ridden home in disgrace. Only the memories of Batu’s father and, yes, his grandfather held Tsubodai’s hand. They had been men to follow. Perhaps the son could be made in their image, unless of course he got himself killed first. He needed to be tested, to gain the soul weight that came only from true knowledge of skill, rather than empty arrogance. Tsubodai nodded to himself as he looked over the lands ahead. There would be many opportunities to temper the young prince in fire.

The Russian lands had been wide open for the sort of attack Tsubodai had perfected. Even the nobles there had homes and towns protected by little more than a wooden palisade. Some of them had the solidity of decades or even centuries, but the Mongol war machine had overcome such obstacles in Chin territory. Their catapults smashed apart the ancient logs, sometimes crushing those who sheltered behind them. It was true that the Mongol archers had to contend with thicker forests than they had ever seen, sometimes stretching for thousands of miles and able to hide large forces of horsemen. The last summer had been hot and heavy rainfall meant the ground was often too soft to move forward with any speed. Tsubodai disliked the marshes intensely, but he was coming to the opinion that if it hadn’t been for those, Genghis had made an error in attacking to the east. The lands to the west were still ripe, and as yet, Tsubodai had seen no force worthy to challenge his tumans as they scoured the land. The Mongol sweep took them hundreds of miles into the north and winter brought blessed relief from the flies and rain and disease.

For the first year, he had kept to the east of the Volga river, preferring to crush any possible threat from the area that would become his rear and be part of the supply route to Karakorum. Though the distances were vast, there was already a constant stream of riders. The first yam waystations were rising behind his tumans, as well fortified as anything else in Russian territory. Tsubodai cared nothing for the buildings, but they housed grain, saddles and the fastest mounts from the herds, ready for whoever needed to race through.

It was a spring morning when Tsubodai gathered his most senior officers on a meadow by a lake filled with wildfowl. His scouts had spent the morning trapping thousands of birds in nets, or taking them in flight for sport. The women in the camps were plucking the birds to be roasted that evening, creating great drifts of feathers that tumbled over the grass like spilt oil.

Batu watched with carefully hidden interest as Tsubodai brought forward one of his strongest warriors. The man’s face could not be seen under the helmet of polished iron. Everything he wore had been captured further to the west. Even the horse was a monster, black as night and half as high again at the shoulder as any Mongol pony. Like its rider, it was sheathed in iron, from plates around its eyes to a skirt of hardened leather and metal to protect its hindquarters from arrows.

Some of the men looked on it with greed in their eyes, but Batu scorned such a beast. As large as it was, with such a burden of armour he was certain it would be slow, at least in the thrust and parry of battle.

‘This is what we will face as we move west,’ Tsubodai said. ‘Men like this in cages of iron are the most feared force on a battlefield. According to the Christian monks in Karakorum, they are unstoppable in the charge, a weight of metal and leather that can crush anything we have.’

The senior men shifted uncomfortably, unsure whether to believe such a wild claim. They watched in fascination as Tsubodai brought his pony close to the larger animal. He looked small next to the man and horse, but he used his reins lightly to take his pony around in a tight circle.

‘Raise your hand when you can see me, Tangut,’ he said.

It was not long before they understood. The line of sight Tsubodai had revealed was just a small strip to the front.

‘Even with the visor raised, he can see nothing at the side or behind, and that iron will be hard to turn quickly.’ Tsubodai reached out and clanged his fist against the warrior’s breastplate. It rang like a bell.

‘His chest is well protected. Under this is a layer of iron links, like metal cloth. It serves a similar purpose to our silk tunics, but is made to withstand axes and knives more than arrows.’

Tsubodai gestured to a boy holding a long lance and the
boy ran to the armoured warrior and handed it up to him, tapping his leg for attention.