Empire of Silver (22 page)

Something was happening, that much was obvious. Pavel saw his sotski march past, the one officer he knew. The man looked tired and though he didn’t notice Pavel, instinct made him fall in behind. If they were going out, his place was in the hundred, as he’d been told. Pavel didn’t know any of the ones walking with him, but that was where he was meant to be and his sotski at least seemed to be marching with purpose. Together, they crossed the gate and the officer finally saw Pavel standing behind him.

‘You are one of mine,’ he said, then pointed to a slightly larger group without waiting for an answer.

Pavel and six more walked over, smiling sheepishly at each other. They looked as ungainly as he felt, standing with their swords and iron jerkins that draped almost to their knees, rubbing their frozen hands as they went red and pale blue in the cold. The sotski had gone off to shepherd in a few more of those in his charge.

Pavel jumped as horns sounded again, this time from the walls of the stockade. One of the men with him laughed unpleasantly at his reaction, revealing brown and broken teeth. Pavel’s cheeks burned. He had hoped for the sort of brotherhood his grandfather had described, but he couldn’t see it in
the frozen yard, with men pissing in the slush, their thin faces pinched with cold. Snow began falling out of the white sky above and many of the men cursed it, knowing it would make the day harder in all ways.

Pavel watched as steaming brown oxen were driven past him and roped to the gates. Were they going out already? He could not see the sotski anywhere. The man seemed to have vanished, just when Pavel needed to ask him all sorts of things. He could see daylight through the gates as they groaned inwards. Those in the yard were forced back by shouting officers, the crowd swaying in like a drawn breath. Some of the men were facing the widening gap, but a new commotion started somewhere far back and heads turned to see what it was. Pavel could hear voices raised in pain and anger. He craned his neck to look behind him and the one who had laughed shook his head.

‘The whips are out, boy,’ he said gruffly. ‘They’ll send us into battle like animals being driven. It’s the way of the duke’s fine officers.’

Pavel did not like the man who spoke, especially as he seemed to be criticising the duke himself. He looked away rather than answer, then shuffled forward as those behind began to press into the open yard. The gate yawned wider and the whiteness was almost blinding after so long in its shadow.

The air was painful in his lungs and throat, the cold so intense that Batu could hardly breathe. The mounts of his tuman cantered in together, judging the range to the Russian horsemen. They were already sweating from the manoeuvres as the sun came up. All they could do then was keep moving. To stop was to let the sweat freeze and begin to die slowly, unaware of the spreading numbness.

Shortly after first light, Tsubodai had sent his right wing
forward, Batu at the head. They did not fear the levies and conscripts the duke had gathered in his great stockades. Those could be torn apart by arrows. The enemy cavalry were the danger and Batu felt pride at being first against them. They had feinted left at dawn, forcing the Russians to bolster their lines there. As the duke pulled men from his other wing, Batu had waited for Tsubodai’s signal, then gone in fast. He could see huge numbers of horses, and as he rode, he saw the lines accelerate towards his tuman, rippling forward as the orders came. The duke had gathered a massive force to defend Kiev, but none of them had expected to fight in winter. It was a killing cold.

Batu tested his bowstring, easing and heaving back on the bow as he rode, feeling the action loosen the great muscles in his shoulders. The arrows were thick in the quivers on their backs and he could hear the feathers crackle against each other by his ear.

The duke had spotted the threat. Batu could see the man and his pretty flags off to one side. Horns blew his orders, but Tsubodai had sent Mongke in on the left, the two wings drawing ahead of the main force. The orlok held the centre with Jebe and Kachiun, his heaviest horsemen armed with lances. Whoever came out of the stockade would be met with a massed black line, ready for them.

Batu nodded to his bannerman and a great streak of orange silk began to swing back and forth, visible all along the line. The creak of thousands of bows bending sounded, a groan that seemed to hum in the air. Four thousand shafts soared as the first ranks released, reaching behind them for another arrow and fitting it at a canter as they had learned to do as children. They lifted themselves slightly off the saddle, letting their knees balance against the lunge of the horse beneath. There was no great need for accuracy at full range. The arrows flew high, then sank into the Qasak
horsemen, blurring the air and leaving it clean and dead in their wake.

Horses collapsed among the enemy. Those who had bows responded, but they could not match the range of the Mongol weapons and their shafts fell short. Batu slowed the pace, rather than throw away such an advantage. His signal brought the cantering line down to a trot and then a walk, but the arrows continued to fly out, one every six heartbeats, like hammer blows on an anvil.

The Russian horsemen forced their mounts through the barrage, racing blindly forward as they held shields high and crouched as low as they could on the saddles. The two wings would clash around the stockaded town and Batu eased himself into the front rank. His men expected to see him there since his wild ride against the Russian prince and his blood ran faster and hot when he was facing down the enemy, his tuman around him.

There was no break, no respite in the arrow waves. From soaring arcs, the Mongol riders adjusted and sent them lower, then began to pick targets. The Russian charge was not clad in steel like the duke’s personal guard. Tsubodai would have to take those on in the centre. The duke’s Qasaks continued to fall, riding into a gale of shafts that seemed to leave no space for man or horse.

Batu found his quiver empty and he grimaced, tucking his bow on the saddle hook without thought. He drew his sword and that action was copied all along the line. The Russian wing had been battered, hundreds of them left behind the charge. Those who remained were still coming on, but many were wounded, swaying in the saddle, breathing blood from shafts through their lungs. They wheezed defiance still, but the Mongols cut them down as they passed, striking out with armoured fists and forearms, using the swords with neat precision.

Batu’s tuman swept over the remnants of the wing and on past the stockade walls. He had a glimpse of the great gates opening, but then it was behind him and he was chasing an enemy half-hanging out of his saddle as he tried to get away. The Mongol warriors hooted as they rode, calling out prime targets to each other. Batu could feel their pride and pleasure as they nodded to him. This was the best of times, when the enemy were in disarray and could be hunted like a herd of deer.

As the gates swung open, Pavel was shoved out into the bright light, the snow making the dawn blinding. He blinked in confusion and fear. There were too many voices shouting. He could not make sense of any of it. He drew his sword and marched forward, but the man in front of him stopped suddenly, the one who had spoken earlier.

‘Keep moving!’ Pavel said.

Already, he was being shoved from behind. The man with the broken teeth hawked and spat as he stared out at the Mongol army riding towards them. The lances came down in a line.

‘Jesus Christ save us,’ the man muttered and Pavel did not know if it was a prayer or a curse. He heard the men behind him begin a martial shout, trying to spur each other on, but it was thin on the wind and Pavel felt his hands weaken, his stomach clench.

The Mongol line grew larger, bringing with them a swelling vibration of the ground beneath their feet. They could all feel it and many of them turned to each other. The officers were shouting, pointing to the Mongols, red in the face and spraying spittle in their urging. The column still moved, unable to stop as those behind pressed them out into the snow. Pavel tried to slow his steps, but he was shoved by men as reluctant as he was.

‘For the duke!’ one of the officers shouted. A few took up the cry, but their voices were feeble and they soon fell silent. The Mongol tuman came on, a line of darkness that would sweep them all away.

Kachiun heard the laughter before the group was even in sight. He winced as his bad leg throbbed. An old wound had suppurated in the thigh and he had to drain it twice a day, according to Tsubodai’s Moslem healer. It didn’t seem to help. The wound had troubled him for months, flaring up without warning. It made him feel old to approach the young officers limping like a cripple. He
was
old, of course. Limping or not, they would have made him feel his years.

He heard Guyuk’s voice rise above the others, telling some story of Batu’s triumphs. Kachiun sighed to himself as he walked past a final ger. The noise stopped for a moment as Guyuk spotted him. The others turned to see what had caught the young man’s attention.

‘The tea has just boiled, general,’ Guyuk called cheerfully. ‘You’re welcome to share a cup with us, or something stronger if you prefer.’ The others laughed as if this was a great jest and Kachiun repressed his grimace. He had been young too, once.

The four of them were sprawled around like young lions and Kachiun grunted as he lowered himself to the mat of felt, easing his leg out carefully. Batu noticed the swollen thigh, of course. That one missed nothing.

‘How is the leg, general?’

‘Full of pus,’ Kachiun snapped.

Batu’s face closed at his tone, shuttering his emotions away. Kachiun cursed himself. A little pain and sweating and there he was, snapping at boys like a bad-tempered old dog. He looked around the little group, nodding to Baidur, who was hard-pressed to contain the sheer excitement he felt at joining the campaign. The young warrior was jittery and bright-eyed to be in such company and be treated as an equal. Kachiun wondered if any of them knew the treacheries of their fathers, or whether they cared if they did.

Kachiun accepted the bowl of tea in his right hand, and tried to relax as he sipped. The conversation did not resume immediately in his presence. He had known all their fathers and, for that matter, Genghis himself. The years weighed heavily on him at that thought. He could see Tolui in Mongke and the memory saddened him. The promise of Chagatai’s strong features looked out from Baidur’s face in its lines and jutting jaw. Time would tell if he had the man’s stubborn strength as well. Kachiun could see the lad had something to prove yet in this company. He was not among the leaders of the group, by any means.

That brought Kachiun’s thoughts to Batu, and as he glanced over, he found the young man watching him with something like a smile, as if he could read his thoughts. The others deferred to him, that much was obvious, but Kachiun wondered if their new-found friendship would survive the challenges of the years. When they were rivals for the khanates, they would not be so relaxed in each other’s presence, he thought, sipping.

Guyuk smiled easily, one who expected to inherit. He had
not had Genghis as a father to harden him and make him understand the dangers of easy friendship. Perhaps Ogedai had been too soft on him, or perhaps he was just a normal warrior, without the ruthless quality that set men like Genghis apart.

‘And men like me,’ Kachiun thought to himself, considering his own dreams and past glories. Seeing the future in the relaxing cousins was bitter-sweet for him. They showed him respect, but he did not think they understood the debt they owed. The tea tasted sour in his mouth at the thought, though his teeth were rotting at the back and everything tasted bad to him.

‘Did you have a reason to visit us on this cold morning?’ Batu said suddenly.

‘I came to welcome Baidur to the camp,’ Kachiun replied. ‘I was away when he brought in his father’s tuman.’

‘His
own
tuman, general,’ Guyuk said immediately. ‘We have all been raised by the hands of our fathers.’

He did not notice how Batu stiffened. His father Jochi had done nothing for him, yet he sat with the others, cousins and princes, as strong and perhaps harder than they were. Kachiun did not miss the flicker of emotions that played across the younger man’s face. He nodded to himself, silently wishing them all luck.

‘Well, I cannot waste a morning sitting here,’ Kachiun said. ‘I have to walk this leg, I’m told, to keep the bad blood moving.’

He clambered painfully to his feet, ignoring Guyuk’s outstretched arm. The useless thing was throbbing again, in time with his heart. He would go back to the healer and endure another knife in the flesh to release the brown filth that filled the thigh. He frowned at the prospect, then inclined his head to the group as one, before limping away.

‘He’s seen a few things in his time,’ Guyuk said wistfully, looking after him.

‘He’s just an old man,’ Batu replied. ‘We will see more.’ He
grinned at Guyuk. ‘Like the bottom of a few skins of airag, for a start. Bring out your private store, Guyuk. Don’t think I haven’t heard of your father’s packages to you.’

Guyuk blushed to be the centre of attention, as the others clamoured for him to bring out the drink. He rushed away to fetch the skins for his friends.

‘Tsubodai told me to report to him at sunset,’ Baidur said, his voice worried.

Batu shrugged. ‘And we will, though he didn’t say we had to be sober. Don’t worry, cousin, we’ll put on a show for the old devil. Perhaps it’s time he realised
we
are the princes of the nation. He is just an artisan we employ, like a painter…or a maker of bricks. Good as he is, Baidur, that’s
all
he is.’

Baidur looked uncomfortable. He had joined the army after the battles around Kiev and he knew he had yet to prove himself to his cousins. Batu had been the first to greet him, but Baidur was enough of a judge to see the spite in the older man. He was wary of the group, for all they were his cousins and princes of the same nation. He chose to say nothing and Batu relaxed back into a pile of grain sacks. It was not long before Guyuk returned, bearing fat skins of airag over each shoulder.

Yao Shu had put a lot of effort into being ready for the meeting of Sorhatani and the khan’s wife. The summer palace on the Orkhon river was barely a day’s ride away for a scout, but the khan’s wife had never travelled at that sort of speed. For all her apparent urgency, moving her staff and baggage had taken the best part of a month. Yao Shu had enjoyed the secret pleasure of watching Sorhatani’s strain grow daily as she bustled about the palace and city, checking the tallies in the treasury and coming up with a thousand things for which she might be reproached in her care of the khan.

In that time, with just a few letters and messengers, he had
won back the freedom of his office. No longer was he troubled by Sorhatani’s constant enquiries and demands on his time and resources. No longer was he summoned at all hours of the day and night to explain some matter of policy, or some aspect of the titles and powers she had been granted in her husband’s stead. It was a perfect application of power, he decided: the minimum force to achieve the desired outcome.

For the previous two days, the palace corridors had been scrubbed by an army of Chin servants. Anything made of cloth had been sent to the courtyard and beaten free of dust before being carefully replaced. Fresh fruit had been packed in ice barrels and brought to the kitchens below ground, while cut flowers were placed in such profusion that the entire building was heavy with their scent. The khan’s wife was coming home and she must not be disappointed.

Yao Shu strolled along an airy corridor, enjoying the weak sunshine on a cold, clear day with blue skies. The joy of his position was that no one would challenge the khan’s own chancellor if he chose to be there when Torogene returned. It was almost his duty to welcome her and there was little Sorhatani could do about it.

He heard a horn blow from the outskirts of the city and he smiled to himself. Her baggage train was in sight at last. He had time to go to his offices and put on his most formal robes. His current deel was grubby and he brushed at the cloth as he jogged to his work rooms. He barely noticed the servant prostrating himself at the doorpost as he passed. He had clean robes in a chest. They would be a little musty, but the cedar wood should have kept the moths at bay. He crossed the room with quick steps and was bent over the chest when he heard the door swing closed behind him. As he spun round in surprise, a click sounded, then the scrape of a key in a lock.

Yao Shu forgot about the chest. He crossed to the door and tried the handle, knowing it would not open. Sorhatani’s
orders, of course. He could almost smile at the woman’s sheer effrontery to lock him in his own rooms. It was all the more irritating that he was the one responsible for introducing locks to the doors of the palace, at least those which guarded valuables. The lessons of the long night had been learned, when Chagatai had sent men into the palace to spread terror and destruction. Only good doors had saved the khan then. Yao Shu ran his hands over the wood, his calloused skin making a sibilant sound. He matched it with a hiss of air through his teeth.

‘Really, Sorhatani?’ he muttered to himself.

He resisted the pointless urge to rattle the handle or call for help. The whole palace was busy that morning. There could be servants rushing by outside, but it was more than his dignity would take to have to be rescued from his own rooms.

He tapped the door with the palm of his hand, testing its strength. From childhood, he had conditioned his body to hardness. For years he had begun each day with a thousand blows on his forearms. The bones had cracked in tiny fissures, filling and growing dense so that he could unleash all his strength without fearing his wrists would snap. Yet the door felt depressingly solid. He was no longer a young man and, smiling ruefully to himself, he put aside the young man’s response of force.

His questing hands moved to the hinges instead. They were simple iron pegs, lowered onto rings of iron, but the door had been put into place while it was open. Now that it was closed, the frame prevented him from lifting it. He looked around his offices, but there were no weapons there. The chest was too heavy to be flung at the door and the rest – his inkstone, his pens and scrolls – were all too light to be of any use. He muttered a curse under his breath. The windows of the room were barred in iron, high and small enough so that the winter wind did not freeze him as he worked.

He felt his anger growing again, as all his attempts at reason failed. It would have to be force. He rubbed the two large knuckles on his right hand. Years of the striking post had given them a sheath of callus, but the bones underneath were like marble, cracked and healed until they were a mass of dense bone.

Yao Shu removed his sandals and stretched his legs for a moment. They too had been hardened. Time would tell if he could break through a door with nothing else.

He chose the weakest spot, where a panel had been fitted into the main frame. He took a deep breath, readying himself.

Sorhatani stood at the main gate to Karakorum. She had fretted for some time over where to receive Ogedai’s wife. Would it seem like a challenge to force her to come all the way through the city to the palace before they met? She did not know Torogene well enough to be certain. Her main memory of her was a motherly woman who had remained calm on the long night when Ogedai had come under attack in his rooms. Sorhatani told herself she had done nothing wrong, that she could not be reproached for her care of the khan. Yet she knew well enough that a wife’s feeling about a younger woman was not always a rational thing. No matter how it went, the meeting was going to be delicate, to say the least. Sorhatani had prepared herself as best she could. The rest was up to the sky father and earth mother, and Torogene herself.

The retinue was an impressive sight, with outriders and carts stretching back along the road for almost a mile. Sorhatani had ordered the city gates opened, rather than insult Torogene, yet she feared that the khan’s wife would just sweep by her as if she did not exist. She watched nervously as the first rows of riders passed under the gate and the largest cart trundled closer. Pulled by six oxen, it moved slowly and creaked loudly enough
to be heard some distance away. The khan’s wife sat under a canopy, with four poles of birch supporting a silk roof. The sides were open and Sorhatani twisted her hands together at the first sight of Torogene returning to her husband and Karakorum. It was not reassuring, and Sorhatani felt the woman’s eyes seek her out at a distance, then rest on her as if fascinated. She thought she could see the gleam of them and knew that Torogene would be seeing a slim and beautiful woman in a Chin dress of green silk, her hair tied with a silver clasp as large as a man’s hand.

Sorhatani’s thoughts raced as the cart came to a halt just a few paces away from where she stood. Status was the issue and the one thing she had not been able to decide in the days previously. Torogene was the khan’s wife, of course. When they had met last, she had been Sorhatani’s social superior. Yet in the time since, Sorhatani had been granted all the titles and authority of her husband. There was no precedent in the short history of the nation. Certainly no other woman had ever had the right to command a tuman if she so chose. It was a mark of the khan’s respect for her husband’s sacrifice that he had made the ruling at all.

Sorhatani took a deep, slow breath as she saw Torogene was moving to the edge of the cart, extending her hand to be helped down. The grey-haired woman was older, but the khan’s wife would have bowed to Tolui if he had been standing there. The khan’s wife would have spoken first. Without knowing how Torogene would react to her, Sorhatani didn’t want to throw away her sole advantage. She had the status to demand respect, but she did not want to make an enemy of the older woman.

The moment when she would have to decide came too quickly, but her attention was dragged away by the sound of running footsteps. Sorhatani and Torogene both looked up at the same time as Yao Shu came through the gate. His face was stiff with anger and his eyes glittered as they took in the scene.
Sorhatani caught a glimpse of bloody knuckles before he clasped his hands behind his back and bowed formally to welcome the khan’s wife.