Empire of Silver (7 page)

‘You have a position of strength,
brother
,’ Ogedai said. ‘You have generals loyal to you, while I have a vast empire that must be administered and controlled by able men. After today, I will be the gur-khan, the leader of nations. I will take your oath and honour mine to you and your descendants. The Chin showed us how to rule many lands, Chagatai, with tribute flowing back to the capital.’

‘You have not forgotten what happened to that capital?’ Chagatai asked.

Ogedai’s eyes glinted dangerously. ‘I have
not
, brother. Do not think that one day you will lead an army into Karakorum. Our father’s blood runs in my veins as much as it does in yours. If you ever come to me holding a sword, it will be against the
khan
and the nation will answer. I will destroy you then with your wives and children, your servants and followers. Do not forget, Chagatai, that I survived the night. Our father’s luck is mine. His spirit watches over me. Yet I am offering you an empire greater than anything outside the lands of the Chin.’

‘Where I will
rot
,’ Chagatai said. ‘You would have me lock myself in a pretty palace, surrounded by women and gold…’ he struggled for something suitably appalling,’…chairs and crowns?’

Ogedai smiled slightly to see his brother’s horror at such a prospect.

‘No,’ he said. ‘You will raise an army for me there, one I may call on. An army of the West, as Tolui will create an army of the Hearth and I will gather one of the East. The world has grown too large for one army of the nation, my brother. You
will ride where I tell you to ride, conquer where I tell you to conquer. The world is yours, if you can put aside the base part of you that tells you to rule it all. That you may not have. Now give me an answer and your oath. Your word
is
iron, brother and I
will
take it. Or I can just kill you now.’

Chagatai nodded, overcome with the sudden shift from fatalistic numbness to new hope and new suspicions.

‘What oath will you accept?’ he said at last, and Ogedai knew he had won. He held out the wolf’s-head sword that Genghis had worn.

‘Swear with your hand on this sword. Swear by our father’s spirit and honour that you will never raise a hand in anger against me. That you will accept me as gur-khan and be a loyal vassal as khan of your own lands and peoples. Whatever else happens is the will of the sky father, but on that, you can make an oath I will respect. There will be many others today, Chagatai. Be the first.’

The nation knew that Chagatai had gambled for the horsetails, throwing his men at the city of Karakorum. When Ogedai and his officers rode around the city that morning in a show of strength, they saw that the attempt had failed. Yet somehow Chagatai too rode proudly as he rejoined his tuman outside the city. He sent his bondsmen to collect the corpses and carry them far beyond Karakorum, out of sight. In just a short time, only rusty marks were left on the streets, the dead as well hidden as the plans and stratagems of great men. The warriors of the nation shrugged and continued to prepare for the festival and the great games that would begin that day.

For Kachiun and Khasar, it was enough for the moment to know Ogedai had survived. The games would go ahead and there would be time to think of the future once he was made khan. Tumans that had faced each other in anger the night
before sent teams of bowmen to the archery wall outside Karakorum. For those men, the battles of princes were a different world. They were pleased their own generals had survived; more pleased that the games had not been called off.

Tens of thousands gathered to watch the first event of the day. No one wanted to miss the early rounds, especially as the final would be seen by only thirty thousand, in the centre of the city. Temuge had organised the paper tokens that gained entry to that final enclosure. They had been changing hands for horses and gold for days before the event. While Ogedai had fought for his life, women, children and the elderly were quietly sitting in darkness where they could watch the greatest skills of their people demonstrated. Even the game of thrones had come second place to that desire.

The archery wall loomed above the east gate of Karakorum, bright in the rising sun. It had been built over the previous days, a massive construction of wood and iron that could hold more than a hundred small shields, each no larger than a man’s head. Around it, a thousand iron stoves added smoke to the air, cooking a feast for those who watched. The smell of fried mutton and wild onions was strong around the camp and the knowledge that civil war had been as close as a breath the night before did not diminish their appetites or still the ready laughter as the wrestlers practised with friends on the dry grass. It was a good day, with the sun strong on their backs as the nation prepared to celebrate a new khan.

Khasar stood with nine of his tuman’s best archers, waiting for his turn. He had to struggle to find the calm he needed and he took long, slow breaths while he held up each of the four arrows he had been given. In theory, they were all identical, products of the best fletcher in the tribes. Even so, Khasar had rejected the first three he had been handed. It was nerves in part, but he had not slept and he knew the day would be hard as it caught up with him. He was already sweating more than usual, as his body complained and ached. The only consolation was that every other archer had been awake as well. Yet the young ones were bright-faced and cheerful as they saw the grey pallor of more senior men. For them, it was a day of great potential, a better chance than they could have hoped to win recognition and Temuge’s precious medals of gold, silver and bronze, each stamped with the face of Ogedai. While he waited, Khasar wondered what Chagatai would have done if he had been successful. No doubt the heavy discs would have been
quietly taken away and lost. Khasar shook his head to clear it. Knowing Chagatai, he would have used them anyway. The man felt no embarrassment about small things. In that at least, he was the true son of his father.

The festival would last for three days, though Ogedai would be khan at sunset on the first. Khasar had already seen Temuge running himself ragged trying to organise the events so that all those who qualified to compete could do so. Temuge had complained to Khasar about the difficulties, saying something about archers who were also riding in the horse races, and runners who were wrestling. Khasar had waved him away rather than listen to the tedious detail. He supposed someone had to organise it all, but it did not sound like a warrior’s work. It was well suited to his scholarly brother, who could use a bow hardly better than a child.

‘Step forward, Bearskin tuman,’ the judge called.

Khasar looked up from his thoughts to watch the competition. Jebe was a talented archer. His very name meant ‘arrow’ and had been given to him after a shot that brought down Genghis’ own horse. The word was that his men would be in the final. Khasar noted that Jebe did not seem to be suffering after the night’s exertions, though he had fought through the night to save Ogedai. Khasar felt a twinge of envy, remembering when he too could have ridden all night and still fought the following day, without rest or food beyond a few gulps of airag, blood and milk. Still, he knew he had not wasted the good times. With Genghis, he had conquered nations and made a Chin emperor kneel. It had been the proudest moment of his life, but he could have wished for a few more years of uncaring strength, without the painful clicking of his hip as he rode, or the sore knee, or even the small, hard lumps under his shoulder where a lance tip had broken off years before. He rubbed at the spot absently, as Jebe and his nine toed the line, a hundred paces from the archery wall. At that distance, the targets looked tiny.

Jebe laughed at something and clapped one of his men on the back. Khasar watched as the general bent and slow-released his bow a few times, limbering up his shoulders. Around them, thousands of warriors, women and children had gathered to watch, growing still and silent as the team waited for the breeze to die.

The wind dropped to nothing, seeming to intensify the sun on Khasar’s skin. The wall had been placed so the archers cast long shadows, but their aim was not spoiled by light in their eyes. Temuge had planned such tiny details.

‘Ready,’ Jebe said, without turning his head.

His men stood on either side of him, one arrow on the string and three on the ground before them. There were no marks for style, only accuracy, but Khasar knew Jebe would make it as silky smooth as he could, as a matter of pride.

‘Begin!’ the judge called.

Khasar watched closely as the team breathed out together, drawing at the same time and loosing just before they took the next breath. Ten arrows soared out, curving slightly as blurs in the air before they thumped home on the wall. More judges ran out and held up flags to show the hits. Their voices carried in the silent air, calling ‘Uukhai!’ for every shot in the centre of the target.

It was a good start. Ten flags. Jebe grinned at his men and they loosed again as soon as the judges were clear. To go on to the next round, they had to hit only thirty-three shields with forty arrows. They made it look easy, hitting a perfect thirty and only missing two on the last shot for a score of thirty-eight. The crowd cheered and Khasar glowered at Jebe as he passed back through the other competitors. The sun was hot, but they were alive.

Khasar did not understand why Ogedai had let Chagatai live. It would not have been his choice, but he was no longer one of the inner circle around the khan, as he had been with
Genghis. He shrugged to himself at the thought. Tsubodai or Kachiun would know, they always did. Someone would tell him.

Khasar had seen Chagatai just before he joined the archers. The younger man had been leaning on a wooden corral, watching the wrestlers prepare with a few of his bondsmen. There had been no visible tension in Chagatai and it was only then that Khasar had begun to relax. Ogedai seemed to have won through to some sort of peace, at least for a time. Khasar put such things out of his mind, an old skill. One way or another, it was going to be a good day.

By the low, white walls of Karakorum, forty riders waited for the signal to begin. Their animals had been groomed and their hooves oiled in the days leading to the festival. Each rider had his own secret diet for his mount, guaranteed by his family to produce the long-distance stamina that the animal would need.

Batu ran his fingers through his pony’s mane, a nervous habit that he repeated every few moments. Ogedai would be watching, he was almost certain. His uncle had overseen all aspects of his training with the tumans, giving his officers a free hand to work him bloody and then force him to study each battle and tactic in the nation’s history. He ached as he had ached almost constantly for more than two years. It showed in the new muscle on his shoulders and the dark circles under his eyes. It had not been in vain. No sooner had he mastered a task or a post than he was moved again on the order of Ogedai.

The race that day was a respite of sorts from his training. Batu had tied his own hair back in a club, so that it would not whip his face and irritate him during the race. He had a chance, he knew that. He was older than the other boys, a man grown, though he had his father’s whip-lean frame. The extra weight
would count over the distance, yet his pony was truly strong. It had shown its speed and endurance as a colt and, at two years of age, it was bursting with energy, as fit and ready as its rider.

He looked to where his second in command turned a small, pale mare on the spot. He met Batu’s eyes for a second and nodded. Zan’s blind white eye gleamed at him, reflecting his excitement. Zan had been Batu’s friend when only his mother knew the shame of his birth, when she still hid the disgrace of the name. Zan too had grown up with vicious dislike, beaten and tormented by those pure-blood boys who mocked his golden skin and delicate Chin features. Batu thought of him almost as a brother: thin and fierce, with enough hatred for both of them.

Some of the tumans had supplied teams of riders. Batu hoped Zan alone would be enough to make a difference. If he had learned anything from his father’s fate, it was to win, no matter how you did it. It was not important if someone else was hurt, or killed. If you won, you would be forgiven anything. You could be taken from a stinking ger and forced through the ranks until a thousand men followed your orders as if they came from the khan himself. Blood and talent. The nation was built on both.

As the judge stepped up to the mark, another rider crossed Batu’s line, as if struggling with his mount. Batu kicked forward instantly, using his strength to shove the boy away. It was Settan of the Uriankhai, of course. Tsubodai’s old tribe had been a thorn in his side ever since their valiant general returned to Genghis with Batu’s father’s head in a sack. He had met their silent dislike a hundred times since Ogedai had raised him. Not that they were open in their disdain or their transparent loyalty to their own blood. Genghis had outlawed the ties of tribe for his new nation, but Batu could smile at the thought of his grandfather’s arrogance. As if anything mattered but blood. Perhaps that was what his father Jochi had forgotten when he rebelled and stole away Batu’s birthright.

It was ironic that the Uriankhai still chose to visit the sins of the father on his son. Jochi had not known that his tumble with a virgin produced a boy. As an unmarried girl, Batu’s mother had no claim on Jochi. She had been scorned by her own family, forced to live on the edges. She had rejoiced when Jochi became an outcast, the traitor general, to be hunted down and killed. Then she had heard that the great khan had decreed all bastard children were to be legitimate. Batu still remembered the night she realised all she had lost, drinking herself into a stupor, then gashing weakly at her wrists with a cooking knife. He had washed and bound the wounds himself.

No one in the world hated the memory of Jochi like his son. In comparison to that seething white flame, the Uriankhai were simply moths that would be burnt by it.

Batu watched out of the corner of his eye as the judge began to unfurl a long flag of yellow silk. His father’s men had all left wives and children behind in the camp of Genghis. Zan was one of those abandoned children. Some had returned with Tsubodai, but Zan’s father had died somewhere far away, his body lost on strange ground. It was one more thing for which Batu could not forgive his father’s memory. He nodded to himself. It was a good thing he had enemies in the group of riders. He fed on their dislike, adding to it so that he could suck strength from their jibes and taunts, their sly blows and tricks. He thought once again of the human shit he had found in his feedbags that dawn and it was like a draught of black airag in his blood. That was why he would win the race. He rode with hatred and it gave him a power they could only imagine.

The judge raised the flag. Batu felt his pony’s haunches bunch as he rocked back, ready to explode forward. The flag whipped down, a streamer of gold in the morning sun. Batu kicked and in a heartbeat he was galloping. He did not take the lead, though he was almost sure he could have made them
watch his back all the way round the city. Instead, he settled down to a steady pace midway down the group. Six times around Karakorum was forty-eight miles: no sprint, but a test of stamina. The horses had been bred for it and they could last the distance. The skill would come in the manoeuvres of the boys and men on their backs. Batu felt his confidence swell. He was a minghaan officer. He was seventeen years old and he could ride all day.

One thousand and twenty-four men of the nation raised their right arms to the crowd as they prepared for the first, massive round of wrestling. The first day would weed out the injured and the older men, or simply the ones who were unlucky. There were no second chances and with ten rounds to survive, the final two days would depend in part on those who came through the first with the fewest injuries.

The warriors had their favourites and for days there had been a stream of them strolling by the training fields, assessing the strengths and weaknesses, looking for those worth a bet and those who would not last through the gruelling trial.

None of the generals had entered for this part of the festival. They were too dignified to allow themselves to be thrown and broken by younger men. Even so, the first wrestling bout had been delayed so that Khasar and Jebe could take part in the archery competition. Khasar was a huge fan of the wrestling and sponsored the man no warrior wanted to meet in the first rounds. Baabgai, the Bear, was of Chin stock, though he had the compact build of a Mongol wrestler. He beamed toothlessly at the crowd and they cheered his name. Herds of the best ponies had been wagered on him, but ten rounds or an injury could wear him down. Even a stone could be cracked with enough blows.

Khasar and Jebe both went through their first round, then
jogged with their teams across the summer grass to where the wrestlers waited patiently in the sun. The air tasted like metal and smelled of oil and sweat. The clashes and bloodshed of the night before were deliberately forgotten.

The archers knelt on mats of white felt, laying their precious bows carefully beside them, already unstrung and wrapped in wool and leather.

‘Ho, Baabgai!’ Khasar called, grinning at the bulky man he had found and trained. Baabgai had the mindless strength of an ox and seemed to feel no pain. In all his previous bouts, he had never shown the slightest discomfort and it was that stolid quality that most intimidated his opponents. They could not see a way to hurt the fool. Khasar knew some of the wrestlers called him the ‘empty one’ for his low intelligence, but Baabgai took no offence at anything. He just smiled and threw them over the horizon.

Khasar waited patiently through a song of beginning. The rough voices of the wrestlers swelled as they vowed to stand firm in the earth and to remain friends whether they were victor or vanquished. There would be other songs, in later rounds. Khasar preferred those and he barely listened as he looked across the plains.

Ogedai was in Karakorum, no doubt being washed, oiled and preened. The nation was already drinking hard and if Khasar hadn’t been taking part in the archery rounds, he would have joined them.

He watched as Baabgai took his first hold. The big man was not blisteringly fast, but once an opponent came within reach of his hands, once he found a grip, that was it. Baabgai’s fingers were short and fleshy, his hands always looking as if they had swollen badly, but Khasar had felt their strength and wagered heavily on him.

Baabgai’s first bout ended as he wrenched his opponent’s shoulder, grabbing the wrist and then throwing his weight onto
the arm. The crowd cheered and beat drums and gongs in appreciation. Baabgai smiled at them, toothless as a huge baby. Khasar could not help chuckling at the simple pleasure in the wrestler. It would be a fine day.