“Alas, I am but a wolf cub,” Reyhan overheard Hulagu speaking one day to Ariq Boke, “my teeth aren’t sharp, and my fangs haven’t grown. But the day shall come when I make my enemies repent their deeds. I shall work night and day to form alliances, to gain power, to use the magic of oration and find followers. Our empire shall extend to the ends of the earth and be like none other. The Mongol hawks shall spread their wings and reach for the eternal sky.”
Although Reyhan found Hulagu’s attitude disturbing, she dismissed it and attributed it to his youth. Despite the prevalence of beautiful women in the Mongol court, Hulagu seemed withdrawn from his immediate circle as if he yearned for a soulmate never to be found. He constantly quoted his father or grandfather, taking pride in what he saw as their achievements and vowing to thread the same path as they had done.
Sorkhokhtani and Reyhan spoke of Hulagu when she visited Karakorum.
“I am afraid Hulagu is growing up to be vengeful like his grandfather. I have tried to instill Christian mercy and forgiveness in him but to no avail. He is a sky-worshiper with a firm belief in retribution,” Sorkhokhtani said.
“Well, the appetite for revenge could also be a sign of vulnerability,” Reyhan said. “These young men feel quite a burden on their shoulders when they realize they will be ruling large territories of the world. I have tried to teach them to be good to one another and support each other and also be caring toward their subjects.”
“Kublai seems to be taking your advice and that of his other teachers to heart, Sorkhokhtani replied, “I’m not so sure about Hulagu.”
Tolui’s farewell to the boys was his last, and before long news reached Karakorum that he had lost his life. Tolui died, only forty years old, not in war but due to excessive drinking.
When the news of Tolui’s death reached Reyhan, she went to meet Sorkhokhtani who was staying at Ogodei’s Palace. A dreadful thunderstorm broke, leaving her soaked through to her skin by the time she reached her friend’s quarters. Sorkhokhtani greeted Reyhan warmly, offering her a change of clothes.
They sat by the fireplace, drinking tea together. To Reyhan’s surprise, Sorkhokhtani looked more determined than mournful. She said that she was heartbroken, but her sense of duty toward her sons surpassed her tendency to grieve for her late spouse. For Hulagu the news proved to be devastating, and Sorkhokhtani expressed concern for him, saying that the boy was beyond consolation.
At his father’s gravesite, when only a few well-wishers still lingered, Hulagu, visibly shaken, could barely control himself. He fell on the freshly dug dirt of the grave, grabbed two fistfuls of dust and facing the sky proclaimed loudly, “Death, o’ death, how you reign supreme! What little regard you have for the prince or the pauper. Your claws reach deep into human souls and drag them toward the unknown. O’ invisible hand of vengeance, I shall defy you, for I know that if I do not dare you and confront you, you will follow me and drag me deep beneath the earth as you did to my father and grandfather.”
Chapter Twenty
In the Land of Sunrise
Reyhan’s chronicles did not just cover the events in Persia. As the Mongols moved onto new territories, her tales began to incorporate newer and more distant lands. On rainy days, she sought the solace of her chamber. At times, her words lacked depth, and she felt unable to measure up to the task of stating solemn circumstances, and at others the ink flowed onto paper, giving expression to an ocean of feelings.
Not all Seljuk Kings were as benevolent as Reyhan’s grandfather. A branch of the dynasty that ruled Anatolia did so by overtaxing and abusing the working class. Anatolia or “The Land of Sunrise,” as the formerly Greek-speaking rulers used to call it, could not be branded as a poor country. Being rich and powerful, it had dominance over its neighbors. Yet, the workman’s share was nothing but bitterness and despair.
Seljuk conquerors had gradually transformed the culture of the land. Their strict method of taxation, carried out by teams of taxmen called Iqta Units, had left many disenchanted, for the Iqta had the authority to collect money from the oppressed people.
The Iqta would arrive at someone’s door, wearing striped robes that distinguished them from the rest of the population. One only had to look upon their severe expressions to know that they intended to collect money or confiscate goods.
Entry by Reyhan:
The Taxman of Anatolia
Ogul tried not to breathe in the cold air; there were ice particles in it. He exhaled into his collar to preserve his body heat. It was almost noon but the sun had somehow managed to fade beyond the clouds and leave the citizens of Anatolia to shiver. He craved some hot, sweet tea but tea leaves and sugar he could ill afford; very little was affordable those days in Anatolia.
Hunger had become Ogul’s constant companion. It had placed its ugly mark on the fair faces of his children too. They had five of them by now. His wife Gonul fared no better. They lived on the edge, the precipice where only daily exertions helped them avoid utter destitution. Basic staples had become a luxury they could only afford occasionally.
Ogul was too honest to think about stealing, and as a Christian still retained his faith in God. But attending church had become increasingly difficult and ceased altogether when their appearance and clothing became too unsightly for the holy attendees.
Religion, politics and even culture had no place in a home where poverty ate through every aspect of life and devoured every hope. After the birth of their fifth child, their situation had worsened.
Ogul would have accepted handouts but none were offered, and he was too shy to beg. His wife kept talking about the other suitors she had before falling into his trap; especially one, made-up or real, who supposedly became a wealthy merchant. “Can you imagine the kind of life I could have had?” she kept repeating, her words sawing his overstretched nerves. “As a good-looking lass in my younger days, I could have married anybody. What a pity that I fell for your father,” she would say, addressing the children.
Whenever she stressed the word “fell,” he would think of the precipice at the edge of which they lived. For Ogul and his wife, love and hate had lost their meanings. They only commiserated.
A light drizzle started which soon turned into an incessant shower. It formed little streams upon the stone-paved roads of richer neighborhoods and turned dirt roads into cesspools of mud in poorer ones.
In the richer parts of Anatolia, rain washed the sweet petals of blue and yellow aconite flowers; it scrubbed their dark green leaves clean and left the brick houses sparkling. Rain sang down drainpipes, slid down happily on the clean surface of methodically wiped windows, it kissed the face of fancy parasols and washed away dust from rooftops.
But in the poor parts of the city, rain only brought mud and misery. It soaked the poor people’s single outfits; it deteriorated the already fraying fabric of their ragged attire; it bent their old shoes further out of shape. It lashed against the horse-drawn carriages and their horses. It drenched the faces and blinded the eyes of passersby. Mud crept up the skirts and trousers of pedestrians. Horses pulling carriages behind them became mired saddle-deep in the mud. Puddles of water accumulated in potholes and the earth felt like a sponge that would never dry.
No doubt, many wished they had made it home earlier to settle by the fire and nurse a hot drink. When Ogul reached his humble abode, however, rain had found its way indoors as well. It had saturated the roof and dripped from the ceiling. Pots were placed here and there to keep it from flooding the floors. Ogul sighed deeply as he entered his workshop, the top floor of which they used as their living quarters. Privation was the state of their life, and he could do nothing about it. Fate had condemned them to it, and they could not escape its chains.
His wife sighed too as she recounted the other chances she could have had in life. She was a skin and bone figure of a woman, thinned by dearth and deprivation. Her tongue, however, remained fresh and pie
rcing like a brand-new blade.
In the bare-bone workshop of the aging carpenter, four thin little boys of varying ages stared at their father looking timid. He had removed the banisters of the staircase in hopes of turning them into a piece of furniture for a wealthy customer. His baby daughter, still a suckling infant, would soon learn to crawl and there would be no railings protecting her.
As the weak rays of the sun melted on the horizon, Gonul lit the last piece of taper they had, determined to pray all night for some type of relief. The flickering light of the candle cast Ogul’s long shadow upon the wall and the ceiling, making him appear larger than his actual self. For the first time in their long life together, she felt the importance of his presence; as if misery had empowered him and bestowed upon him the glory that shines upon the faces of those who have lived through utter desolation.
“We have something more urgent than food to worry about,” Gonul said in a less acrimonious tone. “The taxman will be here tomorrow.”
“Taxes, taxes, taxes! Damn the taxman! What do they want? We have nothing to give. How are we going to come up with the money they are asking for? We can barely exist as it is. Don’t they see that?” he said with bitterness and fury. The children with fear and hunger written all over their demure faces stood closer to their mother, the less broken of the two parents, the youngest boy pulling on her apron.
“No, they don’t see that. They don’t see anything,” she replied. “The Iqta came by yesterday and threatened to take away our home. We’ll have nowhere to stay,” she said as she turned toward the small window of the workshop.
“‘This is the last warning,’ he told me, ‘you come up with the money by tomorrow, or you are going to be evicted.’ ‘But what about my children?’ I pleaded earnestly, ‘Where would I take them in this cold weather?’ He stared at me as if looking at a street dog and said again, ‘tomorrow’ before leaving.”
“If,” she said, stressing the last letter as if teaching the children how to pronounce the alphabets, “if I had married one of my wealthier suitors, instead of falling for your father, we would have had a roof over our head that did not leak, an aromatic fire would be lit in our house, and we would have had food . . . warm, delicious food on our table.” At this point, her gaze turned toward the empty place where once their table stood.
The next morning, Gonul awaited the dreaded figure of the taxman right outside the door. She was too nervous to wait inside as her husband had done. The blue sky had stripes of dark and white clouds scratched upon it as if it could not decide which one to take on. Only a feeble glow of the sun was visible through the clouds.
A strong wind blew through her clothes, making her thin frame shake all over. Her shoes had become so badly worn that she felt the icy surface of the pavement right through her oft-mended socks, which were threadbare by now and refused further mending. Food for them was a priority, a constant thought that weighed heavy on their mind; clothing for them, an unaffordable luxury. Her body had to befriend nature. Adjust itself to its extremes.
She felt lucky to have given birth by herself without the aid of a midwife, for that would have cost more than they could afford. But the last childbirth had taken its toll on her and drained her body of youthful energy. Yet her spirit remained strong for the sake of her children. That spirit had to continue, like the light of the flickering candle that lit their house last night.
Tears were now a stranger to her face. If she cried, she would cry forever, but she had no strength for that, her energy sucked by the baby from her almost empty bosom. More than the deprivation and hunger, the unfairness of it all bothered her. The lavish life of the rich had to be sustained by taking away every morsel they had to eat. At times, she had the urge to fight back, but how can the empty-handed and weak challenge the powerful?
A dense fog had earlier settled on the land. It had blanketed the city, under the cover of which the Mongolian army had advanced. Dressed in the luxurious attire afforded to them by the looting and pillaging of conquered nations, the mere sight of them left the onlooker in awe of their grandeur.
Their horses, long trained to trot noiselessly, moved in from every direction except the main gate, a well-guarded and protected site. Groups of Mongol horsemen poured into the streets and alleys, stunning the residents, few of which were awake that early in the morning. By the time the news reached the central government, the city was under partial foreign occupation. The Mongols encouraged a number of inhabitants to join them. They informed the citizens that their central government had fallen and that they had no choice but to surrender.
A foreign nobleman riding a stallion, white as spring clouds with a harness of gold, approached the poor carpenter’s shop. The taxman stood beside him, but he looked timid and appeared to have walked the distance on foot. Other foreigners accompanied them as well. A crowd of curious men and women began to encircle them, like flies hovering over sweets. The alien aristocrat, a tall young man, introduced himself as Ariq Boke, the grandson of Genghis Khan, and addressed the crowd in flawless Turkish with a barely detectable accent.
He told the Iqta to begin collecting taxes. Color faded from Gonul’s face. “What is this mischief? The Iqta never came to our door looking so meek,” she thought.
The taxman began trembling.
Ariq Boke repeated, “Go ahead and collect the taxes.”
“I’m here to collect taxes,” the Iqta said in a barely audible voice. The crowd looked up in awe at the foreigners, not knowing whether to be grateful or fearful.
“Who are you?” Gonul asked.
“We are the Mongols,” the nobleman’s words echoed. “We are your saviors, here to alleviate the hardships you have endured. Join us, and you will be rewarded.”
A tall, thin man of about forty wearing ragged clothes cried, “We will, for there is nothing on earth left to us, the loss of which we would regret later. Most of our earnings go to the treasury of the Sultan, and I don’t know to what use they put it, for I don’t see any benefits coming from them.”
“Well, the Sultan will not remain in power for long,” the commanding voice of the newcomer announced. “We are the conquering army, and we respect hard-working laborers in our culture. Artisans, builders, alchemists and even laborers are needed in Mongolia. They will be protected and paid well.”
As they rounded up all the men that they found useful to their purpose, Gonul with her mouth left open in astonishment waved goodbye to her husband who had heeded the call of the Mongols.
Before leaving, Ogul assured his wife that they would be well provided for. He also said that he would send them letters from Mongolia so often that they wouldn’t even miss him. That last promise he never kept.
Power was about to change hands without Gonul’s knowledge, and her entire destiny faced a transformation she could not foresee. Foreigners had come to their land. They had to join their battles, to share their riches, their wealth, their food, and bask in the glory of others when their own country had betrayed them.
Ariq Boke continued, “Those who ruled you have abused you, and we are here to set things right. We shall empower the poor amongst you, if you agree to side with us. To test that power, to feel that power, I ask you to decide what shall be done with the taxman.”
“Imprison him,” a man shouted. “Hang him,” another one declared. Gonul was the first to proclaim, “Long live the Mongols!”
Mongol skirmishes against Anatolia continued for a number of years. The Sultan’s forces fought back, but the unsatisfied population showed reluctance in resisting the invaders, and a number of them ended up joining the Mongols.
Book III
At the Gateway of Europe
Chapter One
Kievan Rus
December 1237
The middle-aged preacher placed both hands on the dark wood pulpit and paused for a moment, “Ryazan is facing a dire situation,” he sa
id at last. His tall, ornamented headpiece cast a shadow upon his forehead, and the large golden cross hanging from his neck gleamed against his black robe. “The encroaching wolves from the Far East have invaded our land, leaving us vulnerable.”
“As always,” he added, “we seek the help of our Savior, Jesus Christ. This cathedral is the sanctuary of the pious. No one will harm us within its walls.” As he spoke, people pressed against one another to bring their families inside the church.
“We seek Thy help, Lord,” the preacher’s voice reverberated against the walls of Ryazan’s main cathedral, “from an enemy that threatens our existence.” The crowd began to mumble as the church filled to its maximum capacity. Others, who saw men, women, and children congregating, reached the conclusion that maybe the church was the only safe place to be. Many struggled to get inside the old structure.
It became almost suffocating inside. When filled beyond its capacity, people began climbing the outer walls, even the dome up to the cupola filled with desperate individuals. People clambered on top of each other, clinging on to whatever they could. Some rolled and fell off, breaking their backs.
“The roof is caving in!” one man shouted, disrupting the sermon.
The preacher, pale as a ghost, looked up. “Oh Lord,” he cried involuntarily. “This is the wrath of God unleashed upon us!” As he spoke, the roof collapsed, crushing part of the congregation under its weight.
“Damn Mongols,” an injured man cried as he took his last breath.
The initial report had reached Reyhan through the eunuch on the Mongol invasion of Kievan Rus. More information soon followed, and Reyhan lost no time in recording the unfolding drama. As always, she took the stuff of hearsay and wove these into tales.
The Sky Worshipers Page 16