The scent of gunpowder filled the air, mixed with the bitter aroma of burning trees and bushes. Mongol rage like a wave rose to the surface, and surged, crushing souls in its wake, ripping out the beating heart of the land. Dark silhouettes of Mongol warriors seemed like specters from another world as they plunged their hands into sacred chambers of human life, stealing away forbidden fruits: a father’s gold tooth who had laid down his life to protect his family, the gold chain around the neck of a young girl whose body was mutilated by the Mongols, a tiny knife with an ivory handle used by the young girl’s brother who now lay dead as he rushed to her defense. Similar scenes repeated throughout the land leaving a treasury of confiscated goods in the hand of the usurpers.
Commodities of greater value in the eyes of the Mongols, such as gold and silver, coins and jewels, were carried to the camp of the Khan. The truly precious possessions, the intangible, obscure ones like the happiness of a young girl, a father’s love, a mother’s tears, were allowed to wither away.
Trembling maidens shied away from windows and hid in dark corners. More than ever they felt defenseless. Mercy had packed its bundle of cares and left the land. The wealthy envied the mud-dwellings of the poor for they appeared safer, and the poor wished their dwellings were subterraneous.
Further deterioration of the crisis was unimaginable, but the Mongols managed to wreak such havoc in Baghdad that the few who escaped the carnage ended up telling horror stories to nearby towns and villages. Thus, the will to fight began to wane, and courage frittered away even before the Mongols reached them. Baghdad fell within forty days.
There was no rain for many days, and from the festering bodies there oozed a Pandora’s box of pestilence that haunted the survivors. Neglected for being too many to inter, the petrifying bodies were left unburied, turning into a fertile ground for disease. Finally, the rain came in the form of a nighttime drizzle. The cold night air turned its droplets into a thin layer of ice, glistening upon the blood-drenched soil as if mocking the horrid landscape.
There appeared to be no end to the nightmarish scenes that continued from street to street and from alley to alley. The vivid expressions on the faces of the dead melted like features carved on ice statues under the hot sun. There was a sarcastic irony to all of this if ever one was inclined to laugh at such a gruesome display of horror. A butcher lay on his back upon a table where he used to chop up meat, the very knife of his trade poked deep into his throat. A shopkeeper lay dead upon the floor with his remaining trinkets of coin splattered all over his body. A donkey had fallen on top of his rider as if asking that they each take turns in giving rides. Little hope remained in the hearts of the survivors. The future was nowhere to be seen. The past had slipped away noiselessly, dragging away with it all traces of normalcy.
In time, the rising sun shone upon the land, and nature healed what no other means could. The emotional wounds remained, however, time like a remedial ointment worked its way through months and years. Eventually, hope, like an ever-sprouting plant, began to take root again.
Baghdad was still reeling from the intensity of Mongol attacks when Al-Mustasim was sacked, and the inhabitants realized they had foregone the brutality of one ruler only to become subject to another. The Ayyubid Dynasty in Damascus was also subdued. Hulagu’s triumphant entry into Damascus, and the kindness he showed toward the Christian minority there was celebrated in Europe as a victory against the Saracens; although Hulagu himself could hardly distinguish one religion from the other. He sought military conquest and used internal division as a mere tactic to ensure success.
Entry by Reyhan:
As Batu had crushed parts of Christendom, Hulagu wreaked havoc in Baghdad, the heart and center of the Muslim world. Thousands upon thousands were slaughtered as the Mongols showed no mercy. Baghdad’s Darol-Hikmat, the greatest library in existence was destroyed. Millions of hand-written manuscripts were thrown into the Euphrates, turning its water black with their ink as the streets of Baghdad were paved in red blood.
The Mongols threw the Caliph into a cell with all his accumulated gold but refused to give him food in order to punish him for hoarding the wealth of a nation while his army starved. He was then rolled into an expensive carpet, among the many he had amassed and was trampled to death. Thus, his own wealth became the instrument of his death. The Caliph had enough gold stored in his treasury to provide every means necessary for the success of his army but somehow greed and the false hope that maybe the Mongols would spare Baghdad, made him withhold his support for his warriors. In an attempt to promote the Christians and subjugate the Muslim inhabitants of the metropolis, Hulagu destroyed and plundered the mosques and spared the churches.
Initially, I blamed Dounia and then myself for Hulagu’s course of action, but as of late I have realized that it is part of Mongol scheme to sow discord among the otherwise harmonious populations. To add salt to the wounds of the subjugated, Hulagu left most positions of power in the hands of Christians. He did the same in Damascus. In this, he differs from his grandfather, Genghis, who promoted harmony among all people of faith. It is indeed a bitter seed that Hulagu has sown. The enmity he creates is likely to last for generations.
Famed Persian scientist Tusi believed that the conquest of Baghdad by the Mongols, considering their long-term strategy, was inevitable. Although Tusi witnessed the realization of his dream observatory, he could do little to prevent the carnage that ensued in Baghdad, nor could he save his ailing wife from the fangs of death not long after the fall of that great civilization. While living in Baghdad, the Angel of Death claimed his soul as well.
Chapter Twenty-Three
A Tawny Afternoon
1259 C.E.
A lush, green, fruitful summer had arrived that year, and Maragheh, in the northern stretches of Persia, never looked more enticing. Its cooler temperatures suited the Mongol taste, and its greenery provided enough fodder for their animals. As a light drizzle caressed the carriage carrying Hulagu Khan, he asked the driver to stop near the bank of Sufi Chay River. There, he settled down to study the terrain over the next fortnight.
The Mongol chariots of war had continued their rampage in far corners of the world during the reign of the sons of Tolui. Their intent, however, had changed from mere plunder to the administration of the affairs of conquered territories. Kublai struggled to become the first emperor of a united China and have all three former territories of the Jin and Song Dynasties, as well as the Tangut people, under his rule. Hulagu, who had reached the age of one and forty, chose Persia to establish the Ilkanate Dynasty, considering Maragheh, the birthplace of Reyhan, as his capital.
Hulagu had intentionally arrived at the end of the summer season to assess how bearable Maragheh would be in its hottest months. The vast green prairies and hills that bordered the city contrasted with the open skies that stretched above. Hulagu gazed at the uninterrupted horizon. The sun appeared brighter than ever on that afternoon as he walked out of the ger set up for his temporary stay. Pure, blissful, tantalizing summer air surrounded him. The sun made him giddy. It recklessly splashed its rays all over the plains, showering the surrounding meadows with sequins of light. It was a yellow afternoon, amber yellow as if the entire scene was drenched in a tawny brew. Even the stone embankment glittered like glass. Beyond the advantages of the idyll, Maragheh teemed with vineyards, enough to satisfy the thirst of his army.
The locals, having heard that the Great Khan of the Mongols was moving there, greeted him with bowls of apples, walnuts, almonds, and grapes. They brought saplings of roses to be planted in the future palace garden and peacocks to roam that garden when in bloom. They even brought along a tamed tiger cub on a golden leash trained to be kept as a pet. Celebrations ensued, and everyone cheered, either out of joy or out of fear, when Hulagu announced Maragheh the capital of his territory in Persia.
Hulagu’s joy proved to be short-lived, however. When the cooler winds began t
o blow, news reached him that Berke, Batu’s brother, had revolted against him, announcing his intention to wage war. Not all Mongols had remained sky worshipers. Some had converted to Buddhism, others to Islam or Christianity. Berke, a convert to Islam had begun attacking Hulagu’s territories to avenge the destruction of Baghdad, an Islamic capital. Hulagu had no choice but to move his forces to the Caucuses. Thus, the first sparks of Mongol civil wars were ignited as winter commenced.
Hulagu’s men carried swords and axes, as well as their famous Mongol bows and arrows and shields of leather, stretched over tightly-wound lightweight wicker. Long accustomed to transporting their provisions while sitting on top of their saddles, the warriors never considered their loads too heavy.
The unusually warm season in the Caucuses had turned knee-deep snow into slush. A bridge of ropes enticed Hulagu to cross the half-frozen river to speed up the movement of his cavalry toward Berke’s encampment; a moment’s decision that proved fatal.
Seventeen hundred miles away at Karakorum, Dounia was the bearer of a heartwarming secret that she could not wait to disclose to Hulagu. She imagined the look of surprise on his face, how delighted he would be to hear that they were expecting a child. Three months into her pregnancy, she had already set up in her chamber a golden bassinet, looted during the early days of Genghis’s rule.
The world smiled at Dounia, spreading before her a golden path to happiness and contentment, now that she had recovered from the news of her sister’s death. She was too young to know how this deceptive world, this bride of a thousand grooms, could playfully lay the path to one’s destruction in the colorful hues of joy. She put on her new dress that instantly deepened the blue color of her eyes.
Dounia had remained in Reyhan’s Palace for the duration of her pregnancy. She placed a few drops of jasmine water on her neck and wore the talisman of turquoise that once belonged to Chaka, for the blue in it matched her gown, its torn leather rope replaced long ago. Before going down to Reyhan’s parlor, she wrote the following note in the manuscript.
Entry by Krisztina:
In Karakorum the lake is frozen solid, so it must be December in Europe. Hulagu left for the front again after making a short stop here, leaving me under Reyhan’s care. Reyhan has forgiven me for my terrible blunder amidst the trickery of Arseni. Now she treats me like a spoiled daughter, does everything to please me, especially considering my condition. She even had a caravan bring me pomegranates from Persia. I tried them, and they were a bit too tart for my taste—they are not a fruit I am used to. The last message that came from the front indicated that Hulagu should be home soon. I cannot wait to share with him the news of our first child and to let him know how much I have missed him. I have had a dark blue dress made just for the occasion.
Chapter Twenty-Four
The Sweet Song of His Hawk
Dounia walked into Reyhan’s parlor, too excited to wait for her husband in her chamber. Bright sunshine illuminated portions of the parlor. Through the stained glass window, Dounia followed the rainbow-colored Mongolian ducks, the most beautiful of their species, as they sauntered about the pond oblivious to the cold. She too looked as if she belonged to the same tribe; her movements being an imitation of theirs.
Dounia had earlier braided her hair into a crown upon her head with a blue ribbon interwoven into her golden strands. She thought of the moment she would break the news of her pregnancy to Hulagu and what his initial reaction would be to another royal child being born among the Mongol clan. She smiled at the idea. Who would have thought that she would one day be the mother of a Mongol Khan or a Mongol Queen? Who could have even imagined such a fate?
When Dounia heard the sound of a trotting horse, she felt the hour had finally arrived for Hulagu and her to be united again. The sound of the approaching rider mixed with the sweet song of his hawk. She rushed to greet her husband, but when she reached the front door, what she saw was Hulagu’s horse. Another warrior was riding it with Hulagu’s bird tethered to his wrist.
Reyhan, who had heard the commotion, came rushing to see the newcomer. She got there in time to catch Dounia as she swooned at the news that the stranger carried. If Reyhan hadn’t been there to support her, Dounia would have certainly collapsed on the hard stone pavement.
“My God, what is it?” Reyhan asked as she helped Dounia to a seat.
“Hulagu is seriously ill,” Dounia who had regained consciousness replied, sobbing.
“How bad is it?” she asked looking at the messenger.
“The cavalry was crossing a bridge of ropes connecting the two sides of the river in the Caucuses. The ropes that formed the shaky structure appeared worn and ready to tear. We did not know when the rupture would occur and who would be the unlucky one to fall into the half-frozen river below. We had almost reached the other side when the bridge caved in, and some of Hulagu Khan’s men drowned. When our leader fell in, the others pulled him out from under a sheet of ice, but he developed a fever afterward. His condition, I am afraid, is deteriorating as we speak,” the man said.
“I can’t endure it Reyhan,” Dounia pleaded. “Now that I have learned to love him, now that I am bearing our first child, he cannot die . . . Lord, he cannot die. I have to go to him now.”
“You are in no condition to leave. I will go to him,” Reyhan replied.
Sorkhokhtani’s old chambermaid, who occasionally visited Karakorum and happened to be there at that inauspicious moment, suddenly appeared at the door. She must have heard the messenger for she looked pale and shaken. Dounia reached out to Reyhan and fell into her arms.
“If there is any way,” Reyhan said, “that Hulagu’s health could be restored, I will do my utmost to bring that outcome.”
“I beg of you to go to him and help him out,” Dounia said. “You are the only one who can.” With pleading eyes, she looked at Reyhan. “I leave my heart and soul in your care. Come back to me bearing the glad tiding of his health, for I cannot stand this news.”
“How can I travel as a woman alone through all these territories?” Reyhan asked, looking helplessly at Sorkhokhtani’s chambermaid who had served the late Mongol Queen for decades.
“Mongol territories are safe,” the woman said. “All you have to do is wear this.” She removed a metal object that she had tied around her neck with a ribbon. “No one throughout the territories ruled by the Mongols would dare harm the bearer of this. You will be considered a subject of the Mongol Khaqan, and whoever touches you will bring the wrath of our people upon his entire nation.”
“What is this? A talisman?” Reyhan asked, taking the iron amulet with the Mongol insignia on it.
“It is called a passport,” the woman replied. “It can perform miracles as far as crossing borders are concerned, for no one will be hindering you. A few Mongol cavalrymen, as well as a coachman, can accompany you on this journey.”
Before leaving, Reyhan walked into the kitchen, a separate building situated outside the palaces made of rough stone inside and out. It had a tall concave ceiling and small windows inserted into the walls to allow the smoke and smell of food to exit. It almost resembled a prison, except for the fact that dried herbs and bunches of garlic adorned one side of the wall while the stove stood at the other. At a long wooden table in the middle of the kitchen, Shura was cutting up a large onion. Her hair still covered in an old babushka had turned white, and her face had wrinkled considerably since she was first brought to Mongolia. She quickly wiped her hands on her greasy apron as soon as she saw Princess Reyhan.
“You have to help me,” Reyhan said as she grabbed Shura’s arm. “I am leaving for the fronts. Hulagu is bedridden, and I need to be by his side. I leave Dounia under your care, for I am not sure when my return will be.”
“Fear not my lady,” Shura assured her, “I will see to it that all goes well for her and the baby when the time comes.”
Chapter Twenty-Five
Darkness descended heavy upon the earth. Reyhan and her companions traveled a road strewn with boulders and rocks toward the Caucuses. The horses stumbled at times as they made their way to where the injured patient lay.
They had chosen the night time for traveling, because it was safer and their presence less visible to highwaymen and robbers. Reyhan wore a long, black cloak, made according to Dounia’s instructions to cover her identity as well as her gender. She tried to keep her ears open, and her eyes did not dare to shut, not even for a moment, since the path was treacherous. Ironically, her hope lay in the power of her former captors, the Mongols. She knew that any harm coming her way would be brutally avenged. Therefore, she openly displayed the medal that ensured her safe passage through the cities and towns. Earlier she had seen the stone tablets placed near roads and highways that warned those who disobeyed the Yassa of the punishment that awaited them.
Reyhan looked at the fast-moving grayish clouds above. Cool air blew against her face. She patted the head of a camel that strode by her. The humpbacked creature could travel for miles without the need for water or nourishment, while its milk ensured fresh food for the small caravan. In its slow, graceful movements she could feel the forward motion of time. Memories of days gone by moved like watercolor images before her mind’s eyes. She remembered Hulagu as a child, their first meeting, and the attachment that almost instantly formed between them. How he had reached out and playfully grabbed her skirt when he was a mere five-year-old; and that mischievous smile that had melted her heart.
At the break of dawn, the mountainous terrain appeared like folds of a brown silk gown as pearly clouds formed a necklace of white on each peak of a skirt. Reyhan recalled how she used to wear silk gowns and pearls to receive foreign dignitaries at Ogodei’s court. She touched her face with the tips of her fingers. The dew of youth had dried upon her skin. Her head ached, and she could feel the wrinkles on her face cutting deeper into her flesh. Her heart was aging too, but her soul had remained defiant, always embracing the early years of youth. With the instinct of a mother about to visit a long-lost child, she reached out for a silver mirror in her sack and grabbed a small bottle of almond oil to refresh her face. She did not want Hulagu to see her looking so worn-out.
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