‘Yet I promised our father that I would look after the family, Kublai. I doubt he intended me to leave you with dusty scrolls and ink-stained fingers.’ Kublai refused to look down at his hands, though it was true enough. ‘He wanted warriors for sons, Kublai, not Chin scribes.’
Despite himself, Kublai was stung into a reply.
‘When we were young, brother, Genghis himself told his men to come to me when they had a problem. He told them I could see through the thickest patch of thorns. Are you asking me what I want from you?’
Mongke smiled slowly.
‘No, Kublai. I am telling you what I want. Hulegu will tear down the strongholds of Islam, Arik-Boke will keep the homeland safe. I have a hundred other irons in the fire, brother, as far away as Koryo. Every day, I am presented with the envoys and ambassadors of a dozen small nations. I am the khan elect, the heart of the nation. But you have another path to tread, the work Ogedai and Genghis left unfinished.’
Kublai’s mind leapt to the conclusion and he swallowed uncomfortably.
‘The Sung,’ Kublai muttered.
‘The Sung, Kublai. Dozens of cities, millions of peasants. It will be your life’s work. In my name, you will bring an end to what Genghis began.’
‘And how would you have me accomplish this grand dream of yours?’ Kublai asked quietly, masking his nervousness with a deep gulp of wine.
‘Genghis started the conquest of the Chin with the region of Xi Xia. My advisers have found another gate into the Sung. I would have you take an army along the south-western border, Kublai, into the Yunnan region. There is only a single city there, though they can call on an army to equal mine. Still, I think it will not be too great a task, even for an unblooded man.’ He smiled to take the sting out of his condescension. ‘I would have you become the grandson Genghis wanted, Kublai, a Mongol conqueror. I find I have the means and the will to change your life. Swear an oath to me today and I will give you the authority to lead tumans. I will make you the terror of the Sung court, a name they dare not speak aloud.’
Kublai drained his cup and shuddered, feeling gooseflesh rise along his arms. He had to voice his first suspicion, or have it nag at him ever after.
‘Are you expecting me to be killed, brother, by sending me against such an enemy? Is that your plan?’
‘Still looking for games and plots?’ Mongke replied with a laugh. ‘I think Yao Shu had you too long in his care, brother. Sometimes things are simple, as they should be. I would lose valuable cannons and my best general with you. Would I send Uriang-Khadai to his death? Put your mind at ease, brother. In a few months, I will become khan. Have you any idea what that means to me? I remember Genghis. To stand in his place is … worth more than I can explain. I don’t need to play games or construct complicated schemes. The Sung have already raided into Chin territory, on more than one front. Unless I answer them soon with force, they will slowly take back what Genghis conquered. That is my only plan, brother. My only aim.’
Kublai saw simple truth in Mongke’s stare and he nodded. In a revelation, he realised his brother was trying to fit the role he had won for himself. A khan needed a breadth of vision, to be able to rise above the petty squabbles of family and nation. Mongke was struggling to do just that. It was impressive, and with an effort Kublai shrugged off his doubts.
‘What oath would you have?’ he said at last. Mongke was watching him closely, his own emotions well hidden.
‘Swear to me that you will put aside your Chin ways, that on campaign you will dress and act and look like a Mongol warrior, that you will train with sword and bow every morning until you are exhausted. Swear that you will not read a scholar’s book for the whole time you are on campaign, not one, and I will give you an army today. I will give you Uriang-Khadai, but the command will be your own.’ For a moment, a sneer touched his lips. ‘If that is all too much, then you may return to the libraries here and wait out the years to come, always wondering what you could have been, what you could have done with your life.’
Kublai’s thoughts whirled. Mongke was trying to be a khan. It seemed he thought a similar change could be wrought in his brother. It was almost endearing to see the big brute so earnest. Kublai thought of Yao Shu and the peaceful years he had spent in Karakorum. He had loved the silences of study, the glories of insight. Yet part of him had always dreamed of leading men in war. His grandfather’s blood ran in him as much as it did in Mongke.
‘You promised Hulegu a khanate, if he could take Baghdad,’ Kublai said after what felt like an age.
Mongke laughed aloud, the sound echoing. He had begun to worry that his scholar brother would refuse him. He felt almost drunk on his own foresight as he reached for the pile of maps and documents.
His finger rested on the vast lands of northern China and he stabbed it down.
‘There are two areas here, brother. Nan-ching and Ching-chao. They are mine to give. Choose either one, with my blessing. You will have your stake in Chin lands, your own estates. If you agree to this, you will be able to visit them. Before I promise you more, let me see you can win battles for me.’ His smile remained as he saw Kublai examine the maps minutely, fascinated. ‘Are we agreed then?’
‘Give me Yao Shu as my adviser and we are,’ Kublai said, letting the words spill out before he could think his choices to death. There were times when a decision had to be made quickly and part of him was filled with the same excitement he had seen in his younger brothers.
‘You have him,’ Mongke said immediately. ‘By the sky father, you can have all the Chin scholars left in Karakorum if you say yes to this! I will see my family rise, Kublai. The world will know our names, I swear it.’
Kublai had been looking closely at the maps. Nan-ching ran close to the Yellow river and he recalled that the plain was prone to flooding. The area was populous and Mongke would surely expect him to choose it. Ching-chao was further to the north of Yenking, on the boundary of the Mongol homeland. It had hardly any towns marked. He wished Yao Shu were there to give his opinion.
‘With your permission, I will take Ching-chao,’ he said at last.
‘The small one? It is not enough. I will give you …’ Mongke traced a line on the map as he peered at it, ‘Huai-meng as well. Estates so vast they are almost a khanate, brother. More will come if you are successful. You cannot say I have not been generous.’
‘You have given me more than I expected,’ Kublai said honestly. ‘Very well, brother. You have my oath. I will try to be the man you want.’ He held out his hand and Mongke gripped it in pride and satisfaction. Both of them were surprised at the strength of the other.
In the spring, the nation gathered on the plain of Avraga, deep in the ancestral homeland. The oldest men and women could still remember when Genghis had bound the tribes there, replacing their individual banners with just one staff of horse-tails, bleached white. The plain was vast and almost flat, so that it was possible to see for miles in any direction. A single stream ran through one part of it and Mongke made a point of drinking the water, where Genghis would have stood so many years before.
Batu had left his Russian estates to come with his honour guards, the image of his father, Jochi. He had been visibly distressed to find Sorhatani so wasted and thin, racked with a coughing illness that grew worse each day. Fevers came and went in her and there were times when Kublai believed she only hung on to life to see Mongke made khan.
From the west came Baidur, the son of Chagatai. His wealth was obvious in the gold he wore and the fine horses of a thousand guards. As khan of the homeland, Arik-Boke had arranged it all, so that they arrived over two months. One by one, the princes and generals rode in and made camp, until even that open plain was black with people and animals. Christian monks came from as far as Rome and France, and the princes of Koryo had travelled many thousands of miles to attend the man who would rule them. Until the last were in, the gathering traded and exchanged goods and horses, brokering deals that would make some rich and others poor
for a generation. Airag and wine flowed freely and animals were slaughtered by the tens of thousands to feast them all.
When it was time, Mongke rode out among the host and they knelt to him and gave their oath. No one challenged him. He was the grandson of Genghis Khan and he had proven his bloodline, his right to lead. The bitter years under Guyuk were put firmly behind them. Kublai knelt with the others, thinking of the army he must take into Sung lands. He wondered if Mongke truly understood the challenge he had set. Kublai had spent most of his life in the city. He had honed his mind with the greatest philosophies of Lao Tzu, Confucius and the Buddha, but all that was behind. As Mongke became khan on a roar of acclamation, Kublai shivered, telling himself it was anticipation and not fear.
PART TWO
‘Fire is the test of gold; adversity of strong men.’
- Seneca
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Suleiman was old, but mountains and deserts had hardened his flesh, so that sinews and narrow muscles could be seen shifting against each other under his skin. In his sixtieth year, his will remained strong, simmered down to diamond hardness by the life he had led. When he spoke, his voice was gently reproving.
‘That is not what I asked, Hasan, now is it? I asked if you knew who had stolen food from the kitchens, not if you had done it yourself.’
Visibly trembling, Hasan mumbled an unintelligible answer. He knelt on the stone floor before Suleiman’s great chair. His master was dressed in heavy robes against the pre-dawn chill, while Hasan wore only a grubby linen shift. In the shadow of mount Haudegan, the room saw the sun only in the afternoons. Until then, it could have been used to keep meat from spoiling.
‘Come closer, Hasan,’ Suleiman said, chuckling.
He waited until the man shuffled on his knees to the foot of the chair and then Suleiman snapped out his arm, backhanding him across the face. Hasan tumbled, pulling in his legs and hiding his head in his hands. Blood dripped from his nose and he looked in terrified silence at the shining drops. As Suleiman watched, the young man reached out with a finger and smeared a red line on the stones. His eyes filled with tears and Suleiman laughed aloud.
‘A few stolen cakes, Hasan. Were they worth it?’
Hasan froze, unsure whether the question held a trap for him or not. He nodded slowly and Suleiman tutted to himself.
‘I wish all men lied as badly as you do, Hasan. The world would be less interesting, but so many problems would simply vanish. Is there anything in that head of yours that understands you are not to steal from me? That I always find out and punish you? Yet still you do it. Fetch me my stick, Hasan.’
The young man looked at his master in abject misery. He shook his head, but he had learned it would only be worse if he refused. With Suleiman watching in amusement, he stumbled to his feet to cross the frozen room, feeling his bruised body protest. There were few days when he was not beaten. He did not understand why his master hurt him. He wished he had resisted the honeycakes, but the smell had driven him almost to madness. Over the years, Suleiman had broken too many of his teeth for him to eat without pain and the honeycakes were soft, dissolving on his tongue with something like ecstasy.
Suleiman patted the young man’s hand as Hasan gave him the stick. It was a walking cane with a weighted tip and a dagger blade hidden in the handle, suitable in all ways for the one who led the clan of Ismaili Assassins in Alamut. He saw Hasan was weeping and he put a thin arm around his shoulder as he stood.
‘Hush, lad. Is it the stick you fear?’ His tone was gentle.
Hasan nodded miserably.
‘I understand. You don’t want to be hit. But if I don’t, you will steal again, won’t you?’
Hasan didn’t understand and he looked blankly at the old man with his cruel, black eyes and scrawny face. Hasan was both younger and wider than Suleiman, his shoulders made powerful by endless labour in the gardens. He might even have stood taller if he straightened his back. Even so, he flinched when the old man kissed his cheek.
‘Better that you accept your punishment like a good boy. Can you do that for me? Can you be brave?’
Hasan dipped his head, tears spilling from his eyes.
‘That’s it. Dogs, boys and women, Hasan. They must all be beaten, or they are spoiled.’ Suleiman brought the stick round with a sudden snap, cracking it against Hasan’s skull. The young man yelped and fell back as Suleiman stepped closer, raining blows on him. In desperation, Hasan covered his face and Suleiman immediately hit him in the chest with his bony fist, at the point just above the stomach and below the breastbone. Hasan folded to the floor with a low groan, straining to suck in a breath.
Suleiman watched him affectionately, surprised to find he was panting slightly. Old age was a curse. He might have continued chastising the simpleton if his son had not chosen that moment to clatter up the stairs to the room. Rukn-al-Din barely glanced at Hasan as he strode in.
‘They have sent a response, father.’
Suleiman’s mood went sour at the words and he stood in thought, rubbing a spot of blood from the stick with his thumb.
‘And what do they say, my son? Will you keep me waiting?’
Rukn flushed. ‘They sent our man back unharmed, but the message is to abandon our fortresses.’
Suleiman gestured for Hasan to rise and handed the stick to him to be put away. It was odd, but he preferred the simpleton’s company to his own son at times, like a favourite hound. Perhaps it was that Hasan could never be a disappointment, as Suleiman expected so little from him.
‘Nothing else?’ Suleiman said. ‘No negotiation, no counter-offer? Has this khan’s brother, this Hulegu, given me nothing for the pains I have taken?’
‘No father, I am sorry.’
Suleiman did not curse or show any reaction. He regarded such displays as ultimately futile, or worse, an advantage to his enemies. Even when he grew warm from beating Hasan, he was still able to talk calmly and kindly. As he thought, he detected the distant clinking of porcelain cups coming up the winding stair to his tower. He smiled in anticipation.
‘It is almost time for my morning tea, Rukn. Will you join me?’
‘Of course, father,’ Rukn replied. He had not heard the woman approaching and his eyes swivelled to her in surprise as she entered with a heavy tray. At times, his father’s talents seemed to approach the mystical. Certainly he knew everything that occurred in the fortress, from the smallest whisper to the skills and training of each of the men.
Hasan turned quickly as he heard her step. Kameela meant ‘most perfect’ in Arabic and she was as beautiful as her name suggested, with black hair and smooth olive skin. Her hips swayed as she walked and Hasan could not take his eyes from them.
Suleiman chuckled at the sight of Hasan so entranced. It had been a whim two years before to give her to Hasan as his wife. Suleiman had enjoyed the confusion and terror in the fool as he understood the gift. Hasan had not been with a woman before and it had amused Suleiman greatly. If he had one area of expertise, it was in finding the weak points of other men. Hasan could be made to do anything for fear Kameela would be hurt. At times, Suleiman could treat his pain almost as artistry, with the fool as his canvas. He recorded much of what passed between them, for the edification and instruction of future masters of the order. There were few such detailed records in existence and it pleased him to add to the world’s knowledge.
Kameela served tea to him without once looking at her husband. Suleiman watched her self-control in delight. A dog could be taught only simple tricks, but people were wonderfully subtle and complex. He knew she dared not acknowledge Hasan in his presence. Suleiman had thrashed him bloody at her feet on a number of occasions, for just a word or a smile. He had known the fool would fall in love with the beautiful young woman, but the miracle had been that she seemed to return his affection. Suleiman cradled his tea in his skinny hands, watching over the rim as he inhaled the delicate scent. If only he could make the Mongol generals dance as easily as his servants
.
As Kameela bowed, Suleiman reached out and ran a finger slowly along her jawline.
‘You are very beautiful,’ he said.
‘You honour me, my lord,’ she said, her head still bowed.
‘Yes,’ he replied. Suleiman showed his yellow teeth as he drained his tea. ‘Take Hasan with you, my flower. I must talk to my son.’
Kameela bowed at the dismissal and Suleiman watched as Hasan shambled after her, his hands shaking. He was tempted to call them back, indeed had intended to do so, but Rukn-al-Din began speaking again before he could. His son’s eyes were irritated.
‘The Shirat fortress could be taken down, as some proof of our resolve. The place is unsafe as it is, full of lizards and cracked stones. If we made a show of destroying Shirat, it would buy us another year at least. Perhaps by then, the Mongol armies will have moved on.’
Suleiman regarded his son, wishing once more that he had managed to sire a man of intelligence. For years he had hoped to produce an heir in his own image, but those hopes and dreams had long been ashes.
‘You do not placate a tiger by feeding it your own flesh,’ he snapped. Hasan and Kameela had made their escape and he was angry with Rukn for interrupting his pleasures. ‘If such an abomination is to be my legacy, he will have to drag it out of us. We must find what this general wants and pray he is not like his grandfather Genghis. I think not. Men like that are rare.’
‘I don’t understand,’ Rukn said.
‘No, because you are a man of weakness, combined with appetites, which is why you have a belly and must visit my doctors to burn the warts off your manhood.’
Suleiman paused for a beat, waiting to see if his son would dare respond to the insults. Rukn-al-Din stayed silent and Suleiman made a sound of derision before he went on.
Conqueror (2011) c-5 Page 13