Conqueror (2011) c-5

by Conn Iggulden

  ‘I have been told, lord, that we will begin the work on Shirat castle next spring. By the end of next year, it will be gone and you may tell your khan that we have obeyed you.’

  He paused for translation, but at the end, Hulegu did not speak. Rukn struggled to find words to go on. His father had told him to make the Mongols understand it took months to bring down thousands of tons of cut stone. If they accepted the offer, the work would be delayed over and over again. There would be great energy and effort, but the castle would take years to demolish. Perhaps by then, the distant khan would have broken his neck, or Hulegu’s great army would have moved on to other targets for their bile.

  ‘Shirat is high in the mountains, lord. It is no easy task to bring down something that has stood for millennia. Yet we understand that you will want to report success to the khan, your brother. We have prepared gifts for him, gold and jewels to fill a city.’ For the first time, he saw a spark of interest in Hulegu’s eyes and was partly reassured.

  ‘Show me,’ Hulegu said, his words translated in a single sound from the interpreter.

  ‘My lord, they are not here. You and I answer to more powerful men. I am merely an emissary for my father, as you speak for your khan. Yet I have been told to offer you four thousand finger bars of gold as well as dinar coins to fill two chests.’ Even saying the words made fresh sweat break out for Rukn-al-Din. The amounts were vast, enough to found a small city. The Mongol merely stared at him as the interpreter droned on.

  ‘You do accept tribute from your allies?’ Rukn said, pressing him. Hulegu waited patiently for the translation to finish.

  ‘No. We accept tribute from those who serve us,’ Hulegu replied. ‘You have spoken, Rukn-al-Din. You have said what you have been told to say. Now listen to me.’ He paused while the interpreter caught up, watching Rukn closely all the time. ‘My concern is the centre of Islam, the city of Baghdad. I will take that place, do you understand?’

  Rukn nodded uncomfortably as he heard the words.

  ‘In comparison to that, your father and your sect mean little to me. For the honour of my grandfather, I would have been content to see them made into ashes, but you have offered me gold and friendship. Very well, I will accept twice the sum in gold and the destruction of two of your fortresses. I will accept an oath of allegiance to me and to my family.’ He let the translator reach the end, so that he could watch Rukn-al-Din’s reaction. ‘But I will not give you my word. As you say, we both have those to whom we must answer. When I return to my brother, he will ask if I spoke to this Suleiman. Nothing else will do, do you understand? There can be peace between our families, but only when I have spoken to Suleiman. Take me to Alamut, that I may meet with him.’

  Rukn struggled not to show his delight. He had been afraid the Mongol would refuse everything he offered, perhaps even to the point of killing him in his tent. In his pleasure, a tendril of suspicion entered. The Mongol leader might see an advantage in getting his army close to the ancient stronghold. Rukn did not know if the man’s guides could even find it on their own. He thought of the impregnable fortress, with its single path across the sheer rock face. Let them come and stare up at it. Their catapults and cannon would not reach such a height. They could roar and bluster for a hundred years at the foot of the peak and never get in.

  ‘I will do as you say, my lord. I will send word ahead of us and you will be welcomed as a friend and ally.’ His eyes grew cunning and he shook his head ruefully. ‘As for the gold, I do not think there is that much in all the world. If you will accept the first part as a gift, I’m certain the rest could be brought to you each year in tribute.’

  Hulegu smiled for the first time. He did not think the young man had realised yet that his life was in Hulegu’s hands.

  Suleiman breathed deeply, enjoying the scent of sheep droppings in the high, clear air. The tiny meadow on the far side of Alamut was a miracle of rare device, a testament to the skill and foresight of his ancestors. Small trees gave shade to the herd and Suleiman often came there when he needed to think in peace. The meadow was barely two acres in all, enough to support only a dozen sheep and six goats. They were fat and glossy in the sunshine, their constant bleating a balm to his soul. Some of them came close at the sight of him, standing without fear as they hoped for food. He smiled, showing them empty hands. At heart, he had always thought of himself as a shepherd, to men as well as animals.

  He strolled across the thick turf until he reached the sheer rock on one side and ran his fingers along it. There was a small hut there, with bags of feed for the winter and grey blocks of salt for the animals to lick. He checked the bags carefully, wary of the mould that could be poisonous to his precious flock. For a time he lost himself carrying the sacks into the light and checking the contents. In such a place, it was difficult to believe he faced the utter annihilation of his clan.

  It was hard to bargain with those who seemed to desire only his destruction. Suleiman hoped his son would come back with something, but he doubted it. The Mongol leader would insist on seeing Alamut and once he had found his way through the labyrinth of valleys and paths, he would lay his siege and begin to starve them out. Suleiman looked ruefully over his small field. The animals would not support his people for long. Rarely were there more than sixty or seventy men in the stronghold of Alamut, perhaps as many again in servants. It had always been a small community, unable to survive without the payments in gold from their work. He could not resist the Mongols with force, any more than his father had managed against Genghis. Suleiman grimaced to himself as he realised he had no choices left. Three of his men were out in the world, with payments expected. Silently, he listed the merchants they had been told to kill. He would not hear from them again until their work was done. Eighteen others were at the peak of fitness in Alamut, trained in the methods of silent murder. It was tempting to send them all out, but the reality was that they would only get in each other’s way. Their training had never prepared them for any kind of mass assault. Everything they had been taught was focused on an unseen approach and a single blow, either from the hand or a weapon. In his younger days, Suleiman had dispatched a wealthy merchant simply by drugging his wine, then holding his mouth and nose shut while he slept. There had been no mark on the body and it was still considered a near-perfect example of the craft. He sighed in memory of happier times. The Mongols had no respect for tradition and, it seemed, no fear of the retribution they might face. His Assassins would have to be sent against the khan himself, perhaps while Alamut endured the siege to come. Suleiman did not doubt the khan’s anger if his own brother fell, no matter how they made it look. The old man calculated journey times in his head, trying to work out the best arrangement to take them both. He still hoped they could be bribed or fooled, but his role as shepherd to his flock meant he had to plan for all possibilities.

  Lost in his thoughts, Suleiman did not see Hasan step out from the shadow of the little hut. Suleiman was looking out across the meadow, shading his eyes against the setting sun. The younger man suddenly darted forward and swung a flat stone against the side of his head. It struck with a crack and Suleiman cried out in surprise and pain. He staggered sideways, dropping almost into a crouch as his vision blurred. He thought a stone must have fallen from the cliffs above and he was dazedly feeling his face for blood when Hasan struck again, knocking him down.

  Suleiman could taste the blood running into his throat from his broken mouth. He looked up in dazed astonishment, unable to understand what was happening. When he recognised Hasan standing there, his gaze dropped to the red-smeared stone the young man still held.

  ‘Why, my son? Why would you do this? Have I not been a father to you?’ he said, half-choking. He saw Hasan was in the grip of surging emotions, panting like a dog left in the sun. He looked appalled at what he had done, and as the world stopped spinning, Suleiman raised a hand to him.

  ‘Help me to my feet, Hasan,’ he said gently.

  The young man came forward
and for a moment Suleiman thought he would do as he was told. At the last instant, Hasan raised the stone again and brought it down in a great blow on Suleiman’s forehead, breaking the dome of his skull. He knew nothing more and did not hear the fool run weeping back into the fortress.

  Hulegu had to admit he was impressed by Alamut. The fortress was built of a different stone to the mountains all around them. He could hardly imagine the labour involved in transporting every block up to the original cleft in the rocks, widening that place with hammers and chisels, then building stone upon stone until it seemed to have grown from the landscape.

  He raised his head to take it in, then craned further and further back. At the best elevation, his cannons would merely graze the surface, sending their deadly missiles skipping up the walls without force. He had nothing else that could even reach the stronghold from the valley floor and his eyes picked out a single track running up the face. There would be no assault on the gates. He doubted more than two men could stand before them without someone pitching to his death thousands of feet below.

  It had taken many days to reach the fortress and Hulegu knew he would have been hard-pressed to find it without Rukn-al-Din. His ten thousand warriors could presumably have covered every valley and dead end in the range, but it would have taken months. His three guides seemed as awed as the Mongols, and Hulegu suspected only terror had made them promise a way in.

  There had been one slight disagreement with Rukn-al-Din since their first meeting. The younger man had pressed for just an honour guard to accompany Hulegu on the last stretch. Hulegu smiled again at the thought. To bargain, a man needed some advantage and Rukn had none. Hulegu had merely described the many ways a man could be tortured for the information he needed and Rukn had fallen silent. He no longer rode proudly, chattering to the men around him. He and his companions had realised they were little more than prisoners, for all the fine promises that had been made.

  Yet Alamut itself dented Hulegu’s confidence for the first time. With his southern army descending on Baghdad, he did not want to lay a siege that might take two years or longer to end. As he reached the foot of the path, he could see there were men wending their way down to him, presumably carrying messages from Rukn’s father. Hulegu eyed the steep steps with irritation and, on impulse, sent one of his men riding up. He had some vague hope that the small Mongol ponies could keep their footing. They had known mountains in the homeland and they were nimble animals.

  Hulegu watched with interest as the lone rider walked his mount up to the first bend, hundreds of feet above their heads. He heard his officers whisper bets to each other and then one of them cursed and Hulegu shaded his eyes to look up.

  The horse and rider struck the ground just moments later, the crash echoing from the hills all around. Neither survived the fall and Hulegu cursed under his breath as Ilugei cheerfully collected silver coins from the other officers.

  The men coming down had paused, peering over the edge and gesturing to each other before going on. When they finally made it to the flat ground, both were stained in sweat and dust. They made hurried bows to the Mongol officers, their eyes seeking out Rukn-al-Din. Hulegu dismounted and walked over to them as they bowed to him.

  ‘Master, your father is dead,’ he heard one of them say. Rukn gave a great cry of pain and sorrow and Hulegu chuckled.

  ‘It seems I have the new master of Alamut to take me up the path, Rukn-al-Din. My men will lead the way. Stay close to me. I do not want you falling to your death in this time of grief.’

  Rukn-al-Din gaped at him, dull-eyed in despair. His shoulders slumped at Hulegu’s words and he walked almost in a daze, following the first of the men who would make their way up the path to the fortress high above.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  The sun set in streaks of gold and red as Kublai halted his great host on the banks of the river. He had scouted the area and drawn them all to a halt in sight of the ford on his maps. Across the wide stretch of dark water, the Sung commander waited expectantly. The man knew Kublai would have to cross the river at some point, perhaps even that night. In the evening gloom, Kublai grinned at the sight of Sung columns manoeuvring subtly closer to the ford, ready for whatever assault he planned. The two vast armies stared at each other across a rushing barrier. Kublai could imagine the confusion in their command tents as the Mongol tumans failed to attack. He doubted they were getting much sleep.

  Before the last light had gone, Kublai’s gun teams finished their preparations, marking sites and placing shuttered lamps on poles. In the night, before the moon rose, the cannons were heaved forward to the marked positions, pushed in silence by dozens of straining volunteers. At the same time, the main force moved further back, away from the river. Kublai had seen no sign of similar work going on in the Sung camp, but he did not want to be surprised by some enterprising officer with the same idea. For once, his warriors would spend the night in the saddle or on the grass by their horses. The families were a mile further away from the river, well clear of danger. Kublai wondered what Chabi was doing at that moment. She had known tonight would be dangerous for him, but she’d shown no fear at all, as if there wasn’t a man alive who could trouble her husband. He knew her well enough to sense the performance in it, but even so he found it oddly reassuring. The thought of telling his wife and son he had failed was a better motivation than anything Mongke could do to him.

  The moon rose slowly and Kublai stood and watched it, rubbing his damp palms down his armour and wishing he wore a lighter robe. Even the nights were warm so far to the south and he was never comfortable. His cannons were covered by loose branches to confuse their shapes and he did not think the enemy would be able to see what he had done. On its own, it would be only a gesture at best, a brief taste of fear in the night before they pulled back and restored order. A young commander might have made the decision, intending to kill a few and make the enemy run about for a while. Kublai chuckled to himself. He hoped for more. Timing was going to be important and he strained his eyes in the darkness, looking for a sign. He had not spoken to Uriang-Khadai for some days, beyond the most basic courtesies. The man clearly resented the authority Kublai had exercised over him, suddenly a reality rather than an empty formality. Kublai sensed Uriang-Khadai was holding himself in check, waiting for some error to be made. The battle to come was important in many ways and the stakes worried him. Not only did he have to break the Sung army against him, but he also had to show his own generals that he was fit to lead. Kublai felt a headache begin behind his eyes and considered visiting a shaman for willow-bark powder or myrtle leaves. No, he dared not be out of position when the time came.

  Bayar watched the moon rise and began a slow trot. By his best reckoning, he was less than ten miles north of the Sung army, on the other side of the river. In the end, he and Kublai had agreed to lose two more days to ferry enough men across on the sheepskin rafts. Three tumans had made the crossing, with their horses and weapons taking most of the time. The rafts worked and Bayar sensed the anticipation in the ranks. With just a little luck, the Sung would have no idea they had even left Kublai’s army. Bayar stepped up the pace, judging the speed he needed to cover the ground and still keep the horses fresh. Ten miles was not far for the Mongolian ponies. They could cover it before the moon reached its zenith and at the end he could still order a gallop and be answered.

  The ground was firm away from the river and there were few obstacles, though no horsemen liked riding at night, regardless of the conditions. There would be falls and casualties, yet Bayar had his orders and he was cheerful. No one loved a surprise attack more than his people. The very idea filled him with glee. It did not hurt that Uriang-Khadai was still on Kublai’s side of the river. The orlok had been scornful of the great rafts and Bayar was pleased to be away from his baleful gaze for once. He sensed a camaraderie with Kublai that he had not expected. The khan’s brother was out of his depth in many ways, facing one of the most powerful enemies in the nation’s history
. Bayar smiled as he rode. He did not intend to let him down.

  In the distance, Kublai saw a bright spark sear a trail across the sky. From so far away, it was little more than a needle of light that vanished almost as soon as it appeared. He had feared he would miss the sign and tried to relax his cramped muscles, held tight for too long. Bayar was there, with a Chin firework he had lit and thrown into the air from the saddle. As Kublai turned to give his orders, another spark appeared, in case the first one had been missed. High-pitched voices began to roar confused orders on the other side of the river.

  ‘Begin firing on my signal,’ Kublai shouted. He dismounted to attend to his own device, a long tube of black powder resting in an iron cradle. He brought a shuttered lamp close and lit the taper from it, standing back as it fizzed and sputtered before rising into the air in a great whoosh of light.

  The cannon teams had been waiting patiently for their moment and as they saw the signal the great iron weapons began to sound, cracking thunder across the river. The flashes lit up both banks for the briefest of moments, leaving ghosts on the vision of all those who stared into the blackness. They could not see where the balls landed, but distant screams made the gun teams laugh as they sponged down the barrels and reloaded, jamming in bags of black powder and fitting the hollow reeds to the touch-holes. The mouths of the cannon erupted in belches of flame, but the balls themselves were invisible as they soared across the water. Kublai noted the best rates of fire and wondered how it could be improved. There was just too long a gap between each shot, but he had the best part of a hundred heavy cannon lined up on the banks, all he could bring to bear on the Sung positions. The barrage would surely be devastating. He could imagine the flashes of light and cracks from the Sung perspective, followed by the whistle of stone balls ripping through the camp. Many of the shot balls disintegrated at the moment of firing, reducing their range, but sending razor shards along the firing path.