“Ready,” he called to the judges. He looked at the high banner on the archery wall. The wind had risen to a steady blow from the northeast. He adjusted his stance slightly. One hundred paces. A shot he had made a thousand times, a hundred thousand. One more long, slow breath.
“Begin,” the judge said curtly.
Khasar notched his first shaft to the string and sent it soaring to the line of shields he had marked as his own. He waited until he was sure it had struck home, then he turned and glanced at Jebe, raising his eyebrows. Jebe laughed at the challenge and turned away.
The line of pounding, sweating ponies had lengthened like beads on a cord, stretching a mile around the walls of Karakorum. Three of the Uriankhai still led the field, with two stocky boys almost herding Settan toward the finish. Batu and Zan were within reach of them, and the group of five had opened a gap on the rest of the riders. It would be decided between them, and their mounts were snorting to clear their mouths and nostrils, spraying mucus and foaming sweat. The walls were lined with watching warriors as well as thousands of Chin workers. For them, the day was also a celebration, the end of two years of labor, with their purses full of coins.
Batu was blind to the watchers, to everything except Settan and his two companions. The dry ground rose as a cloud of dust, so that it would be hard to see what he was about to do. He felt in his pockets and removed two smooth stones, river pebbles that felt right in his hand. He and Zan had discussed knives or barbing his whip, but such wounds would be public. Some of the judges would not approve.
Even so, Zan had offered to gash Settan’s neck. He hated the taller Uriankhai boy who took such pride in Tsubodai’s achievements. Batu had refused the offer, so that he would not lose his friend to vengeance. A stone could always have been thrown up from the hooves as they raced. Even if Settan saw what he and Zan were doing, he would not dare to complain. It would seem like whingeing and the warriors would laugh at him.
As they began the last lap, Batu fondled the stones. Past the racing horses, he could see wrestlers like brightly colored birds against the grass; beyond them was the archery wall. His people were out on the plains and he was among them, riding hard. It was a good feeling.
He squeezed with his knees and his mount responded, though it was heaving for breath. Batu moved up and Zan followed closely. The Uriankhai were not sleeping and they moved to block him from Settan’s horse. Batu smiled at the closest boy and moved his mouth as if he was shouting something. All the while, he brought his mount closer.
The boy stared at him and Batu grinned, pointing vigorously at something ahead. He watched in delight as the boy finally leaned closer to hear whatever it was Batu was shouting into the wind. Batu swung the stone hard and connected with the side of his head. The boy vanished almost instantly under the hooves, just a rolling, dusty strip behind them.
Batu took his place as the riderless horse ran ahead. Settan looked back and stared to see him so close. They were caked in dust, their hair and skin a dirty white, but Settan’s gaze was bright with fear. Batu held his eyes, drinking in strength.
The other Uriankhai boy swerved his mount between them, crashing his leg into Batu so that he was almost unseated. For thumping heartbeats, Batu had to cling onto the mane as his feet lost the stirrups and he endured blows from a whip that came in a wild frenzy, striking his mount as often as himself. Batu kicked out instinctively and connected with the boy’s chest. It gave him a moment to regain his seat. He had dropped one stone, but he had another. As the Uriankhai boy turned back to face him, Batu threw it hard and yelled to see the stone crack into his nose, rocking him and sending bright red blood over the pale dust, like a river bursting. The boy fell back, and Batu and Zan were alone with Settan, with two miles still to ride.
As soon as he saw what was happening, Settan went all out to open a gap. It was his only chance. All the horses were at the end of their endurance, and with a cry of rage, Zan began to drift back. There was nothing he could do, though he threw his stones with furious strength, managing to hit Settan’s mount on the haunches with one, while the other disappeared in the dust.
Batu cursed under his breath. He could not let Settan leave him behind. He kicked and whipped his horse until they drew level and then Batu went half a length ahead. He felt strong, though his lungs were full of dust that he would cough up for days to come.
The final corner was in sight and Batu knew he could win. Yet he had known from the beginning that winning would not be enough for him. Tsubodai would be on the walls, Batu was certain. With one of his Uriankhai so close to the finishing line, the general would no doubt be cheering him on. Batu wiped his eyes, clearing them of gritty dust. He had no love for his father’s memory. It did not change his hatred for the general who had cut Jochi’s throat. Perhaps Ogedai would be there too, watching the young man he had raised.
Batu allowed Settan to cut inside him as they rushed toward the corner. The edge of the wall was marked by a marble post, decorated with a stone wolf. Judging it all finely, Batu let Settan come up beside him, almost head-to-head for the finish line. He saw Settan grin as he scented a chance to go through.
As they reached the corner, Batu wrenched his reins to the right and slammed Settan against the post. The impact was colossal. Both horse and rider stopped almost dead as the Uriankhai boy’s leg shattered and he screamed.
Batu rode on, smiling. He did not look back as the high sound faded behind him.
As he crossed the line, he wished his father could have lived to see it, to take pride in him. His eyes were wet with tears and he scrubbed at them, blinking furiously and telling himself it was just the wind and the dust.
EIGHT
As the sun sank toward the horizon, Ogedai breathed out slowly. There had been times when he thought he would not live to stand in his city on this day. His hair was oiled and tied into a club on his neck. His deel was simple and dark blue, without ornament or pretension. He wore it belted, over leggings and herders’ soft boots of sheepskin, tied with thongs. He touched his father’s sword at his waist, taking comfort from it.
At the same time, he felt a spasm of irritation at the choices his father had left him. If Jochi had become khan, it would have established a line of the firstborn. Instead, the great khan had made Ogedai his heir, the third of four sons. In the shadow of that man, Ogedai’s own line might wither. He could not expect the nation simply to accept his eldest son, Guyuk, as khan after him. More than twenty others had a blood claim from Genghis, and Chagatai was just one of the more dangerous. Ogedai feared for his son in such a tangle of thorns and teeth. Yet Guyuk had survived so far and perhaps that showed the sky father’s approval of him. Ogedai took a slow breath.
“I am ready, Baras’aghur,” he told his servant. “Stand back now.”
He strode forward into a swelling sea of noise, onto a balcony of polished oak. His drummers thundered his arrival and the warriors of his Guard tuman roared and beat their armor, making a clash of sound that could be heard across the city. Ogedai smiled, acknowledging the crowd as he took his seat overlooking the vast amphitheater. His wife Torogene sat down beside him, with Baras’aghur fussing over the folds of her Chin dress. Unseen by the watching masses, Ogedai reached out. She took his hand and squeezed it. They had survived two years of intrigue, poison, attempts on their lives, and, finally, open insurrection. Ogedai’s face and body were stiff and battered from his exertions, but he was in one piece.
As the crowd waited patiently, the wrestlers who had survived the first two bouts came to take their places in the center ground below Ogedai. Two hundred fifty-six men formed up in pairs ready for their last struggle that day. Bets flashed around the rows of seats, from shouted instructions to wooden tokens or even Chin printed money and coins. It was possible to bet on any aspect of the competition, and the entire nation followed the sport. The weak and injured, the aging and unlucky, had already been weeded out. Those who remained were the strongest and fastest in a nation that revere
d martial skill above all else. It was his father’s nation and creation, his father’s vision of a people: horse and warrior, sword and bow together.
Ogedai turned in his seat as Guyuk stepped onto the balcony. He felt his heart contract in the pride and sadness he always felt on seeing the young man. Guyuk was tall and handsome, fit to command a thousand, perhaps even a tuman, in peacetime. Beyond that, he had no spark of tactical awareness, or the subtle touch with his men that would have had them following him into flames. He was in all ways an unremarkable officer, and he had not yet taken a single wife, as if continuing the khan’s own line meant nothing to him. The fact that he resembled Genghis in face and eyes only made his weaknesses harder to bear for his father. There were times when Ogedai could not understand his son at all.
Guyuk bowed elegantly to his parents and took his seat, staring out in wonder at the massed crowd. He had known little of the struggle in the palace. He had barricaded himself into a room with two friends and some servants, but no one had come to that part of the palace. Apparently, they had drunk themselves into a stupor. Despite Ogedai’s relief at seeing him alive, it summed his son up, that no one had considered him worth killing.
Temuge rushed by the rear of the balcony, almost hidden from view by a swarm of his runners and scribes. Ogedai heard him snapping out orders in his waspish voice and allowed himself a grin as he remembered the conversation with his uncle weeks before. Despite the old fool’s fears, Ogedai had won through. He reminded himself to offer the libraries of Karakorum to Temuge once again, as soon as the festival was over.
In the great oval, the twilight began the slow summer drift to gray. Because of the low city walls, the huge structure could be seen from the sea of grass outside. It would not be long before a thousand torches were lit, making a shape of light that all the nation could witness from the plains. Ogedai looked forward to the moment, the visible signal that he was khan. It also meant Karakorum was finished at last, barring the bloodstains that waited for rain. Perhaps that too was fitting.
Far below, Temuge signaled the wrestling judges. After a short song to the earth mother, the judges blew horns and the men crashed together, their hands and legs moving swiftly to take and break grips. For some, it was over in an instant, as with Baabgai’s opponent. For others, the match became a test of stamina as they heaved and sweated, long red marks appearing on their skin.
Ogedai looked down on the field of athletes. He knew Temuge had planned the events to the last detail. He wondered idly if his uncle would manage the whole festival without flaws. His people were warriors and shepherds to the last man and woman—not sheep, never sheep. Still, it was interesting to see.
The final pair collapsed with legs kicking to a roar and a howl from the crowd. A hundred and twenty-eight men were victors and they stood, flushed and pleased, before the nation. They bowed to Ogedai on the balcony, and he got to his feet and raised his sword hand to them, showing his pleasure.
More horns sounded, great Chin tubes of brass and bronze that droned notes across the field. The wrestlers retired at a jog and the heavy gate swung open, revealing the main street of the city beyond. Ogedai squinted to see, just as thirty thousand others did their best to catch a glimpse.
In the distance came a group of runners, bare-chested in the summer heat. They had run three laps of the city, some twenty-four miles, before entering the western gate and heading for the center ground. Ogedai leaned out as far as he could to see them, and for once Guyuk took an interest, craning forward with him, his face alight with excitement. Ogedai glanced at him and wondered if he had wagered some huge sum.
The Mongol people were not long-distance runners as a rule. They had the stamina but not the build, as Temuge had explained it. Some of them limped visibly as they came closer, before trying to hide their weakness as the noise surged around them.
Ogedai nodded to himself when he saw that Chagatai led them. His brother ran smoothly, a head taller than most of the other men. It was true Ogedai feared him, even hated his arrogance, yet he could not disguise his pride at seeing his own brother leading the way into the amphitheater, pounding up the dusty track to the center. Chagatai even began to pull away from the rest, but then a small, wiry warrior moved up to challenge him, forcing a sprint when they had nothing left.
As they drew level, Ogedai felt his own heart tremble, his breath coming faster.
“Come on, brother,” he whispered.
At his side, Torogene frowned, her hands on the oak bar, gripping it. She had no interest in the man who had nearly killed her husband. She could happily have seen Chagatai burst his heart in front of the crowd. Yet she felt her husband’s excitement and she loved Ogedai more than anything in the world.
Chagatai threw himself forward at the last, crossing the line no more than a head’s length before the challenger. Both men were close to collapse and Chagatai struggled visibly for breath, his chest heaving. He did not rest his hands on his knees. Ogedai felt a twinge of nostalgia as he remembered his father’s words on the subject. If an opponent sees you clinging to your knees, he will think you are beaten. It was a hard voice to escape as they moved on with the years, leaving Genghis behind.
Out of a sense of decency, Guyuk could not cheer his uncle, but his skin glowed with a light perspiration. Ogedai grinned at him, pleased to see his son enthralled for once. He hoped he had won his bet, at least.
Ogedai remained on his feet as the horns sounded once more, spilling a note across tens of thousands. He closed his eyes for an instant, breathing long and slow.
The crowd fell silent.
Ogedai raised his head as his brass-lunged herald bellowed out the words at last.
“You are here to confirm Ogedai, son of Temujin who was Genghis, as khan of the nation. He stands before you as the heir chosen by the great khan. Is there any other who will challenge for the right to lead?”
If there had been silence before, this one had the stillness of death as every man and woman froze, not even daring to breathe as they waited. Guyuk stood back and, for a moment, raised his hand to touch Ogedai’s shoulder, before letting it fall without his father knowing.
Thousands of eyes turned toward Chagatai as he stood on the dusty ground with his chest heaving, streaked in sweat. He too looked up at Ogedai on the balcony of oak, and his face was strangely proud.
The moment passed and the release of breath was like a summer breeze, followed by a ripple of laughter as people were amused at their own tension and tight expressions.
Ogedai stepped forward, so that they could all see him. The amphitheater had been influenced by drawings made by Christian monks from Rome who had come to Karakorum. As they had promised, it seemed to magnify sound, so that his voice flew to every ear. He drew the wolf’s-head sword and held up the blade.
“I make my own oath before you. As khan, I will protect the people, so that we grow strong. We have had too many years of peace. Let the world fear what will come next.”
They cheered his words, and in the enclosed bowl the sound was immense, almost rocking Ogedai back where he stood. He could feel it on his skin like a physical force. He raised the sword again and they quieted slowly, reluctantly. Down in the field, he thought he saw his brother nod to him. Family was indeed a strange thing.
“Now I will take your oath,” he shouted to his people.
The herald took up the chant: “Under one khan we are a nation.”
The words crashed back at Ogedai and he gripped the sword tighter, wondering if the band of pressure on his face was his father’s spirit. He heart thumped slower and slower until he thought he could feel every beat.
The herald called once more to complete the oath and they replied: “I offer you gers, horses, salt, and blood, in all honor.”
Ogedai closed his eyes. His chest was shuddering and his head felt swollen and strange. A sharp pain made him almost stumble as his right arm buckled, suddenly weak. Part of him expected it to end then.
When he op
ened his eyes, he was still alive. More, he was khan of the nation, in the line of Genghis. His vision cleared slowly and he took a deep breath of the summer air, feeling himself tremble in reaction. He felt the thirty thousand faces turned to him, and as his strength returned, he raised his arms suddenly in joy.
The sound that followed almost deafened him. It was echoed by the rest of the nation who waited outside the city. They heard and they responded, seeing the torches lit for the new khan.
That night, Ogedai walked through the corridors of his palace, with Guyuk strolling at his side. After the excitement of the day, neither man could sleep. Ogedai had found his son throwing bones with his Guards and summoned him for company. It was a rare gesture from father to son, but on that night Ogedai was at peace with the world. Somehow, weariness could not touch him, though he could hardly remember when he had last slept. The bruise on his face had grown colorful. It had been masked for the oath-taking with pale powder, but Ogedai did not know he had streaked it when he scratched his skin.
The corridors became cloisters that opened out onto the palace gardens, still and quiet. The moon was dim behind clouds and only the paths could be seen, as if they walked pale threads through the dark.
“I would prefer to go with you, Father, to the Chin lands,” Guyuk said.
Ogedai shook his head. “That is the old world, Guyuk, a task begun before you were born. I am sending you out with Tsubodai. You will see new lands with him. You will make me proud, I do not doubt it.”
“You are not proud now?” Guyuk asked. He had not meant to ask the question, but it was rare for him to be alone with his father and he spoke his thoughts aloud. To his distress, Ogedai did not answer immediately.
“… Of course, but that is a father’s pride, Guyuk. If you intend to follow me as khan, you must lead warriors in battle. You must make them see you are not as they are—do you understand?”
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