Ogedai had honored Jochi’s bastard with titles and authority, making a point of it, in the face of Tsubodai’s objections. In fact, Batu had not disgraced himself, far from it. His tuman was well organized, his officers carefully chosen. Some men could inspire loyalty and others could only demand it. It was strangely galling to see Batu was one of the first kind. Such men were always dangerous. The difficulty lay in handling them, directing their energies, if it was not already too late.
“The Magyars of Hungary are horsemen,” Tsubodai began, his voice deliberately low so that they had to lean in to listen. “They have vast herds and they use the central plains much as we do. They are not nomads, however. They have built two cities on the banks of the river Danube. Pest and Buda are the names. Neither is well defended, though Buda rests on hills. Pest stands on a plain.”
He paused for questions.
“Defenses?” Batu said immediately. “Walls? Weapons? Supply lines?”
“Pest has no walls. The scouts report a stone palace on one of the hills by Buda, perhaps the residence of their king. His name—”
“Is not important,” Batu went on. “It does not sound like such a task to take these cities. Why even wait for winter?”
“His name is Bela the Fourth,” Tsubodai replied, his eyes dark with anger. “We will wait for winter because the river can be crossed when it freezes. As with Moscow, it gives us a road between the cities, right into their heart.”
Guyuk sensed the tension between the two men and put a hand on Batu’s arm. He shook it off irritably.
“My tuman is ready to ride today, Orlok,” Batu continued. “My scouts tell me the mountains to the west are passable before winter. We could be in these cities before the first snow. You are the one who said speed was important, or is it caution that is important now?”
“Keep your arrogance in your mouth, lad,” Jebe snapped suddenly.
Batu’s gaze flickered over the older man. Jebe had ridden with Genghis through the Afghan hills. He was dark and lean, his face seamed with years and experience. Batu snorted in contempt.
“There is no need to leave the major targets to winter, General, as I’m sure the orlok knows. Some of us would like to see an end to the conquests before we are old men. For others, of course, it is already too late for that.”
Jebe surged to his feet, but Tsubodai raised a hand across him and he did not move from the spot. Batu chuckled.
“I have carried out all of Tsubodai’s orders,” he said. He looked around as he spoke, deliberately including the princes. “I have taken cities and towns because the great strategist said ‘Go here. Go there.’ I have not questioned a single command.” He paused and the ger was very still. No one else would speak if Tsubodai did not, and he remained silent. Batu shrugged as if it were nothing and went on.
“Yet I do not forget that the khan himself raised me, not the orlok. I am the khan’s man first, as are we all. More than that, I am of the blood, in the line of Genghis, as are Guyuk, Baidur, and Mongke. It is not enough to follow blindly and hope that it is right. We are the ones who lead, who question the orders given, is that not right, Orlok Tsubodai?”
“No,” Tsubodai said. “It is not right. You obey orders, because if you do not, you cannot expect the same from your men. You are part of the wolf, not the whole wolf. I would have thought you had learned that when you were a boy, but it is not the case. A wolf cannot have more than one head, General, or it tears itself apart.”
He took a deep breath, thinking deeply. Batu had chosen the wrong moment to assert himself, Tsubodai could feel it. The older men were shocked at his words, while the princes were nowhere near ready to overthrow Tsubodai Bahadur, not this season. With hidden satisfaction, he spoke again.
“You have displeased me, Batu. Leave us. I will have fresh orders for you in the morning.”
Batu turned to Guyuk, looking for support. He felt his stomach drop away as the khan’s son would not meet his eyes. Batu winced then and nodded.
“Very well, Orlok,” he said stiffly. No one spoke as he left.
In the silence, Tsubodai refilled his cup and sipped at the hot tea.
“The mountains ahead are more than just a ridge or a few peaks,” he said. “My scouts tell me we will have to cross sixty or seventy miles of crags. My scouts have made it through, but without local men, we cannot know the major passes. I could force a few minghaans through to map the valleys, without carts or supplies beyond a few weeks. For the rest, the siege machines, the carts, the families and injured, it will be slow and difficult. We need to know where the passes are, to survive. We may have to build ramps or bridges. Even so, we have to make good speed or we will lose many when winter comes in. We cannot be in the highlands then. There is no grazing up there.”
Tsubodai looked around at the assembled generals. There was one man he needed to make strong, to separate from the rest, but it was not Batu.
“Guyuk. You will go first. Leave tomorrow with two minghaans. Take tools to cut a path, timber, anything you might need. Make a way through that will be suitable for the heavy carts. Stay in contact with scouts and guide us in.”
The play of authority over Batu had not been wasted on Guyuk. He did not hesitate.
“Your will, Orlok,” he said, bowing his head. He was pleased at the responsibility, knowing that the survival of the rest depended on finding a good path. At the same time, it would be grim work, and every dead end or false opening would be his to find and mark.
“My scouts say open land lies beyond those mountains,” Tsubodai said. “They could not see an end to it. We will force the peoples there to meet us in the field. For the khan, we will take their cities, their women, and their lands. This is the great raid, the farthest strike in the history of the nation of Genghis. We will not be stopped.”
Jebe grunted in pleasure and hefted a skin of airag, throwing it to Tsubodai, who scored his throat with the liquid. The ger stank of wet wool and mutton, a sweet smell that he had known all his life. Guyuk and Baidur exchanged glances at seeing the orlok so animated, so confident. Mongke watched them all, his face unreadable.
Pavel ran, as fast as he had ever run in his life. The dim lights of Mongol fires faded on the horizon behind him. He fell more than once and the third time winded him badly enough to make him limp. He had struck his head hard on something in the darkness, but the pain was nothing to what the Mongols would do if they caught him.
He was alone in the night, with neither the sound of pursuing horses nor any companion. Many of the other men had lost their homes in the years of war. Some of them could barely remember another life, but Pavel had not lost his memory. Somewhere to the north, he hoped his grandfather and mother still tended their little farm. He would be safe once he reached them, and he told himself that he would never leave again. As he ran he imagined the other young men looking on him with envy in their eyes for the things he had seen. The village girls would see him as a hardened soldier, something different from the country boys around them. He would never tell them about the bodies heaped like straw bales, or the hot release as his bladder unclenched in fear. He would not mention those things. His sword was heavy and he knew it slowed him down, but he could not bring himself to throw it away. He would walk into the yard and his mother would surely weep to see him return from the wars. He would make it home. The sword tripped him, and as he stumbled he let it fall and hesitated before going on. He felt much lighter without it.
TWENTY-THREE
Batu cursed as he found himself sweating again. He knew that sweat could freeze under clothes in such cold, making a man listless and sleepy until he just lay down and died in the snow. He snorted at the thought, wondering if his constant, simmering anger would help to keep him alive. It was all very well knowing that sweat should be avoided, but there was no help for it when you were manhandling a heavy cart with eight others, heaving and rocking it until the stubborn thing finally shifted another few feet. Ropes stretched from the cart to a group of
men pulling like horses; sullen, trudging Russians who never looked back and had to be struck or whipped to break through to them. It was maddening work, needing to be done over and over again as the carts lurched and spilled their contents. The first time Batu had seen one break free and race back to the bottom of the hill, he’d almost laughed. Then he’d seen a man holding his bloody face where a rope had lashed across it and another nursing a broken wrist. Every day brought injuries, and in the cold, even a small wound sapped the strength and made it harder to get up the next morning. They were all stiff and sore, but Tsubodai and his precious generals drove them on, higher into the Carpathian Mountains every day.
The sky had come lower and grown blinding white, threatening snow all morning. When it began to fall again, many of the men groaned. The carts were hard enough to maneuver on good ground. With fresh slush, the men slipped and fell at every step, gasping for air and knowing that no one was coming to relieve them. Everyone was involved and Batu wondered how they had come to amass such a weight of carts and equipment. He was used to riding out with his tuman and leaving most of it behind. At times, he thought they could have built a city in the wilderness with all the tools and equipment they had with them. Tsubodai had even brought timber into the mountains, a weight of wood that took hundreds of men to move. It meant they had fires at night, when there was nothing else to burn, but the wind sucked away the small heat, or chilled one side of you while the other roasted. Batu seethed at the way he had been treated, more so because Guyuk had not spoken up for him. All he had done was question Tsubodai’s absolute authority over them, not refuse an order. He prided himself on that, but he was being punished almost as if he had.
Batu bent his back again to get his shoulder under a beam with the other men, ready to heave the cart over a rut where the wheels had sunk in.
“One, two, three …”
They grunted with effort as he called the rhythm. Tsubodai had not been able to stop his men dismounting to help him with the work. Perhaps at first it was only the loyalty of a warrior to his general, but after days of the backbreaking labor, he thought they felt as disgusted with Tsubodai Bahadur as he was.
“One, two, three …” he growled again.
The cart lifted and thumped down. Batu’s feet went out from under him and he grabbed the cart bed to steady himself. His hands were wrapped in wool and sheepskin, but they stung bitterly, raw as fresh meat. He used spare moments to swing his arms, forcing blood to the fingertips so he would not lose them to frost. Too many of the men had those white patches on their noses, or on their cheeks. It explained the faded scars on the older men who had been through it all before.
Tsubodai had the right to set him any task, but Batu thought his authority was more fragile than the orlok realized. His right to command came from the khan, but even on the march, not all of their actions were purely military. There would be moments when political decisions had to be made, and those were the responsibility of princes, not warriors. With Guyuk’s support, the orlok could be overruled, even dismissed, Batu was certain. It would have to be the right moment, when the orlok’s authority was not so clear-cut. Batu took hold of the cart again as the cursed thing lurched and almost tipped over. He was willing to wait, but he found his temper growing shorter each day. Tsubodai was not of the blood. The princes would make the future, not some broken-down old general who should have retired to tend his goats long before. Batu used his anger in a surge of strength, so that he felt as if he lifted the cart almost by himself, shoving it onward and upward.
Ogedai mounted slowly, feeling his hips protest. When had he become so stiff? The muscles in his legs and lower back had grown astonishingly weak. He could make them shudder like a horse shrugging off flies just by raising himself in the stirrups.
Sorhatani was deliberately not watching him, he noticed. Instead, she was fussing around her sons. Kublai was checking his pony’s belly strap, while Arik-Boke and Hulegu were very quiet in the presence of their khan. Ogedai knew the younger ones only by sight, but Sorhatani had brought Kublai to talk to him in the evenings. She had made it seem a favor to her, but Ogedai had grown to look forward to the conversations. The boy was sharp and he seemed to have an endless interest in the stories of past battles, particularly if Genghis had been part of them. Ogedai had found himself reliving past glories through Kublai’s eyes and spent part of each day planning what he would tell the young man that evening.
The khan tested his legs again surreptitiously, then looked down as Torogene chuckled behind him. He turned his horse to see her standing there. He knew he was thin and pale from too much time indoors. His joints hurt and he ached for wine so that his mouth grew dry at the thought of it. He had promised Torogene he would drink fewer cups each day. More than that, she had made him swear a solemn oath. He had not told her about the set of enormous cups the kilns were firing for him. His word was iron, but wine was one of his few remaining joys.
“Don’t stay out if you feel yourself getting tired,” Torogene said. “Your officers can wait for another day if they have to. You must build your strength back slowly.”
He smiled, wondering if all wives became mothers to their husbands at some point. He could not help glancing at Sorhatani at that thought, still as lean and strong as a herd-boy. There was one who should not go to waste in a cold bed. He could not remember when he had last felt honest lust outside of dreams. His body felt worn out, withered, and old. Yet the sun shone weakly and the autumn sky was blue. He would ride along the canal to see the new works. Perhaps he would even bathe in the river that fed it, if he could bring himself to enter the icy waters.
“Do not set my city on fire while I am gone,” he said gruffly.
Torogene smiled at his tone. “I cannot promise, but I’ll try,” she replied. She reached out and touched his foot in the stirrup, holding it hard enough for him to feel the pressure. He did not need to speak the love he felt for her; he just reached down and touched her cheek before digging in his heels and clattering through the gate.
Sorhatani’s sons came with him. Kublai held the reins of three packhorses, laden high with supplies. Ogedai watched as the young man clucked to them, so full of life that it was almost painful to see. He had not told Kublai his memories of Tolui’s death. He was not yet ready to tell that story, with all the pain that continued to that cold day.
It took half the morning to reach the river. His stamina had melted away over so many months of inactivity. His arms and legs were leaden by the time he dismounted, and he had to struggle not to cry out as his thighs cramped. He could already hear the rippling cracks across the valley, and in the distance smoke hung like morning mist. The air had the tinge of sulfurous bitterness he remembered from the Sung border. To his surprise, he found it almost pleasant to breathe in the exotic scent.
Sorhatani and her sons made camp around him, setting up a small ger on dry ground by the bank and starting tea on the stove. While it brewed, Ogedai mounted once again. He clicked his tongue to catch Kublai’s attention, and the young man leapt into his saddle to join him, his face bright with excitement.
Together, both men rode across a sunlit field to where Khasar readied the ordnance crews for inspection. Ogedai could see the old general’s pride in the new weapons from a distance. He too had been on the Sung border and seen their destructive potential. Ogedai rode up slowly. He felt no sense of urgency or hurry. His glimpse at the greater night had given him a long perspective. It was just harder to care about the smaller things. Having Kublai with him was a reminder that not everyone shared his long view. The sight of the polished bronze guns had Kublai practically sweating.
Ogedai suffered through the formalities with his uncle. He declined the invitation of tea and food and finally gestured for the gunners to begin.
“You might want to dismount and hold your horse, my lord khan,” Khasar said.
He looked thin and weary, but his eyes were bright in his enthusiasm. Ogedai wasn’t touched by his uncle’s mo
od. His legs felt weak and he did not want to stumble in front of such men. He took a moment to remind himself that he was in the eye of the nation once again. One slip and his weakness would reach every ear.
“My horse was at the Sung border,” he replied. “He will not bolt. Kublai? You should do as he says.”
“Very well, my lord,” Khasar said formally. He clasped his hands behind his back as he gestured sharply to the gunnery teams. They stood in groups of four, carrying sacks of black powder as well as a range of odd-looking equipment. Kublai drank it all in, fascinated.
“Show me,” Ogedai said to them.
Khasar snapped orders and Ogedai watched from the saddle as the first team checked that their weapon had blocks against the massive, studded wheels. A warrior placed a reed in a hole in the tube, then lit a taper from a lamp. When the taper touched the reed, there was a spark, then an explosion that sent the cannon rocking back. The blocks barely held it and the weapon leapt and crashed back down. Ogedai did not see the ball that came flying out, but he nodded, deliberately calm. His horse flicked up its ears, but then bent to crop at the grass. Kublai had to slap his gelding on the face, shocking it out of panic. The young man snarled at the animal. He would not be shamed by seeing his horse break free and run in front of the khan. However, he was more than thankful he was not in the saddle.
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