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Köten of the Cumans crossed the Danube in a small boat, a wherry with a surly soldier on the oars who made it fairly skim across the dark water. Köten wrapped himself tightly in his cloak against the cold twilight, lost in thought. He could not resist his fate, it seemed. The king had every right to ask for his men. Hungary had given them sanctuary, and for a time Köten thought he had saved them all. Once the mountains were behind them, he had dared to hope that the Mongol tumans would not run so far west. They never had before. Instead, the Golden Horde had come roaring out of the Carpathians, and the place of peace and sanctuary was no refuge at all.
Köten seethed as he saw the shore approach, a dark line of sucking mud that he knew would pull at his boots. He stepped out into shallow water, wincing as his feet sank into the stinking clay. The oarsman grunted something unintelligible and examined his coin closely, a deliberate insult. Köten’s hand twitched for his knife, wanting to cut a scar on the man that would remind him of his manners. Reluctantly he let his hand fall. The man rowed away, staring back at him with a curled lip. At a safe distance, the man shouted something, but Köten ignored him.
It was the same story across the cities of Buda and Pest. His Cuman people had come in good faith, been baptized as their lord ordered and made every attempt to treat the new religion as their own, if only for their survival. They were people who understood that staying alive was worth sacrifice, and they had trusted him. None of the Christian priests seemed to think it strange that an entire nation would suddenly feel the urge to welcome Christ into their hearts.
Yet it was not enough for the inhabitants of Bela’s cities. From the first days, there had been tales of thefts and murders by his men, rumors and gossip that they were behind every misfortune. A pig couldn’t take sick without someone claiming that one of the dark-skinned women had cursed it. Köten spat on the pebbled shore as he trudged along it. The previous month, a local Hungarian girl had accused two Cuman boys of raping her. The riot that followed had been put down with ruthless ferocity by King Bela’s soldiers, but the hatred was still there, simmering under the surface. There were few who believed she had been lying. After all, it was just the sort of thing they expected from the filthy nomads in their midst. They were rootless and they could not be trusted, except to steal and kill and foul the clean river.
Köten disliked his hosts almost as much as they apparently hated him and the presence of his people. They could not take up less room than they did, he thought in irritation, seeing the city of tents and shacks huddled along the river. The king had promised them he would build a new city, or perhaps expand two or three of those already there. He had talked of a ghetto for the Cuman people, where they could live safely among their own. Perhaps Bela would have kept his word if the Mongols had not come, though Köten had begun to doubt it.
Somehow the threat of the Mongols had only increased the tension between the local Magyars and his tribe. His people could not walk down a street without someone spitting at them or jostling the women. Every night, there were dead men left in the gutters, their throats slit. No one was ever punished if they were Cuman bodies, but the local judges and soldiers hanged his men in pairs and more if it was one of their own. It was a poor reward for two hundred thousand new Christians. There were times when Köten wondered at a faith that could preach kindness and yet be so cruel to its own.
As he made his way along the shit-strewn shore, the smell made him gag. The wealthy people of Buda had fine drains for their waste. Even the poor quarters in Pest had half-barrels on the corners that the tanners would collect at night. The Cuman tent-people had nothing but the river. They had tried to keep it clean, but there were just too many of them crowded along too short a stretch. Already there were diseases ripping through his people, families dying with red marks on their skin he had never seen at home. The whole place felt like an enemy camp, but the king had asked for his army and Köten was honor-bound, oath-bound to him. In that one thing, King Bela had judged his man correctly, but as Köten kicked at a stone, he thought there were limits even to his honor. Would he see his people slaughtered for such a poor reward? In all his life, he had never broken his word, not once. At times, when he was starving or sick, it was all he had left to feed his pride.
He made his way into the town of Pest, human excrement and clay making his boots heavy. He had promised his wife he would buy some meat before he came back to her, though he knew the prices would be hiked as soon as they recognized him or heard him speak. He tapped the hilt of his sword as he increased his stride and stood tall. He felt like a dangerous man to insult on that day. No doubt the next day would be different, but for a while he would let in a little of his anger. It kept him warm.
As Köten clambered up a muddy rise that opened onto the line of merchants’ stores that formed a street, he heard something crash to the ground nearby. The wind was in his ears and he turned his head to listen. There was a lamp in the front of the butcher’s shop, he saw, but the wooden shutters were already coming down over the serving hatch. Köten swore to himself and broke into a run.
“Wait!” he shouted.
He did not notice the men struggling together until they collapsed almost at his feet. Köten drew his sword in reaction, but they were intent on punching and kicking each other. One of them had a knife, but the other had his hand in a tight grip. Köten knew neither of them. His head came up like a hunting dog as more shouting sounded nearby. The voices were angry and he felt an answering anger. Who knew what had happened in his absence? Another rape, or simply the accusation of one against his brothers? While he hesitated, the butcher finally succeeded in heaving his shutters down, shoving a bar through them from the inner side. Köten hammered on the shutters with his fists, but there was no answer. Furious, he turned the corner.
Köten saw the line of men, no, the crowd of men, stalking down the muddy street in the darkness toward him. He jerked back round the corner in two quick steps, but they had seen him outlined against the setting sun. The howl went up instinctively as they saw a frightened figure run from them.
Köten moved as quickly as he could. He had lived long enough to know he was in real danger. Whatever had brought the men out as a mob could end with his head being crushed or his ribs broken. He heard their roar of excitement and he ran, heading back toward the dark river. Their boots sounded on the wooden walkway, thumping ever closer.
He slipped, his mired feet skidding on the wet ground. His sword vanished from his hand, falling on mud so soft that it made no sound at all. Someone crashed into him as he rose, and then they were on him, taking out their rage on the shadowy stranger who had shown his guilt by running. He struggled, but they kicked and stabbed with short knives, pressing him down into the filthy mud until he was almost part of it, his blood mingling with the blackness.
The men stood clear of the lifeless body on the bank of the river. Some of them clapped others on the back, chuckling at the justice they had meted out. They had not known the name of the broken thing that lay there. In the distance, they heard the shouts of the king’s officers, and almost as one they turned away and began to disappear into the shadows of the merchants’ quarter. The nomads would hear and be afraid. It would be a long time before they walked without fear through the cities of their betters. Many of the men were fathers and they went home to their families, taking the back alleys so that they would not come across the king’s soldiers.
The army that assembled in front of the city of Pest was vast. King Bela had spent days in a sort of frenzy as he came to appreciate what it took to field so many men. A soldier could not carry food for more than a few days at most before it slowed him down and made it harder to fight. The baggage train had taken every cart and workhorse in the country, and it spread across almost as much land as the massed ranks before the Danube. King Bela’s heart filled in his chest as he surveyed the host. More than a hundred thousand men-at-arms, knights, and foot soldiers had responded to the blood
y swords that he had sent racing the length and breadth of Hungary. His best estimates were of a Mongol army half the size or less than the one he had been told to expect. The king swallowed yellow bile as it surged into his throat. He may have been facing just half the Golden Horde, but the reports coming to him from the north were of destruction beyond belief. There would be no armies coming to his aid from Boleslav or Henry. From everything he had learned, they were hard-pressed to survive the onslaught of the tumans raiding there. Lublin had certainly fallen and there was a single report that Krakow had followed it into flames, though Bela could not see how such a thing was possible. He could only hope that the reports were exaggerated, composed by frightened men. It was certainly not information to share with his officers and allies.
At that thought, he looked to the Teutonic Knights on his right, two thousand of them in their finest battle array. Their horses showed no sign of the mud churned up by the army. They shone in the weak sunlight and blew mist from their nostrils as they pawed the ground. Bela loved warhorses and he knew the knights had the very best bloodlines in the world for their mounts.
Only the left wing caused him to pause in his proud assessment. The Cumans were good horsemen, but they were still seething about the death of Köten in some grubby river brawl. As if such a thing could be laid at the king’s feet. They were an impossible people, Bela acknowledged to himself. When the Mongols had been sent back over the mountains, he would have to give more thought to the practicalities of settling so many Cumans. Perhaps they could be bribed to find a new homeland where they would be more welcome and less of a drain on the royal purse.
King Bela cursed under his breath as he saw the Cuman horsemen move out of place in the line. He sent a runner across the field in front of the city with a terse order to hold position. He scratched his chin as he watched the runner’s progress. In the distance, he saw the Cuman riders coalesce around the single man, but they did not stop. Bela let his hand fall in growing amazement. He turned in the saddle, gesturing to the closest of his knights.
“Ride to the Cumans and remind them of their oath of obedience to me. My orders are to stay in position until I give the word.”
The knight dipped his lance in answer and cantered with dignity after the first messenger. By that time, the Cumans had ruined the neat symmetry of the lines, their horses spreading over the field in no obvious formation. Bela sighed to himself. The nomads could barely understand discipline. He tried to remember the name of Köten’s son, who was meant to have command over them, but it would not come to mind.
They did not halt for the knight’s arrival, though by then they were close enough for Bela to see him holding his arms out. He might as well have tried to stop the tide, for they simply flowed around him, trotting with no urgency. Bela cursed aloud as he saw they were making for his own position. No doubt they wanted to renegotiate some part of their oath, or ask for better food and arms. It was typical of the filthy breed to try to squeeze an advantage from him, as if he were a grubby merchant. Trade was all they understood, he thought savagely. They’d sell their own daughters if there was gold in it.
King Bela glared as the Cuman horsemen rolled out, moving slowly across his army. His messengers were still coming in with the latest reports on the Mongols, and he deliberately busied himself with them, showing his contempt. By the time one of his knights cleared his throat and Bela looked up, it was to see Köten’s son staring at him. The king struggled again for the younger man’s name, but it would not come. There had just been too many details in the previous days for him to remember everything.
“What is so important that you risk the entire formation?” Bela snapped, already red in the face from suppressed irritation.
Köten’s son bowed his head so briefly it was almost a jerk. “My father’s oath bound us, King Bela. I am not bound by it,” he said.
“What are you talking about?” Bela demanded. “Whatever your concern is, this is not the place or the time. Return to your position. Come to me this evening, when we have crossed the Danube. I will see you then.”
King Bela deliberately turned back to his messengers and took another sheaf of vellum to read. He jerked his head up in amazement when the young man spoke again, as if he had not just been given his orders.
“This is not our war, King Bela. That has been made clear to us. I wish you good fortune, but my task now is to shepherd my people out of the way of the Golden Horde.”
Bela’s color deepened and the veins stood out on his pale skin.
“You will return to the lines!” he roared.
Köten’s son shook his head. “Goodbye, Your Majesty,” he said. “Christ bless all your many works.”
Bela took a deep breath, suddenly aware that the Cuman horsemen were all staring at him. To a man, they had their hands on swords or bows, and their faces were very cold. His thoughts whirled, but they were forty thousand. If he ordered the son killed, they could very well attack his royal guards. It would be a disaster and only the Mongols would benefit. His blue eyes grew still.
“With the enemy in sight?” Bela roared. “I call you oath breakers! I call you cowards and heretics!” Bela shouted at Köten’s son as he trotted away. Christ, why could he not remember the man’s name? His words might as well have been empty air. The king could only froth and rage as the Cumans peeled off in a mass of riders after their leader. They took a path that led around the great army of Hungary and back to the encampment of their people.
“We did not need goatherds in the ranks, Your Majesty,” Josef Landau said, with distaste. His brother knights growled their affirmation on all sides. The Cumans were still streaming across the main lines, and King Bela struggled to master his fraying temper. He forced a smile.
“You are correct, Sir Josef,” he replied. “We are a hundred thousand strong, even without those … goatherds. But when we have triumphed, there will be a reckoning for such a betrayal.”
“I would be pleased to teach the lesson, Your Majesty,” Josef Landau replied, his expression unpleasant. It was matched or exceeded by Bela’s own.
“Very well. Spread the word that I sent the Cumans from the field, Sir Josef. I do not want my men dwelling on their betrayal. Let them know that I chose to fight alongside only those of good Hungarian blood. That will raise their spirits. As for the nomads, you will show them the price of their betrayal. They will understand it in those terms, I am sure.” He took a deep breath to calm his anger.
“Now I am weary of standing here listening to the plaintive voices of cowards. Give the order to march.”
TWENTY-NINE
Tsubodai watched the army of King Bela begin to swarm across the river, the bridges black with men and horses. Batu and Jebe sat their mounts and stared out with him, judging the quality of the men they would face. Their horses whickered softly to themselves, munching at the grass. On the plains, spring had come early and it showed green through the last patches of snow. The air was cold still, but the sky was pale blue and the world was bursting with new life.
“They are good enough horsemen,” Jebe said.
Batu shrugged, but Tsubodai chose to answer.
“Too many,” he said softly. “And that river has too many bridges. Which is why we are going to make them work for it.”
Batu looked up, aware as always that the two men shared an understanding from which he was excluded. It was infuriating and clearly deliberate. He looked away, knowing they could both read his anger all too easily.
All his life he had been forced to scramble for everything he had achieved. Then the khan had dragged him up, promoting him to command a tuman in his father’s name. Batu had been honored publicly, and instead of his habitual hatred for the world, he had been forced to a new struggle, almost as painful as the first. He had to prove he was able to lead, that he had the skills and discipline men like Tsubodai took for granted. In his desire to prove himself, no one could possibly have worked harder or done more. He was young; his energy was al
most infinite compared to the old men.
Batu felt torn as he looked at the orlok. One small, weak part of him would have given anything to have Tsubodai clap him on the shoulder and approve, just approve of him as a man and leader. The rest of him hated that weakness with such a passion that it spilled out, making him an angry companion for quieter souls. No doubt his father had looked up to Tsubodai once. No doubt he had trusted him.
It was part of growing up to crush that sort of need in yourself, Batu knew very well. He would never gain Tsubodai’s trust. He would never have his approval. Instead, Batu would rise in the nation, so that when Tsubodai was withered and toothless, he would look back and see he had misjudged the young general under his care. He would know then that he had missed the only one who could take the legacy of Genghis and make it golden.
Batu sighed to himself. He was not a fool. Even the fantasy of an old Tsubodai realizing his great error was a boy’s dream. If he had learned anything in manhood, it was that it didn’t matter what other people thought of him—even the ones he respected. In the end, he would patch together a life, with its sorry errors and its triumphs, just as they had. He tried not to listen to the inner need that wanted them to hang on his every word. He was too young for that, even if they and he had been different men.
“Let them get about half their number across the Danube,” Tsubodai was saying to Jebe. “They have … what? Eighty thousand?”
“More, I think. If they’d hold still, I could be certain.”
“Twice as many horsemen as we have,” Tsubodai said sourly.
“What about the ones who rode away?” Batu asked.
Tsubodai shook his head, looking irritated. He too had wondered why tens of thousands of riders would suddenly break from King Bela’s army before the march. It smelled of trickery, and Tsubodai was not one who enjoyed being fooled.
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