“I was beginning to think I’d have to take another day to finish them, Orlok,” Hulegu said. “You are welcome here. I grant you guest rights and I hope you will eat with me this evening.”
“I am pleased to be of service, my lord. I do not doubt you would have called the victory in the end, but if I saved you even half a day, that is good.”
Both men smiled and Hulegu wiped sweat from his face once again.
“Where is my brother Kublai, Orlok? Is he with you?”
“Not today, my lord, though I am his man. I will be happy to explain as we eat.”
THE SUN HAD SET BY THE TIME THE TUMANS LEFT THE BATTLEFIELD. Metal armor long heated in the sun tended to creak as it cooled and bodies twitched, sometimes hours after death. Experienced men could all tell tales of how they had seen dead warriors belch and even sit up in a spasm before they fell back. It was not a place to spend the night and Hulegu knew he would have to send men back to complete the looting. He led Uriang-Khadai and his warriors to a grassy plain a few miles to the west, almost at the edge of the hills. He had a basic camp there and before the moon rose to its highest point, there was simmering stew for them all, with bread hard enough to use as a spoon until it dissolved.
Hulegu was in ebullient mood as Uriang-Khadai’s senior men removed their armor and tended to their horses. His tunic was sweat-stained, but it had been a relief to get out of the armor and feel the night cool on his bare arms and face. He sat opposite Kublai’s orlok, burning with curiosity, but willing to let the man eat and drink before he demanded answers. Nothing tired a man more than fighting and the tumans never missed a chance to eat well after a battle, if they had the opportunity. They were professional men, unlike the dead Persians behind them.
When Uriang-Khadai was finished, he handed his bowl to a servant and wiped his fingers on his leggings, adding to an old patch of dark grease.
“My lord, I am a blunt man. Let me speak bluntly,” he said. Hulegu nodded at him. “Your brother Kublai asks that you step aside from the battles to come. He has declared himself khan and he will fight Lord Arik-Boke. All he asks is that you remain in your khanate and take no part.”
Hulegu’s eyes widened as the older man spoke. He shook his head in dull amazement.
“Arik-Boke is khan,” he said hoarsely, trying to take it in. “I was there, Orlok. I gave my oath.”
“I have been told to say this, my lord. Your brother Kublai calls on you to stay away while he settles this with his younger brother. He has no grievance with you, but he would not have you choose between blood brothers in a time of war.”
Uriang-Khadai watched the other man in silent hope. Kublai had given no orders to attack, but Uriang-Khadai’s tumans were already among Hulegu’s forces. At his shout, they could kill thousands. With Hulegu’s men smiling and relaxed among them, Uriang-Khadai knew he could win.
Hulegu’s eyes drifted out over the camp and perhaps he too saw the threat. He shook his head again, his expression hardening.
“You were useful to me today, Orlok. For that I am grateful. I gave you guest rights in my camp, but that does not give you the right to tell me my oath. When the sun rises …” He stopped, his anger dwindling as confusion swelled in him.
“How is this even possible?” he said. “Kublai has not been back to Karakorum. I would have heard.”
Uriang-Khadai shrugged. “My master is khan, my lord. Your brother Arik-Boke should not have declared. This will be settled in a season and the nation will go on—under its rightful khan.”
“Why has Kublai not come to me himself? Why did he send you, Uriang-Khadai?”
“He has a war to fight, my lord. I cannot tell you all his plans. I speak with his voice and everything I have said is true. He does not ask you to break your oath. Out of love for you, he asks only that you remain until it is settled.”
Hulegu rested his head on his hands in thought. Both Arik-Boke and Kublai were his brothers. He wanted to gather them both by their necks and shake them. For the thousandth time he wished Mongke were still alive, to tell him what to do. He had given his oath, but what if Arik-Boke had been wrong to take the khanate? There had been talk even back then, voices wondering why he had not waited for Kublai to come home. This was the result. Hulegu could hardly take it in as the potential for disaster spread and spread in his mind.
At best, he would lose one of his brothers, a pain like a knife in his chest so soon after losing Mongke. At worst, the nation would tear itself apart in the conflict, leaving them vulnerable to the enemies all around. Everything Genghis had created would be destroyed in a single generation. There was no right and wrong to it, no claim that stood above the other in clear sunlight. Yet Arik-Boke was khan. No matter what Kublai said, that stood in stone, unchangeable. Hulegu slumped further.
“This is my khanate,” he muttered, almost to himself.
Uriang-Khadai bowed his head. “It will remain so, my lord. You conquered it and it will not be taken from you. My master knew you would be troubled. Your pain is his, multiplied a thousandfold. He wishes only for a quick settlement.”
“He could stand aside,” Hulegu said, barely whispering.
“He cannot, my lord. He is khan.”
“What does that matter to me, Orlok?” Hulegu demanded, his head rising. “There are no rules in life. Whether it is written down, or spoken by shamans, nothing binds a man beyond himself. Nothing, save the chains he accepts for himself. Laws and traditions mean nothing, if you have the strength.”
“Kublai has the strength, my lord. Even as I speak to you here, he will be moving toward Karakorum. It will be settled before winter comes, one way or the other.”
Hulegu made his decision, his mouth becoming a firm line.
“My brothers are at play, Orlok. I want no part of it. There are cities to my north that still hold out against me. I will spend a season bringing them to siege. When that is done, I will come east to Karakorum and see who rules.”
Uriang-Khadai felt a tension leave him at the words.
“That is wise, my lord. I am sorry to have brought you pain.”
Hulegu grunted in irritation. “Find another fire, Orlok. I am weary of your face. As the sun rises, you will go from here. You have your answer. I will abide.”
Uriang-Khadai rose to his feet, wincing as his knees protested. He was no longer young and he wondered if he could trust the word of a man who acknowledged no power in the world beyond his own ability to destroy and lead. The honest answer was that he could not.
For an instant, Uriang-Khadai considered shouting his order to the waiting men. They were all ready. At a stroke, he could remove a man of power from the struggle.
He sighed briefly. Or he could accept the words he had been given and perhaps regret it later. Kublai had already lost one brother. Uriang-Khadai bowed and walked to another fire. He would not sleep that night, he knew.
THIRTY-NINE
HIGH IN THE GRAY-GREEN HILLS, KUBLAI COULD NOT REST. He stood and looked out over a wide plains valley, deceptively still and peaceful from such a height. Water trickled from a stream close by his right hand, so that he could reach out and cup freezing water to drink when he felt the urge. The day was hot and the sky was baked blue and empty of clouds. It was land he knew, and after so long in the Sung territories, it still touched some deep part of him to be home.
He could hear one of his men cursing behind him as the warrior clambered over slippery rocks. Kublai didn’t turn, content to stare out into the warm vastness, soaking in the sense of space and silence. He was weary after days and nights of hard riding, but feverish anticipation had him in its grip and his hands trembled. Arik-Boke was somewhere out there, beyond his sight. Kublai had made his plans and prepared his men, but it came down to waiting. If Arik-Boke rode out of Karakorum, they would be ready. If he stayed in the city, they would crush him like a flea trapped in a seam of cloth.
After so long together, it was odd not to have his most senior men around him. Bayar was sti
ll in the Russian north, Uriang-Khadai was out in the far hills, having returned from his mission to Hulegu. He missed them both, but neither more than Yao Shu. The old monk had grown too frail to ride with the tumans. Yao Shu had set off for his monastery at last. Time and age stole away even the greatest of flames, Kublai thought. He sent a silent prayer that he might see his friend again.
For the first time in years, Kublai was alone with his warriors. Against him, Arik-Boke would have Mongke’s tumans, sworn to his service. Kublai grimaced at the thought. Strength would not bring his brother to heel, not on its own.
It had been a risk to contact Hulegu. His older brother might have heard what Uriang-Khadai had to say and set out immediately to defend Arik-Boke’s khanate. Uriang-Khadai had relayed Hulegu’s words to him, but Kublai knew better than to trust them. If Hulegu moved to support Arik-Boke, it would add another year and another dead brother to the cost of the war. Kublai had no illusions left. In the silence, as his tumans stretched and rested and ate around him, he prayed his older brother would continue to show a little sense and stay well clear.
Kublai raised his head when he heard the jingling sound of bells, carrying far in the mountain stillness. No yam rider this time, but the small herd he had sent out with a couple of his scouts. On foot, he hoped they would have been able to get close to Karakorum unchallenged. He had not expected them back for another month and had made his camp in the hills, far from his brother’s city. He tried to guess what their early return could mean and then gave up. He looked down the steep slope of grassy rocks below his position and saw the small figures of men driving goats and sheep before them. It would be a while yet before he heard whatever they had to say.
Kublai turned to see his son leaning precariously over the rocks to take a mouthful of water.
“Careful,” he said. “It’s slippery there.”
Zhenjin looked scornful at the idea of falling. He sucked at the stream of water, getting far more down his tunic than in his throat. Kublai smiled at him, but when he resumed his sentinel’s stare, Zhenjin stayed where he was, easing back until he could lean against the rocks in something like comfort.
“I heard the men talking about what you’re going to do,” Zhenjin said.
Kublai didn’t look at him. “I’m sure you know not to carry tales to me,” he replied.
The young man shifted his seat, pulling one leg up under him so that he could rest his elbows on the raised knee.
“They’re not complaining,” he said. “They were just talking, that’s all.”
Kublai summoned patience. It was not as if he had anything to do until his spies reported.
“What did they say, then?” he asked.
Zhenjin grinned at him. “They said you will be an emperor when this is done.”
“If I live, that is … true,” Kublai replied. “I will be khan of the nation, but emperor of China.”
“Does that mean I will be an emperor after you?” the young man asked.
Kublai looked at him then, his mouth twitching to laugh.
“Is that what you want? To rule the world?”
“I think … I think I would like that, yes,” Zhenjin said, with a thoughtful expression.
“Then I will do my best to make it happen, my son. You are blood of my blood, bone of my bone. I will name a dynasty and you will carry the name.”
“Is that why we are going to fight, then? To be emperors?”
Kublai chuckled. “There are worse things to fight for.” He looked over his shoulder at the bondsmen who rested in the mountain crags, the vast majority of his men invisible in the valleys and rifts behind.
“I think I would be a better khan than Arik-Boke, Zhenjin. That is a reason as well. But a father works for his sons and daughters. He spends his strength and his youth to raise them up, to give them everything he can. When you have children of your own, you will understand.”
Zhenjin considered the idea with great seriousness.
“I will spare cities when I am emperor. I will be loved and not feared.”
Kublai nodded.
“Or both, my son, if you are lucky.”
“I would like to change the world, as you have done,” Zhenjin said.
Kublai smiled, but there was an edge of sadness to it.
“I used to discuss such things with my mother, Zhenjin. She was a woman of rare ability.” His eyes became distant with memory for a moment. “You know, I said something like that to her once. She told me that anyone can change the world. But no one can change it forever. In a hundred years, no one you know will be alive. What will it matter then if we fought or just spent our days sleeping in the sun?”
Zhenjin blinked at him, unable to understand his father’s strange mood.
“If it doesn’t matter, then why are we going to fight your brother?” he asked.
“Perhaps I haven’t said it well. I mean it doesn’t matter if we change the world. The world moves on and new lives come and go. Genghis himself said he would be forgotten and, believe me, he left a long shadow. It does matter how we live, Zhenjin! It matters that we use what we are given, for just our brief time in the sun.” He smiled to see his son struggling with the idea. “It’s all you can say, when the end comes: ‘I did not waste my time.’ I think that matters. I think it may be all that matters.”
“I understand,” Zhenjin said.
Kublai reached out and rubbed his head roughly.
“No you don’t. But you will perhaps, in a few years.” He looked out over the crags to where his herdsmen were making their slow progress. “Enjoy the peaceful moments, Zhenjin. When the fighting starts, this will be a pleasant memory.”
“Can you beat them?” Zhenjin asked, looking into his father’s eyes.
Kublai realized his son was afraid and he made himself relax.
“I think so, yes. Nothing is certain.”
“They have more tumans than us,” Zhenjin went on, prodding him for a reaction.
Kublai shrugged. “We are always outnumbered. I don’t think I’d know what to do if I came across an army smaller than mine.” He saw the forced lightness wasn’t reassuring his son and his tone became serious. “I am not the first man to try to think how to counter the advantages of a Mongol tuman in battle. However, I am the first one of us to try. I know our tactics better than any man alive. I think I can find a few new tricks. My brother’s warriors have spent the last few years growing soft around the capital city. My tumans are used to fighting every day, every step. And they are used to winning. We’ll eat them alive.”
His son grinned at his bravado and Kublai chuckled with him.
“Practice your patterns now, Zhenjin. We won’t be going anywhere for a while.”
His son made a show of groaning, but under his father’s eye he found a flat space in the rocks and began the flowing series of movements and stances he had learned from Kublai. Yao Shu had taught the sequences years before, each with its own name and history.
Kublai watched with a critical eye, remembering how Yao Shu had never been satisfied. There was no such thing as perfection in a pattern, but it was always the aim to make every kick and block and turn as close to it as possible.
“Turn your head before you move,” Kublai said. Zhenjin hesitated.
“What?” Zhenjin replied without moving his head.
“You have to imagine opponents coming at you from more than one direction. It is not a dance, remember. The aim is to break a bone with every blow or block. Imagine them all around you and respond.”
Kublai grunted approval as his son turned his head sharply, then swept an imaginary kick away from him in a great circular block. As Kublai looked on, his son plunged a knife-hand into an invisible throat, his fingers outstretched and rigid.
“Hold there and consider your rear leg,” Kublai called to him. He watched as Zhenjin adjusted his stance, dropping lower before moving on. Kublai looked fondly at his son. It would be a fine thing to give him an empire.
AR
IK-BOKE COULD SMELL HIS OWN SWEAT AS HE RODE, THE bitter scent of a healthy animal. He had not allowed himself to grow weak in his time as khan. His squat body had never been graceful, but it was strong. He prided himself on being able to exhaust younger men in any contest. From a young age, he had learned a great truth, that endurance was as much will as anything physical. He grunted to himself as he rode, his breath snuffling from his ruined nose. He had the will, the ability to ignore pain and discomfort, to push himself beyond the limits of weaker men. The righteous anger he had felt on hearing of Kublai’s betrayal had not left him for a waking moment since that day. The aches and complaints of the flesh were nothing to him while his brother rode the plains in challenge.
His tumans took their mood from his, riding with grim determination as they quartered the land in search of any sign of the traitor. Arik-Boke hardly knew the men with him, but that was not important as long as they obeyed their khan. His senior officers were spread out over an immense line, each commanding their own force of forty thousand. Any two would surely equal whatever army Kublai could bring to the field, Arik-Boke was certain. When all five came together like fingers curling into a fist, he would crush his brother’s arrogance.
It gave Arik-Boke some pleasure to plan his vengeance as he rode. There had been too many men in the nation who thought they could rule. Even the sons of Genghis had warred amongst themselves. Guyuk Khan had been killed on a hunt, though Arik-Boke suspected Mongke had arranged it. Such things were already history, but he could make Kublai’s death a hot blade sealing a wound. He could make it a tale to spread fear wherever his enemies met and plotted. It would be right to make an example of Kublai. They would say the khan had torn his own brother down and they would feel fear. Arik-Boke nodded to himself, savoring the sensations. Kublai had a wife and children. They would follow his brother into death when the rebellion had been destroyed.
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